This is an open letter to the people who’ve pissed me off so far this week. And it’s only Wednesday. Here we go….
Dear Comedy Club MC Who Can’t Pronounce My Name Correctly Even Though I’ve Told You How To Say It 4000 Times: I realize that most comedians are white dudes with regular white dude names that you don’t have to think too hard about, but seriously, how hard is it to say Tissa? It rhymes with Lisa, for God’s sake. It’s not Tess, Toss, Tesh, Tish, or Tissue. It’s Tissa. Tee-sah. Got it? Good. Now that we’ve got that squared away, please do not ask me if it’s short for anything. Because it is. But if you couldn’t manage to say Tissa correctly, then there’s no way you’re going to be able to say Tissapeh. Oh, what’s that now? You want to know what it means in my language? It’s ancient Persian for “we’re so disappointed it’s not a boy.”
Dear Young Mexican Guy on the Street Who Called Me Lupe and Started Speaking to Me in Spanish: I realize you and I are the only brown people in a 10-block radius, but that doesn’t automatically make me a Mexican woman named Lupe. I don’t know this Lupe you speak of, but since you sincerely seemed to think that I was her, I can only deduce that she is stunningly beautiful. As for whatever you said to me in Spanish, all I can say is, yo no comprendo. My Spanish is limited to important vocabulary like taco, burrito, and chimichanga. And sangria.
Dear Lady Who Works at the Antique Store: I understand that I didn’t walk into your store looking all suave and elegant like your usual uppity clientele, but I happen to like furniture and love antiques and your store is open to everyone to browse, n’est-ce pas? Thought I’d throw a little French your way, cherie. You seem like the type who would appreciate that. Which brings me to….
Dear White People in My New Neighborhood: Yes, I live here. No, I’m not somebody’s nanny. Stop giving me That Look.
Dear Guys Who Work at the Local Grocery Store: Really, I live here. I really do. And I speak English just fine, so you don’t need to speak to me sloooooowly when you talk to me. And dammit, stop giving me That Look. I already told you I wasn’t the nanny. Geez.
Dear New Mommies in the Coffee Shop: I realize you gave up your super career in PR to marry that venture capitalist and start a family and it’s not as blissful as you thought it would be, but I have news for you — nobody cares about your high-class problems. Stop blabbing about how your husband’s bonus is shrinking 50% this year or how you can’t buy the $1000 Dutch pram you want or how you’re wondering why you bothered getting that degree from Vassar. Oh, and one more thing. Nobody cares about your baby. Stop talking about him incessantly. And don’t even think about coming over here and asking me what my nanny rates are.
Dear Smoking Hot Persians at the Persian Dance Party: My goodness, ya’ll, how’d you get your eyebrows to look like that? And that’s just the guys. You know I love all you Persian boys with your slick hair, designer clothes, and hot cars that you can’t afford. I wish I could be the hot blonde overly made-up Persian girl with the 3-inch fake lashes and 10-inch heels in the tight black little dress on your arm, but alas, I still have my original nose, boobs, and hair color, and I know I don’t measure up. It may sound like I’m making fun, but really, I’m not. I totally admire you ladies who are so bold about your looks. It gives me something to aspire to. Maybe if I’m a good little Iranian comedian in this life, I can come back as a hot Persian bombshell in my next life.
Dear Kaiser Permanente: I’m pretty sure that you’re trying to kill me.
Let’s all try to do better next week, shall we?
Tissa Hami is a stand-up comic. She will perform with the “FUNatical Comedy Tour” on December 11th at 8pm at the Los Angeles Theatre Center and on December 12th at 6pm at Caspian in Irvine. Visit her website at www.tissahami.com.