Read an Excerpt
Perfect I'm Not
Boomer on Beer, Brawls, Backaches, and Baseball
My Life as a Woman
Your husbands are looking
very sexy tonight. I think
I'm gonna have sex
with them all!
-- Skank #1
December 1, 2001: New York City
Saturday night, 7:15 P.M. My frosted pink lipstick is layered on thick. My bleached blonde hair is moussed high and sprayed hard, like something you'd see wandering through a New Jersey shopping mall. Tight, black, patent leather pumps are squeezing my feet. Tight, black, queen-size panty hose are squeezing my groin. The cocktail dress I'm wearing feels at least two inches too short. My ass is freezing, but my big, fake boobs are smoking hot.
Thirty-eight Cs, these silicone girls are round, firm, full, and so incredibly perky they actually seem to defy gravity. They're better than perfect. They're fascinating, and strangely magnetic as well. All night long, I'll be happily copping feels of my own fake cleavage.
Right now though, I stand before a full-length mirror, sucking in my gut to get a long, first look at the full bosomy bloom of my own femininity. It's overwhelming. Quickly, and without any doubt whatsoever, I come to the realization that I may actually be the single ugliest woman ever to walk the face of this planet. Without the goatee I might rate a 2. With it, I'm a negative 6. At exactly this moment, someone shouts at me from across the room.
"Dude! You are one homely skank!"
I turn fast, and there's David Cone, red-faced, and laughing so hard the veins in his little pencil neck look like they're about to explode. He's doubled over. He's wheezing. He's even uglier than I am. Decked out in a black spandex miniskirt, polyester leopard-print halter top, and a bimbo-do that's even bigger, fluffier, and sluttier than mine, Coney's a mess. The dude looks like last call at Houlihan's. He makes dirt look pretty. Next to David Cone, I'm Pam Anderson. Side by side in the mirror now, we'll spend the better part of a half hour arguing over which of us is really more gruesome. Finally, rehoisting our bra straps, and readjusting our wigs, we call it a draw and go hunting for Derek Jeter.
Quickly, before you get the wrong idea, let me take a minute to explain that cross-dressing has never been high on my "things-to-do" list. Tonight's drag is a one-off; a command performance set into motion on the spur of the moment by Saturday Night Live producer Lorne Michaels. With Derek Jeter hosting this week's show, the SNL writers have concocted a sketch involving five Yankee wives and a sleazy pair of groupies who chase after their husbands. As the scene is cast, Jeter will be playing Alfonso Soriano's sweet, loving wife, "Candy." Guess who's playing "Skank #1" and "Skank #2"?
Less than three hours ago Coney and I were across the river in Jersey, happily serving as "honored guests" at a dignified, perfect-game-themed, autograph-signing appearance. Now we've both got purple mascara caked onto our lashes, and hairdos the size of sport-utility vehicles. How'd this happen? Simple. I opened my big mouth. Shocker there, huh? Let me backtrack. I've been a rabid SNL fan ever since I was twelve years old, falling off the couch as John Belushi samurai-sliced his way through both the neighborhood deli and Buck Henry's forehead. With that in mind, it should come as no surprise that all through my first go-round with the Yankees, I was constantly weaseling myself invitations to Saturday Night Live tapings and also to the show's legendary after-parties. Loud and large and crammed with funny, talented writers, performers, and musicians, these things kick off right after SNL rolls its credits. They end right around the time the sun starts rising over the East River. They're great fun. I love being there, and through years of blatant party-crashing, I've slowly but surely developed a pretty solid "odd couple" friendship with Lorne Michaels, as well as the show's producers and some of the cast.
November 10, 2001. I'm in New York City making a personal appearance at a Manhattan Hooters franchise (tough work, but somebody's gotta do it), signing balls and posters and T-shirts, with the proceeds all going toward 9/11 relief. And since I'm in town on a Saturday, I have to call SNL producer Marci Klein, asking that she hook me up with tickets for tonight's show. As we chat, Marci runs through her usual song and dance about how funny tonight's host is gonna be, but then, from out of nowhere, she surprises me by asking for Derek Jeter's home phone number. I make the obvious joke about how she can't possibly be that hard up, but Marci keeps digging. She tells me SNL wants Derek to host their next live episode, which is scheduled to air the night of December 1. With one more bad, hook-up joke at Marci's expense, I pass along Derek's digits and make plans to be in the studio for "DJ's" debut.
Three weeks pass. Now it's December 1, and Coney and I are signing away in New Jersey, scrawling our names onto balls, baseball cards, T-shirts, and posters, one after another after another. That's when the cell phone rings. It's Marci, and this time she's all business, telling me there's been a great, last-minute sketch written for tonight's show, and it really needs me. She then reads me the whole "Yankee Wives" script over the phone while simultaneously giving me the full, hard-sell, used-car-dealer spin about how funny it'd be to close out the scene with me playing a sleazy ballpark groupie. Laughing into the phone, Marci presses me to commit, on the spot ... Perfect I'm Not
Boomer on Beer, Brawls, Backaches, and Baseball. Copyright © by David Wells. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.