Discernment isn't easy for anyone, and I'm not different from anyone.
My mind goes on a thousand glory trips, daydreaming about where I'll go, what I'll do and why. You'd think by fifty-two I'd know the answers to some of this, but some of this, isn't happening and so it makes one pause and wonder...am I doing what I ought? Am I doing what should be done, so that when I die, whenever that is, I can at the very least, imitate the words of one of my mentors though she knows it not, (Erma Bombeck) and say, "I used everything you gave me."
I'd want to tweak it a little and say, "I gave away all to be used." but you get the idea.
So the next step would be to consider, if I want to give it all away, what am I hording?
As I sit in my room typing, I could argue, I'm hording time...need the virtue of prudence. --doing what when in the right order.
As I stare at myself, I could say, I've horded food...need the virtue of discipline, as I eat too much and too often.
As I feel tired, I could say, I've overdone to try to hide from addressing either the need to not horde time or the need to not overeat. (Being busy makes one think, one is doing things of worth, one has value).
Being tired from being busy means one justifies overeating, because one needs energy to keep being overbusy). It's a stupid vicious cycle that prevents any change. I could hear Nick Fury telling me this...he used saltier language.
Note to self: Reading Thomas Merton's book No Man is an Island is having an effect on my thought pattern.
Which leads me back to the question: How do I stop the cycle? How do I stop hording time and stop hording food?
In the words of Saint Thomas Aquinas, "Will it"
How? Again, simple.
1) Do less.
2) Eat less.
I can hear the Yeahbuts in my brain and they are legion. Yeah, but you have ten kids, of course you have too much to do...yeah, but you work from 5:45 am to midnight. You need energy. There are more. I'm officially turnning down the volumne on them. I still don't know what I'm doing.
My own reading tells me, you can't take something away without putting something in its place or you will simply rack yourselves over the coals for the lack. So yes, these need to be paired back, so they become goods, and not excuses from good. Make not doing, for approval, attention, etc. a sacrifice. One may think, you are advocating sloth. I'm not. I'm not saying, don't do. I'm saying I overdo. I overextend and as a result, "am anxious about many things." and as we all know, I should "choose the better portion."
So I'm going to start small, with the offering of an eight hour sleep each night for a week, and we'll see where that takes me, and with the offering of no afternoon snack (I'm awful about it) for this week. "Again, we begin again." as Saint Benedict said.
Am I still writing? Yes. I'm still writing. Still submitting. However the writing world is like that, sometimes it's feast, sometimes it's famine. Sometimes it's busy, and sometimes it's maddenly silent. I think the silence was intentional on God's part to get me to reflect and work harder not at doing more, but at recognizing where I need to do less. I'd have steamrolled on if there were no reason to notice, if everything kept on as it was going.
I'm still flailing about, but at least I have something of a plan...to sleep and to eat less, and keep inviting myself to think beyond whatever it is I have to do today...and to evaluate at the end of the day, did I do what should be done? Dry spells in writing, like dry spells in life, can bear fruitful thought.
Still...I hope the dry spell ends soon.
Showing posts with label Erma Bombeck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Erma Bombeck. Show all posts
Saturday, May 18, 2019
Friday, March 26, 2010
7 Quick Takes
1.
Spring is here..or was...
Three days ago, it was gorgeous and the frogs and toads and bunnies and 12 deer roamed through our back yard. Today it is freezing. In an unrelated event, three days ago my son announced that he was going to catch some frogs to show his siblings. He marched out with gloves and a bucket. Shortly thereafter, I heard the yip of joy that indicated a successful amphibian hunt. "I got two! I got two! They're huge and guess what! They're stuck together!"
I know it's just nature. I know I shouldn't anthropromorphosize creatures but I felt really sorry for these two toads stuck in a home depot bucket with five children peering down on them in their twitterpated state. "Put them BACK in the POND." was all I could muster. "Why?" was the obvious chorus outcry at the parent demand. "Just trust me. They'll be much happier back in the water." Oy. Not sure the toad population will recover.
2. Let Sleeping Parents Lie...
Yesterday I was tired. I didn't know I was that tired, but I was. Helping my second grader with her homework, we were stationed on the floor going over her papers. I put my head down. I awoke to find I'd been tucked in under a comforter with a pillow and a stuffed bunny and she had finished her math.
3. Gotta Dance! Don't Have to Know How to Walk Before I Do....
Paul now groves to southern fried rock. If there's a piano plinking down with a base electric guitar, he pulls up in his crib and dances and sometimes just for a second, lets go of the railing. So when Paul learns to walk, he'll owe it all to Eric Clapton, ZZtop and a few others who happen to be on this mix CD.
4. Just Keep Swimming
Yesterday, I signed up six of the nine for lessons. As a parent, there are times when you set your teeth, this is going to happen. This summer, I have set my teeth, that four of the six signed up will have the skills necessary to swim a lap without touching the ground by the time September has rolled around.
5. A Nag from the Book I wasn't Reading about the Book I've not finished Writing
As some of you may know, I have a 3/4th of the way finished book, the Book of Helen. I've been stuck for some time and not really wanted to address the you wrote without an outline so look where that got your mess that resulted. But last night, I knocked over a book I'd received several years ago about the compelete writings of Leonardo DaVinci and it landed on a quote about Helen and her feelings about growing old. So I started editing again last night. Chapter 1. Sigh. I don't want to produce the next great American novel. I want to produce the next Great American Best Seller.
6. When Toddlers giggle too much
When you hear sounds of song and laughter, how long is the lag time where you can enjoy hearing them before YOU know you must investigate because they are probably doing something unthinkable? Answer: I'll be right back....they were singing and dancing on my bed. It made a splendid stage. It right now does not look like a very good bed.
7. FYI
The Erma Bombeck Conference has one opening left. I can't go but you could and if you like writing, I highly recommend it, it's loads of fun and several of the presenters were there as participants last time around. Bruce Cammeron and Suzette Standring are two of the speakers and valuable resources for any aspiring columnist itching to become a household name. Go to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference. I know it will say it is closed. It is not. If you hustle, you can go to Dayton April 15-17th and have a weekend filled with great tips not to mention a lot of laughs.
Find other 7 Quick takes at http://www.conversiondiary.com/!
Friday, March 12, 2010
My Non Winning Erma Column
Giving birth to my first son, the doctor had to induce labor. I suppose I never really wanted to give him up or share him with the world from the start. After delivery, the nurse asked, “Do you want to cut the cord?” and I gave an emphatic “NO!” I felt the sad at the deliberate disconnect nature required. When he was six months, I didn’t like surrendering nursing, but his teeth settled the matter. Mommy could not abide being a chew toy.
Toilet training was a protracted affair with me feeling positively reckless the first time we got in a car and didn’t bring a change of clothes for the lad. His first day of school, he bounced happily in line. I stood taking his picture and blinking back shock at the very idea that these strangers were going to take my son away for a whole seven hours five days a week!
Parenting is largely the adult induced illusion of being control, reinforced by the child’s belief that adults control everything. Only reality in the form of suffering, like broken bones, 0-12 soccer seasons and failed quizzes intruded on that blissful notion that I could do much to incubate his life other than just be there. Over the years, I’ve come to terms with my son’s willingness to grow up. I let him read books not preapproved. (I read it after the fact, so he knows I’m paying attention). I let him cut his own food (with a butter knife). But letting a teen drive or go out feels like holding a newborn’s beautifully soft head for that first time. It is those untested moments that define the limits of a mother son relationship.
Thus, when my oldest announced he’d been asked to a dance, I felt the attempt by my firstborn to declare autonomy. My son had been stalked by a female. Who was she? What was she like? What did she look like? I worried. If she was too attractive, would she lure my son into situations for which he and I were not ready? If she was not attractive enough; why weren’t the beautiful women pursuing my son? What was wrong with these ladies? They hadn’t gone on the date yet and already I’d morphed into the mother-in-law from hell.
Fortunately, my teen and I are still friends on Facebook so I clicked his page and there she was; chatting up my son about Pokémon and how she’d loved it since 2nd grade. Pleased and as appeased as the Goddess Hera, I smiled benignly at their innocent discussions of childhood. “She’ll make a lovely daughter-in-law.” I cooed and emailed her, “Be my friend?”
Toilet training was a protracted affair with me feeling positively reckless the first time we got in a car and didn’t bring a change of clothes for the lad. His first day of school, he bounced happily in line. I stood taking his picture and blinking back shock at the very idea that these strangers were going to take my son away for a whole seven hours five days a week!
Parenting is largely the adult induced illusion of being control, reinforced by the child’s belief that adults control everything. Only reality in the form of suffering, like broken bones, 0-12 soccer seasons and failed quizzes intruded on that blissful notion that I could do much to incubate his life other than just be there. Over the years, I’ve come to terms with my son’s willingness to grow up. I let him read books not preapproved. (I read it after the fact, so he knows I’m paying attention). I let him cut his own food (with a butter knife). But letting a teen drive or go out feels like holding a newborn’s beautifully soft head for that first time. It is those untested moments that define the limits of a mother son relationship.
Thus, when my oldest announced he’d been asked to a dance, I felt the attempt by my firstborn to declare autonomy. My son had been stalked by a female. Who was she? What was she like? What did she look like? I worried. If she was too attractive, would she lure my son into situations for which he and I were not ready? If she was not attractive enough; why weren’t the beautiful women pursuing my son? What was wrong with these ladies? They hadn’t gone on the date yet and already I’d morphed into the mother-in-law from hell.
Fortunately, my teen and I are still friends on Facebook so I clicked his page and there she was; chatting up my son about Pokémon and how she’d loved it since 2nd grade. Pleased and as appeased as the Goddess Hera, I smiled benignly at their innocent discussions of childhood. “She’ll make a lovely daughter-in-law.” I cooed and emailed her, “Be my friend?”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Small Successes Thursday
This week, successes had to be scraped from the sides of whatever I could find, like a mom trying to coax one more sandwich out of peanut butter jar so she can pack up the last lunch.
1) Submitted a piece to the Erma Bombeck contest. 450 words, Erma's style, deadline was Sunday at 11:59 pm.
2) Worked on a grant and on a piece for Associated Content.
3) practiced piano for 20 minutes yesterday to promote/encourage children to practice. Hate being my own nag but hate having other people nag me more.
4) Finished reading "Three Cups of Tea." A worthy read but I'm not sure I need to go get the second book, "Stones to Schools."
5) prayed for friends, now waiting to see the paths God draws for me. You wouldn't think a person in a house of 11 would be able to feel lonely, but every once in a while, I'm hit by the reality that community is something I really crave. Think I'll call my sister and my Mom.
6) helped 13 year old prepare for auditions for scholarships to be held this weekend.
7) Discovered the quiet grace infused writings of Pope Benedict in his daily devotional, "Benedictus."
1) Submitted a piece to the Erma Bombeck contest. 450 words, Erma's style, deadline was Sunday at 11:59 pm.
2) Worked on a grant and on a piece for Associated Content.
3) practiced piano for 20 minutes yesterday to promote/encourage children to practice. Hate being my own nag but hate having other people nag me more.
4) Finished reading "Three Cups of Tea." A worthy read but I'm not sure I need to go get the second book, "Stones to Schools."
5) prayed for friends, now waiting to see the paths God draws for me. You wouldn't think a person in a house of 11 would be able to feel lonely, but every once in a while, I'm hit by the reality that community is something I really crave. Think I'll call my sister and my Mom.
6) helped 13 year old prepare for auditions for scholarships to be held this weekend.
7) Discovered the quiet grace infused writings of Pope Benedict in his daily devotional, "Benedictus."
Monday, February 1, 2010
Odds and Ends
Item #1 Erma Bombeck Contest
I entered yesterday and so did my husband and my son. Having read their entrees which like mine, cannot be published material, I have stiff competition. As the one with the self proclaimed moniker "writer," I'm rooting for them both but hoping I don't become one of the countless unhonorable unmentionables if either of them win.
Item #2 Why my husband and son are competition:
The phone rings. My son picks it up. "Hello Dad."
"Hi Sherry."
"Dad. I said Dad! It's me, your son."
"Sorry but your voice is like your moth..."
"Don't say that! I say Hello Dad so you'll know!"
When the conversation ended, Will went on a rant.
"He does that when he calls ME! My voice isn't that high."
"My voice isn't that high either." I said.
"Yes, but he never says to you "Hi Will." It's only me!"
He was working it through.
"When I'm 44 and married and have three kids and I call home and he answers and you're right next to him, he's still going to say, "Hello Sher--" and I'm going to scream, "Mom's Right there. You have caller ID so you know it was me that called you!"
"Yes, but by then you'll know it's a put-on."
He sat there recognizing that Dad knew all along.
"My kids are going to ask, "Why aren't we going to Grandpa's funeral? and I'm going to say, "He never calls me."
Mental note: Do not antagonize teenager deliberately.
Item# 3 True Story
As a regular listener to John Batchelor's show, I've come to enjoy his interviews with quirky space scientists that are hoping to make Star Trek and Star Wars a reality. But last night, he spoke with an expert on flight and space who wanted to take a Virgin Galactic Flight.
For those not up on aviation space tourist travel, the plane named "Eve" would take those having ponied up $200,000.00 for reservations and the three days of training required, on a 2 1/2 hour journey for a five minute experience of the weightlessness brought on by skimming the edge of the atmosphere.
He wanted to do research during those five minutes and was searching for funding.
Not a dirty joke but it sure sounded like one.
Item # 4 How to tell if your Blog has hit it Bigtime.
When something like this happens.
Rooster Shamblin has left a new comment on your post "Speech by Arch Bishop Chaput on the Modern Age, Ar...":
would you please spend a few minutes and check out my blog. I am a farmer who was been raising more than 50 breeds of chickens for forty years.
I haven't the nerve to either post his link or click on it, but I'd bet if it's a successful "chicken farm," he'd be able to fund that scientist's flights of fancy.
I entered yesterday and so did my husband and my son. Having read their entrees which like mine, cannot be published material, I have stiff competition. As the one with the self proclaimed moniker "writer," I'm rooting for them both but hoping I don't become one of the countless unhonorable unmentionables if either of them win.
Item #2 Why my husband and son are competition:
The phone rings. My son picks it up. "Hello Dad."
"Hi Sherry."
"Dad. I said Dad! It's me, your son."
"Sorry but your voice is like your moth..."
"Don't say that! I say Hello Dad so you'll know!"
When the conversation ended, Will went on a rant.
"He does that when he calls ME! My voice isn't that high."
"My voice isn't that high either." I said.
"Yes, but he never says to you "Hi Will." It's only me!"
He was working it through.
"When I'm 44 and married and have three kids and I call home and he answers and you're right next to him, he's still going to say, "Hello Sher--" and I'm going to scream, "Mom's Right there. You have caller ID so you know it was me that called you!"
"Yes, but by then you'll know it's a put-on."
He sat there recognizing that Dad knew all along.
"My kids are going to ask, "Why aren't we going to Grandpa's funeral? and I'm going to say, "He never calls me."
Mental note: Do not antagonize teenager deliberately.
Item# 3 True Story
As a regular listener to John Batchelor's show, I've come to enjoy his interviews with quirky space scientists that are hoping to make Star Trek and Star Wars a reality. But last night, he spoke with an expert on flight and space who wanted to take a Virgin Galactic Flight.
For those not up on aviation space tourist travel, the plane named "Eve" would take those having ponied up $200,000.00 for reservations and the three days of training required, on a 2 1/2 hour journey for a five minute experience of the weightlessness brought on by skimming the edge of the atmosphere.
He wanted to do research during those five minutes and was searching for funding.
Not a dirty joke but it sure sounded like one.
Item # 4 How to tell if your Blog has hit it Bigtime.
When something like this happens.
Rooster Shamblin has left a new comment on your post "Speech by Arch Bishop Chaput on the Modern Age, Ar...":
would you please spend a few minutes and check out my blog. I am a farmer who was been raising more than 50 breeds of chickens for forty years.
I haven't the nerve to either post his link or click on it, but I'd bet if it's a successful "chicken farm," he'd be able to fund that scientist's flights of fancy.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Plugging a Fellow Writer/Serving Cold Dished Just Deserts
A friend of mine from the Erma Bombeck Conference wrote a book "Rebel without a Minivan" and has a regular column, Lost in Suburbia. She has been on the CBS morning show...but there's been problems.
The first time Tracy was scheduled to be interviewed, her bit was preempted by breaking news about Patrick Swayze's inflamed pancreas. All of us at her table begged her to write a piece called, "My book was bumped by Celebrity Dirty Dancing Star's Irritable Organ."
But, the producer promised to have her on again...or rather to book her again. The date for the event, September 11th.
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/ watch/?id=4439618n
Not only did they not plug her column or her book, they used her for a spot and indicated she had three kids. She has two. Thus, as a loyal friend, I offer this piece as a serving of revenge on the self serving agenda of that CBS morning show producer.
How to become famous in spite of Morning Television Shows...
1) Make sure no B-list or lower celebs are suffering from obscure medical disorders that desperate perpetually caffinated hostesses might consider to be breaking news. Fire off an email to avoid fatty foods in case any gall bladders out there are considering becoming irritable.
2) Be proactive. Figure out how to insert the phrase, Buy my book into every sentence you utter or wear a t-shirt with an ad for your book on it and pepper your interview with sneezes that sound curiously like "Available at Amazon.com." "Now in Paperback!" "My Book's Title" excuse me Katie or whatever the name of the host of the morning show of the moment is, "is Rebel without a Minivan" Then apologize. "Oh, Katie, I'm so sorry, I suffer from uncontrolable sneezing fits that sound curiously like plugs for my new book which I know you're anxious to tell the viewing public about."
3) Create controversy by igniting the pyrotechnical blogosphere. ...Obama and Palin have a secret love child, currently living in Hope, Arkansas with the Clintons! Make up a few bonus websites to collaborate your rumors. They'll pop up within minutes anyway.
4) Crowd the set. Move your chair over two feet to ensure your legs are more prominent than the hostess. Use your arms to practically hug the screen and if necessary, stand up on your chair a'la Tom Cruise. It's good TV and will be Youtubed for decades to come.
5) Give incomprehensible answers. "So, you're a mother of three..." "Well, I studied the migration patterns of trumpeter swans when I was seven so I felt it wouldn't be difficult to start my own business and needed cheap labor."
Tracy take care, peace and know that you have fans in cyberspace that didn't need the plug to know 1) you're a lovely person and 2) a very funny writer.. Sorry it wasn't what it could have been, should have been.
P.S. That third phantom kid might make for good comedic fodder too.
Here's my plug for you.
Tracy Beckerman
LOST IN SUBURBIA®
http://www.lostinsuburbia.net
http://www.rebelwithoutaminivan.com
P.S. I plug me too.Humor-Blogs.com!
The first time Tracy was scheduled to be interviewed, her bit was preempted by breaking news about Patrick Swayze's inflamed pancreas. All of us at her table begged her to write a piece called, "My book was bumped by Celebrity Dirty Dancing Star's Irritable Organ."
But, the producer promised to have her on again...or rather to book her again. The date for the event, September 11th.
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/ watch/?id=4439618n
Not only did they not plug her column or her book, they used her for a spot and indicated she had three kids. She has two. Thus, as a loyal friend, I offer this piece as a serving of revenge on the self serving agenda of that CBS morning show producer.
How to become famous in spite of Morning Television Shows...
1) Make sure no B-list or lower celebs are suffering from obscure medical disorders that desperate perpetually caffinated hostesses might consider to be breaking news. Fire off an email to avoid fatty foods in case any gall bladders out there are considering becoming irritable.
2) Be proactive. Figure out how to insert the phrase, Buy my book into every sentence you utter or wear a t-shirt with an ad for your book on it and pepper your interview with sneezes that sound curiously like "Available at Amazon.com." "Now in Paperback!" "My Book's Title" excuse me Katie or whatever the name of the host of the morning show of the moment is, "is Rebel without a Minivan" Then apologize. "Oh, Katie, I'm so sorry, I suffer from uncontrolable sneezing fits that sound curiously like plugs for my new book which I know you're anxious to tell the viewing public about."
3) Create controversy by igniting the pyrotechnical blogosphere. ...Obama and Palin have a secret love child, currently living in Hope, Arkansas with the Clintons! Make up a few bonus websites to collaborate your rumors. They'll pop up within minutes anyway.
4) Crowd the set. Move your chair over two feet to ensure your legs are more prominent than the hostess. Use your arms to practically hug the screen and if necessary, stand up on your chair a'la Tom Cruise. It's good TV and will be Youtubed for decades to come.
5) Give incomprehensible answers. "So, you're a mother of three..." "Well, I studied the migration patterns of trumpeter swans when I was seven so I felt it wouldn't be difficult to start my own business and needed cheap labor."
Tracy take care, peace and know that you have fans in cyberspace that didn't need the plug to know 1) you're a lovely person and 2) a very funny writer.. Sorry it wasn't what it could have been, should have been.
P.S. That third phantom kid might make for good comedic fodder too.
Here's my plug for you.
Tracy Beckerman
LOST IN SUBURBIA®
http://www.lostinsuburbia.net
http://www.rebelwithoutaminivan.com
P.S. I plug me too.Humor-Blogs.com!
Friday, April 25, 2008
My 15 Seconds of Fame...or not...
As followers of this blog may know, I participated in the Erma Bombeck writing conference Saturday Night Stand Up.
Tim Bete, organizer of the whole deal, edited the two hour event down to the best ten minutes and posted a link on youtube. The catch? I don't have high speed internet, so after 20 minutes of trying to watch a stilted stand up...I'm linking it here. You guys with hi-tech will have to let me know if I managed to escape the cutting room floor.
I managed to see the Laughing Redhead and she was a scream all the way through. She runs clean comedy in Colonial Williamsburg --family friendly, and so if you head there for vacation, you should see her stuff.
Here's the link. Please please please, leave a comment and let me know. There will be names posted so you can find me. I wore a dark green dress and a gold/green wrap and I took off my shoes. My feet hurt. And it was stand up. So I needed to think on my feet.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2S3hZa7elLY
Tim Bete, organizer of the whole deal, edited the two hour event down to the best ten minutes and posted a link on youtube. The catch? I don't have high speed internet, so after 20 minutes of trying to watch a stilted stand up...I'm linking it here. You guys with hi-tech will have to let me know if I managed to escape the cutting room floor.
I managed to see the Laughing Redhead and she was a scream all the way through. She runs clean comedy in Colonial Williamsburg --family friendly, and so if you head there for vacation, you should see her stuff.
Here's the link. Please please please, leave a comment and let me know. There will be names posted so you can find me. I wore a dark green dress and a gold/green wrap and I took off my shoes. My feet hurt. And it was stand up. So I needed to think on my feet.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2S3hZa7elLY
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Editing My Life
There are a few rules for writing humor. Today, I am explaining them as a means of illustrating that not everything I write is 100% pure unvarnished truth...it just feels real because sometimes, reality is a bit too much to bear.
I also want to give pure credit to Leigh Anne Jasheway Bryant who gave a lecture at the Erma Bombeck conference, detailing these techniques.
1) Exaggeration: Blowing things up to create humorous effect. Exploding Toilets that have the water drip down through the vents onto the computer. Well, okay, that actually happened at our last house, but saying that it happened three times...okay, that happened too...Exploding toilets that had water drip down through the vents onto the computer while I was using it...three times...now we've exaggerated.
2) Minimizing: The opposite, dwarfing something huge to make it manageable to minimize the suffering, creating humor. The pile of laundry was the size Mt. Kilimanjaro. I downsized it from the planet Jupiter.
3) The rule of three: Humor comes in threes. Shakespeare always has three couples getting married at the end of his plays, there were three stooges...look to the future for either Jeb Bush or Chelsea to run. Late night comedians are praying for this outcome…and in the interest of full disclosure, having watched late night humor lately, perhaps the rest of us should as well.
4) Clichés: Parody...in honor of the Tuesday Primary: Hillary as Alfred P. Doolittle, fresh from an evening of straight shots with beer chasers...
I'm getting elected in the morning,
Ding, Dong, the polls are gonna rise!
Bill come and kiss me,
and you also Chelsea,
and get me to the polls on time.
I was the presumed nominee here,
guaranteed a win for the DNC!
Please vote for Hillary I cry so don't hate me,
And come and cast your vote in line.
If you are dying, vote absentee.
If you died already,
we know,
you would have pulled for me.
For, I'm stumping here in Pennsylvania,
To be the Gina Davis Commander in Chief
I know I'm a shrill one
But just please vote Clinton
And get yourself to the polls on time!
Obama:
I'm gonna win the nomination.
I'm spruced up and looking oh so fine.
Let's bowl a ten frame,
Don't forget my lapel pin,
and get me to my poll on time.
I'll give another moving speech today.
Sleeves rolled up, remember Hope and Change!
Ignore all my past friends
and their pedaled influence
I never knew it at the time!
If you are bitter,
I'll understand
Vote for me
and you'll become
a transformed man.
For we're running for the nomination,
To win in all in 2008!
And in this campaign
We'll beat John McCain!
Just get us to the dance!
Give us this one chance!
Be sure and get us to the polls on time!
5) Definition: Describing one thing by defining it as another. You know you're a mother when...you pray for rain on game days weeks in advance. This blog is 100% fiction...except when it's not.
6) Observation: Storytelling, which usually uses every other technique mentioned here. It's what I do naturally. The car floor was carpeted with French fries. (usually coupled as in this case, with either minimization or exaggeration, I'm not saying which).
7) Misdirection: Humor goes in directions one doesn't expect...like I want a shop vac, wet/dry for Mother's day. Seriously, 3 Horse power straight vacuuming power to win the war with fast food and dirt everywhere. I discovered I wanted one when I went to a friend's house to pick up a desk she was giving my daughter. Her husband was cleaning out his garage and attacked the Suburban. My car floor is now so clean, you could eat off it...except...now, there isn't anything there to eat.
Happy Earth Day! Plant a tree. Recycle. Kiss the dirt. Drink your tap water and try not to exhale more than necessary.
I also want to give pure credit to Leigh Anne Jasheway Bryant who gave a lecture at the Erma Bombeck conference, detailing these techniques.
1) Exaggeration: Blowing things up to create humorous effect. Exploding Toilets that have the water drip down through the vents onto the computer. Well, okay, that actually happened at our last house, but saying that it happened three times...okay, that happened too...Exploding toilets that had water drip down through the vents onto the computer while I was using it...three times...now we've exaggerated.
2) Minimizing: The opposite, dwarfing something huge to make it manageable to minimize the suffering, creating humor. The pile of laundry was the size Mt. Kilimanjaro. I downsized it from the planet Jupiter.
3) The rule of three: Humor comes in threes. Shakespeare always has three couples getting married at the end of his plays, there were three stooges...look to the future for either Jeb Bush or Chelsea to run. Late night comedians are praying for this outcome…and in the interest of full disclosure, having watched late night humor lately, perhaps the rest of us should as well.
4) Clichés: Parody...in honor of the Tuesday Primary: Hillary as Alfred P. Doolittle, fresh from an evening of straight shots with beer chasers...
I'm getting elected in the morning,
Ding, Dong, the polls are gonna rise!
Bill come and kiss me,
and you also Chelsea,
and get me to the polls on time.
I was the presumed nominee here,
guaranteed a win for the DNC!
Please vote for Hillary I cry so don't hate me,
And come and cast your vote in line.
If you are dying, vote absentee.
If you died already,
we know,
you would have pulled for me.
For, I'm stumping here in Pennsylvania,
To be the Gina Davis Commander in Chief
I know I'm a shrill one
But just please vote Clinton
And get yourself to the polls on time!
Obama:
I'm gonna win the nomination.
I'm spruced up and looking oh so fine.
Let's bowl a ten frame,
Don't forget my lapel pin,
and get me to my poll on time.
I'll give another moving speech today.
Sleeves rolled up, remember Hope and Change!
Ignore all my past friends
and their pedaled influence
I never knew it at the time!
If you are bitter,
I'll understand
Vote for me
and you'll become
a transformed man.
For we're running for the nomination,
To win in all in 2008!
And in this campaign
We'll beat John McCain!
Just get us to the dance!
Give us this one chance!
Be sure and get us to the polls on time!
5) Definition: Describing one thing by defining it as another. You know you're a mother when...you pray for rain on game days weeks in advance. This blog is 100% fiction...except when it's not.
6) Observation: Storytelling, which usually uses every other technique mentioned here. It's what I do naturally. The car floor was carpeted with French fries. (usually coupled as in this case, with either minimization or exaggeration, I'm not saying which).
7) Misdirection: Humor goes in directions one doesn't expect...like I want a shop vac, wet/dry for Mother's day. Seriously, 3 Horse power straight vacuuming power to win the war with fast food and dirt everywhere. I discovered I wanted one when I went to a friend's house to pick up a desk she was giving my daughter. Her husband was cleaning out his garage and attacked the Suburban. My car floor is now so clean, you could eat off it...except...now, there isn't anything there to eat.
Happy Earth Day! Plant a tree. Recycle. Kiss the dirt. Drink your tap water and try not to exhale more than necessary.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Packing Light Baggage
Today my oldest came home with a poor grade on the essay he labored over for two weeks.
My daughter fell apart when the hat she had knitted for her youngest sister did.
The one day now Six year old needed me to go in and conference with her teacher over some kids saying nasty things at the playground.
The eight year old boy made his own kite out of paper and then crashed horribly on his bike when the string got stuck in the spokes, destroyed the kite and clogged the gears. He cursed the bike and threw it down on the driveway and came in demanding that we sell it on ebay and get him a new one.
My four year old had four accidents.
The two year old was found this morning naked in her crib which she had also stripped,
and the baby woke up grouchy and cried whenever she was put down.
All of which means, if you read the tea leaves correctly…
Mom is going out of town tomorrow.
The ten year old, the only one not mentioned in that little drama that unfolded, hid herself in the basement playing Nintendo DS. I have come to have a new appreciation for gameboy…at the very least, it lets me pack.
Off to Dayton for the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference to learn how to be funny, and try my hand at Stand-up. Oddly enough, people keep leaving messages to me to please please, not actually break a leg…seeing as I have a knack for making difficult situations impossible. I think they are concerned I’ll actually take them literally.
I will try to update the blog, but if that’s not possible, I’ll see about getting a guest blogger for the occasion.
if you want more amusement in the meantime, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/
My daughter fell apart when the hat she had knitted for her youngest sister did.
The one day now Six year old needed me to go in and conference with her teacher over some kids saying nasty things at the playground.
The eight year old boy made his own kite out of paper and then crashed horribly on his bike when the string got stuck in the spokes, destroyed the kite and clogged the gears. He cursed the bike and threw it down on the driveway and came in demanding that we sell it on ebay and get him a new one.
My four year old had four accidents.
The two year old was found this morning naked in her crib which she had also stripped,
and the baby woke up grouchy and cried whenever she was put down.
All of which means, if you read the tea leaves correctly…
Mom is going out of town tomorrow.
The ten year old, the only one not mentioned in that little drama that unfolded, hid herself in the basement playing Nintendo DS. I have come to have a new appreciation for gameboy…at the very least, it lets me pack.
Off to Dayton for the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference to learn how to be funny, and try my hand at Stand-up. Oddly enough, people keep leaving messages to me to please please, not actually break a leg…seeing as I have a knack for making difficult situations impossible. I think they are concerned I’ll actually take them literally.
I will try to update the blog, but if that’s not possible, I’ll see about getting a guest blogger for the occasion.
if you want more amusement in the meantime, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Opening Lines
I've got 3 weeks to get ready for Erma Bombeck...here's a bit of my routine, still a work in progress...
"Hello, my name is Sherry Antonetti and I'm a mother of eight children. Now when you are a mom of that many, sometimes it's hard to transition to the adult world. So to the man at the table last night, whose wine I substituted with apple juice...and put in a sippy cup, and whose meat I cut, I'm very very sorry."
"I hadn't planned to come to this workshop, but then I had this dream. Anyone here have toddlers? Then you know who Bob the Builder is, yellow hat, blue overalls, talks with machines that are all primary colors and have googly eyes. He has a partner Wendy with a blonde pony tail and a cell phone, and they chant "Can We do it?" "Yes We Can!"
Anyway, when you have a dream about Bob and Wendy...
having a post coital conversation...
He's in a robe. She's in a button down shirt...
There's reminants of dinner on the table...maybe a fire softly flickering...
When you have THAT sort of a dream...
It's time for an intervention.
I told my husband about this dream.
Now we have a pretty good marriage, seventeen and a half years.
I told my husband about this dream, and he booked me on the next flight to Dayton.
It's been great. I've really enjoyed myself...I have all this time.
Seriously...what do you people do all day? I've brushed my teeth six times already...
just because I can.
I'm thinking of going to the gift store and buying some floss.
Yes...I'm living the dream...
Now raising eight kids is scary. Every time we have a new kid, it's scary. But you know the rule, if you want to stop being scared about something, do something even scarier...so I thought I'd try stand up comedy.
It's pretty cool.
There aren't many things at the age of 41 that one can do that are "cool" that don't involve the distinct possibility of major medical insurance being necessary...unless you count the possibility of psychological counseling for subconcious abuse of animated characters...
Parenting eight...
It's kind of like juggling...as long as you don't drop any of the balls that are in the air, you're okay. My problem? I never really learned to juggle past three...
I mean...when we had one or two, we had as my husband called it, man to man coverage.
Two kids...two adults...easy.
Three and four and five...we switched to zone defense and we bought a mini-van.
Six, Seven and Eight I haven't been on time for something since 2005. We're trying to run out the biological clock.
But it's fun...sometimes we'll go to the airport and just walk through the terminal en masse just to watch the terror on the business travelers faces....I know what you're thinking....that was you?
We get stopped and asked questions often.
people ask questions like "Don't you know how this works?"
and I say "Yeah, you see Wendy and Bob..."
or
"You don't work do you?" I'm sorry, but if the word Mom or Dad is associated with you in anyway as a moniker, you work...it's just the compensation packages that vary.
or
"I guess that's okay if you can afford them all.."
I got news for people. No one says, "According to my economic indicators, we can afford eight children so let's get to it!"
But the biggest question of all I get....and I conceed the most common, is "Why?"
Now I could get spiritual on all you people and say they're gifts from God which they are, or religious and mention that I am a practicing Catholic, which I am, but the real reason is I'm still working through some issues from middle school when I got a report card and the teacher wrote, "Sherry is Very Talented but a perpetual underachiever...."
I'm not sure but I think I showed her.
for humor that isn't always trying to overcompensate, try www.humor-blogs.com!
"Hello, my name is Sherry Antonetti and I'm a mother of eight children. Now when you are a mom of that many, sometimes it's hard to transition to the adult world. So to the man at the table last night, whose wine I substituted with apple juice...and put in a sippy cup, and whose meat I cut, I'm very very sorry."
"I hadn't planned to come to this workshop, but then I had this dream. Anyone here have toddlers? Then you know who Bob the Builder is, yellow hat, blue overalls, talks with machines that are all primary colors and have googly eyes. He has a partner Wendy with a blonde pony tail and a cell phone, and they chant "Can We do it?" "Yes We Can!"
Anyway, when you have a dream about Bob and Wendy...
having a post coital conversation...
He's in a robe. She's in a button down shirt...
There's reminants of dinner on the table...maybe a fire softly flickering...
When you have THAT sort of a dream...
It's time for an intervention.
I told my husband about this dream.
Now we have a pretty good marriage, seventeen and a half years.
I told my husband about this dream, and he booked me on the next flight to Dayton.
It's been great. I've really enjoyed myself...I have all this time.
Seriously...what do you people do all day? I've brushed my teeth six times already...
just because I can.
I'm thinking of going to the gift store and buying some floss.
Yes...I'm living the dream...
Now raising eight kids is scary. Every time we have a new kid, it's scary. But you know the rule, if you want to stop being scared about something, do something even scarier...so I thought I'd try stand up comedy.
It's pretty cool.
There aren't many things at the age of 41 that one can do that are "cool" that don't involve the distinct possibility of major medical insurance being necessary...unless you count the possibility of psychological counseling for subconcious abuse of animated characters...
Parenting eight...
It's kind of like juggling...as long as you don't drop any of the balls that are in the air, you're okay. My problem? I never really learned to juggle past three...
I mean...when we had one or two, we had as my husband called it, man to man coverage.
Two kids...two adults...easy.
Three and four and five...we switched to zone defense and we bought a mini-van.
Six, Seven and Eight I haven't been on time for something since 2005. We're trying to run out the biological clock.
But it's fun...sometimes we'll go to the airport and just walk through the terminal en masse just to watch the terror on the business travelers faces....I know what you're thinking....that was you?
We get stopped and asked questions often.
people ask questions like "Don't you know how this works?"
and I say "Yeah, you see Wendy and Bob..."
or
"You don't work do you?" I'm sorry, but if the word Mom or Dad is associated with you in anyway as a moniker, you work...it's just the compensation packages that vary.
or
"I guess that's okay if you can afford them all.."
I got news for people. No one says, "According to my economic indicators, we can afford eight children so let's get to it!"
But the biggest question of all I get....and I conceed the most common, is "Why?"
Now I could get spiritual on all you people and say they're gifts from God which they are, or religious and mention that I am a practicing Catholic, which I am, but the real reason is I'm still working through some issues from middle school when I got a report card and the teacher wrote, "Sherry is Very Talented but a perpetual underachiever...."
I'm not sure but I think I showed her.
for humor that isn't always trying to overcompensate, try www.humor-blogs.com!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Now What?
Today, I made the A team.
I had the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer moment "I'm Cute. I'm Cute...they said I'm Cute!"
It took 41 years but I did it.
After multiple After school ABC special worthy auditions to volley ball, high school musicals and college dance troops and bands, where I always wondered when I was put in the chorus or on the b-team if they were just having pity on me, today I made the cut. I'm doing standup comedy in front of 400 humor writers in Dayton, Ohio at the close of the Erma Bombeck workshop. 34 brave souls auditioned. 12 will perform.
I'm first.
Suddenly, that bench warming spot is looking very comforting.
It's not that I'm afraid of public speaking. Speaking my mind has never been much of a problem. I'm afraid I'll bomb.
You see, every time I write a piece, the instant it's polished and published, I have three seconds of peace and then the nags begin.
That was a good piece.
What if that's the last funny I ever write?
What if there is no more in the tank?
Oh No!
And then I get to reading and obsessing and following my toddlers around writing terrible first drafts about the fight they're having over two wooden blocks and who gets to stare at the cereal box while they eat.
I've pointed out that neither of them can read but this never seems to matter much.
Six half sputter starts later, I'll throw the notebook into my huge bag of must come everywhere with me stuff and call my husband about the dry spell.
“Sherry, you just got a piece accepted yesterday.”
“Yes, but I haven't written anything today!”
Now my husband is a very patient man. He has a variety of tricks for handling my roller coaster response to success and failure.
When I complain because I got rejected for example:
"Well, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for, maybe it needed more work."
"What? It was wonderful! I proofed it. I vetted it. It got good responses. That's it, I'm submitting it again and they'll be sorry."
Other times, he uses reverse psychology.
"You're right, you'll never write something that funny again."
"How do you know?"
"You just said so."
"No. I won't write like that again. I'll write something even better. You'll see."
When he's busy and I pull this stunt, he has an emergency escape button. "I'll bring home two Chocolate! Chocolate! truffles. (It's a store on the base floor of his office building)." This mollifies me instantaneously.
“Thanks sweetie, I’ll call you later. Sorry to bother you.”
Finally, he has a trump card. "Why don't you let me read it?"
Nothing makes me edit better or faster than knowing He's going to read my stuff. It’s like my writing is getting ready for a date with his brain. I have to primp before I can show it.
Except I've never done stand up.
I tried telling him the routine over the phone. This was a bad idea.
After five minutes of talking and hearing the sound of fingers clicking away at the computer sound an awful lot like crickets chirping, I told him, I'd call back later.
In his defense, he Was working.
So I hijacked my kids for an instant audience.
Little did I know, I'd just signed on the three judges of American Idol.
Would be Simon: "I'm very surprised, I almost laughed." I think it's revenge for my critique of his English paper last week.
Paula Wantabe: "It was wonderful. What are you going to wear?" She began bringing me sparkly things.
Randy and the Dawg Pound: Started making up their own material, ignored me completely.
But I'm not discouraged. At 41, there are precious few things one gets the opportunity to do that are "cool" that do not involve:
1) an outlay of serious cash to cover medical expenses,
2) breaking the law,
3) engaging in self denial.
April 5th in Dayton, Ohio. Mark your calendars. I may need a few more Chocolates for this one.
for possibly less neurotic doses of humor than this one, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
I had the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer moment "I'm Cute. I'm Cute...they said I'm Cute!"
It took 41 years but I did it.
After multiple After school ABC special worthy auditions to volley ball, high school musicals and college dance troops and bands, where I always wondered when I was put in the chorus or on the b-team if they were just having pity on me, today I made the cut. I'm doing standup comedy in front of 400 humor writers in Dayton, Ohio at the close of the Erma Bombeck workshop. 34 brave souls auditioned. 12 will perform.
I'm first.
Suddenly, that bench warming spot is looking very comforting.
It's not that I'm afraid of public speaking. Speaking my mind has never been much of a problem. I'm afraid I'll bomb.
You see, every time I write a piece, the instant it's polished and published, I have three seconds of peace and then the nags begin.
That was a good piece.
What if that's the last funny I ever write?
What if there is no more in the tank?
Oh No!
And then I get to reading and obsessing and following my toddlers around writing terrible first drafts about the fight they're having over two wooden blocks and who gets to stare at the cereal box while they eat.
I've pointed out that neither of them can read but this never seems to matter much.
Six half sputter starts later, I'll throw the notebook into my huge bag of must come everywhere with me stuff and call my husband about the dry spell.
“Sherry, you just got a piece accepted yesterday.”
“Yes, but I haven't written anything today!”
Now my husband is a very patient man. He has a variety of tricks for handling my roller coaster response to success and failure.
When I complain because I got rejected for example:
"Well, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for, maybe it needed more work."
"What? It was wonderful! I proofed it. I vetted it. It got good responses. That's it, I'm submitting it again and they'll be sorry."
Other times, he uses reverse psychology.
"You're right, you'll never write something that funny again."
"How do you know?"
"You just said so."
"No. I won't write like that again. I'll write something even better. You'll see."
When he's busy and I pull this stunt, he has an emergency escape button. "I'll bring home two Chocolate! Chocolate! truffles. (It's a store on the base floor of his office building)." This mollifies me instantaneously.
“Thanks sweetie, I’ll call you later. Sorry to bother you.”
Finally, he has a trump card. "Why don't you let me read it?"
Nothing makes me edit better or faster than knowing He's going to read my stuff. It’s like my writing is getting ready for a date with his brain. I have to primp before I can show it.
Except I've never done stand up.
I tried telling him the routine over the phone. This was a bad idea.
After five minutes of talking and hearing the sound of fingers clicking away at the computer sound an awful lot like crickets chirping, I told him, I'd call back later.
In his defense, he Was working.
So I hijacked my kids for an instant audience.
Little did I know, I'd just signed on the three judges of American Idol.
Would be Simon: "I'm very surprised, I almost laughed." I think it's revenge for my critique of his English paper last week.
Paula Wantabe: "It was wonderful. What are you going to wear?" She began bringing me sparkly things.
Randy and the Dawg Pound: Started making up their own material, ignored me completely.
But I'm not discouraged. At 41, there are precious few things one gets the opportunity to do that are "cool" that do not involve:
1) an outlay of serious cash to cover medical expenses,
2) breaking the law,
3) engaging in self denial.
April 5th in Dayton, Ohio. Mark your calendars. I may need a few more Chocolates for this one.
for possibly less neurotic doses of humor than this one, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Karaoke Caroling and the Socratic Method of Blog Writing
You know the old canard about law and sausage, well it’s nothing compared to creating these shorts.
First, one needs an artificial deadline.
Holy Cats! I promised to update the blog three times a week. I need something seasonal and I’m just tapped out. Quick kids, do something funny! The kids aren’t doing something funny. What do I do? I know, I’ll clean.
Yeah, cleaning the house for the holidays is hilarious. I can sound as amusing as 1.17 million other Erma Bombeck wannabes stuck in the harried housewife shtick with a blog.
Next, one needs to be really, really desperate such that all critical judgment is temporarily suspended.
Cleaning out the car I found enough rejected and forgotten misfit toys to take care of all the stocking stuffers! Hah! I even found candy and $3.28 in loose change. Maybe I could do a “T’was the Night before Christmas” bit…
T’was three days before Christmas when I cleaned out the car,
the children went scurrying but they couldn’t get far.
The happy meal toys were piled two stories high,
followed by eight gloves, a few socks and 1000 French fries.
"Stop." I said "Stop!"
“This just cannot be.”
I’m writing a blog and it’s bad poetry.
Multiple valiant efforts must fail.
I could do a Christmas song…yeah, about the candidates, “To the top of the polls, climb the Great DNC, and take all of Iowa, or not, said Hillary.”
Next.
Okay, how about Christopher Hitchens singing “I’m getting Nothing for Christmas!” with backup vocals by the Arch Bishop of Canterbury.
Not really the tone I’ve set for this place.
I know! I know! Al Gore singing!
“I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones we’ll now never know…”
Again, this is a friendly blog and we want to keep people coming back, we need to hit the Republicans too.
“Grandpa got shot up by old Dick Cheney….walking on a hunt on private land….You can say We’re losing the 2nd amendment, but maybe now I think I’d understand…”
Nyet.
That reminds me! This one’s to Silver Bells…
“Vladimir….Vladimir….
Putin’s the man for Time magazine.
It’s like the USSR
And he’s the Czar
Except he’s the Prime Minister.”
Have you been sneaking bourbon balls?
Hang on…hang on…I’ll think of something. Here we go…”You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen…”
Where are you going with this?
Well, I have eight children so I thought I’d figure out which reindeer each one was…sort of a Christmas Rosharch test.
Do you feel inspired?
No. Not particularly.
Followed by a heavy dose of pity and prayer to skid by on.
Blog transmission suspended due to creative differences with brain, hope the writing synapses end their strike before Christmas.
Have a blessed Advent!
Merry Christmas!
First, one needs an artificial deadline.
Holy Cats! I promised to update the blog three times a week. I need something seasonal and I’m just tapped out. Quick kids, do something funny! The kids aren’t doing something funny. What do I do? I know, I’ll clean.
Yeah, cleaning the house for the holidays is hilarious. I can sound as amusing as 1.17 million other Erma Bombeck wannabes stuck in the harried housewife shtick with a blog.
Next, one needs to be really, really desperate such that all critical judgment is temporarily suspended.
Cleaning out the car I found enough rejected and forgotten misfit toys to take care of all the stocking stuffers! Hah! I even found candy and $3.28 in loose change. Maybe I could do a “T’was the Night before Christmas” bit…
T’was three days before Christmas when I cleaned out the car,
the children went scurrying but they couldn’t get far.
The happy meal toys were piled two stories high,
followed by eight gloves, a few socks and 1000 French fries.
"Stop." I said "Stop!"
“This just cannot be.”
I’m writing a blog and it’s bad poetry.
Multiple valiant efforts must fail.
I could do a Christmas song…yeah, about the candidates, “To the top of the polls, climb the Great DNC, and take all of Iowa, or not, said Hillary.”
Next.
Okay, how about Christopher Hitchens singing “I’m getting Nothing for Christmas!” with backup vocals by the Arch Bishop of Canterbury.
Not really the tone I’ve set for this place.
I know! I know! Al Gore singing!
“I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones we’ll now never know…”
Again, this is a friendly blog and we want to keep people coming back, we need to hit the Republicans too.
“Grandpa got shot up by old Dick Cheney….walking on a hunt on private land….You can say We’re losing the 2nd amendment, but maybe now I think I’d understand…”
Nyet.
That reminds me! This one’s to Silver Bells…
“Vladimir….Vladimir….
Putin’s the man for Time magazine.
It’s like the USSR
And he’s the Czar
Except he’s the Prime Minister.”
Have you been sneaking bourbon balls?
Hang on…hang on…I’ll think of something. Here we go…”You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen…”
Where are you going with this?
Well, I have eight children so I thought I’d figure out which reindeer each one was…sort of a Christmas Rosharch test.
Do you feel inspired?
No. Not particularly.
Followed by a heavy dose of pity and prayer to skid by on.
Blog transmission suspended due to creative differences with brain, hope the writing synapses end their strike before Christmas.
Have a blessed Advent!
Merry Christmas!
Monday, December 10, 2007
Real Writer's Block
“What are you doing?” my husband asked as he approached the computer desk, sandwich and milk in hand, eager for an hour or two of Civilizations IV.
“Trying to write a column for a contest.” I replied.
“Doing what exactly?”
“Writing about family life. It’s a contest and the winner gets $300 bucks. The entry fee is $11. See?”
He glanced at the screen. “You aren’t going to use our real names are you? You can’t write about our camping trip! We’d look like idiots, setting up tents at 10 o’clock at night, pushing the button on the SUV every two minutes to give us light, the baby crying, the kids howling for food, me throwing pop-tarts and cokes at them for dinner, and the nearest bathroom a 6/10 of a mile away.”
“You left out the giant cricket on the toilet seat.”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ve got another idea.”
“Like what?”
“How about when Lisa found a snake in the bathroom while she was potty training…”
“You can’t write about that, people will think we live in a vermin infested home!”
“For $300 dollars, we could call Orkin.”
“I caught that snake for you, thank you very much.”
“And I was very grateful. It’s a good story. It has a happy ending.”
“Do you want my mother to read this?”
……
“Okay. Starting over. How about when David was the solo in the Christmas pageant and knocked over his music stand during the introduction? Or the time the coach threatened to hot glue his shoe laces together if he didn’t tie them?”
“Must all your stories be embarrassing about us?”
“No, I could write about how I totaled the car the day it was paid off. I could also write about the time we took all of them to your brother’s rehearsal dinner and they all threw up…”
“Absolutely not. Look, I’m proud of you and your writing, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for us to look like the Bumpuses from next door to the whole world.”
“We won’t really, we’ll just look like, well, us.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You know, I might not win.”
“What do you mean you won’t win? We’re not funny enough? I’ll be insulted if we don’t at least place.”
“Why don’t you play CIV IV? I’ll watch.”
“Trying to write a column for a contest.” I replied.
“Doing what exactly?”
“Writing about family life. It’s a contest and the winner gets $300 bucks. The entry fee is $11. See?”
He glanced at the screen. “You aren’t going to use our real names are you? You can’t write about our camping trip! We’d look like idiots, setting up tents at 10 o’clock at night, pushing the button on the SUV every two minutes to give us light, the baby crying, the kids howling for food, me throwing pop-tarts and cokes at them for dinner, and the nearest bathroom a 6/10 of a mile away.”
“You left out the giant cricket on the toilet seat.”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ve got another idea.”
“Like what?”
“How about when Lisa found a snake in the bathroom while she was potty training…”
“You can’t write about that, people will think we live in a vermin infested home!”
“For $300 dollars, we could call Orkin.”
“I caught that snake for you, thank you very much.”
“And I was very grateful. It’s a good story. It has a happy ending.”
“Do you want my mother to read this?”
……
“Okay. Starting over. How about when David was the solo in the Christmas pageant and knocked over his music stand during the introduction? Or the time the coach threatened to hot glue his shoe laces together if he didn’t tie them?”
“Must all your stories be embarrassing about us?”
“No, I could write about how I totaled the car the day it was paid off. I could also write about the time we took all of them to your brother’s rehearsal dinner and they all threw up…”
“Absolutely not. Look, I’m proud of you and your writing, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for us to look like the Bumpuses from next door to the whole world.”
“We won’t really, we’ll just look like, well, us.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You know, I might not win.”
“What do you mean you won’t win? We’re not funny enough? I’ll be insulted if we don’t at least place.”
“Why don’t you play CIV IV? I’ll watch.”
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
X Box Live or The Real Game Boy Advanced
Monday, my morning routine was going well. I had made the lunches and started to wash clothes that had been piled on top of the machine. Then my son came down the stairs.
"Did you wash my gym uniform?" The very tension in his voice betrayed his hopes, that I had somehow found his shorts and shirt after 9 pm Sunday and in a fit of motherly devotion, done a wash.
"Where were they?" I asked.
"I stuck them on top of the washing machine last night. Along with my other things."
Racing to the laundry room, I fished his sopping wet things out of the machine and flung them in the dryer. "Get yourself some other shorts and a shirt for p.e. because they won't be ready. You'll be out of uniform for today."
Grumbling, he marches off to find gym clothes for the day.
Looking at the machine I start to wonder, "Why can't he do this? If he can work a game console, he can do this."
My son returns with a bag of shorts and a t-shirt.
"Look. Pretend this is a video game."
He gives me a Mom-you-have-just-officially-lost-it face.
"No, I'm serious. Take your bag and go on a quest. A magic quest to find all the hidden socks and shorts and stinky things that your evil Twin has strewn all about the house. When your bag is full, come back to this room to save the game." I thrust the bag in his hands.
Returning with a bag half full, I explain, "The Troll Mom will not let you use the machine unless you have a full load. I know there are more things to find, behind your bed, in the closet on the floor..." he goes off to get them. Returning with a full bag, I continue my attempt at educating him about laundry.
"Then, we'll use some magic potion or powder to transform these useless pieces of cloth into useful things for waging war at school against looking and smelling bad."
"Mom..."
"I'm not finished. You'll have target practice. Put all the clothing in the hole. See the hole? Any shots that miss must be retaken, you cannot advance until all items have been loaded."
I'm drawing a crowd, as my two daughters and other son have come to watch, so I keep going.
"Then, you get to push buttons. I know all of you like to push buttons. You even fight for the privilege of pushing the buttons in public. Here we have a button and a lever you can use anytime! Push!"
"I don't know what to push."My son tried playing dumb. Admittedly, he did sound a bit like me whenever I would join in the Smackdown frenzy of a melee game session.
"Think of it as xxYZ down toggle B and you won't have a problem."
He pushed the button.
"See? You did it! Very good." I said in my kindergarten teacher voice. "Now, this game is played in real time. You let this sit for a while, maybe two levels worth of playing and then come back when the loud buzzer goes off. Transfering the wet items to the dryer may be tricky."
Eyes rolled.
"You should have a basket in case there are things in the dryer. If you don't unload the dryer first, the machine shrinks the clothing and that favorite shirt of yours becomes a hand-me-down."
My daughter starts to laugh.
"Bon, what's your favorite game?"
Startled to see I have changed focus, she stammers "Legend of Zelda."
"Good. Good. And you have to equip and unequip in that game right?"
"Yes."
"Well you have to unequip the dryer before you can equip it with new wet things. Once you've loaded the dryer, you have a secret move that makes everything else more effective. Think of this as a cheat code."
I hold up a dryer sheet for all to see, as even the babies are coming to watch, wondering why everyone else is crowded in the laundry room. Seizing the moment, I allow my five-year-old to place it in the dryer.
Now it's filter time and button pushing again. I remove the filter and have each of them remove some of the lint. There are lots of "ew!s" and one attempt to wear the blue fuzz as a beard but everyone eventually touches the lint. Replacing the filter, I allow the oldest girl to "push the buttons." Then the toddler cries to do it too, so I make them all take turns, even those who don't want to.
"This concludes our tutorial of Laundry machine Live! Come back this afternoon to learn about folding and actually putting away."
Lecture over, the crowd disperses and I begin wondering if I could come up with a metaphor to get the kids to wash the dishes.
*In loving tribute to the great one, Erma Bombeck who first tried to teach her children domestic skills via a manual.
"Did you wash my gym uniform?" The very tension in his voice betrayed his hopes, that I had somehow found his shorts and shirt after 9 pm Sunday and in a fit of motherly devotion, done a wash.
"Where were they?" I asked.
"I stuck them on top of the washing machine last night. Along with my other things."
Racing to the laundry room, I fished his sopping wet things out of the machine and flung them in the dryer. "Get yourself some other shorts and a shirt for p.e. because they won't be ready. You'll be out of uniform for today."
Grumbling, he marches off to find gym clothes for the day.
Looking at the machine I start to wonder, "Why can't he do this? If he can work a game console, he can do this."
My son returns with a bag of shorts and a t-shirt.
"Look. Pretend this is a video game."
He gives me a Mom-you-have-just-officially-lost-it face.
"No, I'm serious. Take your bag and go on a quest. A magic quest to find all the hidden socks and shorts and stinky things that your evil Twin has strewn all about the house. When your bag is full, come back to this room to save the game." I thrust the bag in his hands.
Returning with a bag half full, I explain, "The Troll Mom will not let you use the machine unless you have a full load. I know there are more things to find, behind your bed, in the closet on the floor..." he goes off to get them. Returning with a full bag, I continue my attempt at educating him about laundry.
"Then, we'll use some magic potion or powder to transform these useless pieces of cloth into useful things for waging war at school against looking and smelling bad."
"Mom..."
"I'm not finished. You'll have target practice. Put all the clothing in the hole. See the hole? Any shots that miss must be retaken, you cannot advance until all items have been loaded."
I'm drawing a crowd, as my two daughters and other son have come to watch, so I keep going.
"Then, you get to push buttons. I know all of you like to push buttons. You even fight for the privilege of pushing the buttons in public. Here we have a button and a lever you can use anytime! Push!"
"I don't know what to push."My son tried playing dumb. Admittedly, he did sound a bit like me whenever I would join in the Smackdown frenzy of a melee game session.
"Think of it as xxYZ down toggle B and you won't have a problem."
He pushed the button.
"See? You did it! Very good." I said in my kindergarten teacher voice. "Now, this game is played in real time. You let this sit for a while, maybe two levels worth of playing and then come back when the loud buzzer goes off. Transfering the wet items to the dryer may be tricky."
Eyes rolled.
"You should have a basket in case there are things in the dryer. If you don't unload the dryer first, the machine shrinks the clothing and that favorite shirt of yours becomes a hand-me-down."
My daughter starts to laugh.
"Bon, what's your favorite game?"
Startled to see I have changed focus, she stammers "Legend of Zelda."
"Good. Good. And you have to equip and unequip in that game right?"
"Yes."
"Well you have to unequip the dryer before you can equip it with new wet things. Once you've loaded the dryer, you have a secret move that makes everything else more effective. Think of this as a cheat code."
I hold up a dryer sheet for all to see, as even the babies are coming to watch, wondering why everyone else is crowded in the laundry room. Seizing the moment, I allow my five-year-old to place it in the dryer.
Now it's filter time and button pushing again. I remove the filter and have each of them remove some of the lint. There are lots of "ew!s" and one attempt to wear the blue fuzz as a beard but everyone eventually touches the lint. Replacing the filter, I allow the oldest girl to "push the buttons." Then the toddler cries to do it too, so I make them all take turns, even those who don't want to.
"This concludes our tutorial of Laundry machine Live! Come back this afternoon to learn about folding and actually putting away."
Lecture over, the crowd disperses and I begin wondering if I could come up with a metaphor to get the kids to wash the dishes.
*In loving tribute to the great one, Erma Bombeck who first tried to teach her children domestic skills via a manual.
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