Anyway, it’s a universal principle that two things that are exactly the same tend to repel each other. That’s why you can’t put two positive sides of a magnet together. My parents are a great example of that. My mother is outgoing, smart, and pretty; she, too, is “one of the guys.” Even though she was a Guys’ Girl like me, my mother certainly wasn’t immune to the ups and downs of a brain powered by the blessing/curse of Girl Logic. I saw it play out in her life every day. “If I don’t go to work, then I can’t provide for my children, but if I miss out on something at home, then I’m a bad mother. If I date too much, then I’m setting a bad example, but if I don’t date at all, then I’m a lonely single mom of two.” In the end, she was able to do it all, as most mothers are forced to do. And because she was attractive, her GL was always whispering, “Remember, other women might find you threatening, so don’t be too nice to their husbands. But also make sure to always look put together because you never know who’s out there.”
Maybe seeing her experiences unfold helped push me toward identifying more closely with the men in any given room than with the women. My dad is the funniest person I know and he’s teeming with jokes, charisma, and… I guess he’s good-looking for a dad? (I mean, he’s no Robert Herjavec. And no, I’m not worried about my dad feeling insulted after reading this. He’s not going to call and say, “What, you don’t think your dad is attractive? But this is a brand-new fleece vest!”) Point is, my parents were drawn to each other because they saw in the other what they loved about themselves. But eventually that mutual admiration became a competition, and that competition became a divorce, which became little Iliza being forced to see a therapist to make sure she was OK when all she really wanted was to collect crystals and watch Ren and Stimpy.
So, yeah, my parents divorced when I was seven and my brother was five. At the time, I was actually pretty OK with it. I wanted them to be happy! Sounds weird, but I truly don’t recall being upset. I’m sure I had my moments, but it just sort of… passed. I never thought about it as I got older because, well, every couple eventually seems to get divorced. What was so special about my parents? To harp on their divorce like it was some sort of albatross felt trite. As trite as referencing an albatross.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that a therapist informed me I hadn’t fully “processed” everything that had happened back then. We lived in Dallas, and my father had moved out of our house and into an apartment, like dads do when they leave. (The best part about divorce is that your dad’s house is always more fun. There you can eat junk your mom won’t buy, like Jell-O pudding cups and Fresca, watch TV longer, and lie about homework because your dad has no idea what subjects you are studying anyway.) Then he got married and moved away to Stamford, Connecticut, for work. So by the time I was nine or so, my father was living 1,500 miles away with his new wife, Barbara. I know kids are supposed to hate their stepmoms, but Barbara was a nice woman who was madly in love with my father. And she really tried to be cool with my brother and me.
But my dad was gone, which meant it was just my newly single mom raising me and my brother, Ben. I felt like my friends were safely ensconced in their happy, complete little family units while we were the one weird family that had gone through an amputation. I felt this vague sense of embarrassment for most of my childhood, like we were somehow less than, like we were being judged. And we were, for sure. I remember my mom saying she overheard other moms whispering about her when she dropped my brother off for soccer practice: “She’s divorced. Her husband moved away,” like she was some freak with three heads (and two kids to top it off).
I was never embarrassed by my mother, of course. I was mainly sheepish about the fact that my father wasn’t there. So, to compensate, I started seeking out male approval through jokes. It was always important to me to make my friends’ fathers laugh; I already had my mom’s love, so this was my way of connecting, of feeling loved and “guy approved.” I like to think learning to decipher what makes a grown man crack up—to tap into an audience that was my utter opposite—helped my comedy improve and mature. It also primed me for becoming a Guys’ Girl.
My mom did the best she could to serve as both mother and father. She lost a bunch of friends after the divorce; no one wants a pretty, newly single third wheel hanging around, and I saw the way women dropped her after the split. Fewer invites, less inclusion.
Once, my mom and I were watching my brother’s soccer game. Soccer wasn’t so much something my brother enjoyed as much as it was something my mom wanted him to be involved in so he could be around other boys. My mom sat on the metal bleachers, the only single mom in the crowd. She was there to support him, of course, and who knows what work obligations she’d had to skip or errands to postpone to be there for him that day.
It had rained earlier that day. As she was getting up, she slipped on the bleacher. She tumbled a few seats down and skinned her leg on the metal edge of the bench, slicing open her left shin. My mom sat down, blood running, bone exposed, wincing and crying. I was ten, and all I remember was being angry that she was crying. I remembered knowing that my feeling of anger wasn’t fair to her but being mentally unable to override my anger with concern, so I eked out a simulation of sympathy: “Mom, are you OK?” Of course she wasn’t OK. It wasn’t OK that she fell, that she was hurt, or that she was drawing even more attention to our shitty little fatherless family. And it wasn’t OK that no one cared. One woman finally came over to help her clean up her shin, but… that was it. None of the other moms around us said anything, did anything, or showed a modicum of compassion. Was it because they didn’t know her? Because she was Jewish? Because she was the sole single mom in the crowd? Because she was attractive? Who knows? Years later, my mother told me that after the incident, my brother had innocently asked, “But why didn’t any of the dads help you?” Somehow my mother’s solitariness had made her radioactive.
On the brighter side, my mother would be thrilled to tell you all about that one time she dated a dashing Jewish man (I say that because anyone Jewish reading this will understand what a rare superlative “dashing” is for us) named Richard, eventually bringing him to temple services with us. As she sauntered into the synagogue with him, she heard a woman whisper, “If she can get that, I’m getting a divorce, too.”
When I was about twelve and my brother ten, my father moved back to Texas with Barbara. He wanted to be near us because my brother “needed his father.” Seems simple enough, right? My brother Ben ended up moving in with them, about a five-minute car ride away. After that, Ben wasn’t a huge part of my day-to-day life. He eventually moved out of the house to go to military school for a year and, when he came home, just sort of made his own path, not a traditional one—then again, some people aren’t cut out for normal rules. By the time I went off to college, I don’t think Ben was living in the house with my father anymore. Though we lived our separate lives, we treasure the few years we did spend together under one roof (fighting), and we talk every now and then. He lives on a farm in Northern California and is very very happy. I’m happy for him. He’s also very good with kids and animals and is a good-looking dude, ladies, in case you’re ever in the area.
Even though my dad, stepmom, and brother lived just a few blocks away, I never felt super comfortable in their house. He and Barbara went on to have two other kids, and, as their family grew, I accepted that my father had bigger responsibilities now. There just… wasn’t as much room for me. Sure, I was welcomed whenever and was always included in holidays, but my home was with my mother.
But, the older I got, the more the divide seemed to intensify between my father and me. I was also a teenager by then, so I wanted nothing to do with my half siblings—what teenager wants to hang with little kids? What were we, a family band? I vividly remember being about nineteen and storming out of a Maggiano’s because their kids were too loud. I’d brought my college boyfriend to dinner and the combination of secretly sort of hating him and the kids intermittently screaming wit
h no parental repercussion was like a powder keg. Where did I go after I stormed out? I think I just sat on a bench outside while Sinatra played. Whatever, I was making a statement. I should also say that their kids grew up to be great. We aren’t close. In fact, Brad, my half brother, and I had our first real conversation in my dad’s kitchen about a year ago. We were both shocked by how much we liked each other. My half sister Emily is a year younger than Brad and she’s a singer and lives in LA. I don’t see her much because the idea of getting drunk with a minor gives me major anxiety, but she’s a talented singer with a great sense of style. I’m thirty-four and I low-key stalk her Instagram and think, “Oh, thaaaat’s how you wear loafers, got it.”
When I was about fourteen, my mom married my stepdad, Randy. He was nothing like us. Randy was Waspy, went to Harvard Business School, and wore polo shirts that had yacht club names embroidered on them. From the day I met him, he was nothing but supportive; I lucked out in the stepdad department. He stepped right in and gave my mom a break. They both worked, but now life was easier. More normal. I loved my father, and Randy never tried to compete with that; he did, however, fill that space at the dinner table that had been empty for so long. Randy was, and continues to be, a warm presence in my life. He is not funny, but he doesn’t have to be. We started saying “I love you” a few years ago, and it feels right. My relationship with Randy showed me that men who aren’t related to you can still be capable of loving you.
When I met Randy, he was divorced with three kids of his own, the youngest being about my age. It was just like my previous situation with my dad—he lived across the country from his kids. He loved them, and I was able to see exactly what sacrifices he would have made for them. He was always there to listen and help with my school; he even took me to look at colleges. He never made me feel like I was some lost nobody with divorced parents. He wasn’t Jewish. He wasn’t Christian really either but he just, ya know, definitely wasn’t Jewish. No Jew has that many houndstooth blazers. And when he and my mom got married, we got to have a Christmas dinner. GOD IT FELT GOOD. (Most Jews secretly want to do Christmas stuff; Christians have better PR than we do.)
Throughout my high school years, my mom and stepdad attended my plays, games, and events. My dad came to as many as he could, but I doubt he ever felt fully included in his daughter’s world, especially when it was my stepfather who had truly helped create that world. It kind of got divided up in a way that my dad took care of my brother and my mom took care of me. Basically, if you went to high school with me, you probably didn’t meet my father… who lived just a few short blocks away.
I never questioned it at the time, but to this day “family” is a fragmented idea to me. Still, I’m grateful for my four parents. They’ve pushed me to pursue my dreams and have all been supportive in their own way. My stepmom never judges. She was an actress when she was younger, and, when I was about eight, she took me to an audition for the box cover of a tetherball set for a sports company. I booked the gig. It’s the only professional modeling I’ve ever done. Granted, the image they chose was of me blocking the ball from my face, so I look like I’m seizing but so what? Work is work.
My father loves comedy and his sense of humor is something I’ve always cherished. He gets comedy, better than anyone I’ve ever met and, as an adult, whatever mending our relationship needed, it happened through us bonding over comedy. When I was sixteen, he took me to see Ellen DeGeneres at the Majestic Theater in Dallas. It was me, my dad, and a room of lesbians. It was my first stand-up show ever! Seeing her shaped what I expect from women in comedy; Ellen was funny for a person, not just “for a girl,” and I carried that standard into my own career. About a year ago, I got to play the Majestic Theater, and my Dad was there that night. It was one of those full-circle moments that you have to stop and let steep in.
My mom enabled me and emboldened me to become the woman I am, and, at times, has pushed me to be more of the woman I should be (or maybe just the woman she wants me to be). When I call her from the road, when I’m bleary and teary, when I have the flu and am trudging through O’Hare at 6 a.m., when I tell her I have to leave Thanksgiving early for work, when I say she can visit but I can’t see her because I’ll be on set, she always understands. She’s never done the “Jewish mother” thing and bugged me about getting married or having kids. She just lets me be me and tolerates that I’ll always be a little sloppy and bad at cleaning. Her answer is always, “The situation will crystalize.”
My family history definitely played a part in me becoming a Guys’ Girl. Being “friends” with my stepfather while feeling I had to play a more adult role around my actual father helped me learn how to be myself around men and helped me realize that there wasn’t any one way I had to behave for men to appreciate me. Inheriting my father’s sense of humor and my mother’s boldness, coupled with the opportunities my stepfather afforded me, I never felt like I wasn’t allowed to contribute equally when I spoke to men.
For example, I remember once, when I was eighteen, my parents had a friend over. Mike Malone was one of the top guys at The Richards Group, Texas’s largest advertising agency. I came out of my room to say hi, and, when Mr. Malone asked where I was going that night, I told him “Bingo.” (Michelle and I were hipsters ahead of our time, apparently, in our ironically-but-it’s-also-kind-of-fun-to-play-Bingo-with-old-people phase.) Mr. Malone replied, “You know, my mother died while playing Bingo.” I shot back, “Guess her number was up?”
Was it risky to make a joke about a man’s dead mom? Sure, but he put it out there. Thankfully everyone laughed, my stepdad thought it was hilarious, and so did Mr. Malone, who, right then and there, offered me a summer internship. Point is, my fragmented family, with both of my fathers and their colorful array of male friends, helped me learn that I was on par with them; to see myself that way and to expect to be treated that way, too.
But my parents’ divorce has always served as my personal cautionary tale. Knowing I’m just like my mother and my father, I didn’t want history to repeat itself. I didn’t want to be with someone knowing it could end up in divorce because of something preventable. So all my life, I’ve looked for men who aren’t like me. Men who are funny but not screaming to be the center of attention. Men who are centered; not all over the place, like I am. Men with a quiet strength and confidence.
My somewhat male-like ego, my childhood practice of trying to make my friends’ dads laugh, and my aforementioned difficulty getting accepted into groups of girls all led to my having a lot of guy friends. I’m not going to lie and tell you they were all the hot guys you were secretly praying would ask you to prom. But, every year, I would have a new guy friend who liked me solely because I made them laugh, and that was good enough for me. Guys might read this and think, “Um, duh Iliza, they just wanted to hook up,” and who knows, maybe some of them did. But I have plenty of good male friends who have been my friends and colleagues, feature acts and confidants, for years. I think after years and years of high-quality, nonsexual friendship, it’s safe to say they might be cool with us just being friends. Give men some credit.
Also, I will say that being a Guys’ Girl did help me in one significant area of my life—and without it, I might never have cemented my passion for stand-up.
As I said earlier, when I was twenty, I participated in a college program called Semester at Sea. It’s basically a cruise ship that, for a semester, houses about six hundred kids from various colleges. Together, you and your peers sail around the world, taking classes on the boat and stopping in different countries to get drunk… I mean, learn. “Ek aur biyara chahiye!” That’s “one more beer, please,” in Hindi.
On the boat there were three guys who hailed from Arizona State. These were stunning men—blond hair, blue eyes, jawlines that could cut glass. Every girl on the ship wanted them. I did, too, but I wasn’t terribly familiar with casual sex, and I had zero desire to compete. I made them laugh, which to me, is right up there with getting off. At an ope
n-mic night, I got onstage and made some jokes about the ship—the food, the students, the staff, the hookups. The next night, everyone was hanging out when the hot Arizona guys walked right up to me and demanded, “Hey! We’re bored. Can you make us laugh?”
As an adult, working comedian, if someone said that to me today, I’d roll my eyes and retort, “Sure, pay me.” But at twenty, with no act and seven extra pounds of wine fat, doing every Will Ferrell impression I knew was the closest I would ever get to making out with them. And with that, I was in. I was the funny girl. And funny is FOREVAAAHHHHHHH.
After that night, I was often invited into their room so we could all watch SNL DVDs. Whenever I’d hang out with the hotties, I noticed girl after girl trickle into their rooms, trying to gain entry under the guise of having lost something. “Hey guys, did I leave something in here when I was studying earlier? Did I leave a… book?” They’d ask if they’d left sweatshirts, brushes, pens, hard drives, bras, or tampons, anything to get back in. It was ridiculous. But the next week I went onstage and imitated those girls with their high-pitched voices. (FYI, that’s where my “girl voice,” a sort of cartoonish amalgamation of girlish intention and inflection, comes from. When men imitate women, they always make us sound like drag queens, with overpronounced s’s and a Valley Girl–ish “over it” sound. To me, girls sound brighter, more high pitched, like a chorus of sped-up chipmunks.)
Anyway, that was my first attempt at girl humor, at letting women know I could understand and recognize them while also, well, poking fun at them. That humor about Girl Logic—and Guys’ Girls, and girls’ girls, and all the weird and personal confusion and communication in between—has been the basis of my act ever since. Of course, as I mentioned earlier on, my girl-focused humor wasn’t always warm and fuzzy in the beginning; as I’ve grown older and wiser, my comedy has evolved into something that appreciates women’s GL-fueled nuances and quirks without bashing them for it. Let’s face it, if I thought I was hot enough to sleep with them, I for sure would have pretended to forget something in their room.
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