Garrison Keilor recently delivered a keynote at the Erma Bombeck Writers Conference. During the Q & A he was asked: “Is it hard to write humor when bad things happen in your life?” Before he even answered, I laughed. What? It’s the best time.
He said, “It’s great when you’re depressed. Why would you even want to write humor if you’re in a good mood?” Which made me laugh again. I get it. Give me a really horrible situation, something in my family, or the world, something unbelievable, incomprehensible, such as a new patch of cellulite developing on my thigh. I’ll think it’s funny. Well, what am I supposed to do? Go buy a $437 jar of cream that doesn’t work?
The best humor comes from life. It’s not jokes or prefabricated stories. It’s everyday life. Bill Cosby has a long hilarious bit about his root canal. Chris Rock talks about racism. And Ellen DeGeneres finds humor in well, every hardship she’s ever had.
It seriously bugs me when people don’t have a sense of humor. I get concerned.
What’s going to happen if something really bad happens? How will they make it through?
I write humor for a living. I really do try to look at things through humor colored glasses—and often that takes a little time. But eventually, almost everything is funny. Although honestly, I’m not yuckin’ it up about the cellulite like I said I was.
Some things are truly sad.
____
Friday, July 11, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Work/ Life Balance-- Hire a Coach!
I just read an article in the Miami Herald about a new trend called, Parent Coaches: For parents who have difficulty raising their children.
That’s a pretty big niche market.
You can get help with everything from thumb sucking, to bratty teen- age behavior. From sassy, disrespectful, dirty- laundry- lugging college students to biting, Lego throwing toddler Rambo’s. A personal Dr. Spock consultation.
Turns out that a lot of parents can run multi- million dollar companies, but they’re at a loss at home.
That’s because (generally speaking) you don’t have to take care of your co- workers diarrhea, night terrors or deal moment- to- moment with their new found pronunciation of the word, “no.” It’s because your boss doesn’t come into bed with you at 3 AM, crying.. (Again, generally speaking.)
And honestly, do you care if the people you work with eat their vegetables?
I’m not saying that I couldn’t have used a coach with my daughter. Although I’m convinced there were times an exorcist would have done the trick. Or, that I couldn’t use some help with my son and his need to leave wrappers and trash around the house, a trail of his every move as evidence he lives in this house-- but it seems to me that all a parent coach does is … give power back to the parents. Where it should have been all along.
How did we get so far away from that one idea? We are the parents.
Great leaders make tough decisions. Business people get things done and shell out consequences to both their peers and subordinates. There are similarities between what we do at work and home, just different vernacular. For instance, at work, a “time out” would be more like an unpaid leave of absence. “You’re grounded for life” would be “you’re now working in the mailroom.”
Great parents make tough decisions everyday. It’s hard work and it’s exhausting.
The pay stinks.
In the words of Erma Bombeck, if your child doesn’t scream the words, I HATE YOU, at least once in their life, you haven’t done your job.
There’s another thing to consider when wondering why home life is so much more difficult than work life. You don’t love, with all your being, your co-workers,
boss or shareholders.
Well, unless you’re one who let’s them crawl into bed with you at 3AM.
That’s a pretty big niche market.
You can get help with everything from thumb sucking, to bratty teen- age behavior. From sassy, disrespectful, dirty- laundry- lugging college students to biting, Lego throwing toddler Rambo’s. A personal Dr. Spock consultation.
Turns out that a lot of parents can run multi- million dollar companies, but they’re at a loss at home.
That’s because (generally speaking) you don’t have to take care of your co- workers diarrhea, night terrors or deal moment- to- moment with their new found pronunciation of the word, “no.” It’s because your boss doesn’t come into bed with you at 3 AM, crying.. (Again, generally speaking.)
And honestly, do you care if the people you work with eat their vegetables?
I’m not saying that I couldn’t have used a coach with my daughter. Although I’m convinced there were times an exorcist would have done the trick. Or, that I couldn’t use some help with my son and his need to leave wrappers and trash around the house, a trail of his every move as evidence he lives in this house-- but it seems to me that all a parent coach does is … give power back to the parents. Where it should have been all along.
How did we get so far away from that one idea? We are the parents.
Great leaders make tough decisions. Business people get things done and shell out consequences to both their peers and subordinates. There are similarities between what we do at work and home, just different vernacular. For instance, at work, a “time out” would be more like an unpaid leave of absence. “You’re grounded for life” would be “you’re now working in the mailroom.”
Great parents make tough decisions everyday. It’s hard work and it’s exhausting.
The pay stinks.
In the words of Erma Bombeck, if your child doesn’t scream the words, I HATE YOU, at least once in their life, you haven’t done your job.
There’s another thing to consider when wondering why home life is so much more difficult than work life. You don’t love, with all your being, your co-workers,
boss or shareholders.
Well, unless you’re one who let’s them crawl into bed with you at 3AM.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Bragging Rights
Last week my brother Chris (U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) chairman) earned USC’s highest award for alumni accomplishment. My father, who is 87 years old, earned something as well: his diploma.
During World War II my father (Charles) was a USA senior preparing to graduate when duty called. On his graduation day in June 1943 he was on a shipboard headed for the Philippines, where he joined allied forces in Operation Cartwheel, aimed at isolating the major Japanese base in New Guinea. My father never received his diploma.
So, before presenting the university’s highest award for alumni achievement, USC President Steven B. Sample surprised an audience of nearly 550 and honored my father with the diploma. Something my father had waited 63 years for.
To roaring applause and a standing ovation, Sample handed my father the leather case.
And then something funny happened.
When my father opened the sophisticated leather case, it didn’t contain the diploma. It held a letter congratulating and honoring him with the leather case, the actual diploma would arrive “soon.”
My father raised one eyebrow, turned the case around for President Sample to read. President Sample read it out loud, laughed and said, “63 years and a couple of weeks.”
You can’t write this stuff.
Needless to say, I’m proud of Chris for earning such a great award. He’s an amazing man. But I’m especially proud of the fact that he made “His” night about my father, who obviously stole the show. Tears, laughter, applause…
Good stuff. The stuff memories are made of.
My father has Alzheimer’s and probably doesn’t remember the night. But he was there, in the moment and enjoying every bit of it.
So, each day I’m with my father, I show him the case and retell the story. And he gets to live it again.
In a world of MTV, a psycho- prostitute- soliciting- Governor, and Middle East extremists who hate America, I find this reassuring. There are good people in this world. And they are in my family.
During World War II my father (Charles) was a USA senior preparing to graduate when duty called. On his graduation day in June 1943 he was on a shipboard headed for the Philippines, where he joined allied forces in Operation Cartwheel, aimed at isolating the major Japanese base in New Guinea. My father never received his diploma.
So, before presenting the university’s highest award for alumni achievement, USC President Steven B. Sample surprised an audience of nearly 550 and honored my father with the diploma. Something my father had waited 63 years for.
To roaring applause and a standing ovation, Sample handed my father the leather case.
And then something funny happened.
When my father opened the sophisticated leather case, it didn’t contain the diploma. It held a letter congratulating and honoring him with the leather case, the actual diploma would arrive “soon.”
My father raised one eyebrow, turned the case around for President Sample to read. President Sample read it out loud, laughed and said, “63 years and a couple of weeks.”
You can’t write this stuff.
Needless to say, I’m proud of Chris for earning such a great award. He’s an amazing man. But I’m especially proud of the fact that he made “His” night about my father, who obviously stole the show. Tears, laughter, applause…
Good stuff. The stuff memories are made of.
My father has Alzheimer’s and probably doesn’t remember the night. But he was there, in the moment and enjoying every bit of it.
So, each day I’m with my father, I show him the case and retell the story. And he gets to live it again.
In a world of MTV, a psycho- prostitute- soliciting- Governor, and Middle East extremists who hate America, I find this reassuring. There are good people in this world. And they are in my family.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
2008 Caucus-- A lot like the 1600's
I attended my caucus Tuesday night. Of course I wanted to cast my vote, but I also wanted to present a resolution for increased funding for Alzheimer’s disease research. Maybe the government keeps forgetting…
America is great. We have gadgets and gizmos the size of rice and yet, at our caucus we were greeted by a man inching into his 90’s who ripped small bits of green paper (pilfered from the high school English room supply drawer?) and handed them to each of us. We wrote down who we wanted and he put our votes into an envelope, which he held in his other hand.
A substantial sneeze would have sent that envelope up in the air like a Roman candle. We would have all jumped to help clean up, snatched the candidate votes we didn’t want and shoved them in our pocket. I was waiting for that to happen. The guy had a cold.
The entire event was very secure and technical. At this level, hanging chads would have been a relief. It simultaneously worried and amused me.
The caucus started and we were called on the take positions. Asking us to do the downward facing dog would have been more productive. Not a lot of hands shot up. Luckily one of the neighborhood boys volunteered to lead the rest of the meeting. I think he was 11.
It was a great turnout. Someone even brought muffins, which says a lot about my district. I think the job got done.
I hope the one with the most votes won.
America is great. We have gadgets and gizmos the size of rice and yet, at our caucus we were greeted by a man inching into his 90’s who ripped small bits of green paper (pilfered from the high school English room supply drawer?) and handed them to each of us. We wrote down who we wanted and he put our votes into an envelope, which he held in his other hand.
A substantial sneeze would have sent that envelope up in the air like a Roman candle. We would have all jumped to help clean up, snatched the candidate votes we didn’t want and shoved them in our pocket. I was waiting for that to happen. The guy had a cold.
The entire event was very secure and technical. At this level, hanging chads would have been a relief. It simultaneously worried and amused me.
The caucus started and we were called on the take positions. Asking us to do the downward facing dog would have been more productive. Not a lot of hands shot up. Luckily one of the neighborhood boys volunteered to lead the rest of the meeting. I think he was 11.
It was a great turnout. Someone even brought muffins, which says a lot about my district. I think the job got done.
I hope the one with the most votes won.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Update
Okay, first of all, I know I need to write more Blog postings. Thanks to all who have written me and shown your support. I’m on it for 2008. Seriously.
And to those of you who are less supportive and more snarky about wanting more Blog postings. OKAY-- I’m on it.
It’s not like I’m not writing, people. I’m wrapping up my novel (finally) and I’m going to send it to my agent the first week of February. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’ll be pacing around my kitchen drinking VATS of coffee and wondering, “Why hasn’t she called? Doesn’t she like it? Did I screw up a prepositional phrase?”
I write articles and the humor column for the National Speakers Association Minnesota newsletter. I write speeches for my clients’ and sometimes a sketch
here and there, so …I’m not a complete slacker. Just a Blog slacker.
Get over it.
2008 will be better Blog year for me. I feel it.
Cheers.
Molly
And to those of you who are less supportive and more snarky about wanting more Blog postings. OKAY-- I’m on it.
It’s not like I’m not writing, people. I’m wrapping up my novel (finally) and I’m going to send it to my agent the first week of February. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’ll be pacing around my kitchen drinking VATS of coffee and wondering, “Why hasn’t she called? Doesn’t she like it? Did I screw up a prepositional phrase?”
I write articles and the humor column for the National Speakers Association Minnesota newsletter. I write speeches for my clients’ and sometimes a sketch
here and there, so …I’m not a complete slacker. Just a Blog slacker.
Get over it.
2008 will be better Blog year for me. I feel it.
Cheers.
Molly
Friday, November 16, 2007
A Banner Year!
Thanksgiving is just around the corner and I am once again blessed. I’m not hosting dinner.
I’m not hosting Christmas this year either. Which makes it a double-whammy year for me—I get to add hundreds of hours to my work schedule. Hours that would have been spent cleaning. Then cleaning some more until everything was spotless and you could eat off the floor-- which, according to my mother is the measure of a clean floor. Perhaps our relatives ate off the floor at one time and she had those memories, like people have who have lived through the depression and hoard everything.
Last year, I cleaned until all surfaces and crevices glistened. I walked into the dining room only to find that the dog had wrestled with the seventy-six dollar fall centerpiece on my polished table. He’d also eaten much of it-- as evidenced by the vomit on the freshly cleaned area rug under my once spotless table.
I’ve never understood how people could cook everything and also have their house clean. It’s really one or the other to me. Even if you have cleaning help, it’s the hours right before people arrive that set the disasters in motion: The garbage disposal breaks, the cat jumps on the counter and licks the turkey, forcing you to serve Kentucky Friend chicken to 18 guests. The vacuum spits the last several weeks cleaning on your carpet—the carpet you are quickly doing the “spiff clean” on before people arrive.
But not this year. I’ll whip up a salad for a couple dozen people while I enjoy my morning coffee. I’ll watch my son chase the dog around the dining room. I’ll laugh and enjoy the happiness it brings him instead of screaming like a crazed Martha Stewart. “PEOPLE ARE COMING IN ONE HOUR… GO SIT IN THE CLOSET AND DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
I’ll look in the bathroom and notice that all of the towels I just creased and put on the rack, ever-so-welcoming, are now soiled and crunched up. And it won’t bother me.
Yes, it’s a good year. I’m not hosting.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I’m not hosting Christmas this year either. Which makes it a double-whammy year for me—I get to add hundreds of hours to my work schedule. Hours that would have been spent cleaning. Then cleaning some more until everything was spotless and you could eat off the floor-- which, according to my mother is the measure of a clean floor. Perhaps our relatives ate off the floor at one time and she had those memories, like people have who have lived through the depression and hoard everything.
Last year, I cleaned until all surfaces and crevices glistened. I walked into the dining room only to find that the dog had wrestled with the seventy-six dollar fall centerpiece on my polished table. He’d also eaten much of it-- as evidenced by the vomit on the freshly cleaned area rug under my once spotless table.
I’ve never understood how people could cook everything and also have their house clean. It’s really one or the other to me. Even if you have cleaning help, it’s the hours right before people arrive that set the disasters in motion: The garbage disposal breaks, the cat jumps on the counter and licks the turkey, forcing you to serve Kentucky Friend chicken to 18 guests. The vacuum spits the last several weeks cleaning on your carpet—the carpet you are quickly doing the “spiff clean” on before people arrive.
But not this year. I’ll whip up a salad for a couple dozen people while I enjoy my morning coffee. I’ll watch my son chase the dog around the dining room. I’ll laugh and enjoy the happiness it brings him instead of screaming like a crazed Martha Stewart. “PEOPLE ARE COMING IN ONE HOUR… GO SIT IN THE CLOSET AND DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
I’ll look in the bathroom and notice that all of the towels I just creased and put on the rack, ever-so-welcoming, are now soiled and crunched up. And it won’t bother me.
Yes, it’s a good year. I’m not hosting.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Weeee! We bought a Wii!
We don’t have an X-box. We’re not big fans of video games –we don’t want
our son to be some testosterone, he-man, aggressive teen.
So, we have him in football.
As much as I dislike video games, I really can’t stand the whining, crying and
moping around the house --the constant complaints that there’s nothing to do—and that’s just from my husband.
I surveyed the house and I too realized, there was simply nothing to do. I stored all the board games, put the foosball table away, cleared out the tennis racquets, golf clubs, the 126 basketballs, footballs and Frisbees, I wedged the soccer net into the corner of the garage, and folded up the huge basketball hoop in the driveway. I put the Swing Away and the Perfect Pitch in their boxes. I packed up the art supplies, took away the talking globe, the baseball card collection, and even dismissed the yo-yo’s and water guns. I started to get weepy
while taking down my son’s dart board.
So many memories of doing absolutely nothing.
There would be no more nights of Texas Hold-‘em around the kitchen table, or 21 questions during dinner. No kick-the-can with the neighbor kids, or walks with the dog. Creating a home with nothing to do also meant dismantling the fire pit in the back yard where we roasted marshmallows with his friends. If this house was declared as a place where there was nothing to do, so be it.
It was clear he was right, the only way we could have any fun was to get a Nintendo Wii. So, my son, the fiscal conservative, bought one with his own money.
Suddenly, there was a lot to do and tons of kids to do it with! It turned out (and I found this shocking), that the entire world, which included every single child in his school, didn’t have a Wii. My son must have been mistaken.
Okay, truthfully, it’s fun. The cow racing alone is worth the money (my son’s money) and my sweet little cherub gets so much satisfaction at beating me and then using excessive celebration techniques, learned from the NFL, to demean me, what mother wouldn’t melt with emotion at seeing her boy so happy?
The only thing wrong with the game is that the characters—who are created to look like the players--win by jumping up and down, or lose by hanging their head in a very sad, defeated manner. (Think Saddam Hussein on the cell phone video). I am most familiar with the loser position and let me tell you, after awhile, it actually begins to affect you.
The game should come with a prescription for Prozac.
A major benefit to the Wii is that it’s more compact than a ping-pong table! (Except for the wide-screen TV you have to play it on.) So when there’s nothing to do in the future, including playing the boring Wii, it will be easier to toss.
our son to be some testosterone, he-man, aggressive teen.
So, we have him in football.
As much as I dislike video games, I really can’t stand the whining, crying and
moping around the house --the constant complaints that there’s nothing to do—and that’s just from my husband.
I surveyed the house and I too realized, there was simply nothing to do. I stored all the board games, put the foosball table away, cleared out the tennis racquets, golf clubs, the 126 basketballs, footballs and Frisbees, I wedged the soccer net into the corner of the garage, and folded up the huge basketball hoop in the driveway. I put the Swing Away and the Perfect Pitch in their boxes. I packed up the art supplies, took away the talking globe, the baseball card collection, and even dismissed the yo-yo’s and water guns. I started to get weepy
while taking down my son’s dart board.
So many memories of doing absolutely nothing.
There would be no more nights of Texas Hold-‘em around the kitchen table, or 21 questions during dinner. No kick-the-can with the neighbor kids, or walks with the dog. Creating a home with nothing to do also meant dismantling the fire pit in the back yard where we roasted marshmallows with his friends. If this house was declared as a place where there was nothing to do, so be it.
It was clear he was right, the only way we could have any fun was to get a Nintendo Wii. So, my son, the fiscal conservative, bought one with his own money.
Suddenly, there was a lot to do and tons of kids to do it with! It turned out (and I found this shocking), that the entire world, which included every single child in his school, didn’t have a Wii. My son must have been mistaken.
Okay, truthfully, it’s fun. The cow racing alone is worth the money (my son’s money) and my sweet little cherub gets so much satisfaction at beating me and then using excessive celebration techniques, learned from the NFL, to demean me, what mother wouldn’t melt with emotion at seeing her boy so happy?
The only thing wrong with the game is that the characters—who are created to look like the players--win by jumping up and down, or lose by hanging their head in a very sad, defeated manner. (Think Saddam Hussein on the cell phone video). I am most familiar with the loser position and let me tell you, after awhile, it actually begins to affect you.
The game should come with a prescription for Prozac.
A major benefit to the Wii is that it’s more compact than a ping-pong table! (Except for the wide-screen TV you have to play it on.) So when there’s nothing to do in the future, including playing the boring Wii, it will be easier to toss.
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