Dear Diary


Diary Recently, an old friend moved in. He showed up one night, begging for a place to stay. “I promise, its only for the night. You won’t even notice me! I’ll be out by morning.” This is someone I’ve known a long time and I’ve heard this line before. I should have said no and closed the door. Foolishly, I didn’t. It wasn’t long before I realized my mistake. Today turned into tomorrow, which turned into 2 weeks, which turned into a month. Suddenly, I’m stepping over empty pizza boxes, finding foreign hairs in my sink and seeing very weird recommendations in my Netflix queue. What was happening? I tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn’t move. He gave excuse after excuse, me falling for each one.

Who was this guy?

Oh, he’s my old friend, Writer’s Block.
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Open Letter To The Ticket Counter Lady At The Ferry Terminal


Dear Ferry Ticket Counter Lady:

Whew! That was close! I’m writing this letter to you whilst sitting on the ferry you in no way helped me board.

Thank you for your complete indifference and 0.0 sense of urgency to the line of customers waiting for assistance in getting on this ferry. Your lack of interest to the patrons who pre-paid for this now sold out ferry really helped me feel like I wasn’t going to miss the proverbial (and actual) boat.Read More »

Dating: I Was Doing It All Wrong


When I was at work the other day, I got a text from my boyfriend. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. It was a picture, but it was hard to see what it was. I clicked on it to enlarge, and there it was: it was a picture of poop, floating in a toilet.

I was ecstatic.

This was a historic moment, and I wanted to share it with someone. Grabbing my phone, I intended to show my co-worker, sitting behind me. Halfway out of my seat, I realized it probably wasn’t the greatest idea. (Still not my worst, either).

“Is this some weird kind of scat fetish?”

I should probably tell you those turds belonged to his 3 and a half year old son, who is in the midst of potty training.

How did this become my life?

It started a little over a year ago, when I first met my boyfriend. Both new to stand-up comedy, we met at an open mic. I thought he was hilarious, adorable, smart, charming. He had a job, a car, and his own place. (You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was finding someone who met those three basic requirements.) He was everything I wanted in a partner, except for one major obstacle: he had a kid.

Not my boyfriend. Not his kid.
Not my boyfriend. Not his kid.

Full disclosure: I never wanted a relationship with someone who had kids. In fact, it was kind of a deal breaker. I could barely handle one adult relationship; how could I deal with a child? In my mind, dating a man with kids meant not doing what I want, when I wanted. It meant sacrificing time, attention. It meant I couldn’t be selfish. That’s not an easy admission. But, after some serious self-reflection, I decided to break my own rules and give the relationship a chance.

Once we had been seeing each other for a while, he decided to take the next step and introduce me to his son. I was petrified. I really liked him and didn’t want the relationship to end.  But, what if his son didn’t like me? What if he didn’t like me with his son? Even worse, what if I didn’t like his son?? These thoughts scared the proverbial shit out of me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that kind of commitment.

I was wrong.

Of course, his son is beyond adorable and I can’t believe I ever questioned my decision. I’m having the time of my life. I look forward to seeing him, hearing his tiny (yet very loud) voice shout absurd declarations, mostly about needing more apple juice. Even the dog, who could care less about us, gets excited that he’ll be chasing him around the house for a week.

Gone are my days of day drinking and lounging around in my free time. Instead, we plan days and weekends with trips to the park, children’s museums, looking for bugs, monster truck shows, spontaneous glow stick parties, and digging in sandboxes. He makes up hilarious stories and has us laughing all the time.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned has been to trust my heart, not my head. If I never gave this single dad a chance, I would have been one giant turd.

Shows!: Hold The Mayo Podcast 6/30/15


Hold The Mayo

Last night I had the absolute pleasure of being a guest on comedian Jay Mayo’s Hold The Mayo podcast. We talk about music, hatred for Madonna and hipster, comedy, love, and forming hate groups.

It was so much fun and I really encourage everyone to subscribe. Jay has a great interview style, which is why this podcast’s popularity is skyrocketing.

Here’s a bunch of places you can find the episode:

Direct Download:

http://traffic.libsyn.com/holdthemayopodcast/HTM_EP_67_Marie_Forster.mp3

iTunes
https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/hold-the-mayo/id835403849

Stitcher App
stitcher.com/s?fid=54468&re

Spreaker App:

https://www.spreaker.com/user/holdthemayopodcast

Website:

www.holdthemayopodcast.libsyn.com

Enjoy! xoxo

Sorry, Not sorry.


A few weeks ago, I watched a hilarious skit on Inside Amy Schumer. The skit centered on a four-women panel, speaking at an innovation conference. They were smiling, sitting confidently, waiting for the questions to begin. There was a sense of importance, pride in each of their faces. The moderator, who was a man, began with quick introductions down the line. When introducing Amy, he mispronounces her last name. Amy sheepishly smiles, mumbles, “Sorry!” and rushes into an apology for his error. The moderator continues, barely acknowledging her, then continues to the next woman. The introductions progress with more mispronounced names, or inaccurate credits of accomplishments. The apologies become more frequent and frenzied; they’re sorry for asking questions, asking for a glass of water (but got coffee instead). The skit ends with a panelist losing her legs, screaming she’s sorry for ruining everything.

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