Cheri Oteri on the Highs and Lows of SNL: You ‘Still Have to Audition Every Week’

The beginning of my SNL journey felt like the first day of school—that perfect mixture of nervous excitement and possibility. While a few of us knew each other from the Groundings and Second City, most of the cast was new, so there was a sense of camaraderie with no established hierarchy. It felt like we could just hit the ground running.

Initially I thought being able to write my own material was a luxury but I quickly found out it would be a necessity. The writers weren’t assigned to specific cast members, so if no one wrote for you it was your responsibility to get yourself on the show, which created the pressure and competition famous to the show. I like to say, “It’s a show that you already got but still have to audition for every week.”

My very first SNL sketch was called “Leg Up,” with Molly Shannon and I as Hollywood dance legends Ann Miller and Debbie Reynolds getting their second wind with a cable-­TV show. Lorne Michaels called me into his office asking, “Cheri, what demographic are you going for? Nobody knows who these women are.” I said, “I think it might be funny anyway?” Thankfully, it went well. It might have even expanded our demographic. As Darrell Hammond later said, “Cheri, the gays in Hell’s Kitchen love you guys!”

I loved playing the kinds of characters you might call optimistic outsiders. People who didn’t realize how bad off they had it, like the Spartan Cheerleaders or Colette, the Prescription Drug Lady. It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn’t feel sorry for themself. I also discovered the power and the pitfalls of creating a catchphrase. One summer my friend Kenny and I were telling people to “simmer down now” in a Southern accent, cracking each other up like two 13-year-olds. It inspired me to create the character Nadine, but little did I know I would be told to “simmer down now” for the rest of my life. I’ll be at the gynecologist’s office, nervous about my exam, when she tells me to “simmah down nah” with a chuckle. Grateful that everything is OK, I play along: “So my vagina in da clear nah?”

Creating characters was deeply rooted in my childhood, when I spent way too much time alone in my room, deep in my imagination, a habit I later realized was an escape from chaos and loneliness. My mom, raising three children on her own, wasn’t very happy, so I became acutely aware of anything that made her laugh. She listened to comedy albums, and by the time I entered elementary school, I had the George Carlin, Bill Cosby, Woody Allen, and Cheech & Chong routines memorized. One time, a nun asked during recess if anyone wanted to share a joke. I proudly raised my hand and said, “I went to the doctor the other day, he told me I was schizophrenic—I said no I’m not, neither am I!” To which she said, “Put your head down, Miss Oteri.” It would be my first lesson in reading a room.

One of the most memorable hosts I worked with was Jim Carrey, who delivered one of the most solid shows I’d ever seen. He really wanted to do the cheerleaders. Later that summer, Will Ferrell and I were invited to his house for a dinner party. After dinner, I walked into a room and saw hanging in glass-encased frames his costumes from The Mask, Ace Ventura, and Batman Forever. Next to them was the Cheerleader uniform. I was blown away.

And the most memorable musical guest: Snoop Dogg. This was in 1999, long before he was pals with Martha Stewart. He was a bad-boy hardcore rapper, so I had to have my Barbara Walters interview him. Snoop wanted to see me after his sound check. I walk into his dressing room, which was so dark I could hardly see and so smoky I could hardly breathe. He said, “This is f-cking funny” and then, pointing to the room, “I hope you don’t mind.” I said, “Oh no, pot smoke doesn’t bother me,” to which he said, “No, I mean her,” pointing to the woman cornrowing his hair. I loved that it was the cornrowing woman I might be offended by. Each day that week, he asked if I would put one more of his cousins in, and I just kept saying yes. By show night I had four cousins standing behind us, arms folded, as his bodyguards, because you never know when Miss Walters might snap! The sketch was last in the 8 p.m. dress rehearsal, meaning there wasn’t much hope for it to get to air. But Snoop knew the assignment and it killed, putting us first on the live show. Snoop and I ran into each other’s arms, hugging and laughing. Those wins were the best high ever.

My time on SNL was one of limitless creativity, endorphin-­releasing highs, and soul-­crushing lows. I would advise anyone coming in not to take anything personal—even when it is. SNL was the experience of a lifetime. I’m so proud to have been a part of its legacy. —As told to Megan McCluskey