I had just the greatest idea for a post, but then I had to do some stuff, and after I did all that stuff, I decided that I should take a shower, and then it sounded to me like a scary thunderstorm was building up inside the shower head, and that has never happened before, well, I mean, it’s never happened to ME before anyhow, although it might have happened to my husband, but I wouldn’t know if it had or hadn’t because he hasn’t been sharing much with me verbally, and by that I mean he hasn’t really been talking to me at all since the whole “baby incident” (which I realize that in this context sounds like I am implying that there was some sort of incident with our baby or with someone else’s baby or maybe that I am referring to a news story about a baby trapped in a well or a baby who acquired superhuman strength and lifted a bus off of his mom or something, some kind of story that particularly affected him in some way, rendering him less communicative, like some kind of third-degree form of PTSD, and I apologize, because I don’t mean to imply that at all, because what I meant by the “baby incident” was just that we had a baby, but since I ended up explaining all that anyway, now I am thinking I should have just written “since we had a baby” in the first place, because that would have saved me from realizing that I misspelled the word “acquired,” I mean, you wouldn’t have known it if I hadn’t just outed myself, because there was a red line under it, and I thought, “Well, that’s silly. That’s not how that’s spelled,” and I quickly added a “c,” but I really originally typed “aquired” without even thinking, because my lazy brain sounded it out, and it seemed like a “q” would be enough to make a “k” sound, the “cq” seemed like overkill, although I guess if you were to separate the syllables, the first one would be making an “ak” and the second one would be making a “kwiored,” but still, that kind of thing is not something I think I would have done before the baby incident, or even since I had the baby, but maybe I would have because I haven’t been reading much lately, I mean, I am almost done with Tina Fey’s book, but I don’t think that counts, because she makes me laugh, and there are funny pictures and there is really big print, you know, the kind that editors probably suggest the publisher switch to when someone is supposed to deliver a book, and he/she only turns in 115 pages after working on it for almost a year, well, I mean, after saying that he or she or the robot worked on it for a year anyhow, but then only putting about two weeks into it if you added up all the hours it was writing and subtracted all the ice cream and bathroom breaks it took, and I don’t mean a break where you eat ice cream in the bathroom, but two separate breaks, although I guess if you were either really pressed for time or had a very traumatic bathroom experience, you might want to combine the two into one swift gesture, well, less like a gesture and more like an incident, but not in the way that the baby incident was a pretty solid “incident,” but–oooooouch, the baby from the aforementioned incident just bit my boob, and then he farted, but not just farted, LIFTED HIS LEG AND FARTED LIKE A GULL-DARNED ANIMAL (!!!), which reminds me that I really need to stop using such shitty language around my son, I mean, he can’t really understand language or even the idea of language, although maybe he’s starting to, because I did show him a “ball” yesterday, I mean, actually I guess I misused those quotation marks–thanks, Bossypants!–it was actually a ball, it wasn’t like a shoe or something that I held up in front of him while I said “ball” a bunch of times, because, well, that would be tricking my son, which, don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought about doing, but only in an abstract way, the same way I think about dressing him up like a bumblebee or a fat bear, but this time the ball that I held up was a real ball, and I held it up and said, “BALL, BALL, BALL,” and he looked at me like he didn’t like what I was getting at, and, anyway, according to the New York Times Magazine, if I was using bad language around him, he might understand that it was language, but he wouldn’t really know that it was “bad,” because he doesn’t really know right from wrong or good from bad, which is why I forgive him for biting my boob and lifting his leg to fart, although, don’t get me wrong, I am still plotting my revenge!!– no one that I know has done that, which means it never happened), and I guess the noise, which my husband may or may not have also experienced, really threw me off my game, because when I tried to remember what it was that I was going to write for my post, I had to think about it really hard, and nothing at all came to me, except the thought that maybe it had something to do with the bathroom, so I started brainstorming and thought about all the random things that make me crazy, which is where I usually start getting ideas for these posts (famous people, classic movies being remade, bananagrams, etc.), so I started going over all the things that make me crazy, like “facebook” and my husband telling me that Daddy Longlegs are arachnids but not “spiders” every time I point at a Daddy Long Legs on our bathroom floor and yell “SPIIIIIIIIIIIIIDER!!!” and make him smash it like the dirty spider it is, but neither one of those things seemed like things that other people would have feelings about, partially because they might not exist outside of my head, but mainly because they both start with the letter “f,” and neither one of them had anything to do with a bathroom, except the part with the spider on the bathroom floor (but that really seemed like I was forcing a connection), so I cleared my head and used the principles of “The Secret” (the movie, not the book) to awaken my mind to the manifestation of the original genius idea for my post, because I was pretty sure that it was the best idea that I’ve ever had.
Do you have more money than you will ever need? Do people give you too much attention? Does your celebrity status make you think that the world disappears whenever you close your eyes?
Whoo-ah! Tell me about it! I remember the days when not getting my picture in a magazine every time I left the house made me lose my mind. I mean, seriously, if I had a nickel for every nickel I have, well, I could buy a planet and start that outer space colony that my psychic has been predicting that I am about to start with a bunch of magical nickels and an empty planet.
So quit screaming, put down those pills, and just listen to me. I have a plan. We’re going to a little place that I refer to as CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN. That’s right. Take my hand. It’s a sloppy left at the diamond rainbow and straight on past the big John Candy mountain. Yes, yes. That’s it! Right next to the Ferris Bueller Wheel and the body of your ex-wife. We’re almost there…
Please let that play under the rest of this blog.
Star-wipe. Cross dissolve to:
INT. CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN
Here’s the thing. My theory is this: MOST PEOPLE ARE CRAZY.
Yup. That’s it. Most people are crazy, but most people lack the means to fully indulge their craziness, and most people don’t get their crazy put in magazines and on ET, so we don’t know about it unless they are our neighbors or family members. Rich and famous people aren’t particularly insane, they are just like MOST PEOPLE. For example, I would be a FT out-of-control crazy, but I have things I need to take care of, and I can’t afford to buy an island.
But, what if I could?
Ripple dissolve. Fade to:
INT. SABRINA’S MIND
A hummingbird lands on a tumbleweed, setting both things in motion. Imaginary Katharine appears and waves from inside of a swimming pool filled with sweet berry wine and giant chunks of fruit.
Katharine mentioned in her Birthday Blog that if she were rich she would get a massage every day. EVERY DAY?? Come on, Katharine! That’s not crazy-thinkin’! That just sounds nice. You gotta up the ante. Why not get a massage every hour? Why not get a tiny masseuse and attach him/her to your body with some kind of really expensive harness so that he/she/the robot can rub you ALL THE TIME??? Yeah, make it a tiny robot. And a dog masseuse for your dogs!! And by “dog masseuse,” I mean a masseuse who is a dog. A robot dog.
Imaginary Katharine rolls her eyes and gets on a pony. She and the pony fly away as Imaginary Alex appears. I.A. is holding a martini glass and is dressed up like Robert Goulet.
I mean, Alex has the spirit! She wrote in one of her blogs that she wanted to buy an island and create a man-goat to be her best friend! Sure, Brando did it first (and I’m not talking about the movie), but so what? One ticket to CRAZY-ASS THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU ARE RICH AND FAMOUS TOWN!! ALL ABOARD! CHOO CHOO!!!
Imaginary Alex shakes her head, opens her mouth, thinks about it, then shrugs, gets on the tiny train from The Jerk and rides off.
So, here’s what we do first: think about some things that rich and famous people have already done and decide what kind of crazy things we would or wouldn’t do. It’s like one of those fancy frozen yogurt stores, except instead of toppings, you can choose from a wide variety of crazy. Spousal abuse or paranoid raisins? Everybody wins!
For example, I wouldn’t murder someone. Really. Or even hire someone to murder someone. I fear karma too much, and I hate the sight of blood, but I would get drunk and rob a bank. I would NOT, however, drive while intoximacated (see above re karma and blood), so I would have to get one of Katharine’s robots to take me.
I wouldn’t build a big ranch with an amusement park and two train lines so that I could invite children over for a sleepover (see above re karma and blood), but I would buy a big ranch and turn it into a town named after me. Then, instead of adopting some kids from impoverished areas, I would adopt a whole village full of people and let them all go on the bumper cars and play video games. Like the Jacksonian, I WOULD get a ton of crazy portraits and statues of myself made and put them up everywhere. In fact, each household would get its own effigy of me doing weird things. Remember good old Yipes, the Fruit Stripe gum zebra? Yeah! Just like that, but in oil paint and gold leaf!
I would not pull a Brando and get hugemongous. As tempting as it would be, because food is just delicious, especially rich people food, I would get cranky hauling around an extra four-hundred pounds, especially in the Tahitian sun, because I would pull a Brando and buy an island in French Polynesia.
I am also a fan of the Brando attitude. One million dollars for being in Superman for a couple of minutes? Showing up to the set of Apocalypse Now with a ton of extra weight, a shaved head and none of his lines memorized? After that he would get all his lines read to him through an earpiece? I’m not saying the man couldn’t be a serious ass, but at least he did it with style!
I wouldn’t get a ton of plastic surgery (oh, don’t get me wrong, I would get some–a bunch, just not enough to qualify for crazy status), but I would make people uncomfortable at awards ceremonies and on talk shows. I don’t know if I’d be on pills or drunk or pulling a Benigni , but I would be wearing some crazy swan outfit doing the Lindy Hop until somebody escorted me away. Say…what about that? Has anyone ever done an acceptance dance? I know that Rudd dances on talk shows, but it’s more cute than crazy. I would really like to bring it over the line. I mean, maybe it would start off cute, but it would just go on way too long. WAY WAY WAY too long.
All I can come up with is being a wacky island dancer in a town filled with pinball machines? Lame. Well, maybe I would have an army of trained penguins! What about that? And I would have a special house built that was 2/3 the size of a normal house, so that I would feel taller. So there! And…and…um, well, I would have an astronaut kitchen and only eat in zero gravity! With penguins! Robot penguins eating astronaut ice cream! BOOM! And maybe, just MAAAAYBE, I would buy myself a really nice pair of boots. They might even be some kind of crazy color, like YELLOW! HA HA HA HA HA!! I did it!! Yellow boots! Take THAT, America!
Now it’s your turn. You can press replay on the muppet show clip if you need some inspiration.
The Cos knew it.
Galifianakis sure had something to say about it.
Hey, there’s no denying it. Kids are funny. They really do say the darnedest things (especially when you’re writing the script–ZING!!)! I discovered this about a year and a half ago, and I’ve been trying to exploit, er…enjoy the rich and delicious blend of kids and funny ever since. It’s so much easier than making my own grown-up funny.
One problem: Where do you find the kids?
Well, sit down there on that log, son, and I’ll tell you. It just so happened that I was doing a production of Christmas Carol a year and a half ago. And what does Christmas Carol have, aside from one heartwarming and noble truth? That’s right! Cratchits! Kids o’ plenty! I immediately saw a future comedy genius in little Tiny Tim. He had a great audition, a sassy smile, and his mom brought a giant bag of M&Ms and a picture of a dinosaur to the shoot. HIRED!!
A few weeks earlier, I had met the man who would (later) become my husband and (slightly later than later) father to my son (oops, I ruined the punchline). Kris and I shared a love for making our combined powers of funny even funnier by using fresh, young talent. We were like sketch comedy vampires! We had crossed oceans of time just to make youtube videos! And guess what? Bonus was, Kris had already made a child and already made her funny!
So, we went ahead and got married. But that wasn’t enough, see? We needed more material. More kids equals more funny!!! Right, Bill Murray?
So, after doing some stuff and waiting and doing some other stuff and yelling, Benjamin Prometheus Stoker was born on May 12th at 12:17 in the wee bitty slice of a rainy morning.
(I am writing this with one hand Ben is asleep on me. He just started farting. A lot. Big noisy ones. Does this kid know from funny or what?)
Kris and I have been a bit tired these past few weeks, not sleeping much, getting pooped and farted on, removing umbilical cords and learning how to knit, but pretty soon this family will be selling a show to Comedy Central. It will be called “Get Stoked!”, and we’ll have a sassy maid and a wacky neighbor and we’ll have to adopt a new baby in about five years when Ben isn’t so tiny.
Until then, here’s something to hold you over! Remember: we made him for your enjoyment!
Our secret to success? UNITARDS!!!!
Jewish? Christian? Everybody likes a nice hard-boiled egg! Sabrina uncovers the truth behind nut allergies.
First of all, let me just begin by stating the obvious. This cheese is too sharp. I mean, I guess it did say that it would be “sharp” on the deli label, but I mean, this is like razor-blade sharp. This is Ginsu-knife sharp. This cheese is a goddamn diamond, and we all know it.
Okay, good. Now we can relax for a minute and enjoy the view. I just didn’t want everybody sitting here, pretending to read my blog, but really thinking about how painfully sharp this cheese is. I know it. You know it. The man who sold it to us knew it, but didn’t say anything. Not that he needed to. He’s not responsible for it. He didn’t make it.
That’s right, Ireland. We’re all looking at you.
Now then, let’s just talk about what else is happening this week. Two major holidays are going down, and I don’t have any plans.
Today, I find myself with a massive case of Passover envy. If anyone is having a seder in Arkansas tonight, please contact me ASAP. Yes, I said “Arkansas.” I can tell you what brands of Quinoa are kosher. Anyone? Hello? I will do a Christopher Walken impersonation when it’s my turn to read the Haggadah. I will make jokes like, “Where’s Morgan Freeman? It looks like we’re about to film The Lambshank Redemption up in this joint!” Please? No one loves plagues the way that I do! We can watch The Ten Commandments together, and I’ll start riffing when the burning bush comes out. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?? I’LL BRING THE PARSLEY! TRUST ME, I KNOW WHAT BITTER IS!!!
Sigh. There are no Jewish people in Arkansas, are there?
Okay. Fine. I still have Easter, you know. I can…um, well, I mean…I can build a giant Jesus and candy mountain, right? I can, um…dip hard-boiled eggs in different colors of dye and then, um..eat them! OH YEAH! Catch that Easter Fever! I can hide my husband’s keys and wallet in the yard and make a fun game out of watching him “hunt” for them. I mean, we usually just call that “Tuesday,” but I could also wear a fancy hat or something this time.
See, the problem with Easter is that you either need to have kids, or you need to believe in the J-Bird. Or ham. I think you could probably get by with a healthy appetite for ham. Since the cheese incident, I have been reflecting back on Easters past and trying to rediscover what was beautiful and meaningful to me about them, and…actually, that’s a big fat lie. I’ve been trying to think about what was funny about them, because I needed to write a blog.
So, I think the key thing about Easter and my childhood is this: Easter kind of worked to teach me lessons about things; I’m just not sure they were the right lessons.
For example: when I was a little kid, I had this one friend who wouldn’t even bother looking for eggs at Easter egg hunts. He would just follow the other kids around, and when they put their baskets down to hunt for an egg in a bush or a tree or something, he would go over and take some of the eggs out of their baskets and put them in his. He won every egg hunt. He was never caught or punished.
Wrap a five-year old mind around that reality, mister. Kids don’t second-guess impulses. “Ethics?” you say? Good luck with that.
Or this: my grandparents would put spare change in plastic eggs and hide them in the yard. But they were wise, see, and knew that a basket full of hard-boiled eggs wasn’t enough to get kids going in the seventies. We had Star Wars action figures and Choose Your Own Adventure books to buy. It was all about the cold-hard cash, even on the J-Bird’s birthday. The eggs all looked the same, but had different amounts of money inside. Some had seventy-five cents, some had a penny. So, it didn’t really matter how good you were at the game, it was all just a matter of whether or not you were lucky and found the right eggs. Cousin Jack could only find three eggs, but walk away from the yard with $2.25, whereas I could find fifteen and walk away with 28 cents. BOOM. “That’s life, kids,” said the game. “Life is full of colorful things that are hidden from you. Although they all look round and shiny on the outside, some of them are worthless and some are valuable, so just grab as many as you can before someone else gets them and hope for the best.”
Well, fine then. Lessons learned. Thanks, old people and lazy kids. (Sabrina takes a deep, cleansing breath and focuses on her “Hang In There, Kitty” poster) I think that I just need to create some new traditions and holiday magic for myself. Let’s see…
Here’s number one. This is the new Easter song in my house:
We are all going to listen to this song while we whirl in our yard like dervishes. We are going to eat Easter nachos and watch The Royal Tenenbaums. We are going to think about making sandwiches for homeless people, but decide to do it next year instead. We will keep the tradition of fancy hats and shiny shoes, for we are not animals. Amen.
Holiday memories or fantasies to share? Please submit to “Dr. Bieberlove” c/o the box underneath this post. Happy hunting, everyone!
First of all,
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! (Sabrina falls down a shaft, screaming and thrashing as Russell Brand throws up on her childhood memories)
Okay, I’m sorry. It’s a Tuesday. It’s early. For me. That means before noon. Perhaps we are all a little slow today. Let me just make this clear to everyone.
Firstly, watch this:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! IT BURNS!!!
I don’t know know why I draw the line here, but this is where I draw the line. Eighties remakes make me wonder why, but I never get too crazy over them. I had my eighties. You can’t take that away from me. Up until this point, I have been very good at just avoiding them. Karate Kid with Will Smith’s son? Okay. I’m never going to see it. A-Team? Whatever. Go ahead. Make it a musical while you’re at it. I won’t be there. Clash of the Titans? Fine. You know what? You got me. I watched that one. But it was on HBO, and my remote wasn’t working. Plus, it just gave me the opportunity to engage in one of my favorite activities, yelling at the TV while my husband looks uncomfortable.
So, why am I so mad when I walk past these Arthur posters on the subway?
Is it that I LOVE the original Arthur with Dudley Moore? No. I do not. I like that Christopher Cross song a lot. I remember my mom’s ex-boyfriend, the one with the jean jacket, singing it while he made grilled cheese sandwiches in the toaster oven. But other than that, it’s not the most well-constructed movie I have ever seen. Mostly, I just sit and yell at the screen. I question how Arthur knows that he loves Liza Minnelli after one shoplifting run-in at Nordstrom’s and one crappy date. I repeatedly say that I “can’t beeeeeeeeee-lieve” that she wants to marry an alcoholic with no life skills, a man who knocks at her door at three in the morning and parks on her front lawn. When the only conflict in the entire movie is magically resolved for no reason other than the need for a happy ending under the credits, I mumble something about my ass and go into the kitchen for a bowl of brownies. (That said, I do love me some John Gielgud. That man is a genius. And the fact that he makes an appearance as the butler’s ghost in Arthur 2? BRILLIANT!!! Yes, yes, and MORE yes. All that classical training FINALLY paid off, sir.)
So, is it that I HATE Russell Brand? No, I do not. I even read his book. Yes, THE WHOLE BOOK. Well, okay, MOST of the book. At least half of it anyway. And I’ve been known to sit through an hour of his stand up without changing the channel, promising everyone else in the room (AKA, my husband) that “it’s gonna get better.” I mean, I really liked him in that Paul Rudd movie, you know, the one with the surfer that was Paul Rudd, and some other guys did something with a girl or something. Brand seemed pretty convincing as the substance-abusing, narcissistic guy in really tight pants. SOLD.
So, why exactly am I so mad?
Because, COME ON!!!! COOOOOOOOOOOOOME ON. Really, Hollywood? Have you gotten THAT lazy? ARTHUR???? It wasn’t a movie in the first place. It was just Dudley Moore dinking around on a piano and coming up with jokes like:
LADY: Take my hand, Arthur.
ARTHUR: But that would leave you with one.
And that was fine. FINE!! Worth a remake? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! Put it down!!!
I just like to imagine these writing rooms and pitch meetings. I don’t get it. Do writers just pick up a People magazine in the waiting room and wing it? Is EVERYBODY stoned?
“Um…let’s see here…well, it’s Goonies, see? But with Justin Bieber and Hilary Duff!! Or, um, wait, hold on. It’s, um…well, see…it’s The Toy, but with Jack Black!”
I give up. I turn this blog over to my husband to finish. I am going to look for brownies.
Oh…yes…well hello there. You must be Sabrina’s blog followers. I see. Well, she seems to have shuffled off to the kitchenette to find herself a little treat. Sweetums just loves her treats. Gosh, I suppose I should take this opportunity to thank you all for the unwavering support you provide for our family. With the money Sabrina has made from this blog, we have set aside a generous college fund for our five children. I had no idea bloggery was such a lucrative business. Heck, gang, I better skedaddle. Sweetums went and got her fist stuck in the peanut butter jar again. May God bless your journey. Toodle oo.
My husband’s said it before, and I’ll say it again and take credit for it: “George Burns looks like a chimp.”
I started off wanting to write about the fact that I have skipped turning into my mother and have directly passed into turning into my grandfather, but that just led me very quickly to the realization that old people look like monkeys, and that is way funnier than stories about me looking at fancy mobiles and bookshelves in a Martha Stewart magazine and yelling, “$2,500?? For what? Get me a piece of wood, a table saw and some green paint! I’ll make it for ten bucks!” WAY FUNNIER. (Although, a video of me trying to make a bookcase that looks like a tree would probably be a Youtube sensation, especially if I dressed up like a chimp who was dressed up like George Burns while doing it) Oh, say, while I’m off topic, there are some outtakes from a How-To series I did where I pretend to get electrocuted and do spit takes and fall down a lot. I was trying my best to bring a little Chevy Chase to about.com, but the producer was apparently more interested in teaching skills or some other kind of malarkey. I wish I had copies to post here, but the closest thing I can give you is a link to a video where I will teach you how to load a dishwasher. That’s right, you’ve been struggling all these years with those wine glasses when help is just a click away. Wait. Don’t watch that. It’s only funny if you know me and want to taunt me. Oh. I see. Okay then, carry on.
Anyway, back to the Burns. I mean, look:
Oh, and speaking of dressed up monkeys, whatever happened to Lancelot Link: Secret Chimp? Now that was a TV show! I dare you not to spend the rest of the day on Youtube watching his monkey-hijinks! How did American TV audiences give up on chimps so quickly? Did we run out of chimps? Too many chimps eating faces? What happened????
But I digress. Where was I? Oh, oh yes. GEORGE BURNS LOOKED LIKE A MONKEY!!! But it’s not just George. It’s all old men. ALL OF THEM. Here’s proof. It’s another old man who looks like a monkey:
And another one:
Case closed. Old men become monkeys. I just wish I had realized this in time for my eighth-grade science fair.
And what do old women become? I thought that all old people became monkeys, but further investigation (a GOOGLE search!) revealed that women turn into shrunken apples when they get old.
What now? Why is that fair? I’d rather be a monkey than a wrinkly apple!! Darn you, original sin! First we get periods, then we deal with childbirth, and our final reward is that we turn into apples?!?!? Is there someone in customer service I can talk to about this? 1-800-BAD-DEAL?
Jeez. This is really going to mess up all of my fancy “getting old” plans. I was really looking forward to looking like a monkey and yelling at waiters for not putting enough water in my tea cup. What do shrunken apples even do? I guess I could mumble or bake children into pies, but that doesn’t seem half as fun as shrieking and throwing my own poop. Maybe I could be the first ninety year-old woman to get a sex change?
Ah, hang on. Further investi-google searching has revealed that the answer isn’t so complicated. It’s as easy as going on ehow and stopping by Duane Reade!!! WHEEEE-HA!! Next stop: Monkeyfacetown.
Stay tuned for next month’s post: “Why is Pottery Barn stalking me? I only looked at Star Wars sheets that ONE time.”
Man, I like to sleep. A lot. Like, so much, that I should come up with some kind of condition that I have, other than laziness, to explain it. I will sleep fourteen hours a day if you let me.
I used “Mono” as an excuse for a while, after I had it my freshman year of college, but it’s been (I am) getting old. I might have to try that S.A.D. thing, or the chronic tired hooseywhatsee. For the past few months, I’ve excused my abandonment of any other goal by the fact that I have just given up caffeine.
It’s not my fault that I am still asleep at noon! You people are awake because you’re on DRUGS!! DRUGS!!!!!!! The lord hates drugs!!!!! Hates! Drugs! Lord! Zzzzzzzzzz….
That reminds me of a joke that I would tell, if I were a preacher:
Me: Knock knock.
A single voice emerges from the congregation.
Single voice: Who’s there?
There is silence. Finally, the voice speaks again, this time joined by a few other courageous people.
People: Jesus who?
Me: That’s what I thought.
Sabrina exits the church. The people are stunned.
Anyway. What was I saying? Sleep! My husband is the greatest because he doesn’t judge my need to sleep for nine to fifteen hours a day. In fact, he will get up at seven, go to work, come home at four, find me covered in cracker crumbs and sleeping on the couch in front of a Jennifer Aniston movie and say something like, “That’s great, honey! I’m glad you got some rest today! Do you need some vacuuming?” That’s my guy! (Please don’t tell him my Mono has worn off? Thanks!)
It’s one in the afternoon, and I just woke up from a dream about Booby Hatch. Yes, THE Booby Hatch. We were doing a show at a comedy club and everything went wrong. The music cues were off, we forgot the lyrics and choreography (yes, there was choreography at some point) to “Suck It,” and I forgot to bring my Hitler moustache. I distinctly remember Katharine yelling, “Where are the wigs??” and Alex singing some improvised lyrics and jumping off the stage like Kurt Cobain. Then, before we could even start our second sketch, all of the lights in the theater stopped working. When the lights had been fixed, the club management started the next act, which seemed to be a girl singing “Me and My Shadow” off-key, by herself. I asked Kath if they were going to let us finish our show, and she said, “I don’t think so. I think that’s it. We’re done.”
After that, I went to see a show at another comedy club. My friend Kevin was doing stand-up and making balloon animals. First he got heckled: “Enough with the jokes! More balloon animals! We gotta move this thing along! Deadlines!!” Then he was asked to leave.
What was this dream? A statement on the conditions of the comedy scene? A resignation letter from my soul?
Oh, subconscious, you have overstepped your bounds yet again. Let’s clear something up, Sport. I do not come to you (for nine to fourteen hours a day) to have you air your NPR opinions all over me. I come to you so that I can fly and talk to dead pets!! What are you doing? For your information, I prefer the dream I had the other night: I had a baby, and I was teaching it how to do tricks, like how to sit up and beg or roll over. Then the baby became a Weiner Dog and it bit the lipstick I was using as an incentive to make the baby/dog do tricks. Then I hugged the Weiner Dog and said, “Be careful. I’ve always wanted to hit a Weiner Dog.”
Now, that’s a dream!!! Only…well, not to complain, but I should have been a spy or something too. And Norm MacDonald should have been there with candy.
Am I alone on this? Look, our brains can make anything happen when we sleep. Anything. But instead of you being a judge at Hugh Jackman’s Weiner Dog parade or living in a blueberry muffin factory on the moon, you’ll be working in your office or riding on the subway or doing some other boring something that you just did and probably have to go do again when you wake up. What? WHAT??
COME ON!! I have to live this life–don’t make me dream about it! And lay off the statements and lessons! Most importantly, stop trying to heal my psychological wounds! Those wounds have created me and fuel my comedy writing! Back off! Enough, says I!! We want dogs with tiny legs and mutant abilities!! Hugh Jackman and candy!!
I’m serious. If this doesn’t start improving, I might have to forgo a few hours of sleep and start improving my life. COME ON!!!
Stay tuned for next month’s blog, titled “You know what I hate? Everything.”