Risky Business

I a

lways had my own ideas about things. As an only child, when my dad went to check on his farm in Ohio, I had nothing to do, so I imagined things. I stood in the barn and sang opera to the sheep. I made up all sorts of languages. I guess someone looking on might have predicted I would grow up to be funny. As a teenager, I spent three years training in classical piano until I realized I didn't have the talent to pursue music professionally. Then I wanted to become a stenographer so I could count on making money. My mother thought I should be a music teacher; that was somehow more acceptable. What happened in reality was I fell in love with someone at Bluffton College and got married. We had five kids. After that, it took me a few years to realize that my husband couldn't make a living. He was very bright but emotionally crippled. In one year, he held 17 jobs. Living with that was really scary.

I took a few copywriting jobs, for a department store and a radio station. Around that time I came across a book that changed my life. The book, The Magic of Believing by Claude Bristol, is still in print. If I hadn't read it, I don't think I would have made it--the book was that important--because it outlined a system of thought that was the absolute turning point in my life, in my attitude toward myself. Before it, I was so self-conscious and so underestimated myself that a dirty look would deter me. I didn't feel pretty, and though I was loaded with talent, I didn't realize any of it. My husband, to his credit, had been urging me to try comedy. On March 7, 1955, at 37, I debuted at a popular San Francisco night spot, the Purple Onion. I was booked for two weeks. I ended up staying for 89.

I took a risk then. I chose being a possibly unemployed comic over being an employed copywriter. My boss at the time offered me a leave of absence, but I said I wouldn't be back. When he came to my first show, I made the mistake of asking him what he thought, and it was negative. From then on, I never asked that question again. It's only your opinion that matters. After my kids, I am most proud of having made my mark as a female comic in what was then strictly a male profession.

At one point, I was called the Queen of Plastic Surgery. I did bring it out of the closet. After I talked about all my tucks and jobs, people opened up about theirs. I would be sitting on the couch on the Tonight Show, and someone would lean over and say, "I just had my eyes done" or whatever. I became the clearinghouse for everyone, because I knew all the answers. The surgeons loved me. I loved demystifying it. Of course, I wasn't an advocate exactly. I think people can get addicted, and it can be abused. But it can make you feel better about your life.

More recently I've surprised myself by having a whole second career as a pianist and painter. From ages 70 to 80, I performed on the piano with 100 symphonies. At first people thought the music wouldn't be serious. But I got good reviews! Now I'm doing a lot of painting. I used to do it primarily for charity--and only occasionally. One time in the mid-1980s, I was at an auction where one of my paintings was getting a lot of attention; someone paid $5,000 for it. I thought, Gee whiz, if they're this good, maybe I should unleash this. So I gave myself a studio and set myself up. People seem to adore the work; the paintings are acrylics, watercolors and ink drawings, and they reflect me. They're happy. They're not dour at all. They sell like crazy. I have collectors! I've had shows at galleries in New York City, Palm Beach, Palm Springs and Los Angeles.

I'll be 84 next month, and I still do stand-up, of course. I just became the first woman to be honored on the Friars Club Wall of Fame! In November, I'm putting on Dear Sheldon, a new play by Sam Bobrick and Julie Stein. No one's done it. But it's very funny.