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/!

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!