Stand Up Comedy Starter Kit

Well, it’s official… I talk to myself. Constantly. It’s not as bad as it sounds… Okay, well maybe it is.

To be perfectly honest, I have always been an accomplished self-talker. I remember staring at myself in the mirror as a teenager… Uh, wait… I mean, child, I was little, definitely not a teenager, cause that would be embarrassing… Anyway, I would stare at myself in the mirror and recite dramatic monologues that I made up and practice crying on command. “No… No, the doctor said I only have six months to live… But I will prove him wrong. I will survive!!! Because I… I… I love you!!! Boo hoo hoo, waaaaah, tear, tear, wrinkled up sad face.” End scene.

Who knew that my ridiculous bathroom cry monologues would serve me later in life? Serve is a relative term, mind you… I have been practicing my stand up comedy by talking out loud to myself and trying not to be embarrassed by it. I have to admit, I am much, much worse than I thought I would be. I get so damn nervous that my voice comes out all tight and I sound exactly like I did when I said the special prayer at my high school graduation (yes, they let La Diabla say the prayer at graduation… I can’t explain it. Fools! Muah ha ha ha!!!). This is when I’m alone, what am I going to do with a room full of people?!?

“Hi, my name is Mandy and I’m 31 years old. If you can believe it, this is my first time doing this.” Oh my God, how humiliating, I am the most ridiculous person in the world!!! That’s it!!! That is absolutely it, I can’t do this in front of people. I’ll die. Everyone will feel sorry for me.” That’s my inner monologue. Comforting, isn’t it?

As the date closes in on me, I have been feeling a little frantic. I have been writing bits like a mad woman in my notebook… Breaking out in random cold sweats… I have been doing weird things… For instance, I created a stand up comedy kit for myself… It includes a wire whisk, my notebook, and a glass of wine.

Perhaps I should explain the significance of the items included in my handy dandy stand up comedy kit…

The notebook: Contains my “amazing” comedy bits and other extremely weird stuff I’m glad nobody else has ever seen.

The wire whisk: Of course, is the perfect substitute for a microphone. I have spent an alarming number of hours of my life singing into a wire whisk, just ask my Mom.

The glass of wine: To calm the nerves… Perhaps I should make it a whole bottle?

Considering the amount of butterflies I get in my stomach when I picture myself onstage in the comedy club with only my (questionable) wit and a (real) microphone, I’m thinking of adding a shot of tequila to the kit. Tequila has butterfly-killing properties, right???

So, if you see me in my car with no passenger having a conversation, you know why… I’m just honing my skills.

I hope haven’t confirmed all of your fears that I am, in fact, barely holding onto sanity.

I also hope that you all have a wonderful week! Thank you so much for taking your time and reading my silly little blog, it means the world to me!!!

Warping the Future Generation

See what I mean about letting things slide? I start putting my blog in late and now look at me! I am sitting at my computer, not only on a Tuesday, but on a Tuesday afternoon, typing my Friday blog. Outrageous. I really need to get a hold of myself before I completely go off the rails.

Have you ever created a moment with your children? We are not talking about a beautiful moment. No, this moment is something you realize even as it’s happening, is warping your children. This moment is the beginning of a story your children will tell their friends as an example of how truly weird, how truly and completely lame you are and always have been.

I created one of those moments with my almost nine year old daughter last Saturday. Even as it was happening, I could feel it. I knew it. Yet I was powerless to stop it.

The girls and I were almost home after a visit with my parents, jamming out to my amazingly cool loud music, when Bohemian Rhapsody came onto my ipod. I squeaked in delight (yes, I squeak when I am delighted) and turned the music up even louder. I glanced in the mirror and noticed that my daughter had a rather skeptical look on her face and was not bobbing her head along in the normal fashion.

“This is the coolest song ever!!!” I said loudly to make myself heard over the semi-deafening sound of Queen. The skeptical look remained. “Seriously, Bugs, you just have to give it a second to get good. It’ll get good, I promise.” To emphasize my point, I began heartily singing along, pausing to glance back and make sure she was truly getting it. She was looking at me in the rear view mirror, half-heartedly bobbing her head, trying her best to like it.

I believe that at this point any normal person would have just admitted defeat and realized that Bohemian Rhapsody is not for everyone, especially an almost nine year old girl whose musical sensibilities lean firmly toward the Rihannas and Justin Biebers of the world. Looking back, I realize that Freddie Mercury singing, “Mama, just killed a man…” may have permanently damaged my child’s psyche.

I was far too caught up in expanding her musical horizons to realize that at the time. It was like I was having an out of body experience… I could see myself being way too enthusiastic, I could see the manic gleam in my eye, hear the too-loud singing… But I was powerless to stop it. I was a freight train of ridiculousness barreling toward the end of the “my kid thinks I’m cool” tracks, and I had gathered so much momentum there was no stopping me.

I should have reined myself in. But instead, I did something unthinkable… Something so all-encompassingly pathetic…

I waited for my moment, waving one fist and singing as loudly as I could… And I did it. I actually yelled, “This is it!!! Check this out!!!” And proceeded to re-enact the scene from Wayne’s World in the front of my maroon Mom-mobile. With two small children in the backseat.

It was the saddest of all the heavy metal headbangs. It was the headbang of a woman desperately trying to make her cheesy old people music appealing to her child. The headbang of a woman whose references are from 20 years ago. 20 YEARS!!! I feel sick right now just typing that. And my wrinkles hurt. It was the headbang of a woman who still, somewhere inside, believed that headbanging was inherently cool.

When it was over, I looked at her in the rear view mirror again. She was frozen, her eyes wide, and was no longer even attempting to bob along to the music.

“Um… Did you like that song? It’s cool!! Right?!?” My daughter looked at me with sympathy. “Yeah Mom, it was great. It was… It was really good.” Is there anything more shameful than being the object of pity to a child?

If I had any sense at all, I would have just let it go. Instead, I tried to explain myself. “It’s from a movie from when I was a kid. It was an awesome movie! It’s so hilarious. I’ll show you the clip of it when we get home.” She tried to summon up some enthusiasm for it, but I could tell she was just humoring me.

The second we got home, we marched directly in to the computer and got on YouTube. The following is the exact video that I forced my poor innocent child to watch:

I absorbed it with gleeful nostalgia. I can’t explain how happy it makes me inside. This movie is buried so deeply in my psyche that I haven’t seen it for at least 10 years and can still recite the entire scene. I wish I could say that I didn’t indulge myself in that recitation as my daughter sat next to me and tried her best to pay attention.

I turned and said, “Well Bugs, what did you think?” She took a moment to answer, looking thoughtful. Had I turned her? Had I been able to make my child appreciate the full spectrum of amazing that is Bohemian Rhapsody and Wayne’s World? Had I managed to dodge the bullet of being the dreaded… “Uncool Mom”? I never dreamed that I wouldn’t be able to cruise by on my charm until she was was at least 13 before she realized what a hopeless dork I am.

“Mom, what was wrong with that guy? What party did he go to? Why was he sitting in the middle of the street? What’s a spew???”

She doesn’t even know what “spew” means??? “Spew” is a reference that is so old-fashioned my child has never heard of it???

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no… I am old. Ooooooollllllddddddd!!! I’m melting. Meeeeeelllllltttttttiiiiiinnnnnnggggg into a pile of wrinkles and the stench of old lady perfume!!!

I suppose my daughter probably had her suspicions about me before, but with this incident I confirmed it beyond any shadow of a doubt… In song and in dance… (Why did I dance? Why??? It’s my weakest category, I know that!!!)

I am not even remotely cool, “with it”, or “hip” (there’s another reference from an old movie for you!). I am a dorky old cheese ball that will in the future humiliate my daughter on more than one occasion.

I might as well accept it. I can hear myself aging even further as I type this…

But once I accept it, I can have some fun with it maybe… Get creative with my embarrassing antics. Look out Bugs, in just a few short years I can perform my Bohemian Rhapsody for your friends!!!


As I am typing this, I am in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. I am about to embark upon the rarest of adventures… A night on the town without my children. I am determined to write my blog this evening and get it out on time, even if my makeup suffers the consequences. I was a day late putting it up last week, and as I have learned from my dieting history, if I start letting things slide they will quickly turn into out of control Wilde-beasts rampaging through the cupboards and submitting things late left and right.

As I was getting ready this evening, twirling (the clumsy version) in front of my husband, and asking his opinion on my outfit, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I have a real shirt on, I’m not wearing yoga pants, and thus far I have no stains on my clothing. And not to toot my own horn or anything (but, toot toot!) I am wearing makeup and jewelry, which is practically unheard of.

Then I happened to wander past a mirror.

The discrepancy between the way I think I look and the way I actually look is alarming to say the least. It truly frightens me that I can be so delusional because it makes me feel as if I’m losing my mental capacity as well as my looks. Here I am, prancing around, thinking I look like my college self, and when I prance past the mirror I am jarred into the reality that I am, in fact, thousands of pounds heavier than I feel and a million years older. As I was gazing mournfully in the mirror, I came to a horrible realization… The way I look now when I’m all dolled up is the way I used to look when I had a really bad hangover in college. Right down to the puffy bags under my eyes.

I have been telling myself since the birth of my youngest (three years ago), that I’m just tired and I’m not getting enough sleep and if I could just get a couple of extra hours I would look like a million dollars.

I got ten hours of sleep last night and guess what, this is just how I look now!!! I am mystified.

I don’t think of myself as being particularly old, I am certainly youthful and vibrant in my own mind, so what’s with my face and body deciding to age??? I am sincerely angry about it. How dare they betray me this way?!? Especially considering the amount of money and I spend on face creams, devices, wrinkle eliminators, and sunscreen trying to keep my face looking like it’s former self.

It’s nights like these, when I’m caught in a spiral of “my body is dying all around me” thoughts and visions of myself using a walker and having purple granny hair that I am grateful for the unrelenting advances of my husband.

This man cannot let me bend over to pick something up from the floor without trying to grab my butt… And when someone treats you like some sort of sex object all the time, you can’t help but feel at least a little sexy on occasion.

For instance, when I marched out of the bathroom this evening and said to him, “You said I looked great! I look like a sister wife!!!” he calmly replied, “Well, you do… But you are a SEXY sister wife.”

Well, hopefully this made sense and contains no typos because I am leaving it as it is, much like its author, in all of it’s imperfect glory, because I will NOT be more than five minutes late for my girl’s night out.

Have a wonderful week everyone!!!

A comedy podcast by an idiot and her brother.