Vanessa and Gillian ended up not being able to go, but I could, so I said, “Sign me up, Danny!” Now, normally, I’m distrustful of white people with boats (because of slavery, duh!), but I just had a feeling there was going to be hella crudités. There was no way I was passing on free prosciutto.
Cut to the day of the yacht. Julia texted to remind me to bring my passport. I thought, Isn’t this how Liam Neeson’s daughter ended up in her little pickle in the movie Taken?, but I texted back, “You got it, boo-boo!” I—alongside Danny, J. Ro, their chillrens, Alex, and Kevin, one of the movie’s producers—piled onto the yacht. It was tasteful AF: There was an abundance of meats and cheeses and rosé, and more importantly, the small yacht crew was all white. This is notable for me because so often when people of color are invited to fancy things, the only other POCs there will be the waitstaff, holding a ratchet chimney sweeper broom. Oh, you have all this money and can’t afford a freaking Swiffer WetJet for your employees? SortYourLifeOut.com. Anyway, a couple of rich white people paid for a bunch of other white people to wait on me as we sailed around the ocean, so clearly Julia and Danny adhered to the famous Mahatma Gandhi quote “Be the reparations you wish to see in the world.”
We sailed around parts of Croat-Croat for a bit before chilling off the coast of Hvar. Throughout the day, everyone jumped off the yacht, swam around, and basically had the time of their lives in the water. I, meanwhile, kept my black behind on the yacht, sipping wine and cracking jokes because I have no idea how to swim. I know, I KNOW! Way to live up to a stereotype, right? It’s just that, growing up, my parents were never swimmers, we didn’t go to the beach as a family, so it never was a priority for me. I explained this to everyone on the yacht. This information was met with what I can only describe as a tsunami of positivity. I kept telling them, “No, no,” yet they persisted.
Smash cut to me in the water, with a life vest on, as Julia cradled me in her arms while I screamed melodramatically, “This is the worst day of my life!!!” She let out her signature laugh that we all love and adore, which was a fair response considering I’d been having a great time until I was confronting my fear of water. Still, she, Danny, her family, Alex, and Kevin would not let me give up. So I stuck with it. And no matter how much I tried to remain calm, the buoyance of the life vest was making it impossible to control my own body in the already buoyant and salty ocean water, so any time I attempted to move, the life vest would yank my upper body back and I’d float in a different direction than I intended. I’d call for help like a cocoa Veruca Salt, and Julia became the most glamorous Oscar-winning Oompa Loompa with fabulous windblown hair, and she would gently nudge me in the direction I’d wanted to go.
Eventually, my confidence grew and I took the life vest off, trusting the water more. Danny and his kids gave me pep talks, Alex held my hand as he taught me to do tiny jumps into the water, and Julia had me hang onto the edge of the boat and practice my kicks. All in all, it felt like the movie The Blind Side except I never became a professional athlete, I was not adopted into Danny and Julia’s family, and no one spoke with a heavy Southern accent. Okay, so it was nothing like The Blind Side. And while I’m still not much of a swimmer by any stretch of the imaginaysh—doggy-paddling is my sweet spot—I can now float in water the way Denise Richards’s tatas did in Wild Things, and honestly, this is the best anyone can wish for.
Non-Trash Moment of My Life #2: Protecting Boob Soup
This story takes places in Las Vegas, natch. A few years ago, one of my besties, Jamie, was months away from getting married and wanted to have her bachelorette party in the City of Sin so she could cut loose one last time as a single person before those teary-eyed “I do”s. See, this is what I don’t understand about the concept of waiting for some “special” event such as a bachelorette party to engage in debauchery. Especially in your thirties. In your early twents, maaaaaaybe. You still have that new-at-adulthood flavor about you. If you were a wine, you’d probably be described as a smoky bouquet of student loans and Plan B pill residue that incorporates Cool Whip overtones and then finishes with notes of still being on a T-Mobile Friends & Family plan with your parental units. Basically, you’re still trying to get it together. But in your thirts? Naw. While you’re by no means a veteran at life, you’ve lived enough that you don’t need an “excuse” to go to Vegas and act a dang fool. Plus, acting a dang fool takes on a different meaning as you age. Take me, for example. Gray hair is coming in by the strands on my temples, and each day I’m one step closer to serving Frederick Douglass realness. So, to me, going to the club and making out with a random hottie is not living on the edge. However, attending a housewarming party, being lactose-intolerant and eating two slices of gourmet pizza (because of course it is gourmet) without having taken Gas-X, and then crop-dusting the entire apartment before telling the lie, “Oh, it must be their dog,” to the person I’m talking to and leaving before they can finish asking the question “Shanice and Derek have a dog?” is living on the edge. What I’m getting at is, I don’t need to travel across state lines or wear uncomfortable heaux clothes to whoop it up. But it was Jamie’s weekend, so I took my extremely broke behind (I put everything on a credit card; I had no idea how I was going to pay off) and newly single self to Vegas.
Despite my being a Grumpelstiltskin, I ended up having a blast on the trip. I ate amazing food, took my mind off my recent breakup, and the gals and I went to a low-budget Magic Mike wannabe strip club at 7:30 P.M. and left at 10 P.M. because we’re in our thirties, mostly responsible AF, and armed with the knowledge that night creams don’t do what they do when you’re in your twenties. I need every minute of the prescribed eight hours of sleep to look as fresh as a pot of daffodils from an Anne Geddes photo shoot.
That Saturday afternoon, we headed to one of the hotel pools for some R&R and day drinking. But this pool was different because it was a private, adult pool aka topless. Yeah, no. Chilling topless in public is not something your girl Pheebs does. Despite my outgoing and somewhat foolish personality, I’m much more modest when it comes to putting my body-ody-ody on display. In fact, my boob situation is kind of like those Russian wooden stacking dolls of decreasing size that are placed inside one another, meaning there is a sweater that covers a button-down shirt that cover a bra that covers padding, and then you get to my 34A chesticles. So while all the other ladies took off their bikini tops to make tit soup, I was still rocking mine with some shorts.
The ladies and I talked about our various struggles with making career advances in stand-up comedy, discussed Jamie’s upcoming wedding and honeymoon plans, and reminisced about various inside jokes we had all amassed after knowing each other for nearly a decade. Then, one by one, I noticed them growing uncomfortable and their smiles fading. At first, I assumed they were just becoming white-girl-wasted from day drinking until Giulia pointed and said, “I think that guy is staring at us.”
The rest of them chimed in with their concerns: “Yeah, there’s a creep over there,” “Should we tell someone,” “I think we should put our tops back on,” “Maybe we should bounce because I feel weird now,” etc.
“Hmmm, fuck that. I’m about to go cuss him out real quick,” I said, and made a beeline over to that dude. As I walked, I could hear my friends protesting, but my mind was already made up. Side note: The following is a word to the wise as well as the not-so-wise. If someone’s walking towards you with the urgency of an athlete trying to medal at the Summer Olympics in power walking, you’re either about to get hoisted up in the air à la Rachel McAdams in The Notebook for a steamy makeout session or you’re getting cussed out. And last I checked, I’m not Ryan Gosling!
So, about that dude. He had to at least be in his forties, so he definitely should’ve had the gahtdamn common sense to not stare at a bunch of women who are well within their rights to be topless in a topless situation. Now, I don’t know if it’s because I had a hunch that I could put him in his place without fear of re
taliation or that I’d grown tired of men behaving as though the world is their oyster and they can subject women to disgraceful behavior, but I was done.
As I was nearing him, he saw the fury in my eyes and stride and quickly turned his head. I arrived at his sun-lounger chair and towered over him as he remained seated.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
Still avoiding eye contact, he replied, “What? I’m just sitting here.”
“Really? Don’t lie to me. Tell me what you were just doing.” Silence. And in that moment, I kicked into Black Mom Gear 5: I Coulda Been at the Stevie Wonder Concert Tonight, but I’m Talking to Your Black Ass Right Now, so Tell Me the Damn Truth, and I said, “Look, I’m not one of your little friends.” When a black mom says to you, “I’m not one of your little friends,” please consider your life canceled; furthermore, your afterlife has been declined like when Chase Bank is overzealous about fraud prevention and shuts down my debit card when I attempt to buy sixty dollars’ worth of items from Bed Bath & Beyond.
This guy was white but had clearly been at an amusement park and seen a black kid get reamed by his mom for acting a fool because he knew what time it was and looked up at me. He started muttering out some weak excuse.
I interrupted. “I know you’re ogling grown-ass women. It’s disgusting. This is a topless pool where everyone should feel comfortable to be themselves without some creeper ruining their day. We’re not over there checking out your tired ass, so knock it the fuck off.”
He looked embarrassed but didn’t dare say a word.
“Look at them!”
He now looked confused, but my glare told him to follow my instructions.
“Don’t ever look at them again!” I snapped, and then I strutted, à la John Travolta at the beginning of Saturday Night Fever, back over to my girls, high-fived them, then took off my bikini top (making sure I was mostly behind my friends, of course). After a few minutes, the creeper left the pool.
Moral of the story? Not all heroes wear capes because sometimes they’re topless and letting their chocolate buttons aka nipples roam free in mostly clean Las Vegas pool water.
Non-Trash Moment of My Life #3: Figuring Out the Tip at a Restaurant . . . Without the Help of a Calculator
Real talk, whenever I do that, I feel like Taraji P. Henson in Hidden Figures when she pulls over that giant-ass chalkboard to do genius mathematicals in front of Kevin Costner, who is quietly sipping coffee and nodding his head in approval. So, like, where’s the movie about me?
Non-Trash Moment of My Life #4: Eating All the Baby Carrots That Were in My Refrigerator Crisper Before They Turned to Mush
You know when on a reality TV competition show a contestant gets sent home and signs off, “This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me,” but it’s most definitely the last I will see of them because as soon as the credits roll on my television screen, my brain mentally chucks up the deuces and right-clicks + sends to trash all knowledge of said contestant? That’s how I feel about buying a bag of carrots with the hopes of eating them before they spoil. Good intentions, but like that reality TV contestant, I’m only lying to myself. I can’t be the only one who does this. For most of us, when we buy the bag of carrots, we know deep down that the fridge is merely a three-month pit stop before the food ends up in the trash anyway. That’s why when I achieved this feat a couple of years ago, I did an Usain Bolt pose in front of my open refrigerator for twenty-seven minutes while the door alert on the fridge just beeped like, “I’m proud of you, boo.”
Non-Trash Moment of My Life #5: Getting Cast in My First Movie
For people who continue to dream of acting on the big screen after years of “no thanks,” “maybe . . . actually, just kidding, we’re going to go with Yvette Nicole Brown,”* or the most common result: never hearing from the casting director again and seeing someone else in the role, the moment you get cast in your first movie is one you’ll never forget. A person might be waiting in line at the pharmacy when they get the call or might be exiting an audition they blew only to be redeemed with the good news. I was someplace far less glamorous: Manchester, Tennessee.
It was June 8, 2017, and I had flown from visiting my family in Cleveland, Ohio, to Manchester because Jessica and I were going to our 2DQ show at the renowned Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival (yes, this is the same Bonnaroo where I met Bono, but more on that later!!!). I was dressed like a collegiate athlete who ends up being a benchwarmer the whole season aka a blazer over athleisure, and I was tired from traveling on Southwest Airlines, which is the “fetch” of air travel. That company has been trying to make itself happen for decades, and all us broke or financially savvy folks opt to put up with their shenanigans. I was given the option of either camping on-site at Bonnaroo (www.lol.naw) or staying at a mediocre hotel forty-five minutes away. Thanks to having outdoor allergies and being too lazy to survive in the outdoors, I chose the hotel option and was driven to my destination in a van by a festival volunteer.
During the ride, I was alternating between making small talk with my driver and listening to nineties R&B when my agents over at UTA called. I answered and they tried to Carson Daly me, meaning they dragged out telling me the news by recounting my journey (even though I didn’t need the recap because I lived it) and were basically like, “You’ve been with us for a while now. There’ve been some good moments, like being hired as a staff writer on a TV show, and some valleys, like when you were late on rent for about twelve thousand months in a row and your health insurance consisted of asking yourself, ‘What would Meredith Grey do?,’ but after much deliberation . . . you landed the role in Ibiza.” When my agents said that I got the part, I was still in such an emotional haze from traveling on a Southwest flight—where folks were acting like they were Meghan Markle’s aunties at the Royal Wedding, expecting the finest five-course meal instead of the reality, which is we were packed like sardines on an average aircraft where crinkly packages of dry-ass cashews are considered cuisine—that the exciting news almost slipped past me.
“Wait. What?!” I asked.
“You’re going to be in Ibiza!” Ali repeated.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS! I have a job,” I screamed, before asking for all the details. My agents told me everything and then I got off the phone, and a few minutes later, I arrived at my hotel and checked in.
Alone in my room, I did a jig and kept repeating to myself, “You have a job! You have a job!” Not “Yeah, you’re about to be a movie star,” or “It’s about time everyone recognized how great I am and put me in a movie,” or even “You’re about to be rich, bitch!” Instead, it was always, “You have a job,” which might sound underwhelming to the average person, but to anyone in entertainment, simply being employed is incredible.
Performing isn’t like other industries, where you can prove yourself day in and day out, get a raise, get a promotion, celebrate the new job title, rinse, and repeat. Entertainment doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t care about the résumé you’ve built over the years or your potential or how you believe you deserve more than what you’re getting. I know stand-up comedians and actors who have been in the game for twenty years and still haven’t gotten the big break they’ve been painstakingly working towards. And in some cases, the big break isn’t even the prize; some just want to make a living doing what they love the way folks make a living as a cook, a hairstylist, an IT support person, etc. Of course, seeing one’s name in lights or having tons of fans who worship your every move is exciting, but forget all that because those are perks. To be able to support yourself without financial help from friends or family is a dream come true. Furthermore, to do that solely from entertainment work without supplementing income with a full-time day gig or jobs that pay horribly (fifty dollars to write a two-thousand-word article? Coooooooool, I guess I’ll enjoy an amuse-bouche of sadness with an entrée of oxygen because I, for damn sure, don’t have cash to buy food)
and still have money left over to afford to go to the movie theater at a reasonable hour instead of at matinee time, which is cheaper (I once watched Dallas Buyers Club at 10:30 A.M. #IHadToDrinkVitaminWaterToReplenishTheElectrolytesILostFromCrying), is “making it,” at least for me.
My first eight years in comedy, I routinely scraped by, but I refused to let my family know how dire things were moneywise for fear of stressing them out. I was begging to be allowed to audition for TV projects, to no avail, and more often than not, I was doing non-paying stand-up shows for audiences of twenty people and under. Simply put, it was a grind. And not the fun kind you’d want to post about on social media with the caption “#Never-GiveUp.” This is the kind that chips at your self-belief and makes you wonder whether any of this is worth it. If I had given up, no one would have blamed me. I might have regretted it later, but I wouldn’t have fully blamed myself for making that decision.
In any other industry, struggling for that long with the hope that it will all pan out somehow, some way, would seem like a foolish thing to do. Can you imagine a CPA grinding away on a Fortune 500 company’s taxes only to be paid in free drinks and chicken wings like I was for so many years doing stand-up shows? Yeah, didn’t think so. That person would be within their rights to retire their number two pencils and Casio printing calculator and go get a job elsewhere so they didn’t have to piece together enough money in their checking account to pay rent, electric, and gas. Well, in my case, I’m glad I was a fool and poor for so long. Paying my share of dues was starting to pay off. Sure, I was in crappy hotel in Tennessee that didn’t have room service, but my career and life had just changed. I’d booked my first movie (a lead part!) and was going to earn a salary that was more than what I made during one point when my salad days spread to a year ($40,000 before taxes, does not get you very far in NYC). And that movie was going to lead to other opportunities, which have kept me consistently employed. I am self-sufficient, and better than that, I will never again feel like the loser like I did when I was thirty years old and could not afford to buy my parents presents for their respective birthdays. No matter if people love or hate Ibiza or love or hate my performance in it, I am a working performer.
Everything's Trash, But It's Okay Page 14
