Have you ever tried to tell a joke to someone and have them stare at you like you have a third eye? Me too. I’m amazed at how many people do not recognize hyperbole from reality, especially when it comes to humor. In light of that recent discovery, I want to clarify a few points for my literalistically thinking friends and followers. (I’m pretty sure I made that word up, but you know what I mean.)
While my girlfriends and I love to talk about Johnny Depp, we’re not about to leave our husbands for him. He’s a brilliant actor for sure, but that’s all. And if you still do not understand the nuances of hyperbole, go read some Anne Lamott. She is a strong influence on my writing style today.
I did not really go buy a little black dress, red lipstick and fish-net stockings when I read “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” That is what we call a joke. All references to my “catch and release program” in Fishers of Men simply refer to how insecure, clingy and naive I was in my younger years.
Even though I think they are charming as heck, cowboys do not really give me the hiccups. Yes I did blush and giggle the very first time I met one, however, I like the simplicity and manners that comes with these guys. They make it safe and easy to be a woman. And let’s face it, something about being called “darlin” touches my heart. I never had that growing up and I’ve learned to enjoy it today. It’s when they stop calling me darlin’ that I worry.
A walking lobotomy is simply a phrase I use to describe how easily I can throw my IQ out the window when it comes to certain men. When I was younger (much much younger), if our eyes met across a crowded room and my heart started doing 280, chances are they either had a flask in their pocket or a criminal record. Or in the case of that blue-eyed wonder I met in front of the Sears Tower back in 1987, both.
I did not really hire a stunt double for my annual exam – again that was a JOKE.
I am not a stay home wife anymore. I am a self-employed comic, speaker, actress, artist and freelance writer. Having my personal office in my home is not that same as “staying home.” I am not a bored housewife taking artsy fartsy classes to pass the time. I’m an artist striving to improve my craft. I left my career in telecommunications to raise my family and care for a child with epilepsy. I’m very proud of both of my children and have no regrets. In order for me to return to telecom, I’d have to go back to college and start over. I figured if I was going to start over at my age, why not do something I’m good at and enjoy.
Contrary to popular belief, I am still married – to the same man I met back in 1988 (not the Sears Tower dude). We love each other a great deal and are comfortable enough with each other and our relationship to acknowledge that certain Hollywood stars are dreamy. He’s into Meg Ryan, Goldie Hawn, Emma Stone, and a few others. His tastes run more towards natural beauty than flash. I like that. The fact that I sometimes write jokes about cowboys, Hollywood bad boys, and my previous dating disasters does not in any way shape or form bother him. If it did, I would write about something else entirely. My husband reads my blog every week. I do not write anything that would shock or amaze him. We’ve been together since December 3, 1988. There isn’t a man alive who knows me better than he does.
He knows if I’m laughing and cutting up with a man, it’s no big deal. He knows that taking me to see a Johnny Depp or Robert Downey Jr flick is no big deal either.
I know not to go see Magic Mike or read 50 Shades of Grey. That would not sit well.
He knows if I’m rendered silent in the presence of a man (and yes that does still happen to me at times, I’m 47 and very human and if you say that has never happened to you, well I think you are lying.) or avoid someone like the plague – just trust that and move on.
And for all my girlfriends who texted me Monday night telling me to change the channel to the CMA’s – I know that the first Monday night football game of the season is on and there is no way I’m going to be able to convince that man to change the channel for five minutes just so I can watch Luke Bryan dance.
You see, I had taken my family to see this man perform at a local church and when I walked in with my boys a gentlemen stepped in front of me and shoved a flier in my hands. I read it when I sat down and discovered it was an invitation to this singer’s senior citizens cruise later that fall. I didn’t make anything of it, figuring he had to give them to everyone. I was after all only 43 at the time.
Then my husband arrived. He tried to take a flier out of this man’s hand and do you know he said?
“I’m sorry sir, these fliers are for senior citizens only and you don’t look old enough.”
Have you ever seen a Southern woman throw a wall-eyed hissy with a red rubber tail? Something like that will turn even the deepest of atheists in to a man of prayer. I can guarantee you if that man wasn’t saved before he gave me the flier, he is now.
Be Blessed Y’all.
Isaiah 43:1 But now, this is what the LORD says— he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.”
“I really like hanging out with the O’Hara’s. They laugh all the time.” — my youngest son’s girlfriend.
Being snowed in for Christmas break was fun. I had all three of my guys home with me and we all pitched in to make Christmas, well, Christmas this year. They helped bake cookies, cook meals and hang Christmas lights. They even hung an upside dummy off our porch to make it look like someone fell off the roof while hanging lights. Sadly the ice storm did him in before I could photograph their feat.
I would have taken a picture before the storm but I was too busy screaming and catching my breath every time I walked outside because I kept forgetting it was there. Life with boys is always an adventure.
On one of our snowed in days I decided to make gingerbread men. I baked the men and they all decorated them. Honestly, I’m surprised that there are no serious mutations, or zombies in this batch. The worst one is the wet diaper dude. And that one was created by my husband. I won’t be taking thes to a church social or anything. It was a just for us kind of deal.
Of course my oldest son, who is home from college, decided to dedicate one of our gingerbread men to Comic Tim Hawkins.
Seems the “fire ants” (red sugar crystals) have eaten this poor guy’s leg down to the bone already. You have to see the Fire Ant song on his newest DVD to totally get this. I think it’s hilarious.
That’s what happens when you are the only female in a house full of men. You laugh at really crazy things, like potty jokes, “that’s what she said” stuff, and you laugh at mutilated gingerbread men. It just happens.
Knowing that other people see us as a family that loves to laugh is a nice thing. We are real people, we don’t laugh all of the time. But we laugh a lot and I like that.
How often do you laugh at home? Every day? Every week? Rarely? Why not make a promise to yourself and to your family to find something silly to laugh about just for today and see what kind of difference it makes.