How Erma Bombeck nearly ruined my blog

Erma Bombeck is ruining this blog. Oh, she doesn't mean to do it. And I don't mean to be bad-mouthing the mother of all funny mothers. But, I have not been hitting my stride on this blog and I have Erma to thank (or blame) for it.

Three months ago, I attended the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop at the University of Dayton. It was -- hands down -- THE best conference I have ever attended. I met and talked with and laughed with and learned from so many terrific writers. Ilene Beckerman, Karen Walrond, Tracy Beckerman (no relation to Ilene), Alan Zweibel on the famous side. And plenty of up-and-comers like Ott Mama and The Bearded Iris. (Oh and YOU too, I can't list everyone.)

And with all those brushes with greatness, all that time spent with funny people, I kind of lost my way. I think I'm funny. But now I feel under pressure to deliver the funny. All. the. Time. The truth is, funny takes time. Sure, I can come up with witty one-liners and am pretty handy with rib-tickling rhetoric. Delivering that every time my fingers hit the keyboard is a tall order.

Plus, even Erma found herself among the pits in her own bowl of cherries from time to time. My life is good -- very good, even -- but not every day is a gut-buster. Before the Erma conference, I felt like I could put that out here in this space. Now, it feels like a betrayal of humor writers everywhere.

But here's the deal: this space is my space. Sometimes it will be funny. Sometimes it will be wrought with exasperation. Sometimes, it will be my own brand of nonsense. Other times you'll come here and get a glimpse of where I am spiritually. Whatever it is, I promise -- you and myself -- it will be me. The good, the bad and the funny.

Saturday morning reality check

Ok, first reality check -- it's not Saturday morning. It's Saturday afternoon and I'm still in my jammies with no real intention of changing out of them for at least another hour or so.

Second, you know all that waxing nostalgic about Little House in the Suburbs and roughing it by doing dishes by hand, leaving the windows open and cooking from scratch? Well, the windows are closed, the air is on, we bought pizza from Papa Murphy's last night (it was at least cooked in our oven), and I'm calling the repair guy on Monday to come fix my dishwasher. One of the reason I'm still not dressed is because I was doing dishes this morning, stopped to make Belgian waffles, then had the original dishes plus the waffle mess to wash up.

Now that the kitchen is (mostly) back in order, I have to wrangle the laundry. I've said it before, but this time I might mean it. I'm limiting my family to 3 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of pants, 5 pairs of underwear, 4 t-shirts, 2 nice shirts and 2 pairs of pj's each. If I stacked up all the dirty laundry into one big pile, I bet I could set a world record. I wonder if there is a world record?

Actually, I don't mind doing the laundry. Washing, drying, even folding. (Don't tell my family, but I kind of enjoy it.) It's the putting away that I absolutely despise. Maybe if we had fewer clothes to put away, it would be less of a vile job?

The real task of the weekend is to clean my bedroom. This is closely tied to the laundry b/c there are clothes everywhere. I would take a picture to show you, but even I'm not that bold. Suffice it to say, the bedroom floor is like the moon -- uneven surfaces, mounds of physical matter and occasional craters. It's hard to yell at your kids about their bedrooms when your own could be declared a federal disaster area.

I'm hoping to make some good headway in the bedroom before Robbie and I leave for our "date" tonight. (He does not have an aversion to the word like Charlie does). Thanks to an anonymous benefactor -- and I do mean THANK YOU -- Robbie and I are going to see "Walking with Dinosaurs" tonight. I think it's gonna be awesome!

What's on tap for your weekend? Hope it's a good one.

Bursting my bubble (bath)

We've lived in our current home for a little more than 10 years. We moved here from a 30-year-old, 3-bedroom ranch with no basement. When we started thinking about moving and considering what kind of house we wanted, Mike really wanted to build. Although I would have been happy moving to another older home, I agreed to new construction with one caveat.

The new house HAD to have a garden tub with whirpool jets.

As construction got underway and we began to choose paint colors, carpet and trim packages, not surprisingly, the costs of construction began to rise. So one day, Mike said to me, "You know, that whirpool tub is $1,500. We could really save a lot by going with a plain garden tub."

Now, if I were a more sacrificial, fiscally responsible wife, I would have nodded my head and said, "You're right, dear. Whatever you think is best."

But I wasn't. And I didn't. Instead, I think I said something like, "No way! That tub is the ONLY thing I have an opinion about in this house and I am not giving it up."

It wasn't that I was just being stubborn. It was that after three years of bathing in a cramped tub stained rusty with iron deposited by well water, I was looking for a little luxury and relaxation. I was looking for this:



(And yes, in my bathtub fantasy, I was a skinny diva with flowing hair and flawless skin.)

But like most mothers, I've come to accept that dreams and reality are often on divergent paths. Oh, don't get me wrong. Grand bubble baths do take place in my whirlpool tub. But unlike the "relax" picture above, they look more like this:



Fast forward to tonight. Cooler temperatures have arrived. My body is weary from too much time spent in the car, from too little sleep, and, alas from the sheer effect of nearly 40 years logged on these bones.

The kids are all asleep. Mike is engrossed in the new Knight Rider series. These are the times that my garden tub with whirlpool jets were made for. So, I headed for the bathtub -- MY bathtub -- and this is what greeted me:



There was no Godzilla with one arm in my relaxing bath dream. No triceratops waiting to impale my tush, no giant squid or miniature pterodactyl.

When we built this house, had I realized that the kids were going to take over the only space that I planned to call my own, I would have called dibs on the washer and dryer.

If you'd like to read more bubbly fun, check out Humor Blogs.

Wedding Vows: A Reality Check

It may not be June or February, but love is in the air around here. Tomorrow, we're headed to Cincinnati for my cousin's wedding. Next Thursday, Mike and I will celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. Our friends Denise (of Adventures in Painting fame) and Jim just celebrated their 15th yesterday.

So I find myself reminiscing about my wedding, pausing to recall the vows we made:

I, Amy, take you, Mike, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.

And vice versa.

And I wonder what those vows would be if we stood before family and friends today and pledged our love to each other. I think they would go something like this:

I, Amy, take you, Mike, to be my husband. I promise:

• to try to always park left of center in the driveway
  
• to not act disappointed when you come home from the Red Box with "Iron Man" instead of "Made of Honor"
• to pretend like I really care that the Cubs have lost two in a row at home in their first chance in 100 years to go to the World Series
• to not try to pass off macaroni-n-cheese as dinner (very often)
• to try not to roll my eyes when you tell me you can't get out of bed because you have a cold -- or to at least turn my back before rolling them
• to encourage you to "have some fruit" when you say you're hungry and want to order a pizza
• to let you sit around in your boxers and watch Serenity once in a while
• to immediately dial 911 when the day comes that you have a stroke hollering at some idiotic call/amazing play in a Colts game

I, Mike, take you, Amy, to be my wife. I promise:

• to believe you when you say you need a new pair of shoes, even though you have 17 pairs in your closet right now
• to fill your gas tank when I see it getting low because I know you don't like to do it
• to not sigh in frustration (too loudly) when you complain that the computer is broken, when really it just needed to be plugged in
• to not smother you with the pillow even though your snoring could wake the dead
• to suggest that we skip dessert, and then to not say anything when you order it anway
• to go to the store for feminine supplies, even if it does cause me to lose my man card
• to put up with your online Scrabble addiction, er, hobby
• to upload your pictures, download your songs and in whatever other ways possible to be your own personal "Geek Squad."

Now that's love.

What would be included in your "reality vows?"