Bossypants (10 page)

Also, I encourage them to always wear a bra. Even if you don’t think you need it, just… you know what? You’re never going to
regret
it.

My dream for the future is that sketch comedy shows become a gender-blind meritocracy of whoever is really the funniest. You might see four women and two men. You might see five men and a YouTube video of a kitten sneezing. Once we know we’re really open to all the options, we can proceed with Whatever’s the Funniest… which will probably involve farts.

My Honeymoon, or A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again Either*

My husband doesn’t like to fly. He
does
fly now because he doesn’t want our daughter to grow up thinking he is a Don Knotts character. But when we were first married, he didn’t fly.

I made him fly once before we were married because he was offered a free trip to Vienna, Austria, to direct a sketch comedy show for an English-language theater. If you know anything about Vienna, you know that they love Chicago-style sketch comedy!*

Anyway, not knowing then the depth of his fear, I bullied him into taking the free trip to Austria, assuring him that I would be with him all the way and talk him through the flight. To get to Vienna from Chicago, you fly to Zurich, drop through the bumpy air pockets around the Alps, land, and then take off again. This is the worst thing for fearful flyers because they all cling to that same fact nugget like Rainman: “Most planes crash during takeoff and landing!” We were doing twice as much taking off and landing as he had agreed to. This was unacceptable. He was miserable the entire week we were there, distracted by worry about the trip home.

I swore I would never make him fly again.

Just years later, we get married. Marriage leads to a honeymoon, which traditionally involves travel.

For our honeymoon, we book a cruise to Bermuda because the ship leaves from New York. (We don’t have to fly to Miami to get on it.) We board the ship from a giant hangar on the West Side of Manhattan. There are guys playing steel drums and handing you drinks. They don’t ask if you are a recovering alcoholic or if you are on any medications that might interact negatively with alcohol. This is maritime law! You get a drink without asking. After a brief “muster drill” where no one pays attention to where their lifeboat station is, the fun begins. And the first few days are pretty fun.

We have a little room with a balcony. The couple next door has a balcony about ten inches away. They don’t introduce themselves, but they are comically drunk most of the time and the wife wears a spangly American-flag bikini, leading me to believe she is a retired stripper.

There’s a pool, kind of. It’s more like a big sloshing kiddie pool, and if you get in it, you feel like you are taking a bath with strangers.

There are some wonderful Filipinos who fold your towels in the shape of a different animal every night. It might be an elephant wearing your sunglasses, or a duck wearing your sunglasses. It’s just fun. Don’t overthink it.

There are fun activities hosted by our cruise director, who calls himself “Dan Dan the Party Man.” He has recently replaced the previous cruise director, “Pete Pete the Party Meat,” who replaced

“Guy Guy the Funtimes Person,” who had recently died of autoerotic asphyxiation. No, that part’s not true! That’s a joke-lie. I’m not going to lie to you in this story because I want you to know that the rest of it is true.

Dan Dan the Party Man leads poolside games that include: People pretending to be horses in a steeple chase. A dance contest. Something with beach balls.

At mealtimes we sit at an assigned table. The other two couples at our table are middle-aged in-laws from the Delaware Water Gap. Richard and Barbra, Betty and Bernie. We talk about dog breeds and fishing; my knowledge of both topics is equal. We agree that the ship’s food is as good as any restaurant in New York (between 48th and 50th Street on Seventh Avenue). Betty and Bernie say they wanted to take this trip as a do-over of their honeymoon. Apparently, they had honeymooned in Bermuda thirty-five years ago and the whole trip had been a disaster because Betty broke her arm falling off a scooter. “Never rent a scooter in Bermuda,” Bernie says. Betty overlaps him, “They always tell you on these cruises, don’t rent a scooter when you get to Bermuda. You’re not used to it. You’ll have an accident. But people don’t listen.” We all agree; people just don’t listen.

While our little six-top gets along fine, we are all silently jealous of nearby table twenty, a mix of young couples and stray gays who are hitting it off big-time. Every lull in our discussion of “German shepherds we have known” is filled with a boisterous drunken laugh from table twenty.

It is worth noting that at this time, I had been doing Weekend Update on
Saturday Night Live
for two full seasons. I am not recognized by anyone. Well, I
am
recognized by the guy who refills the soft-serve ice cream machine by the pool, but not for being on TV, just for lingering. For O! The desserts!

Rows and rows of pastries laid out cafeteria-style. Some of them are unidentifiable squares of pink stuff.

I think we called it junket back in the seventies. They don’t taste good; but like a schoolboy at his first coed dance, I am drawn not so much by their beauty as by their unlimited quantities.

On day three I am very excited to attend one of our special excursions for which you pay extra.

We are going to get off the boat early in the morning in Bermuda, where we will be given bicycles. We will ride our bikes around the island with a guide to a special secluded beach where we can swim and have rum swizzles and then we will be taken back to the ship by a party boat. Sounds pretty good, right?

That’s what I thought, too. I wouldn’t shut up about it. For weeks before we left I bragged about how I had chosen the best excursion. It was fun and fitness combined! It was a great way to see the island! My husband and I wait at the designated pickup point at 8:30 A.M. No one else shows up. A quick check of our itinerary reveals the heartbreaking truth. The bike trip was yesterday. In my excitement, I memorized it wrong. I cry. I cry like a three year old who just wants to take her toy cash register into the bathtub. I cry in a way that reveals that I’m not finding the rest of the cruise that fun.

This is definitely the low point of the trip, until the fire. Oh yes, there’s a ship fire coming in this story. Wait for it.

Once my fitness-and-fun dreams are dashed, I start to lean hard into the food. Soft serve, hot dog time at the pool, a nightly aperitif called the Chocolate Mudslide, which is basically a twenty-ounce chocolate shake with a thimble of Bailey’s in it.

The last night of the cruise is formal night. My husband, who for legal reasons I will call Barry, is wearing a suit that he had custom-made for him by a Portuguese tailor in Pennsylvania. I am wearing a dress that was foisted on me by some aggressive Russian salespeople on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Needless to say, we are feeling very continental. Photographers come to the tables and take formal photos of us all, as well as novelty photos of us being menaced tableside by a woman dressed as a pirate. During dinner there is a passenger talent show. And sure enough, the little gay from table twenty does a tap dance, cheered on by his new best friends. Those assholes.

After dinner we settle into the ship’s thousand-seat theater to enjoy the eleven P.M.

performance of Fiesta Caliente. The house is packed for this musical dance celebration of Latin pop music. One of the dancers is “warming up” on stage as part of the preshow, a theatrical convention that my husband and I can appreciate because we’re from New York and know about things. My Chocolate Mudslide is going down smooth when we hear the three bells.
Bing. Bing. Bing
. But instead of Dan Dan the Party Man, it’s a woman’s voice and she’s breathing heavily. She sounds Filipina, if that’s even a thing. “Bravo… Bravo… Bravo,” she pants. “Main engine. Starboard side. Bravo… Bravo… Bravo.” We hear the speaker shut off. People look around a little nervously. The dancer warming up on stage makes a beeline for backstage. Within seconds the three bells are back. Oh, thank God, it’s our Greek captain.

“Laydis and gentlemen, thissis your captain spicking. Pliss proceed to your muster stations.” This is not what I wanted him to say. We get up and make our way painfully slowly through the completely full theater.

Everyone is quiet. Which is the wooooooorst. It’s scary when a group of people all know instinctively not to joke around. Another voice comes over the PA, repeating, “Please, remain calm.

Please proceed to your muster stations.” The German half of me is thinking, “Shove the old people out of the way. Shove the old and the infirm! If they are strong enough to resist you, they deserve to live.”

The Greek half of me wants to scream at our Greek captain. I do neither and proceed obediently.

We stop at our cabin along the way so that I can change into sneakers. I have a strong urge to lie down and pretend this is not happening—like the old couple in
Titanic.
That’s how I want to go, ice-cold water rising around our spooning bodies and me somehow successfully willing my body to nap. I tie my Sauconys.* “We should hurry,” Jeff says quietly. (Damn it, I promised myself I wouldn’t use his real name!) We head to our muster station, grateful that we went to the drill. Women and children are put to the front, men in the back. They really still do that. I hold Jeff’s hand diagonally through the crowd.

We’re going to be one of those stories of a couple that died on their honeymoon. We’ll be on the local news. They’ll identify Jeff by the monogram inside that suit jacket. I think about how horrible it will be if I have to get on the lifeboat and leave him behind.

Another announcement. “This is Dan your cruise director. We have a fire in the engine room due to a burst fuel pipe. Our crew is working hard to put the fire out, and I will update you as I have more information.” Uh-oh. Where’s Dan Dan the Party Man?

I look around. There are several tween-age girls, in tears, girls who have no doubt watched
Titanic
more times than you have looked at your own stools. There are littler kids who are laughing, unaware. There are the dopes who broke their arms and ankles on scooters (people really don’t listen), who are now wondering if it will cost them their lives. The wildly drunk man from the cabin next door to ours is in front of me in the crowd. He’s so drunk that he’s standing in the women-and-children section.

He complains loudly that this is boring and that we are a bunch of assholes. When a clearly terrified woman blurts out, “Please, sir, be quiet,” he sways for a second and then lets out a long “Shuuuuut uuuuuuup” that is funny not just because of its Jackie Gleason–style delivery but also because of its inappropriateness in a situation where we’re all probably going to die.

About thirty minutes later, Dan Dan the Death Man comes back on, saying that thanks to the excellent work of the firefighters on the crew, the fire is out. We will be able to return to our cabins as soon as the rest of the ship has been checked. He says the heat from the fire set off every fire alarm on the ship and so every chamber must be checked before we can go back inside. Most people take this as good news. But I’m too smart for that. I know that extreme heat plus a burst fuel pipe means that the ship is going to explode now. While people around me start to relax, I keep my eyes on the sea, waiting to be rocketed into it on a wave of fire. I’ll be ready for it to happen and that way it won’t happen. It’s a burden, being able to control situations with my hyper-vigilance, but it’s my lot in life.

Some crew members come around with coolers of cold drinks. A nearby woman takes a soda and hands it back, saying, “Do you have diet?” If God had a sense of humor, the ship would have exploded right then. (Actually, I think God does have a sense of humor, as evidenced by squirrels eating pizza with their hands and that thing where suicide bombers accidentally detonate before they get to their destination.) The ship doesn’t explode.

After an hour or so, we’re allowed into the lounge and they give out playing cards. People are sleeping on the floor. It’s very
Poseidon Adventure.
It’s almost three A.M. when we return to our cabin.

Our sunglasses are just sitting there on the bed; whatever towel animal was wearing them has fled in terror.

We sleep in our clothes. In the morning, my husband, who for legal reasons I will now call Lee, wakes me up and says that we have turned back to Bermuda. This is one of the things I love about Lee, that he is manly and old-fashioned enough to know that the sun should be on our right if we’re headed north. They must be taking us back to Bermuda and flying us home. Lee’s face shrinks with worry. I think about our tablemates who had mentioned they also didn’t like to fly. Most of the people on this ship are afraid to fly. My God:
That’s why they’re here
. Cruising itself is not actually fun! I spring into action.

There must be a finite amount of anti-anxiety medication on this ship. While most people are still asleep, I find the infirmary and procure two pills for my husband. One for when the plane takes off and one for when I tell him he’s right, we’re being sent home on a plane.

After handing the first pill to my husband, Rod (Jeff’s complaining that Lee sounds too feminine.

Dammit, I used his real name again!), I head to the business center and make a forty-dollar ship-to-shore call to let my parents know that in spite of what they have seen on the news, we’re okay. I am surprised to learn that this was not a news story.

The crew tries to downplay the seriousness of the night before. The “midnight cooking demonstration,” cancelled last night, is now being held in the hot sunlight. The guys are back playing the steel drums by the pool bar, but now the music seems creepy, like when children sing in a horror movie or when guys play steel drums on a cruise ship that almost sank. The crew is glum. The scuttlebutt (which actually is scuttlebutt and not gossip, because we’re on a ship) is that the ship is being taken back to Bermuda, where it will be dry-docked and repaired for six months. No wonder they’re a little halfhearted about the cooking demonstration; they’re all out of a job.