Sue me. I've been hyper busy here at work, I had to finish up Improv classes, AND trying to get ready for Summer at home- all while trying to train for that skeery half-marathon in June. Busy Bobby, I am.
I meant to post a Mother's Day blog, and seeing how it's now two weeks late I feel like I finally have time to scribble about it. As I said to my mother at the Bonfire Grill back on the 9th, improv was fun but I'd like to try my hand at sketch comedy writing. Her classic mom-inator response: "Well...it's usually pretty funny and good. When you aren't writing about working out or food."
Bah-dum, ching.
So before I finish my white chicken chili and think about how much time I'll have at the gym before Moda shows up- An ode to my mom. Starring sweet honesty, and a hysterical historical story.
Dear mom-
When I was in the 6th grade learning percussion, we were required to practice our drumming/xylophoning for one hour a night. As there were very important things in the world (namely, cartoons and Voltron) I felt my time may have been better spent focusing on those pursuits rather than training to be the next Tommy Lee. (Good thinking, 12 year old me. According to my best friend the bassist, if you're in a band the only person to get more tail behind the lead singer and lead guitarist is the drummer. Bassists, he said, usually fall behind back-up singers and the tambourine player. And the lead singers girlfriend)
Anyway, I became quite adept at signing "PP" in your distinctive font. And I was still first chair by 9th grade. You're welcome, and I'm sorry. PS- It was around 8th grade when I was grouchy and hormonal when I realized I had made a HUGE error in judgement and should have joined choir, as all the girls I journaled about and had love pangs for were in show choir. I forgive you.
Mom doesn't touch the sauce, and she hasn't for at least my lifetime. That said, it didn't mean we didn't have liquor at our home. See, they were quite the entertainers back in the day. And one of the nifty things in the old BP home was the wet bar in the basement. (Where I'd play "Cocktail" using empty 2 liters of Mello Yello. I wouldn't play Tom Cruise, but Bryan Brown's self-destructive friend "Doug". A much deeper character IMHO) Anyway, the dusty and dehydrated bottles of gin weren't much interest to me when I was growing up...but when I turned 16 they were of GREAT interest to my friends.
After some hard peer pressure (read: Probably calling me "gay" or some such affrontery) I relented and let them root around behind the bar. They bitched about how all of the bottles were empty or "gross", but got all a flutter when they found a full one...wait for it- Creme de Menth. Unable to remove a cap that had long since fused with the bottle, they gave it to me to open, ripping open my callouses in the process. Cleverly adding this awful green liquer to their Sprite they tittered at their ingeniousness before they headed to First Ave to see Trip Shakespeare perform. (We were always finding clever ways to mask our adolescent tomfoolery. Hiding beer in the "Ale" jug from "Brigadoon" when we were at Ren Fest. In empty weed N feed spray bottles. Sometimes an old shoe. It varied)
Anyway, the next day they looked miserable. When I asked what was wrong with it, apparently they were unaware that it would turn their stool bright green and sort of freaked out about their radioactive poop. So...I'm sorry for contributing, but it made for hilarious 16 year old comedy.
There. I feel much better. And now, two stories to cleanse the palate and help you understand the depths of parental embarrassment/frustration. And it can run pretty deep. (Sorry mom. These are too good to pass up)
When I was in 11th grade, Mom helped out a lot backstage during shows. So much so, that everyone started calling her "mom". One day as she was pulling up after rehearsal one afternoon, my three closest friends and I were heading home and as I hopped in the Voyager they started chatting her up. It was at this point, and please don't ask me why, that she (ahem) decided to give them an impromptu speech on the birds and the bee's in addition to the importance of contraception, dovetailing nicely in to her opinion on male performance...all while I sat trying to simultaneously cover my eyes and plug my ears. (To be fair, I had already had "the talk" and been getting condoms for Christmas since I was 15. So for that, I'm grateful since it helped me avoid any early embarrassing trips to Walgreens where I was on a first name basis with the cashiers)
Anyway, my friends just looooved saying "So that's all sex is, huh? 'Poke Poke Poke' and then you're done, huh? She's right, man. There's absolutely no pleasure for a woman when that's all sex is..." Actually one of them still does. (Grumps silently at aforementioned bassist)
Part two to come later or tomorrow...
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