A Visit With A Little Green Monster.

One evening not too terribly long ago, I sat snuggled up on the couch with a nice glass of wine when an unexpected visitor plopped down next to me.

LITTLE GREEN MONSTER: Hey, whatcha drinking there?

ME: Wine.

MONSTER: Out of a plastic cup?

ME: The good glasses are in the dishwasher. And besides, who cares? It tastes the same no matter what you drink it out of.

MONSTER: I dunno. It just seems a little pathetic. I'll bet Melissa never drinks wine out of dixie cups.

ME: How would you know?

MONSTER: I'm just guessing. But a little birdy told me she has a cleaning service come in twice a week, so there's probably no shortage of clean glasses.

ME: A  maid? Well...good for her. She works hard. She deserves it.

MONSTER: Just like Tabitha deserved that European vacation, right? Just months after her Jamaican escape?

ME: Yes. Exactly like that.

MONSTER: Hey, did you hear about Jeremy's new job?

ME: No. He got a new job? That's great. Where at?

MONSTER: I don't remember the agency. But he's already hard at work concepting a Super Bowl commercial for next year.

ME: Him? A Super Bowl commercial? But I'm ten times as talented as he is. That conceited ha-(PAUSES AND BREATHES DEEPLY). I mean...how awesome. I'm sure he'll do great.

MONSTER: Yep. He's got it made. Kinda like Cindy.

ME: Cindy?

MONSTER: You didn't know? She met a millionaire on the set of that reality TV show she was doing. Now they're getting married and moving to Hawaii. I hear there's already a bun in the oven, if you know what I'm sayin'.

ME (MUTTERING): We'll see how much he likes her when she's carrying 25 pounds of baby weight two years from now....

MONSTER: What was that?

ME: Ummmm, nothing. Nothing at all. Just wondering what I should get them for a wedding gift.

MONSTER: Not sure. Maybe you should go in with Jackie on something.

ME: You're right, I should. I haven't talked to her since she had her baby. It'd be a good excuse to give her a call.

MONSTER: Well, if you decide to get together, meet somewhere that's not too crowded. Otherwise you won't recognize her.

ME: What are you talking about? Of course I will - I've known her for 15 years!

MONSTER: Yeah, but you've never seen her this thin. She's down to a size two now.

ME: What? But her baby's only five months old. How is that possible?

MONSTER: When Paramount bought the rights to that book she wrote, she figured she better slim down before Hollywood came calling.

ME: She's got a movie deal? But that's not fair! She's not even a real writer—she just did it to pass the time while she was on bed rest. I've been writing since the third grade, and what do I have to show for it?

MONSTER: An ulcer and a mountain of debt?

ME (GETTING UP FROM THE COUCH IN A HUFF): ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!

MONSTER: Hey, where you going?

ME: To the store. I need some more wine.

MONSTER: Well, you'll have to walk. Your car's in the shop, remember?

ME: Go away. I hate you!

MONSTER: Aaaaand my job here is done. Enjoy the rest of your evening.
 
 ME (THROWING PILLOW AT MONSTER'S BACK): Enjoy your spot in hell!

THE END

The Meaning of Christmas - A Comedy Sketch

I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but it never fails to make me laugh, so I thought I'd post it here. Now, if y'all will excuse me for a minute, I need to talk to my mom. Mom, this is not intended to be at all autobiographical so please don't get offended at anything in here, okay? 'Kay. Love you.

OPEN on a cozy Christmas scene, with two couples, one in their late 50s the other in their early 30s, sitting together sipping eggnog.

MOM: So how was the show?

DAUGHTER: You mean church? How was church?

MOM: Well, you know. With the decorations, the candles, the singing... it’s all the same, really.

DAUGHTER: The service was very nice, thank you. Just the thing to kick off a nice holiday.

DAD: Right. Just in case Christmas has anything to do with the church anymore.

DAUGHTER: Excuse me?

Her HUSBAND pats her knee comfortingly. DAD downs the last of his eggnog.

DAD: It’s about the money. That’s all it is.

DAUGHTER: The money.

Dad: Sure. Those Christians just needed another reason to suck money out of everyone’s pockets. So they invented a holiday, threw in another service…

MOM: Fill the church with mood lighting, sing some pretty songs, give everyone a little wine…

DAUGHTER: That’s communion wine!

DAD: Whatever. It all adds up to some wide open pockets.

DAUGHTER: And the whole birth of Christ thing…

MOM: Just an excuse to fleece the congregation.

DAD: If you ask me, that whole story probably started when some disciple found himself with a problem on his hands… virgin pregnant with the son of God sounds a whole lot better than knocked up teenaged whore when you’re trying to get someone a husband.

DAUGHTER finishes her cup in one gulp, then reaches for her husband’s glass and drains it.

DAUGHTER: Looks like we’re ready for a refill. Anyone else?

MOM: Oh, I’ll get it. You’re having such a nice talk with your father.

MOM leaves room, humming “We wish you a Merry Christmas” under her breath.

DAD: Just as an example… how much did you give tonight, Dudley?

HUSBAND: It’s Bradley.

DAD: Sorry about that. I’ll get it one of these days. You’ve been married such a short time.

DAUGHTER: Yep. Eight years. The blink of an eye, really.

DAD: That long? And still no grandchildren? Dudley, you should get yourself checked out. There might be something wrong.

DAUGHTER: DAD!

DAD: Well, you know, procreating is part of your Christian duty!

DAUGHTER: How would you know, Dad? You’re an atheist.

DAD: Oh, I know all about that Christianity stuff. Don’t kill your neighbor...

MOM enters room, bearing tray with eggnog, and begins handing them out.

MOM: Unless they’re Muslim!

DAD: And honor thy mother and father.

MOM: Unless they spend your inheritance before they die. Then you get to shoot ‘em.

DAD: Oh and let’s not forget—don’t covet thy neighbor’s wife…

MOM: But his children are fair game.

DAUGHTER: Alright, you guys. That’s enough. Can’t we just have a nice Christmas Eve for once?

DAD: Sure. Wouldn’t want to ruin what that nice church of yours started.

DAD gets up and stands in front of her, hand out.

DAUGHTER: What are you doing?

DAD: Waiting for you to pay me.

DAUGHTER: What, for the sheer pleasure of your company?

DAD: Well, money’s what Christmas is about, isn’t it? And we’ve given you a comfortable chair, some good alcohol…

MOM: There’s pumpkin pie in the kitchen!

DAD: And there’s pumpkin pie in the kitchen. I think that should be worth double what you gave that church of yours.

DAUGHTER Fine. Hang on a sec.

DAUGHTER slams out of the room.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

DAD: So, Dudley, how are things in that critter clinic of yours? Cut off any balls lately?

HUSBAND: No, but we’re having a post-holiday special next week. Maybe you should come in…. You could even bring the dogs.

DAD: (Surprised Laugh) Right, maybe I will.

Uncomfortable silence lengthens. DAUGHTER re-enters the room, towing an unkempt looking older man.

MOM: Samantha? Who’s your friend?

DAUGHTER: This is Jack.

MOM: And Jack is here because…

DAUGHTER pulls out her checkbook and begins writing.

DAUGHTER: Well, because I’m about to give Dad double what I gave the church. And the church is supposed to use our money to help the less fortunate. So I thought you two might like to use what I’m giving you…

Walks over and slaps the check in her stunned father’s hand.

DAUGHTER: To help poor Jack here.

JACK holds his hand out to MOM.

JACK: It’s nice to finally meet you…. I admire your shoes every morning when you walk past my alley.

MOM gingerly shakes his hand.

MOM: Is that the coat I threw out last year?

JACK: Probably. Red is my color, isn’t it?

MOM: Why is he here again?

DAUGHTER: Well, you’re much better people than the Christians, right? So why don’t you use my money to give Jack a nice hot meal—and maybe a bed for the night?

JACK: Oh, are y’all Jewish?

HUSBAND: No, they’re atheists.

JACK: Oh. Atheists. Well, that’s a relief.

DAD: A relief? Why?

The doorbell rings as Jack pulls a gun.

JACK: Well, I’d feel bad about this if Christmas meant something to y’all, but since it doesn’t… well, God would want me and mine to have your stuff. The meek shall inherit the earth and all that.

He opens the door and a parade of homeless men enters. A few break off from the pack and approach the family, who squawk and yell as they begin to tie them up. The others begin dismantling the room, TV, stereo, Christmas tree and all.

MOM: This is all your fault, Jerry!

DAD: My fault? How is it my fault?

MOM: All those things you were saying. You made God angry!

DAUGHTER: Oh, now you believe in God?

MOM: I never said I didn’t believe in God.

DAD: What? Yes, you did, just now.

MOM: No, I didn’t. You just assumed, Jerry. You always assume!

JACK: Would the four of you shut the hell up! You’re ruining my holiday!

A homeless man gags them with duct tape as the lights go down.

THE END

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week, the prompt I chose was, "when I look in the mirror..." I don't know why it ended up being a sketch again, but it did. So here we go:


REFLECTION: Why are you glaring at me like that?

ME: Because I don’t like you very much.

REFLECTION: Again? We’re having this conversation again?

ME: What do you mean, again?

REFLECTION: For the last 33 years, it’s been nothing but, “why can’t you be thinner, why is your belly so poochy, why are you so short, why, why, why…” It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

ME: I haven’t always hated you.

REFLECTION: Name one time you liked what you saw.

ME: What about back in my 20’s, when I was a size 6?

REFLECTION: You wanted to be a size 4.

ME: That's not true. Remember that string bikini? You looked darn good in that bikini.

REFLECTION: Yeah, but your face was broken out. That was all you could see.

ME: When I was pregnant, I liked you then.

REFLECTION: Wrong. You spent the whole time worrying about how fat you were getting.

ME: Well… I was right. I did gain too much weight. Look at you now.

REFLECTION: You know what? I’ve had enough. I’m going on strike.

ME: You can’t go on strike. You’re my reflection!

REFLECTION: Watch me. I’m walking out of this mirror, and I’m not coming back until you say something nice about me.

ME: That’s impossible.

Reflection starts to leave.

ME: Hey, wait! Come back.

REFLECTION: (Over her shoulder) I meant what I said. I’m going to go back to bed, and I’m staying there until you learn to appreciate me.

ME: But people will think I’m a vampire. 

REFLECTION: That’s your problem, not mine.

ME: (Pounding on empty mirror). That’s not fair! You little bitch, get back here!

REFLECTION: Mmmm, it's mighty comfy in here.

ME: Please?

REFLECTION: Sure am glad I got these bamboo sheets. They're nice and soft.

ME: Come on. I really do love you…

Reflection pops her head back in.

REFLECTION: What? What was that you just said?

ME: I love you.

REFLECTION: Why?

ME: Because you’re strong, and you’re beautiful, and you’re capable of amazing things. It’s just….

REFLECTION: (Sighing) It’s just what?

ME: Nothing. It’s nothing. You’re an amazing woman, just as you are. And in a few months, after I lose this baby weight, you’ll be even more amazing.

REFLECTION: So you’ll cut the crap?

ME: Yes. No more name calling.

REFLECTION: You promise? Because that’s verbal abuse, you know. I could call the police.

ME: No you can’t. You’re my reflection. You don’t have real hands.

REFLECTION: Do you want me to leave again?

ME: No, no. Hey, I know how I can make it up to you. Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you something pretty.

REFLECTION: Okay, we’ll go shopping. But no dressing room tantrums, or I’ll make you buy foundation undergarments.

ME: (shudders) A girdle? No, thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.

REFLECTION: Deal. Ann Taylor, here we come… better bring the credit card.

But the Grass. It's a Different Shade of Green.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week, I'm imagining a conversation between these two people:



B: How can you not see what I'm talking about? It's right here. In front of your face!

A: So there's a weed. So what?

B: So what? So our lawn is being taken over, that's what!

A: I don't see what the problem is. It's green. It's not crunchy when you step on it. It's doing the same job grass does.

B: Do you know how hard I've worked to get some decent grass in this yard?

A: And you've done a very good job. But Mother Nature, she has plans of her own.

B: We're going to be the laughingstock of the neighborhood!

A: (Bends down and plucks weed). There. No more weed. Feel better?

B: Argh! No! You didn't get it by the root! Now it's just going to come back and, and spread!

A: (Sighs) Fine. You can go to Lowe's and buy the $50 bag of weed killer. But if I ever see you out here with scissors trimming uneven spots, I'm going to stage an intervention.

B: But sometimes it just looks so sloppy...

A: Scissors. Equal. Intervention. End of story.

B: Fine... But don't come crying to me when the Homeowner's Association comes after us for bringing down the tenor of the neighborhood.

A: Don't worry. I won't.

Author's Note (covering ass): No, this conversation didn't actually happen. But my husband does have an unhealthy obsession with the lawn, so it could...

A Glimpse Inside a Kitty Brain.

My cat, Oliver, routinely engages in some pretty bizarre behavior. Behavior that leaves me scratching my head and wondering what on earth could possibly be going on inside his little kitty brain. So today, I sat down to ask him.

ME: Oliver, why on earth did you just pee in the bathroom sink? Your litter box is clean...which is more than I can say for the sink.

OLIVER: Have you ever tried peeing in a dark box, inside an even darker closet? You can't see what you're doing, man!

ME: So, if I put a light in there, you'd use it more consistently?

OLIVER: Not really. I like watching it go down the drain.

ME: But you're a cat! You're supposed to like to bury your business!

OLIVER: Not me.  I don't like how the sand feels when it gets stuck under my claws.

ME: Is that why Kiwi always has to cover up your poo for you?

OLIVER: That, and I like to make him do things for me. He's my bitch, you know.

ME: You shouldn't talk that way about your brother. He loves you.

OLIVER: Yeah, that's cuz I'm so dang cute. When you look like I do, you can get away with anything.

ME: I wouldn't say that. If you keep scratching the molding, your dad is going to make you live in the garage.

OLIVER: He wouldn't dare.

ME: I don't know...when you peed in the crib, it was all I could do to keep him from throwing you out of the house.

OLIVER: I was just making it smell nice for her!

ME: Do you really expect me to believe that?

OLIVER: Yeah?

ME:

OLIVER: Okay, so I was mad. You bring home this stinking, screaming thing that totally monopolizes your lap 24/7 and you want me to be happy about it?

ME: Life is hard. Get used to it.

OLIVER: But I'M supposed to be the baby of this family.

ME: We all have to grow up sometime.

OLIVER: (pouts)

ME:  Oh, don't look at me like that. You're still one of the most spoiled animals on the face of the planet and you know it.

OLIVER: But do you still love me?

ME: Of course I do, you silly cat. You'll always be my favorite little fuzzy guy.

OLIVER: Then can I have a treat?

ME: You've already had five!

OLIVER: You'd give me more if you really loved me.

ME: Fine. But no more peeing in the sink, okay?

OLIVER: Okay. No more peeing in the sink. Today.

ME: I guess that's all I can ask.

This post was inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. Head on over there and see what other people did with this week's assignment...or play along yourself!

If Only The Two Could Meet

An imaginary conversation between the twenty something me of yesterday and the mom me of today...

YESTERME: How old did you say that baby is now?

MOM ME: Three months.

YESTERME: And you're still that fat? Damn girl, have you looked in the mirror?

MOM ME: Oh, you don't know the half of it. Wanna see my stretch marks?

YESTERME: Oh, please God, no. Are you at least getting our fat butt to the gym?

MOM ME: Sure. It fits right in to that 20 minutes a day I'm not taking care of the baby, or feeding myself, or working, or trying to catch some sleep. I drive there, wave hi, step on the treadmill and then turn around and go home. Totally worth it.

YESTERME: You don't have to get sarcastic. Tell me we're at least getting some sleep?

MOM ME: Sure! I manage five, sometimes six hours a night at this point.

YESTERME: That's all? That's torture!

MOM ME: Not really. Hey, on Saturday, I actually slept in until 8.

YESTERME: Eight? On a weekend? What happened to noon?

MOM ME: That little girl I gave birth to, that's what.

YESTERME: Speaking of birth, how was labor? Was it awful?

MOM ME: Nope. I skipped the entire thing and went the C-Section route.

YESTERME: You let them slice us open? Ewww! Did it feel like that scene from Spaceballs where the alien pops out?

MOM ME: Surprisingly, no. But it felt like my stomach was ripping open every time I coughed, sneezed or laughed for the next eight weeks. Good times.

YESTERME: So you don't sleep. You have no time for yourself. And you practically got cut it half. And it's worth it?

MOM ME: Totally. But do me a favor?

YESTERME: Sure, what?

MOM ME: Go to the bar tonight. Have an extra coupla drinks for me. Then go home, pass out, sleep till noon and lounge in bed all day tomorrow.

YESTERME: Gee, twist my arm why don't you. But why?

MOM ME: Once you have this baby, you'll never be able to do that ever again.

YESTERME: And you're sure it's worth it?

MOM ME: It really is. Just think of it as a kind of temporary insanity that lasts eighteen years or so.

YESTERME: Oh boy. I think I need a drink.

MOM ME: Yeah, I tend to say that a lot.

YESTERME: Well, it's good to know some things never change.

The Conversation in My Head

AMBER 1: Do you realize that a week from tomorrow, I'm going to have a real, live baby?

AMBER 2: I know. Isn't it awesome?

AMBER 1: NO! I can't be a mom! This can't happen!

AMBER 2: Hate to break it to ya, babe, but it's happening. Unless you want to be pregnant for the rest of your life.

AMBER 1: But I don't know how to be a mom! Shouldn't you have to take a class or some sort of test or something before they let you bring a baby home?

AMBER 2: There was a class. You didn't want to go. You went to Target  and bought hair dye instead.

AMBER 1: See? I'm going to be a horrible mom.

AMBER 2: You'll be fine.

AMBER 1: But I don't even really like babies. All they do is cry, and poop, and cry some more—they can't even tell you why they're crying!

AMBER 2: It's different when it's your own baby. You know you already love her.

AMBER 1: But what if I poke a hole through her soft spot when I'm washing her hair?

AMBER 2: You won't.

AMBER 1: What if I forget to support her head when I pick her up and her neck breaks?

AMBER 2: Don't worry, they're not that fragile.

AMBER 1: Well, what if I put her car seat on the roof and forget about her till I'm driving 55 on the highway?

AMBER 2: One, you never drive on the highway. Two, the cops would stop you before you got that far. Three, you're not going to forget about your baby.

AMBER 1: How do you know? I get pretty spacey when I don't get enough sleep.

AMBER 2: True. Well, just don't leave the house when you get that tired.

AMBER 1: So you're admitting that I'm going to be a horrible mom?

AMBER 2: Huh? I never...Hey, let's go fold all the cute little onesies in her drawer again.

AMBER 1: Okay. At least I learned how to fold properly when I worked in that children's clothing store.

AMBER 2: No you didn't. You still stink at it.

AMBER 1: You're right.