Standup comedy debut dishing about Mrs. Claus

First open mic at Brooklyn Art Haus, discussing gender roles of Mr. and Mrs. Claus

I love all the religious and commercial goo of Christmas so much that in 2017, I became a Mrs. Claus. I had no idea how hard that would be, how Manhattan could not wrap its mind around a female Christmas character balancing a male Christmas character.

Since I had a wig but no gig, I hit the subway to practice being her. I look back at my crazy bravery, and I thank myself for the strength to play.

Eight years later, I have quality New York City gigs! As of now, I’m booked. This season, I even have my first understudy. Marketers finally see the draw.

But to get to this place, I waded through some serious reindeer poo. In September, I hit open mics to rant about Christmas, specifically Santa getting all the cred.

In my standup debut at Brooklyn Art Haus, I followed nine gentlemen who each talked about their candy canes.

I thought all the performers were funny, for men, even if they didn’t go very far in human evolution. They tested material as if they were chefs tweaking recipes. I respect that they took risks.

When it was my turn, I faced this same group of men who now had grumpy audience faces. They weren’t interested in me. They instead reviewed the jokes they just told to themselves, faces glued to their notebooks or phones.

Fine by me, boys. I would have talked and laughed at a group of shoes. That’s how ready I was to get up on stage and tell them that I was Mrs. Claus and that they were all going to get coal in their socks.

Really, what’s the diff between male body parts and whiskers, of the St. Nick variety? I’ve sat fallen asleep through many a beard care lecture at Santa conventions, both online and in person. I just hoped we had moved along as a species. We haven’t.

A few days later, I performed at SwipeMic at Madam X, my friend’s bar in the West Village. This time, most of the performers were female. All of us talked about bad dates, since that was the theme.

“I’m a childless cat lady,“ I told the crowd.

[Thunderous applause and alcohol-enhanced cheers.]

“And I date professionally, with my boyfriend’s approval.”

[Silence and confusion.]

I then proceeded to tell them I play Mrs. Claus during the holidays. When I first got started, I couldn’t get paid work in Manhattan, so I hooked up with a Santa agent who worked the country club circuit in Connecticut.

The first time I met him, he picked me up in his SUV at the Cos Cob Metro North station. He said, “That’s all my sh*t.” He was referring to the bags of stuffed animals and costumes in the back. He was clean-shaven and wearing a sweatshirt. An adhesive beard lay across the dashboard.

I thought maybe I shouldn’t get into the van of a man who says he Santa. But I did. And I continued to get into other vans of strangers, all Santas who worked for him.

Recently, I landed my first in-house commercial! I was so excited. I started the day in a red Corvette with the top down in Times Square. It was the hottest day of the year, and Santa was in the driver’s seat. He was a terrific acting partner. Funny and thoughtful. But as the videographers provided instructions, in the heart of American advertising, I kept wondering when Mrs. Claus would be asked to take the wheel.

What a passive sentence that is! When will she be asked?

By getting up on stage, I’ve slipped into the driver’s seat of my own playscape. I’m not asking. I’m informing.

Ho ho ho, mo fos.