And I drive a subaru forester

I got an email yesterday.

Hi Maggie, I like your photos on your website, see you can wear makeup!! You should dress more like this on stage. Tracy S.

I know, I too was surprised that it wasn’t from my mother.

Well thanks Tracy S., I have no idea who you are, but as we won’t become friends I’m not too concerned. Your exclamation-pointed makeup comment presumably refers to me talking onstage about my problems with wearing makeup and especially, lipstick. Congratulations on your extraordinary powers of observation. Thanks to you seeing this photos and pointing out that I can indeed wear makeup, I’ll have to stop doing this bit or risk being exposed as a blush and lippy using hypocrite. Although, you should be aware that for my headshots, I did employ a professional make-up person and photoshop tools were also involved. Maybe I should change my bit to not being able to apply makeup, then we’ll all be temporarily satisfied. I’m not really sure what to make of your ‘you should dress more like this’ comment. In the photos I’m wearing a red jacket, I like this jacket and used to wear it onstage quite a lot but I now find it a bit restrictive, plus it smells sicky and needs dry cleaning. However, it’s not exactly a radical look, it’s not ballgown and sneakers. What is so hideous about my usual t-shirt and jeans look that makes swapping back to my red jacket that much more appealing? Or are you just typing complete shit?

Thank you Tracy S. Your comments have put me in just the bad mood I needed in order to channel more bitterness and sarcasm into my writing. I was frankly getting tired of doodling butterflies and hearts with Erik’s initials all over my notebook. Why do people I’ve never met feel the need to make any comments, other than ‘you’re brilliant’. The last time I got something like this it was a woman telling me my material wasn’t suitable for a woman. It’s buried late on in this blog about being introduced as a lady comic.

Maybe I’m just feeling a bit overly sensitive about my appearance. A month or so ago, a guy complimented me on having big balls. But I think it’s just the way my jeans were hanging. Then during my round of the Funniest in Austin contest a comic told me I could pass for a lesbian. She is one, so I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about. Part of me was quite flattered, in the way where you’re usually rubbish at stuff but then find out you could be good at something without even knowing or trying. But the other part was a bit bummed because I knew she didn’t mean one of the pretty girly ones. I don’t know how long I could pass for a lezzer, I’d probably be good right up to the point of fanny fiddling in in the Subaru. And possibly beyond that.

Alright I’m very sensitive about my appearance. Went to the comedy club last night to see a fellow lesbo, Tig Notaro. The audience was small but she was brilliant and you’re a fool if you don’t see her when you get the chance. I went with my friend Lisa, who is one of those people that you want to hate, but can’t. She’s beautiful, modest, has a great sense of style and fashion, loves animals, is very funny, has probably inspired countless crushes and stalkings and is just someone you enjoy spending time with. When I talk about how I feel like a frump when I’m out with my girl pals, it’s mainly based on being out with Lisa and another friend, Lauren. Lisa looked particularly splendid last night and there were plenty of these awkward moments:

“hi Lisa, wow you look fabulous tonight, what a great dress (huggy huggy); oh hi Maggie, didn’t see you there.”

I’m off to England tomorrow so I’ll pop into Top Shop and pick up something in the new hypely anticipated Kate Moss range (launching tomorrow) that’s designed for sexually active 13 year olds. Then I’ll wear it here to demonstrate what is meant by mutton dressed as lamb. See you around Tracy S.