It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections From A Terminally Optomistic, Chronically Sarcastic And Occasionally Inebriated Woman - Plot & Excerpts
The outer layers are a joke, and when you peel them away, there’s another joke underneath. And underneath that yet another joke, and underneath that yet another. When you get to the core of the onion, however, it’s no joke. —STANLEY MYRON HANDELMAN The earliest memory I have of my father is seeing him on television when I was about three. It was probably The Ed Sullivan Show or Dean Martin. I waved at the TV, which I recall my mother found hilarious and she wasn’t an easy laugh. “Hi, Daddy! Here I am! Daddy!” I looked to my mom, demanding to know why I wasn’t getting his attention. In fact, he seemed engrossed in a conversation with a couple other people that annoyingly didn’t include me. “He can’t see you, sweetie.” I didn’t know how that was possible. I was right in front of him—yelling. And it was highly probable that I was naked and dancing. Looking back, it’s a good thing I wasn’t in the studio audience. My father was on talk shows a lot when I was small—too small to actually know what a talk show was.
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