by Rita Rudner
Outside was calling and we were answering the phone. We would organize the party around the apartment complex’s pool. The catering department was happy to oblige and overcharge us. We had the hamburgers and hot dogs planned along with iced tea and lemonade, but what were the little darlings going to do all afternoon? Half of them didn’t know how to swim yet, so pushing them into the pool wasn’t really an option. Children seem to like to jump, so we rented a bouncy castle to tire them out. We hired a Cinderella look-alike to paint the children’s faces and twist balloons into unnatural positions.
Invitations were issued and I waited patiently by the phone for the RSVPs to fly in.
One day, two days, three days passed and no one bothered to respond. I could wait no longer. I tackled some of my daughter’s friends’ mothers in the playground. There was a slight problem in that I didn’t know any of their names.
“Excuse me, Krystal’s mother,” I said. “Is Krystal going to be able to come to Molly’s birthday party?”
“Sure, Molly’s mother,” she said. “Krystal is going to come with Dixie. We’re looking forward to it.”
I did the same with Tess’s mother and Bella’s mother. They were all coming; they just hadn’t responded yet. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent out the invitations a month in advance. I just wanted the first birthday party that my daughter would remember to be special, and special it was.
I don’t know whether it was something she ate or a bug she picked up at school, but the morning of the party began with my daughter vomiting copiously all over the house (don’t worry, the mohair sofa was not hit). The every-ten-minutes vomiting was not our only problem. The hottest day of the year was forecast, and for once the forecast was correct. At noon, we took our ailing daughter downstairs to greet seven friends and 110 degrees.
I have never been prouder of Molly. Pausing only to throw up in the lobby downstairs, she got through the entire party like a trouper. I hesitate to say this in Las Vegas, but Cinderella’s balloons were magnificent. The bouncy house was a triumph, even though my daughter only ventured inside for the benefit of a single photo op. The food was great, although perhaps we didn’t need the barbecue—we could have let the meat cook in the sun. The piñata ended the party with a flourish and everyone went home happy and on a sugar high.
My husband and I woke up the next morning as though we had both been beaten with sticks. Our daughter bounced into our room, completely recovered.
“Are we having another party today?” she asked brightly.
“Not today, but soon.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as you’re eighteen.”
* * *
I was a very introverted child. I only had two friends. And they were imaginary. And they would only play with each other.
* * *
The Knee-Jerk No
WHEN I WAS FIRST STUDYING COMEDY, ONE OF the most important things I learned was in an improv class. Ironically, it helped me even more in my life than in my act. The thing that I learned was simple and obvious, but I’m going to tell it to you anyway because I see so many people not doing it.
Here it is…drumroll, please…Saying yes gets you further than saying no.
Sure, saying yes can get you into trouble. I’m not advocating saying yes to drugs, to promiscuous sex, or to infomercials. I’m advocating saying yes to change and possibilities.
The knee-jerk no is definitely something to avoid. Whenever I’m inclined to say no, I ask myself, “Do I have a reason that I’m saying no to this or is it just out of habit?”
I have a very good friend whose life has not progressed in the way she would have liked. Whenever I’ve tried to help her redirect her life toward a different path, she says no and continues along the same well-beaten route. I have heard insanity defined as “repeating the same behavior and expecting a different result.” I know that having the courage to change something is more productive than staying the course. I firmly believe that if you want your situation to change, you have to change your situation. When I review my life thus far, I can see that’s one of the things I did right. Changing careers, houses, cities—all of these have gotten me to a place that I love but which I know will eventually change once again.
Switching from dancing to comedy was a rational decision. I noticed that George Burns was still working, while Gene Kelly hadn’t had a gig in quite some time. As a dancer, you have a few choices you can make as you age. You can go back to school, you can teach dancing, you can marry someone who has a job where they don’t have to jump around, or you can insist on loitering in a profession that is meant for young people, make no money, and eat cat food.
I was a confirmed New Yorker. I never thought I would leave. When I got a call from a comedy producer to play the Edinburgh Festival in Scotland, I was very tempted to say no. I was steeped in a routine that could not be altered. How could I possibly not swim a hundred laps four mornings a week and not attend ballet class every morning at 10:00 A.M.? How would I survive?
Luckily, two of my comedy friends were also asked to be in the show, and they talked me into it. I reasoned it would only be for three weeks, we would have fun, and I wouldn’t turn to complete flab in twenty-one days. Just in case, I had the producer of the show (who later became my husband) scout out an Olympic-sized pool and a local ballet class before I would give them a definite yes.
Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities on earth, part medieval and part Georgian, with a castle perched above the town and flower boxes seemingly decorating every window. I swam twice and took a few ballet classes before I abandoned rigid discipline and opted for sightseeing and socializing. After the three weeks were up, I returned to New York culturally richer and none the flabbier.
Most important, I met the man who would later become my husband. For all you women out there who are looking for someone to share your life with, the first thing I would suggest is to throw away the list of things you require from a potential mate. I once dated a man who was walking perfection. He had everything on the list—he was handsome, smart, athletic, personable, heterosexual, and single. One problem: he was the most selfish individual I’ve ever known. If he wanted to do something, he would do it. If he wanted to go somewhere, he was gone. Most of all, if he wanted to sleep with another woman, you would just have to deal with it. I don’t know if he ever married, but I always said, “He is going to make some lucky girl very unhappy.”
When the producer of the Edinburgh show called and asked me to perform in Australia, I said yes. Australia was a bit scarier; it was so far away I had to buy an extension for my map. However, I’d had such a good time in Scotland, I figured what was the worst that could happen? Even if the show bombed, I’d still accrue a huge amount of frequent-flyer miles. The show did in fact bomb, but I didn’t care. I got engaged and stayed in Australia a month longer than I originally planned. I’d never thought I would marry someone who lived on another continent, who was in show business, and who was younger than I was. But we’re celebrating our nineteenth anniversary all because I said yes instead of the dreaded knee-jerk no.
Beware—the knee-jerk no sometimes reappears after you say yes. I have another friend who hated her hair. She said it was too dark and too thin, and she hated the style. I had a hairdresser whom I loved in L.A. I took my friend in and said, “Work your magic.” My friend emerged from her hair therapy a new woman. The stylist had lightened her hair to lesson the hair/scalp contrast, layered it to make it softer, and blown it dry so my friend wouldn’t have to set it in huge rollers and be mistaken for an alien. My friend loved it. A couple of months later my friend sent me a picture of herself at her birthday party and I saw that her hair was back exactly the way it had been when she hated it. I asked her why, and she told me she felt the other hairdo was good for a change, but her original style covered the wrinkles in her forehead and made her look younger. As in the aftermath of rehab, the potential to go back to behavior that is comfortable is always looming.
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br /> The biggest change that my husband and I made was moving out of Los Angeles and adopting a baby. When we first arrived in Los Angeles everything was new and possible, and we had lots of fun doing things we’d never believed we would ever do. Writing movies, performing on television shows, and attending those award ceremonies that you see on television and think look glamorous were all exciting and excruciating.
I know this isn’t going to shock you, but Los Angeles is not a place for entertainers to age. One day my husband and I looked at the new fall television lineup and noticed that Christina Applegate was appearing in a sitcom playing a divorced mother of two. At that point she was still safely in her twenties. If I stayed in Hollywood for a few more years, there was a shot that while still in my forties, I could play a great-grandmother. It was time to move.
We looked around at the possibilities. Las Vegas had always been a staple of my career. I had been headlining casinos there for the past decade and we always looked forward to our trips. It was then that my producer husband came up with the idea of a permanent show on the Strip instead of just headlining for a few weeks a year. That was a move that was as dramatic as it was terrifying. We’d also been talking about adopting a baby. We said yes to both and changed our lives for the better in more ways than you can cook chicken.
I have to admit saying yes has also caused me to invest money with a person who had a fictional business, try foods that have made me sick, and date someone who was eventually shot by the police, but the ways it has improved my life are too numerous to mention.
Now, again, my point is not to say yes to everything. My point is to examine why you’re saying no, and if you’re saying no automatically because that’s what you’re used to saying, rethink it. You might find yourself in a better situation.
More things can come through an open window than through a closed door. There, I’m officially out of aphorisms. I’m going to stop now. I’m sounding like a Japanese psychiatrist.
* * *
Before I met my husband, I’d never fallen in love. I’d stepped in it a few times.
* * *
Overpaying Your Dues
“WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD,” THE CASUALLY dressed man slurred, holding up a glass of white wine. It was our first day in our new house and Martin and I were bleary-eyed from unpacking mislabeled boxes.
“I’m Mitch Kemp,” the man continued. “I’m the president of Sycamore Road. Just wanted to introduce myself…I take care of everything that you need. I’ve lived on Sycamore for twenty-five years. If you have any questions about how this street works, you just ask me.”
“I have a question,” I asked. “How do we get clickers to raise and lower the gates?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Mitch replied confidently. “In the meantime, here is the code—just punch it in. The code is changed every three months for security reasons.”
“What a nice man,” I said as he walked away.
“He wants money,” my husband muttered under his breath.
I have to explain that Sycamore Road is a private street. To stop hurried drivers from using it as a shortcut, it was gated at both ends, and as a result it’s now no longer the city’s responsibility.
My suspicious husband turned out to be right. A few days later a bill arrived in our mailbox. It wasn’t for a lot of money: $125 every three months. With it, we received a list of all the people on Sycamore Road and their phone numbers. Stars were next to the names of residents who had paid the fee. There was an X next to the names of those who were delinquent.
“What does he do for these dues?” my husband complained, mentally adding up how much money this came to each year.
“He takes care of the road,” I explained.
“What does he take care of?”
“He makes sure it’s OK.”
“Does he feed it? Does he take it to the movies? It’s a road. What does he do that requires forty thousand dollars a year?”
“Let’s just pay him. We don’t want an X next to our names; we want a star.”
The next day the clickers that controlled the movement of the street gates appeared in our mailbox.
“See, he gave us clickers,” I said excitedly, happy to have evidence that we were getting something for our dues.
“Wait a second, what’s this?” my husband questioned, pulling out a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Fifty dollars? Fifty dollars for clickers? Where is the bill that shows us how much he paid for them?” he whined.
“He went and got the clickers. He has to be compensated for his time.”
“I bet he’s got a stack of them in his garage. He just wanted to make sure we paid our dues before he gave us the clickers. I’m not paying him for the clickers.”
“We have to. We’ll get an X.”
Sycamore Road was a quaint little street. People jogged, dogs walked, deer even occasionally meandered through our backyard. One day I spotted Mitch stooping down and inspecting a crack in the pavement. I ran back home.
“I saw Mitch do something! He was inspecting a crack in the blacktop.”
“That’s going to cost more money,” my husband insisted.
“No. That’s what the dues are for. I promise. He takes care of the road.”
In the following days, yellow Xs began to appear on all the cracks on the road.
“I guess the cracks didn’t pay their dues,” my husband quipped.
A note appeared in our mailbox: The upper portion of the road will be repaved on the twenty-second of April and the lower portion on the twenty-fifth. Please use the opposite entrances.
I was vindicated. There it was—proof that our money was being used for something tangible. What the note didn’t mention was that the road was not the only thing being resurfaced; Mitch had also included his extensive driveway. This turned out to be something that a poker player would refer to as a “tell.”
I was too timid to tackle him about it, and ultimately so was my husband. We just kept paying our dues and feeling slightly aggrieved.
Mitch Kemp died a few years later. He was the victim of a sudden heart attack. His wife was the one who was the most shocked. Mitch had not only kept all of the road money in a secret bank account, but he was using it to pay for his mistress in France. Unable to face the people on Sycamore Road, Mitch’s wife put the house up for sale and moved away.
Turns out the people with Xs by their names had been right. If only I hadn’t wanted a star.
I blame my kindergarten teacher.
* * *
I never fully understand what goes on in dry cleaning. I know they add a safety pin.
* * *
The Second Act
MY FIRST WRITING PARTNER WAS A WOMAN NAMED Marjorie Gross. In the early eighties, we were both just beginning to practice stand-up comedy. We were getting onstage very late at night or, in a positive light, very early in the morning, so we had lots of time to hang out and talk in the bar. I began watching Marjorie’s stage set and she began watching mine.
Writing jokes isn’t easy for anyone, so Marjorie and I decided to meet a few times a week and try to do it together.
The thing that’s unusual about this is that Marjorie and I were about as different as left and right. We had no business writing together and it made even less sense that we were good friends. I was at that point in my life very structured and somewhat rigid; she was a total free spirit whose life swayed wildly depending on her mood. I was neat, she was sloppy; I was always on time, she was always late. We were Felix and Oscar, only we were both women. One of her favorite pastimes was tossing wet tea bags across the room to see if she could hit the garbage can. I think she missed on purpose. She liked the sound of the splat.
We had one thing in common: both of our mothers had died when we were in our early teens, mine from breast cancer and Marjorie’s from ovarian. We vowed to be extra diligent to ensure that didn’t happen to us.
There was no one funnier than Marjorie Gross. I would study t
he structure of writing jokes by listening to comedy albums, and she would just come out with thoughts that were totally unique. A typical joke-writing session would produce the following.
Rita: Doctors can tell a lot about a baby while it’s still inside the womb these days. My friend is pregnant and it seems the baby is normal, and it’s a boy, and it’s a lawyer.
Marjorie: How do Chinese parents know when their babies are starting to talk?
Marjorie refused to do anything the way it should be done. Her apartment had been broken into repeatedly. Marjorie would call her answering machine once an hour not to check her messages but to make sure it was still there. Eventually she decided to take the law into her own hands. Instead of locking the window and having bars placed on the outside the way New Yorkers do, creating a kind of well-decorated prison, Marge bought a can of axle grease and smeared it over the window ledge. The burglar would simply repeatedly slip and fall when he tried to enter her third-floor premises.
I saw half of many Broadway shows with my friend Marjorie. It was she who taught me the art of second-acting.
“It’s easy,” she explained. “You just stand outside the theater at intermission and mingle with the audience, and when they let everyone back in for the second act you walk in with the real people.”
“How do you know which seats are empty?” I asked stupidly.
“Rita, think. You go to the bathroom and wait till everyone is seated and then you find the empty chairs. Nobody cares. It’s not like we’re taking seats from other people. We’re not even seeing the whole play. If we really like the second act, we can buy tickets and see the first. This will actually increase their business.”
Our scam worked well until Marge got a little cocky. We were second-acting American Buffalo when Marge decided to put her feet up on the chair in front of her and kicked a lady in the head. We were asked by an usher to show our tickets and were summarily shown the exit. That is the closest I’ve ever come to breaking the law.
