Wishful Drinking

well, actually, I’m a fine one to talk because when I was fifteen, I was in the chorus of my mother’s show (like most teenagers) and the gay guys in the show showed a movie called Sixteen Inches in Omaha to either shock me or watch my reaction.

As you can imagine, this is a wonderful introduction into the male anatomy. So subtle and nuanced.

Anyway, more recently Billie told me that she’s changed her mind—she no longer wants to be a neurologist with a specialty in schizophrenia, now she wants to be a comic. (which is kind of a natural progression if you think about it).

So I say, “Well, baby—if you want to be a comic, you have to be a writer. But don’t worry, you have tons of material. Your mother is a manic-depressive drug addict, your father is gay, your grandmother tap-dances, and your grandfather shot speed!”

And my daughter laughs and laughs and laughs, and I say, “Baby, the fact that you know that’s funny is going to save your whole life.”

Now, if you had a daughter that great—you don’t, but if you did—wouldn’t you want to do something nice for her? Well, I did. I wanted her to have some normal Mommy memories of me. Not just memories of a mother who got tattooed and hid Easter eggs in July. So I learned to cook. And it turns out I’m a pretty good cook. I mean, I make most of my meals at about 11:00 at night, but they’re very, very delicious!

But when I first learned to cook, my mother flipped out. It was like I was violating a family code or credo—I didn’t even know we had those things.

She would say, “Carrie’s in the kitchen cooking.”

Like she was saying, “shaving her head.” And what a weird thing to do in the kitchen, by the way.

So, one night, I’m at her house (I told you we live next door to each other) and I say, “I’m going back up to my house to make Billie dinner.”

And she grabs my arm and says “Nooo! Why are you doing this?! Please let me send Mary to make her chicken crepes.”

But I’m pleased to report that, over time, my mother has become more accustomed to my cooking so now she says, “You know, dear, we had an Uncle Wally in the family who was a good cook.”

So, if she can see it as a talent—especially one from her side of the family—she’s cool with it.

I heard someone say once that many of us only seem able to find heaven by backing away from hell. And while the place that I’ve arrived at in my life may not precisely be everyone’s idea of heavenly, I could swear sometimes—if I’m quiet enough—I can hear the angels sing.

Either that or I’ve screwed up my medication. But one of the reasons I think my life is going so much better is that having originally done Wishful Drinking (the show and now the book) as a singles ad—a really, really detailed personals ad—I think if I attract someone from one of my audiences or one of the readers of this book, he’ll never be able to say, “You never told me you were a manic-depressive drug addict who turned men bald and gay,” like men say to me now. Because I am no different than any other single person (all three of them). I also want someone to love and treasure and overwhelm—oh, and disappoint!—especially disappoint, I find that so erotic. Anyway, the ad worked! Because when I did my show in Santa Fe, I received in the mail a marriage proposal.

Now, I told you I was a manic depressive, right? So you know I have lousy judgment—so I was hoping that before I take such an enormous step, I could run the proposal past you and get you to somehow weigh in on it. Okay?

Keep in mind—I’m not getting any younger.