On the Subject of Style

People often ask me the same question, “Why are you so dressed up?”

I usually respond, “No reason.”

But really, there are a lot of reasons and I just don’t want to bore you in passing conversation.

No, I’ll save that for my blog.

So here is a list of reasons why I am “So dressed up”:

1. Look Cute Every Day – My great pal, Erica Watson told me about two years ago that her resolution was to not leave the house unless she looked cute.
My immediate response was, “but that’s really hard. Some mornings I just don’t care.” This is why, Erica explained, we needed to go shopping in the jewelry district.

That’s when Erica took me to a magical place in midtown where I bought all the cute jewelry you see in stores, but they were all about $1 - $5 apiece. From this point on, I just threw on a piece of jewelry to a bland outfit and looked like I cared a heck of lot more about every outfit.

2. Dress for the Job You Want – After about two years of working at an internet company the “Awesome! I can wear jeans and a band t-shirt every day!” wears off.

Going from office every day to comedy every night I needed something that looked like I was an editor, but also someone you wouldn’t take too seriously.
Enter: bright colored dresses.

3. I have mild IBS and other stomach issues – Here’s the sexy part boys, my stomach condition causes my tummy to over extend at times after eating. It’s kind of painful to wear jeans, and wearing elastic jeans means you’ve either gotten pregnant or given up at loving yourself (in some lady's cases, both!) So, I figured dresses would be the cutest way to go.

4. Funke Style– This is what I also like to call “Compulsive Color Matching”.

I believe I get this from my father who was obsessed with having matching outfits and was very proud of his loud colored spring pink blazer which matched his salmon pants. While I like to believe I’m not as ridiculous about it as him, I do have a need for my clothing to match and found it easier to do so using dresses and skirts rather than pants and shirts.

It’s weird, I know this. I never promised you a normal. I mean, come on, it’s Funke style.

5. No One Notices the Bitchy Mood of the Cute Girl – This is a trick I learned when I was working at Starbucks. On days when I was mad, I’d put my hair up in pigtails and be as bitchy as I wanted, and customers would remark how funny or “cute” I was. It was then I realized that if you felt like shit, were in a bad mood, or just hated everything a particular day – all you have to do is put on some make up, brush your hair, and put on a pretty dress and suddenly everyone finds you pleasant as you tell them to piss off.

So, that is why you may see me dressed to the 9’s on a Monday morning at work, or at a Wednesday night comedy show, or on a Saturday morning at McDonald’s. I have my reasons for looking really nice, and there probably not ones you’d expect, so that’s why I’m typically answering “no reason”. But really, I guess I should be answering, “neurotic, weird reasons.”

The Funke Family Thanksgiving

As my brother wrote in the evite "When We Remember Why We Only Do This Once a Year"
...and honestly, I shouldn't eat anymore, nor should I sleep.
I ate every minute I wasn't sleeping, and slept like 18 hours a day this Thanksgiving break.

I'm glad we don't Thanksgiving everyday, but I'm very thankful for my Thanksgiving this year.

When I was awake I enjoyed children that aren't mine.
Oh man, nieces and nephews are great, but parenting looks exhausting
and that's with my brother and sister and their spouses makin' it look pretty good
because we were all able to have a ton of fun playing board games and drinking...when the kids were in bed.

My brother's house is pretty much my happy place. My sister-in-law T is an amazing hostess and makes you feel at home. She's the kinda hostess that's like, "Oh, you want cookies? Here are some fresh baked."
and
"Dips sound good right? Here are three amazing dips freshly made and delicious."
My brother's DVR has MASH, 30 Rock, Cheers (which I CAN'T FIND on my cable lately.) Heroes and House... we really are related.

I got to see my niece Mallory who I hadn't seen for about a year. She's two and now speaks. She's like this adorable little doll that can point to me and say my name and unconditionally love me. It's so neat that she's able to do all this now, and makes me think back to when my other niece Taylor was that age.

My niece Taylor is now 11 and probably my favorite person ever. We went into Hot Topic during a trip to the mall, which I didn't tell her, was a major sacrifice.
At 26 years old (I'm less than a week to 27 people, get psyched for the birthday blog.) I should not be allowed in such a tweeny store. But we walked in and my niece envoked Jim Gaffigan for a joke on the store's name.
She goes, "ah yes, Caliente Topic!" (to the tune of Hot Pockets) when the staff didn't laugh, she noted, "These people sure work hard at not caring."
How great is that?
I freakin' love my niece.

Time with the family was well spent, but as always, it's good to be back in NYC.
Every time I leave, I just get soooo happy to come back.
I guess that's a sign when you know you're truly home.

Well, actually, when I get home to my apartment I found cat crap on the kitchen floor and their hair all over my bed.

Oh the joys of long haired cats and home.
(I'm still happy to be back...and that I got to spend time away, with my family.)

Barely Legal

As some of you who read this blog on the regular might've noticed, I haven't written much lately.
And what I left you with was pictures of my freakin' cats.

Some of you may be worried and think "Holy Crap, Sue you have stopped writing and started knitting sweaters for your cats as if they're your children. Come back to us Sue! Step away from the kittens and back to the dog side!"
And by some of you, I mean my sister-in-law.
I'm here to tell you, I'm ok T. I just love all animals, and don't worry, I can't learn to knit for shit.

I've actually been spending a lot of time writing a monologue/essay for the show Inner Monologues hosted by a wonderful author Alexis Barad. The show has a theme that all the writers use to develop their pieces. April's was Barely Legal.

Since not everyone could make the reading party, I figured I'd publish mine here.

So without too much adieu I present:

Barely Legal
(This could've also been titled:
This Is Why I Smoke Cigarettes
A Love Story)
By Sue Funke

I had my first taste of that sweet, silky smoke when I was about 11 years old. It was my father’s cigarette that laid across the Waterford crystal ashtray that had an elegant F etched in the bottom for FUNKE.

I snatched the cigarette and relit it with a lighter that was embedded in marble. I inhaled the cigarette as if I had smoked for years.
Most people cough their first time; I make this shit look easy.
I thought.

I continued to grab drags like these briefly. Running the cigarette butts up into my room and striking matches from souvenir packs to fix my habit. The guilt afterward made me an enthusiastic teeth brusher and might’ve kept Bath and Body Works in business.

It was the summer between middle school and high school that I had decided to really give this smoking thing a go. I was hanging out with a group of girls, and guys, who were just beginning their addictions as well.

I was eager to share my veteran experience with the group, “I tried smoking. It was ok. I didn’t cough at all my first time.”

I started taking full cigarettes from my dad’s pack of Merit Golds. They were an older gentleman’s cigarette, not very popular with “the guys”. I liked smoking out of the blue pack because they looked cooler. My father rarely bought the blue pack.

Finally, there came a point that the uncoolness and rarity of the cigarette situation needed to change. My friend Jill and I wanted a pack of our own. But how do we get one?

“If we had the money, I could get us cigarettes,” I told her.

I don’t know whose idea it was to steal the money from our friends’ bags while they were in the pool. It was one of those things you do before you fully understand your personal ethics. You don’t realize that you’re fucking with karma; you’re just trying to get a mission accomplished.

We had about three dollars in quarters and we walked the back roads in bathing suits with wet clothing clinging.

“I’ll go in, you stay outside, it’s more convincing that way,” I ordered her in the know-it-all manner I held myself with at thirteen.

“You think they’d call the police?” Jill asked plotting consequences in her mind.

“We’ll be fine.” I said with confidence I was pulling out of my ass. I was paranoid of getting caught, but at the same time I believed in my bullshit plan.

I took the money from Jill and walked into the tobacco shop. The old man behind the counter had seen me before, but I was just one of about a hundred kids my age around this area. We all blended together in front of his black, wide glasses.

“I need a pack of Merit Blues for my Uncle. That’s his car out there,” I pointed to a car sitting outside the store.

The guy nodded and pulled out the pack.

“He said he didn’t want to get out of the car,” I offered up unprovoked.

He looked down at me with a face that seemed disappointed in me for making him think this was a ruse.

“He’s right out there - and he gave you this money to get him cigarettes,” he inquired as he looked down at the pile of quarters in his hand.

“He pays for it out of change in the ash tray,” I said this quickly, so quickly that for a moment I believed I really did have an uncle sitting in that 70’s green Caddy.

The old man was either defeated, or more likely, didn’t want to refuse the money, “Ok.” He handed over the cigarettes and matches.

I walked slowly out. My entire face and ears burned. I could barely feel the cigarettes I was holding. I was convinced it was all a dream and a SWAT team was going to come swarming in and take the cigarettes from me.

Instead, I pushed open the door and walked out onto the sidewalk, a.k.a. base. I was safe.

Jill looked at me amazed, “You got ‘em?” she exclaimed in disbelief.

“Fuck, of course I got them,” I said as I pulled the plastic string to open our cigarettes.

We split that pack- several ways once everyone found out we had it and got it by using my balls, and their money. That was my first split pack of cigarettes.

My first full pack of cigarettes was a month or so after. My partner in crime that day was Alexis , who I had also shop lifted and took shots of vodka with on random-chance occasions. She asked her crush, Tim, to get me a pack. I gave her the money to give him. And that day, after the last school bell rang, Tim was pulling out a pack of Marlborough Reds for me.

As I smoked this pack I felt different about my smoking, before it was all the thrill of finding the way to get the cigarette. This pack was different. It wasn’t as sneaky and fun. I was getting them because there was part of me that felt like should be addicted by now. At least, that’s what all those pamphlets had told me.

As I inhaled the first cigarette from my pack I felt sick: a head-to-toe a feeling of heaviness and regret. This was not the rush I was looking for. It was the exact opposite.

The guilt ate away at my thirteen year old mind.

Who was I becoming? Only 3 years prior I was so upset with my Dad’s smoking. I was supposed to be part of the smoke free class of 2000. I had even sang my allegiance to that concept:
We are the smoke free,
Class of 2000
Two triple zero,
Everyone’s a hero
Or a she-ro
Yet I was already hooked – I mean I’m buying packs, what’s next?

Sure, I wanted to hang out with the “bad kids”. I grew up listening to Billy Joel, who didn’t want to laugh with sinners? Saints just sat around and cried. I enjoyed their stupid stunts at a close but not-too-close, friendly distance. But, was I really one of them?

The next evening as my mother cooked dinner I paced around her nervously.

“What’s wrong Susie-Q?”

“Mom, can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

I choked on my confession. This was where I was supposed to inhale and let it out. Tell her that her daughter was a bad ass, but I couldn’t find it in myself to tell her. I couldn’t find the words in myself. I was so ashamed, embarrassed… in shock that I was actually about to confess.
My mother stood, concerned that her youngest child was having a mental breakdown at the age of 13.

“What is it Susie-Q, are you in trouble?”

“I think I’m going to be,” I said wide eyed while my stomach back flipped at the inhalation of pork chops cooking and guilty dry mouth.

“Whatever it is Susie I can forgive you. I love you. It’s ok.”

She sat hugging me for a minute as I found the words and ultimately I blurted out, “I’ve been smoking cigarettes!”

“Well, that’s not that bad,” she said probably relieved I wasn’t pregnant.

My chin rose up and I looked at her.

“I’m not happy about it, but your father smokes, I used smoke. I’d be a hypocrite if I screamed at you. How much do you smoke?”

“Not much,” I said. “I bought a pack this week, but I barely made I dent in it. I hate it.” I pulled the pack of Marlborough Reds out and presented them to my mother.

Her face fell and true disappointment was furrowed in her brow, “Oh Susan, Marlborough Reds? Truck drivers smoke Marlborough Reds. Couldn’t you have smoked something more feminine? Like a Virginia Slim or a Cool?”

The shame I felt for my lack of femininity in my mother’s eyes would continue to be a theme through out my life, as smoking would.

Even though I promised her I’d quit, I couldn’t give up smoking, not even for a mother’s love. It was so tempting with packs around the house and high school. I started getting cartons from friends who worked at supermarkets, smoking anything they’re four finger discount could grab.

The expense for cartons though was much greater than packs, so it required a lot of money. Where does a child who’s not even legal to join the work force get money for cigs? Babysitting.

I was fourteen when Kathy moved across the street with her two children and “old money” husband. Mrs. K was a very relaxed woman, who was in her early forties and had lived a wild and exciting life before settling down with a man who seemed so lack luster compared to her jet-setting finance life style.

“Do whatever you want with the kids, here’s money for the pizza,” she handed me thirty dollars and then utters the magical words, “keep the change.”

It was wonderful tax free money that was ridiculously simple. All I had to do was not fuck up. So, what did I do? Steal her cigarettes.

She caught me puffing on her stashed Merit Ultra 100’s when she came home early from a PTA meeting. There were no mirrors in the yellow kitchen, but I’m pretty sure I turned green.

“Sue, you smoke?”

“Yes,” I squeaked as I stood with it held out toward her as if to say – “You caught me! Take it! Burn me with it! I’m so freakin’ guilty!!!”

She looked at me and nodded, then pulled another pack from her purse and sat down on the patio furniture. “Well, at least I have a smoking buddy now. Just don’t give me shit about smoking while pregnant and we’ll be fine.”

I must’ve blinked a thousand times before I sat down next to her.

“You gonna smoke it or let it fall to ash?” she said to me as she tapped her cigarette, “How often do you smoke?”

I finally realized she didn’t give a shit so I opened up to her, “Well Mrs. K, I smoke as often as I can. Lately not so much, I have this carton of Newports at home and they’re so gross.”

“Ugh, Awful! You should try something lighter.”

“I have, I really like Parliament lights, but I’m kinda at the mercy of whoever can grab me cigs.”

“Ok then, here’s a deal. You baby sit for me all summer and I’ll buy you a carton of Parliament lights every two weeks. And, if my mother-in-law ever comes over and we’re smoking, you say all the cigarette butts are yours.”

I was giving up a lot of other gigs to go solo with her, families I had worked with for years. But I would be crazy to give up on the chance for guaranteed cigs.

“Deal,” I said, but then as I sat there longer I wondered why she still had to worry about what people cared about. I always dreamed that once I turned 18 I could smoke however much I wanted, whenever I wanted. Being a blunt I just came right out and asked her.

“Kathy, why do you have to hide your smoking? You’re an adult, can’t you do whatever you want?”

“I wish. You still have to follow social rules. Sure, I can buy cigarettes, but I’m not supposed to. I’m pregnant and people are telling me how to do everything, but what they don’t get is I love smoking. I’m not saying that I love it more than my child. My life’s changed a lot over the years, and the one thing that hasn’t are my smoking habits. They’re always there to make me feel better, make me feel at home.”

And you might say I shouldn’t follow advice from a smoking pregnant woman, but I did. It was that night that I realized that I wasn’t just smoking because it was cool, or the thrill, or even the addiction. It was because it was my constant too. Maybe I didn’t cough that first time because it was part of who I was from the very beginning, or maybe it’s because whenever I was all alone and didn’t know what to do with myself, I always knew cigarettes were there with me. What I do know is, now that I can get them whenever I want as an adult they aren’t as much fun to buy. That also might have to do with the fact that I don’t have all that indispensable tax free babysitting money, or that I have ethics that bar me from stealing from friends, or the lovely pot habit I picked up in college. But that’s a whole other story.

Comedy, Family, Food = My Life Right Now

This blog could also be titled:
I'm Broke
Easter The Way Christ Intended - A Lazy Day of Reflection

Lots of great comedy going on right now. I've got a decent March schedule lined-up so far.
This year, I said I'd go to more comedy shows.
I have been really good at doing that.
Unfortunately, comedy somehow leads to social drinking. And social drinking leads to me taking cabs...
and that leads to me eating out of the vending machine at work and constantly complaining about how broke I am.
I don't know if my friends are sick of me saying it, but I sure am.

The fundwatch '08 is just beginning. I've still got the dreaded "t word" to deal with (t is for taxes and it's mighty frightening for me, cause I always owe money).

The brokeness doesn't just effect eating habits though. I'm also unable to spend Easter with the family in Florida this year. This won't be that big of deal, though. My family rarely gathers for Easter.

The first year I lived on my own in fact I started my lone Easter tradition - ordering in lamb, getting a good bottle of wine, and watching TV until I fall asleep.
Sure, it might sound pathetic and borderline alcoholic to you - but to me it's a lovely way to spend Easter Sunday.

My brother Mike's family orders in Chinese and watches movies. This may sound low key, but I believe my sister in law Tina may enjoy this more than Christmas.

The dedication to low key is something so rare for holidays.

Usually holidays mean: high stress family visits, the need for perfection, and extreme over eating

So, even though I'll miss out on this years Florida-Easter-Fest with my brother Matt, my Uncle Bill and my Mom at the house her and my step dad are renting for their "Snow Bird" month, at least I'll get a day of relaxation.
Even if I am broke, I intend on continuing my tradition.
And if I find myself worrying about the cash flow- well, there's always 3 buck chuck.


In other family news - Go check out my sister's book on Amazon.com. This book is going to be hilarious. I know this, because her columns are so freakin' funny.
And I'd say that even if she wasn't my sister.

It's My Brother's Birthday!

I had a dream last night about how I was walking in Manhattan and I was supposed to meet up with my friend Matt Urban.
Instead - I bumped into my brother Matt Funke!
When I woke up I looked at the calendar and realized it was Matt's birthday.
Thanks unconsciousness! You are so good at remembering.

Matt is ten years older than me.
So he's the easiest math to figure out how old he is every year.

My brother Mike is 9 years older than me.
Jen is 12 years older than me.
They're more complicated, I've got to carry one's - it gets involved.

By now you might be thinking- "My, that's a large age difference."
Sure is.

My nickname was "hole in the condom".

My parents denied this.
My mother said I was a luxury baby.
My father explained this as, "You were the kid we could actually afford to have."

Either way - happy birthday to my big brother Matt.
The best babysitter in the world - we'd get a movie, soda, pizza, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's each and hang out late.
The best influencer of music - he taught me to love classic rock.
and an all around great big brother - even though he lives in Florida, if anyone messes with me, watch out sucker!!