I got the call to audition on Halloween, to fly out on Tuesday, November 4^th.  The morning of my test, I woke up to a newspaper headline that said Barack Obama had just become the first African-American president of the United States.  And I was about to become the newest cast member of Saturday Night Live.  Hope was in the air.  Plus, Halloween was my favorite holiday as a kid, my lucky holiday.  It’s no coincidence I got called on Halloween to finally make my destiny happen.   Halloween has wigs and fake teeth.  Halloween has sugar and surprises and spooky movies.  I’m going to get to play dress up for the rest of my life, in my new job! Sitting in my soon-to-be dressing room, I’m so grateful that I am one of those people whose dreams really do come true.

When I got the news that another girl was frantically packing up her life to move to New York City that week, to do my job, I cried like Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice.  I searched frantically for some comfort, some belief that somehow this had all happened for the best, that my life wasn’t over, it was only beginning.  I couldn’t find it.  How do you let go of the thing that’s been calling you your whole life?  I can’t really say.  It’s like your high school sweetheart breaking up with you.  And you say, “But baby I don’t know how to love anybody but you.”  And they shrug and turn the key in their cool Sebring convertible, and the next thing you know you’re dying your hair blonde and taking up smoking.

Sitting here, as Halloween approaches again, I find myself checking my cellphone like a jilted teenager.  I really wasn’t expecting to feel this sadness all over again, honestly.  I moved on.  I got married last February, to a fantastic guy whom I’ve nicknamed “Megawatt Man” because he lights up every corner of my life.  I’ve finished new scripts, shot new videos, and recently, I put out a swimsuit calendar that is so ridiculous it literally made a grown man cry.  So why did it have to be SNL?  I mean, honestly, what’s so great being on a show that shoots at 11:30 at night?  I’m in bed by 9:30.  And Saturdays?  That’s a big day for me.  I play beach volleyball in the summers and during the winter, you never know what kind of half-price events are going to end up on Goldstar.  I have plans.  Plus, I’m probably going to have babies.  You can’t have babies and be on SNL, not unless you want your kids to grow up and write a scathing tell-all about you.  Actually, that’s not a good argument, because I’d love it if one of my kids wrote a book, especially a scathing tell-all.  I pray that my parenting might be that interesting.

I remember when my sister was applying for CFO jobs (yes, my sister’s very smart) and for the first time in her career she wasn’t being offered every job she interviewed for.  And she called me one day, shaken, and asked me in a small voice, twisted in pain, “God Mandy, how do you not take it personally?”  And I laughed and said, “Well, Kelly…you just…I mean, I guess after a while, you just learn that it’s not…”  Pause.  Pause.  Pause.

“I don’t know.  I take it personally, every time.”

I guess the stupid truth is, I wanted that job, because I thought it was my destiny.  And it’s not just me, every single person who knows me says so.  I’m not being difficult or moody, I’m genuinely trying to understand what I am, if not a cast member on Saturday Night Live.  But you know, I’ve had ideas before, about the way things were supposed to go, and then they didn’t.  My first marriage ended quickly.  I was never cast as Meg Ryan’s wisecracking sidekick in a Nora Ephron movie.  And taking birth control never gave me fuller, lustier breasts.  But things ended up better than I expected, every time, even though I didn’t believe they would.  It reminds me of another story in my life that happened, oddly enough, around Halloween.

When I was a kid, at Halloween, I was a force to be reckoned with.  I was passionate and discerning about my costumes—Wonder Woman, Dorothy, Ann Richards--nothing cuddly.  I manipulated candy from the pockets of flummoxed adults.  I was ruthless, goal-driven, and most importantly, I was successful.  I got more candy than anyone else.  We had a neighbor who gave out homemade beef jerky from his meat plant.  Beef jerky!  Never had such treasure landed in my nine-year-old palm.  It was so simple:  Dress up, act like a crazy character and people shower you with sweets, and meats, and smiles and praise while the booty piles up for you to not share with your sisters, or anyone.  It was the one night of the year where everything…went…perfectly.

When I turned 14, I got too old to go trick or treating, and I was devastated.  What did I have to look forward to?  What would I become at Halloween, except a flummoxed adult, listlessly passing out Baby Snickers to kids who dare to show up in a store-bought costume.  Store-bought.  Give me a break.  But get this, with my world turning dark, and me without a candy in sight, the Beef Jerky Neighbor ended up becoming my step-father.  He came with a stocked fridge and a sweet tooth and the way he made my mother smile just lit up our whole lives with possibility.  Hope.

I can’t just “get over” SNL.  It’s going to take time.  When you’ve been writing “Mrs. Saturday Night Live” on your books for twenty years, it’s hard to imagine belonging with anyone else.  But here I am, two uncarved pumpkins on the table before me, and even though I dreamt of putting “Mandy Steckelberg” in a star on an SNL dressing room door, I’ve got something even better.

I’ve got a couple sticks of beef jerky in the fridge.  Suck on that, SNL.