Red Room Where the Writers Are

 "Well she didn't lick it off a brick!"

Apparently this is what one of my white-trashier relatives proclaimed during my Broadway debut. I was 9 years old. She was using her outdoor voice. No one had any idea what she meant.

Turns out, I'm of minstrel descent. My great-grandfather was in vaudeville. Although the penurious disposition managed to skip two generations, I came out of the womb with jazz hands and a tuft of orange hair. My family could no longer ignore the two shameful twists in our DNA they'd spent eras trying to straighten out. They'd spawned a redheaded actress.

As if that wasn't enough I've never been able to keep my clothes on.

This is my blog. You should read it every day.