The Bloody Words Address by the Mattress of Ceremonies (yes, you read that right)

Miss the Bloody Words Banquet last weekend?  Here is a sample of the opening address…

(with apologies in advance to serious people everywhere):

From the start, Cheryl and I had discussions about what to call me.

Master of Ceremonies didn’t seem quite right, as we both agreed I’m a master at nothing.

Mistress of Ceremonies…if we went with that, seeing it was me, people would be expecting whips and chains.  And then I might be mistaken for Gloria Ferris tonight.

I suggested Mistake of Ceremonies.  That may very well turn out to be true.

And then, in a particularly zany moment, when we were in that frantic period leading up to the con, we came up with Mattress of Ceremonies, because I was so (wait for it…)   supportive.

Last summer, when Cheryl TOLD me I was doing this… <no laughter>.  Cheryl, they either know you really well, or not at all.

Anyways, the diet started last August, and I’m pleased to report that I’ve lost 2 pounds.  I should reach my goal weight in 2038.

So…there wasn’t much I could do in the thin department.  But maybe I could do something about looking younger.  So I did something I’ve never done before.  I bought a face cream that was guaranteed to make me look decades younger.  To my surprise, it worked.  I broke out all over and looked about 14.

People will notice I’m not wearing the dress that I wore for the Crime Scene photos.  Unfortunately, that dress had a serious cleavage issue.   Cheryl and I decided that if I wore that dress, Kevin Thornton would start a pool on whether there would be a wardrobe malfunction tonight.

<Kevin yelled “20 to 1 For, Mel” from the back of the room.  Unscripted.>

But that suggested to me that I really ought to get some new underwear.  It’s been a while, and I could use a new bra and gauchies.  Something glam.  But you wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find something in my size.  They really don’t make a lot of bras in 38 Long.

To be continued….

Bad Girl’s Tricks for Writing with Kids

IN THE WRITING TRENCHES: Rules for Moms

Okay, these are not the definitive rules for Writer-Moms. I would never claim to be an expert.  But I did raise two kids while writing stand-up on the side and penning a syndicated humour column every two weeks. So I learned a few things about survival along the way.

Bad Girl’s Tricks for Writing with Kids: 
    

    1.  Probably you shouldn’t lock yourself in the bathroom, so the kids can’t get at you. Equally, you shouldn’t sit inside the playpen with your kid on the outside, screaming and shaking the thing.  Okay, at least not more than once a day.

    

    2.  Never put a full package of Twinkies in front of a toddler so that you can continue to write. (Remove them all from the plastic wrappers first so the kid doesn’t choke.)

    

    3.  A kid won’t die if they drink half a mug of cold coffee.  But watch the wine. In fact, you might want to finish the bottle right now so there is no risk.

    

    4.  Other kids' birthday parties are a great thing for a writer. But you really should pick up your own kid when they’re over. (Eventually. Before winter.)

    

    5.  It’s okay to get someone to babysit your kids while you move into a new house. But it’s not okay to forget to tell anyone where that house is. 
    

    6.  When your kid leaves home for university, it probably isn't smart to immediately change their room into a study or writing room. Wait until after Christmas. The sales are better.

Re “Leaving the nest”: An emotional time for all. But probably you shouldn’t do it until your kids are grown up.

Melodie Campbell has been called "Canada's Undisputed Queen of Comedy." She writes funny books.

Introducing...Morticia's Massage Parlour and Free Advice Academy...Again!

Introducing...Morticia's Massage Parlour and Free Advice Academy

Back in the bad ole days, I had a gig writing a wacky advice column for a resto/bar trade mag.  On the urging of a few friends who have absolutely no taste, I am bringing Morticia back to life <sic> on these pages.  Reprinted with permission...

Dear Morticia:
This guy I really like has finally asked me out.  Thing is, I met him at a beach and he doesn't know I wear glasses.  Should I wear them on our first date?
Signed:  Short sighted

Dear Short:
That depends.  What does he look like?


Dear Morticia:
I've been sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under my pillow since last April and it isn't doing a thing.  What do you suggest?
Signed:  Always a Bridesmaid

Dear Always:
Personally, I've never seen the point of sharing your pillow with wedding cake.  Why don't your try a man instead?  Lots more fun and not near as messy.

Dear Morticia:
All I want is a man who doesn't play golf all weekend long.  Is that too much to ask?
Signed Weekend Widow

Dear Weak:
Really?  That's ALL you want from a man?  Must get pretty boring at night....

Dear Morticia:
I like your style.  How about a date, Sugar?
Signed: Swinger

Dear Swing:
Sure!  January 27th?  August 18th?  11/04/21?  MCXXII?

To be continued....

The Stand-up Routine that started it all....CHARIOTS OF THE GUYS

One thing I hate even more than high school reunions is buying a new car.  It’s not that I don’t like cars.  I am really quite fond of them. Especially in winter.  What I don’t like is the buying process.  There is something inherently different about men and women when they go looking at cars in a dealership.  You even have to wonder if they are members of the same species.

Husband (reverently caressing cold metal with both hands):  “Look at this beauty!  4.0 litre, five speed, Recarro seats, mag wheels, racing suspension, electric moon roof, power mulcher, moog synthesizer, ballistic missile launcher…”

Wife:  “It’s red.  I hate red.”

This basic lack of communication goes right back to the way men and women look at ‘things’.  Amazingly, they can be looking at the same thing and see something entirely different.  Men, for instance, will look at a car as if it something beyond a box with four wheels that moves forward and backward.  To them, it is not merely a car.  Nope.  It is the culmination of adolescent dreams, the elusive mistress of middle age, the Ben Hur of all chariots.  Me, I’m more concerned with whether it will get me to the shopping mall and back without falling into a million pieces.  Which is why we had this misunderstanding at the dealership last weekend:

Me:  “This car has two seats.”

He (enthusiastically checking the interior):  “Yes!  Aren’t they great?”

Me:  “I’m not denying they are very nice seats.  Beautiful, in fact.  But there are four of us.”

He (looking irritably at the kids):  “They’re young.  They’ve got legs.”

Kid One:  “But Dad…where are we all going to sit when we have to drive someplace?”

He (aghast):  Good Gad, you’re not actually expect me to drive this car on the road?  The paint might get chipped.”

Then he did what all men have been programmed to do from the beginning of time.  He kicked the tire.  I’ve often wondered about this practice.  And I expect Ben Hur’s wife pondered the very same thing two thousand year ago, when good ole Ben whacked the wheel of that Roman chariot with his leather sandal.  Exactly what purpose does this serve?

I’ll never understand it.  But as far as I can see, all of this started about forty thousand years ago when Urgh the slightly-brighter-than-normal Neanderthal invented the wheel.  Irma, his loyal wife, stood on the sidelines shaking her head, while Urgh enthusiastically painted on racing stripes.  “Argh urf org grunt bfff bfff,” she said (loosely translated to, “Oh dinosaur droppings, not another blasted toy.  When will this ever end.”)  And of course, it hasn’t yet.

Addendum to BATHING SUIT HELL - My War with the Madonna suit

Addendum to BATHING SUIT HELL

Okay, so I ended up buying a 'tankini' (already I'm in a bad mood.  TANK?  Really?  I haven't gained THAT much.)

It has a 'shelf' top, size C/D.  Sort of fits, but here's the thing.  I am not a 'shelf.'  I cannot be 'moved' into a shelf.  I am two soft torpedoes with a sizable gap inbetween.

Which works okay, until you go into the pool, and that gap between the torpedoes fills with water.  And the whole top flops down to your navel with the weight.

WHO DESIGNS THESE THINGS??

Respect me Bub, or I'll Stomp On You With My Stilettos

So a newish and very funny blogger friend  (Sara at Sara's Organized Chaos) is contemplating doing one of those glamour boudoir photo shoots. 

I said:  “DO IT DO IT DO IT!  I nearly did ‘back when’ but chickened out.  When I was 35, I could rock a boatload of sailors.  Now, I might possibly tip that boat if I stepped on in.  So do it now.”

Which has got me all thinking (dangerous at the best of times…)

This girl has spent her lifetime railing against the glass ceiling.  She took a Commerce degree and rocked business back when shoulder pads were big.  Okay, HUGE.  And liked them like that.

So what you’ve got here is one super-saturated power chick at the top of the fast food chain.  Treat me with respect bub, or I’ll stomp on you with my stilettos.  Oh, and pass the lipstick, ‘cause I wanna look sexy.

Why the flaming hell do I want to look sexy?  WHY?  I’ve got a perfectly good husband.  I’ve got a few good male friends who might be willing to step in if hubby doesn’t make it to the 10^th round.  (Of course I’m joking.  Why wouldn’t I be?)  There is no possible way I am looking for ANY new male attention of the prurient kind.

Yet here I am, fixing the long hair, wearing the underwire, cursing every new pound (the old ones should stop inviting new fat to the party).  Good thing the cleavage is still fine.  We’ll just show that off a bit. What the freaking hell is wrong with me?

“You can’t fight biology,” friend Jeannette says.

Well, my biology is sure freakin’ driving me crazy.  Can you spell contradiction?  Oxymoron?  Hypocritical?

Gotta run.  Teaching fiction writing tonight and I need an hour for my hair.

.

Gone With The WHAT? or REALITY BY BORIS - Zany Comedy reprinted by request (heh, it's still rerun season!)

I got one of those self-help books for Christmas, and I’m beginning to realize why I’m not getting very rich.  (For one thing, I’m not writing self-help books.)  It is patently obvious that nobody is going to get wealthy writing humor for newspapers unless they roll up the paper and whack somebody over the head with it during the course of a bank robbery.

So I’ve decided to switch media here and become a screenwriter.  I’m a natural.  I can sit in those funny collapsible canvas chairs just as well as the next guy, and besides, I know hundreds of unbelievable plots: I follow Washington politics.

So here goes: for my first screamplay <sic> I’m going to do something made for TV; specifically one of those romance-suspense-action-thriller-northern-southern-civil war epic-type things, maybe a miniseries.  It would have everything – sex, violence, sex, betrayal, sex, revenge, sex - and maybe even some dialogue.  It would star a ravishing but thoroughly spoiled female lead, maybe called Sapphire.  Here’s a preview:

Sapphire flings herself up the sweeping staircase, catching bottom of skirt on knob of banister.

Sapphire (yanking at fabric):  Go away, Rot!  Just go away!

Rot:  I’m going, I’m going.  But one last thing, Sapphire honey, I’ve got to know.  How do you manage to go to the bathroom with that bloody hoola- hoop attached to your skirt?

Sapphire (rolling downstairs on her side):  Don’t go, Rot!  Please don’t go.

Rot (doffing hat):  Frankly Sapphire, I don’t give a hoot.

(From outside, several barn owls hoot.)

I predict a blockbuster.  But just in case, I have a second one planned.  It’s a 1960s historical spy flick, based on the true-to-life adventures of very bad people who might possibly be Russian.

First Spy (possibly named Boris):  Gee comrade, do you theenk perhaps we are raising peeples suspicions speeeking English with Russian accent?

Second Spy (also named Boris):  Especially seence it is very BAD Russian accent, comrade?

Okay, so it needs a bit of work, and maybe some more sex.  I’m thinking of calling it Czech-mate. And if we bring it forward to modern times, the possibilities are endless.  What about a ‘Spy of the Month’ reality series?  Boris could live in an LA frat house with nine other comrades named Boris, and the survivor…

Or I could go back to writing for newspapers.

THE ONE-LINERS....from my comedy days

As most people who read this blog know, I got my start writing comedy.  This involved writing longer monologues for newspapers and stand-up, and short one-liners (actually, most of them are three-liners...did you ever notice?  Who picks these terms?)

By popular request (thanks, kids!) here is a post of my favourite one-liners (and two, and three...Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition).  As in all comedy, delivery is important.  So imagine the great Phyllis Diller delivering these lines, in that deliciously low, crusty voice.



I had the flu once.  It was horrible.  I couldn't eat a thing for three hours.


I tried one of those expensive anti-aging creams recently.  It worked.  I broke out all over and looked about fourteen
.

About my recent passport photo. Seriously? I harbor this secret fantasy that border guards are going to take one look at my passport and say, "Hey!  This isn't you!  Take her away."'


Back in the day I used to be a beach babe.  Over the years, my body has morphed into 'beach ball,' and is now on it's way to 'beached whale.'


What is is about guys in cars?  Why do they all turn into demonic Richard Pettys?  Hands clenching the wheel in a death grip, ready to smash the gas peddle through the floor JUST IN CASE the guy in the next car manages to pull away from the light one second ahead?
Women don't behave in ridiculous ways like this.  We're much too busy shopping for things we don't need.


Recent studies show that approximately 40% of writers are manic-depressive. The rest of us just drink.

Renovation? Aggravation! Stand-up comedy from the early years

I wanted to buy a new front door the other day.  This has become necessary because the old front door is no longer functioning as a door in the usual sense.  'Wind Tunnel' or 'Interstate highway for neighbourhood field mice' might be a better description.

But as always, things have changed in the world of destruction and aggravation aka construction and renovation.  Apparently you can’t buy a door anymore.  They don’t make them, according to the sales clerk (excuse me… 'Customer Service Associate.')  Apparently you now buy an 'Entry System.'

“But I already have an Entry System,”  I explained.  “The mice are entering all the time.  What I want is something to keep them out.  Like a door.”

“Let me show you how this works,” he offered.  He then demonstrated how to insert a key in the lock and turn the doorknob to activate the Entry System.  Not unlike my old door, in fact.  I pointed this out.

“But this is a great improvement,” he argued.  “See?  It’s Pre-hung.”

‘Pre-hung' – for construction illiterates – does not mean you have a hunky construction worker standing by, ready and willing.  Nope.  Pre-hung means that you don’t have to undo three hinges to slip the old door off and install the new door.  Instead, the new door already comes with a frame (and sometimes side windows) attached.  To install, you simply demolish the old door frame and rebuild the entire entranceway to fit the new pre-hung frame.  It requires 3 men and a boy, and at least two weeks of labour and Starbuck's runs.  But you don’t have to touch those pesky hinges, which is a big improvement.

Not surprisingly, Entry Systems cost a lot more than mere doors.  This, I pointed out, was not an improvement.

One more thing bothers me about all this fancy renaming business.  If they insist on calling doors ‘Entry Systems,’ just what are we going to end up calling toilets?  Exit Systems?