Just Be-Cosby

What makes you laugh? I'll bet it's not what makes your mother laugh, or your husband, or your children for that matter. Laughter is such a personal interchange, like a private joke between your brain and your funny bone.

I love trying to figure out what makes people laugh.

I became fascinated after my very first foray into comedy which consisted of an impromptu routine almost sixteen years ago. Without planning what I would say, I got up from my seat, took the microphone, and with zero trepidation told people about my life. Seriously, it was a twenty minute, off the cuff relay of my job, children, husband, and life in general. Stories mostly, with absolutely no structure, no punchline, and no expectations. It went over like free twinkies at a weight watchers meeting. They gobbled it up.

During the past three years I've endeavored to take my comedy to new heights, to be a “professional” if you will. Workshops, books, and conferences all tell of how-to formulas that include punchlines, set-ups, and measurable LPMs (laughs per minute.) I've studied, attended, and digested these materials and advice ad nauseum. I've changed and contorted my style to become the picture of comedic strategy, and you know what it's done? Diluted my comedy, and more importantly, my love of comedy. Trying to fit into the stereotypical formula has drained the joy right out of making people laugh, and that's a pretty sad statement.

Jerry Seinfeld has been quoted as saying “the closer your comedy is to who you are, the more successful you'll be.” How insightful. Look at Bill Cosby. You don't get more beloved as a comedian than Bill Cosby. How does he do it? He sits on a stool, and tells stories about his job, his children, his wife, and life in general. No overwrought formula, no cookie cutter jokes, just Bill and his stories (brilliantly crafted and woven of course) and we gobble it up. I'll bet if you had lunch with Bill Cosby he would be just as funny, and just as real as he is on stage, and that's what makes him worth watching.

Are you squeezing who you are into a formula that robs you of joy and laughter, diluting your love of life and the way God made you? Then go back to simply being you, with your own unique style, and if someone asks you why you keep smiling, say... “just be-Cos-by.”

Sally Baucke - One Body Central

Can You Empa-thighs?

      A new fear gripped me today. No, not about the economy, or the war in Iraq, although both those agendas could strike fear in the heart of any American. Indeed, my fear did not come from global "climate change" or whatever we are calling it now, and it is not from life's uncertainties that undoubtedly lie ahead.
     No, fear struck today as I sat innocently in my Grandmother's mahogany dining chair (as I am right now,) getting ready to click away at the keys on my laptop. As I waited for some witty, inspiring comment to flood my cerebral cortex, I leaned back and lazily dropped my arms to my sides, and that's when it happened.
     Instead of feeling the chair against my hand as I was subconsciously anticipating, an altogether different sensation marked my arm, then made it's way up to my brain and back down behind my eyes which opened wide in response. What I felt wasn't hard like a wooden chair, but rather, it was kind of soft and spongy.
     It was... my...gosh, I can barely say it...my thighs. Oh.... my.... goodness..... Seriously?
     Could this seriously be happening? The middle-age "spread" as it were? I've always heard about it, but listened with an indifferent ear like one might about an impending deadly virus that is claiming lives in other parts of the world, but too far off to impact the present. But apparently, I did not exercise the appropriate amount of healthy fear when I should have, so here it is, larger than life. In what seems like an overnight event, my legs have decided this chair is no longer large enough and they are scouting for new real estate. Or perhaps my outer thighs are trying to emancipate themselves from my inner thighs in a surreptitious internalized fat coup.
     At first I just sat there, stunned, letting the horrific reality sink into my paralyzed mind. Then I did the worst possible thing a woman can do in this situation: I felt them again. And again, kneading and poking as if this would cause them to deflate and go back to their prior, mind-accepting proportions. 'What's next?" I thought, having to scoop my chin off the kitchen table like a growing ball of silly putty, right in the middle of consuming my super-sized platter of burger and fries?
     The worst part is, I don't remember this being the case just yesterday, though I may not have been giving the matter proper attention as I've been preoccupied with sedentary blog writing and mindless ho-ho munching. I'm just saying, it feels unfair, that's all. No warning, no incremental graduation of flesh, no formal announcement, just poof! there they are, thigh 3 and thigh 4, like two bowls of rising bread dough spilling over to meet the floor.
     I think tomorrow I shall choose a different venue for writing, such as a double-wide chaise, or better yet, the middle of my king size mattress. Hopefully I'll have at least six months or so before my thighs crawl off the edge of that and maybe by then I'll have figured out a way to be creative while I'm on the treadmill. In the meantime, I'm adopting a personal "don't touch-don't tell" policy with my own thighs . Now that's something to really be afraid of.

     Are you a writer?  If so, I have a new and tremendous respect for you, because this  year I have been trying to write a book and it... is... killing....me!   I am primarily a speaker, and I have been told that I write very much like I speak.  This would be fantastic if I spoke like a normal,  understandable sane person, with linear thought processes and comprehensive sentence structure.  Unfortunately, (and you can easily verify this with my longsuffering husband) I speak in circles.  Not  just circles, but verbal trapezoids, nonsensalellagrams and my all time favorite, rabbit trailellipticals. 
     Naturally, all these linguistic gymnastics make perfect sense to me as I jump from one idea to the other in my head  the way a female gymnast jumps from one uneven bar to another and back again.  My poor readers (and husband...) on the other hand, require at the very least, a few courtesy clues as to where my mental journey is taking them, assuming they even want to go in the first place!
     Putting life events, personal thoughts, and ultimately, an inspiring message into the written word has been a real challenge for me, but I am hammering away at it,( and the keyboard) on a daily basis.  My thanks to those of you who read this, and to those who have helped me along the way with both encouragement and critique. 
I do know where I would be without you.... on a very long rabbit trailellipticalallelagramazoid!

Packed with LOVE

     I don't know about you all, but I am getting ready to send a child off to school tomorrow morning.  My third and final son Camden is heading off to begin his high school career whether I like it or not.  Why wouldn't I like it?  If t.v. ads were reality shows, I would no doubt be ready to jump up and down with glee as my backpack laiden student climbs the stairs on the bright yellow school bus.  (If the past is any indicator I should be frightened more than anything, since my husband spiraled into an intense 9 month Country music jag when my eldest entered high school.)
    The truth is, I will miss my boy, just like I miss his brothers who are already gone.  Call me weird, but I will. 
    Yes, the dishwasher fills up twice as fast during the summer and yes, I visit the grocery store so often it might as well be a revolving door.  Summertime laundry mean my washer and dryer resent me, requiring regular pep talks and offers of sympathy before adding yet another load of perspiration soaked sportswear in my oversized capacity bins.  When school is in session I have the house to myself and only the dog's opinions to distract me from my thoughts.  So why the trepidation?
     The seasoning of life has taught me that time passes quickly, and the commencement of one phase of life is a dim echo of the end which will undoubtedly arrive sooner rather than later.  The sentimenet "Two boys gone, one boy left will soon become " three boys gone, no boys left."  I know there are four long years to wade through before that happens, but I hear the music in the distance (and I hope to God it's not Country.)
     So if you are packing a lunch box this week, or maybe next, cherish every painstaking second of it.   Load it with love, and remember how blessed  we are to do it. 

    

A choice laugh

I crack myself up sometimes.  Actually, a lot of times.  When I'm onstage I laugh at things I say because I find them funny myself, which is why I decided to tell it to others as a joke in the first place.   I am not pretending, I am really laughing in tandem with my audience.
Other times I crack myself up because I am just ridiculous, or rather, my human nature is just ridiculous.  I say one thing and then do another.  I feel strongly and adamantly about something one day and then my actions counteract that feeling the next.  I wish I was more steady, more consistent, more unwavering in
my thoughts and actions.  My life feels like a perpetual teenagerhood... wondering what I will do when I
finally grow up. 
That's where I hope God cracks up too, just like I do when my boys do something I could have predicted because I've "been there and done that."  Watching them change and grow is something I relish, and while I hope they make good choices I also know that change in their choices is inevitable and exciting.
Their hearts are maturing, their lives are enriching, and their vision is expanding.  I don't begrudge them
this.  I smile, and in the end all I hope for is a choice that honors their Creator. 
Why would I think God would do any less for me? 

I was sitting in church yesterday listening to the message  when something flew out the pastor's mouth and hit me squarely between the eyes.  No, it was not saliva.  It was truth.  Absolute, life-altering, decision impacting truth. 
I can't believe I didn't realize it before, but here it is:
I am to speak no matter what.  It doesn't matter if I do it as a career, or as a hobby, for a lot of dates or for a few, but I am to speak.
The fact of the matter is, I have been afflicted and tried and scourged and refined by difficulties and those are not to go to waste in this lifetime.  I have also been gifted with a comic disposition and to combine the two aspects of my life is a calling I am not allowed to ignore. 
I can sit and figure out all the ways in which I can make that combination work out financially for my
family, but in the end, it has to happen, no matter what.  It is what I have been training for. 
Now, who would like to listen?