Growing up, my Uncle Saul had a particular loathing for Steve Martin. It was strange, because Uncle Saul loved comedy and was considered something of a jokester himself. Steve Martin’s brand of silly slapstick humor (think “The Jerk” years) seemingly fell right into Saul’s comedy style wheelhouse, yet he hated the guy.
One day in the early 80s, as a commercial came on advertising yet another Steve Martin flick, Uncle Saul expounded on his dislike for the comedic actor. Apparently, in his younger years, Saul bore an uncanny resemblance to Steve Martin in both appearance and wit (minus the prematurely grey hair). His mother thought of him as a funnier version of Steve Martin, and apparently he did too. Naturally it was patently unfair that it was Steve Martin who got the big break on SNL, those big money stand-up gigs, and the blockbuster movie deals. Steve Martin had stolen his life! Of course Uncle Saul had cause to hate the man. It all finally made sense.
While the mystery of why Uncle Saul hated Steve Martin had been solved, it occurred to me as I grew older that jealousy or dissatisfaction with one’s own life isn’t a good reason to hate one more fortunate who managed to grab the brass ring and run with it. I patted myself on the back for surpassing Uncle Saul in this milestone of maturity, and was able to live with that quiet satisfaction until yesterday, when I started reading Bossypants. Tina Fey stole my life and I want it back.
In my defense, I’ve always been a big fan of Tina Fey, as well as her posse of female comedic cohorts like Amy Poehler and Maya Rudolph, who are starring with her in an upcoming movie called, Sisters, which I am NOT going to see (she makes enough money without my contributing to her ticket sales like a GoFundMe campaign for needy comics).
Oh, you can bet that before the Bossypants betrayal I felt pretty self-righteous and proud that I was able to support this successful comedic writer and actress, despite the obvious similarities between us (similarities known only to myself, but she was 45 and brunette and I had read somewhere that she had spent some time in Chicago, so the connection should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain). However, only a few pages into the book, I realized that the similarities had gone from spooky to downright plagiarism!
Turns out that not only has Ms. Fey spent time in Chicago, she actually stalked (yes I said stalked) both my head and my hood. First, she talked about the misery it was to grow up during a time when the only standard of beauty portrayed in the media was blond hair and blue eyes when your eyes were Shih Tzu Poop Brown (my words, not hers) and your hair was the equivalent of an old Scotch-Brite steel wool scrubbing pad, turned brown from rust and old brisket (and Fey was the one they pegged for the head writer spot at SNL?). She actually mentioned the impossible beauty standards set by Christie Brinkley and Cheryl Tiegs, the only sad representation of brunettes being Janet on Three’s Company – examples that I jotted down for a possible future WordPress blog post only two weeks ago! Intellectual property theft much?
Worse still, she had the nerve to mention Rogers Park. Rogers Park! No, not the yuppified and frumified version of West Rogers Park that I now live in. The real deal. East Rogers Park. She talked about the Morse train station. The train station that I lived 1 ½ blocks from and used almost every day from the ages of 14-22. She had the ovaries to mention the Heartland Café and their sweet potato fries. Are you kidding me? I was best friends with the Heartland Cafe owner’s son from 1983-1985! She doesn’t know the Heartland Café. I AM the Heartland Café!
I could go on with more examples about how Tina Fey is a cheap imposter of the comedic genius that is me – did she go to the Lincoln Park Fine Arts School for the Emotionally Impaired like me? I think not! Did Tina Fey win the coveted title of “Funniest Girl” of the 1984 Eugene Field Elementary School graduating class like I did? It could never happen, even in her wildest dreams!
Of course, my situation is totally different than Saul’s. Based on age and geographic proximity to Rogers Park in the early 90s, I could actually be Tina Fey. Uncle Saul never had a shot at Martin. My loathing is justifiable, while his was just pathetic. I know pathetic, because it stares me in the face every day.
Like yesterday, as a nurse was trying to make small talk as she inserted an IV needle into my arm for a follow up MRI of the lumbar spine (lower back pain instigated circa ’98 with baby #2, and a constant reminder of my explosive 9 year reproductive run). As she prepped my upper arm for needle insertion, she peppered me with questions about myself. Very quickly, the conversation turned to what I did for a living.
The site of the IV needle
When I told her that I was a stay-at-home-mom, her face turned into a mold of embarrassment and apology, kind of like when someone asks a woman if she’s pregnant and she’s not (not that that has ever happened to me!). She asked how many kids I had and their ages, and after replying with a significant number of offspring, she began her patronizing backpedaling about how of course I couldn’t work and take care of that number of children – I was doing a harder job than her own. I have officially fallen into the category of pathetic. I’m betting no one patronizes Tina Fey, and she’s a mom too!
In any event, my pride in being a supportive “sisters 4 sisters,” kind of woman quickly evaporated as I perused the opening pages of Bossypants. In a mixture of indignation, self-recrimination, and unadulterated loathing for all that is Fey, I quickly realized that Saul and I were on the same stunted emotional level – being angry at people who accomplished what we would have, should have, and could have if only other people would have believed in us and propelled us toward the success we so richly deserved. Is it our fault that no one believed in the legends we were in our own minds?
However, I had to harken back to this past Shabbos. My husband and I were talking to our kids about friendship and the false god that is popularity. We told them that having a few valuable and loyal good friends is better than having hundreds of meaningless acquaintances. My husband quoted Ben Zoma in Pirkei Avos (The Ethics of the Fathers), “The truly rich person is one who is happy with their lot.” Basically, be content with what you have, and don’t waste time regretting the things that you don’t.
So, I am back to realigning myself with my former position on not hating on someone because they have something I thought I should have. At the end of the day, I am exactly where I am supposed be in this moment, and someone else’s success doesn’t take away from my own potential for achievement.
I’m still not going to see Sisters.
