Comedy Act

I’ve been sifting through comedy topics for my new act Friday night at Open Mike Night, and I read a couple out loud for Adam.  He rejected my “dental hygienist is a Nazi” theme.  I read lines out loud to him and he looked at me stoney faced.

Here was my opening:

“My life just keeps getting weirder and weirder.  I just found out that my dental hygienist is a Nazi.

I’ve suspected this for a while.  After she cleans my teeth, she sticks her head out into the hallway and yells for the dentist.  (German accent.)  Dr. Schmidt!  Juden room 2!  Come see the inhuman scum!”

Adam just looked at me.

“Come on,” I said, giggling.  That was funny!

“No.  It wasn’t.”

“You have no sense of humor, and you’re a dick,” I said. ( I take criticism well.)

“Try something else,” he suggested.

I pulled up a 3 minute routine I did on “middle aged sex” at Helium in Philadelphia.  He cracked up.  “It’s good!” he said.  Then he suggested a joke about using a c pap machine during sex.  Drat.  It was funny.

“But people I know are going to see me!” I whined.  Helium is pretty anonymous.  I can be as crass as I want there. “And I have to come up with new material to make it longer!”

Adam picked up the newspaper – the universal sign that says, “I’m sick of this conversation.  Time to go.”

So, I’m working on it.  I hope none of my patients’ parents come to the show.  Maybe I’ll disguise myself.

If you have any funny observations on the absurdity of middle aged sex, please let me know.  I’ll put you in my act.  You’ll be a star!

Movie Mavens

Hi Movie Maven fans!  All 2 of you!  (Yes.  You’re one.)  We have a groovy new Movie Mavens for you this evening at 9pm EST.  We’ll be discussing “The Taking of Pelham 123″ and “The Hangover”.  Call in and give us your opinion, and answer trivia questions.  As always, we have fabulous prizes for correct answers.  (We have been known to give out prizes for a good guess, too.)

Out of towners can catch the show on www.bctv.org.  The episodes are archived, so you can pull up old episodes to watch.  (If you want to see Adam dressed in drag, this is your chance.  It’s on the April 1, 2009 episode.)
-Robin and Carole

The Last Women’s Libber

My kids crack up at my antiquated “pro women” stance.  On the bright side, I think this is because the concept of women being equal to men has become so widely accepted that it  seems superfluous to stress the point.  That’s terrific.

When I was a little girl, I hated when my mother received missives addressed to “Mrs. Ronald Aaron”.

“What the fuck?” I’d say.  “You’re name’s not ‘Ronald’”

“Watch the language, Trash Mouth.” she’d reply.

Today, I went over my friend C’s house to help her with her daughter’s wedding invitation list.  C had mentioned that she found this task daunting, and couldn’t stop procrastinating.  The wedding is September 19th.  For me, doing something like that with a friend is one of the only ways to get me to work.  I’ll never forget my friend coming to my house when we moved, and helping me clean out my closet.  It was crucial – even if she did have me give half my sweaters to Good Will Industries.  I thought I’d help out C in a similar manner.

We sat down at the kitchen table for our task.  C said that she wanted the invitations to be addressed in a formal manner.  We looked on a website for the format.  They gave the “Mrs. Ronald Aaron” thing.  Unless the woman is a doctor.  Then she gets to be Dr. Marilyn Aaron, while he remains Dr. Ronald Aaron right under her.  Blech.

There was a column of rules just for women – women who are divorced, widowed, remarried.  “I’m going to be ill,” I said.

“Sorry,” said C.

“Why isn’t there a formal way to list everyone’s entire name?  This is so stupid!” I whined.

“We can do that if you want,” said C, looking sort of stricken.  I felt like a puppy beater.

“Oh, C, it’s your wedding,” I said.  “And you’re right.  It looks nicer that way.  I’m an idiot.  Let’s just do the regular formal thing.”

So what, if I crossed my fingers behind my back as I said it?  The important thing is that we got almost the whole list done, and I didn’t vomit once.

Spicoli Works at Giant

I have a knack of getting in the wrong line at the grocery store no matter how thoroughly I scope out the situation.  Even if there’s one little old lady with a couple of items in front of me, it will turn out that she has 12 coupons and no ID for her check.  Tonight was no exception.

I stopped at Giant after work and hopped into line behind a couple with a small cart of groceries.  I figured that couples are good.  One person unloads, and one helps bag.  It’s bound to go quickly.  I snatched up a scandal rag to check up on Kirstie’s weight gain, and read for a bit.  The reading seemed to go on a bit too long.  I transitioned to Brad and Angelina’s split, and looked up.

The checkout boy looked like this:

Hmmmm.  The husband of the couple in front was a little purple.  His wife was sweating.  They signed their receipt and ran out of the store like bats out of hell.

Spicoli, the checkout guy, slowly took each plastic bag filled with fruit, held it up, and asked, “Yo – what’re these?”

“Apricots,” I told him. “Apples, peaches. . .”  Then we came to a real stumper.

“Cilantro,” I said, as he jiggled the bag in front of him, as though there might be a fish swimming inside.

“Cool,” said Spicoli.  “How do you spell it?”

“C-I-L-. . .”

“‘S’, what?” Spicoli asked.

“No.  ‘C’,” I said.

“‘S’, what?” he asked again.

I burst out laughing.  “Are you high?” I asked.

“Not at the moment,” he assured me.

“Hand me the code sheet.  I’ll look it up for you,” I told him.

The woman in back of me snorted her impatience.  I had an insane urge to laugh uncontrollably.  Spicoli looked confusedly at some organic celery as I looked for the cilantro code.  I wondered if the woman would kill both of us.

I found the code, and Spicoli smiled happily.  “Organic celery,” I said, before he could ask.

If anyone tells you that marijuana is natural, and doesn’t hurt your brain, check out the Giant on route 724.  The checkout guy’s funny, but he’s smoked one too many doobies.

Daddy Dartboard

During my first year of college, my father put his face on the Xerox machine at work, and sent me the picture of his face.  Hey!  At least it wasn’t his ass.  I hung it on the wall and drew concentric rings on it as a joke.  Everyone on my dorm floor called the picture “Daddy Dartboard”.  In fact, they started referring to my dad as “Daddy Dartboard”.  I think they forgot his name after a while.

When the song “Valley Girl” came out, my dad would get on the phone with my friends and do a horrifying Valley Girl imitation.  He just couldn’t get enough of saying, “Gag me with a spoon!”  During that phase, my friends called him “Valley Dad”.

All of my life, my dad told me that if someone asks you for a match, be sure to say, “Yes!  My ass and your face!”  I went to a horror movie with my dad in college, and as we were standing outside the theater waiting to get in, a huge guy with multiple tatooes turned to me and asked, “Got a match?”

I said, “Er. . . no.  Sorry.”  My dad went nuts.  “I groomed you for that your whole life, you moron!” he yelled, laughing all the while.

Here’s my dad sitting in our TV room with Tiger, looking like a demon dog, above his head:

Here’s my dad looking sort of professorial (and cross eyed for some reason):

Here’s my dad holding his newest grandchild, my brother’s son Nathaniel:

I just love my Daddy.

I Need Jokes

I just committed to the Berks County Mental Health Association’s fundraising event on July 27. Perhaps I should be committed.   It will be at a great restaurant/lounge in town called “Chill”.  Various people in the community are being asked to be “Chilltenders”.  They will raise money for donations to the Mental Health Association before the event and during the event.  They’ll also make drinks that night.

I volunteered to be the “Mistress of Ceremonies” for the night.  I’ve never done anything like this.  Sure, I’ve run naked down the street at noon – hasn’t everyone?  But I’ve never been a Jerry Lewis type person.

Here’s my plea – I need psychiatry jokes.  Anything you’ve got.  I’ll start you off . . .

A farmer is talking to his horse, and says, “Gus, you’ve been a good horse for the most part.  You’re gentle and hardworking.  Sometimes you balk a bit in the morning, but you quickly get in the groove of things. . .”

The horse interrupts.  “I said ‘feedbag’, not ‘feedback’, you idiot.”

Bring on the jokes.  Pretty please.

Must Squash Rebellion

There’s a weird phenomenon going on around me.  I’m hoping I’m not causing it.  Teenage boys at work and home are rebelling.

This week I asked a kid at the Residential Treatment Facility how his weekend visit with his family went.  He replied, “That’s private business.”

I met another boy at the same place, and sat down with him for the first time.  He came to the facility from jail.  I asked what he did to get himself thrown in jail.  He replied, “I’d rather not talk about it.”  (It was better than saying, “I knifed a stupid doctor who asked too many questions.”)

At home, I walked into the kitchen, and saw my son Kevin repeatedly scooping peanut butter out of the jar with his finger.  Scoop.  Lick.  Scoop.  Lick.

“Kevin, that’s gross,” I said.  “Put the peanut butter on something like bread or an apple, or scoop some out onto a plate.  I don’t really want to sample your spit with my peanut butter.”

He replied, “Well, I wouldn’t have to eat the peanut butter at all if you hadn’t eaten the rest of the cheese spread, which I hid in the back of the refrigerator.  And, there are no groceries in the house.  And I don’t see the difference between eating it with a spoon or dipping my finger in the jar.  I hardly ever dip my finger in the jar.  This is one of the first times I’ve dipped my finger in the jar for ages, and it’s just a weird coincidence that you caught me.  Next time buy 2 jars of peanut butter and label one ‘Kevin’s Peanut Butter’.  Then I’ll just use that jar, and I can dip my finger in it whenever I want.”

I was torn between laughing hysterically and bludgeoning him to death.  I don’t know about you, but I think the boys at the Residential Facility are less annoying than Kevin.

Falling Behind in Life

Well, I am an embarrassed little Robin.  I’ve fallen behind in my blog reading (sorry bloggy friends), and my blog writing.  And I still feel behind.  Want an update?  Sure you do!  Here are dumb things I have to do. . .

1) Go through the boys’ Bar Mitzvah pictures, and pick out enough for an album.  To give you an idea of how freaking ridiculous this is – you have a bar mitzvah when you’re 13.  Kevin is now 16.  Just shoot me.

2) Work up a comedy routine for Open Mike Night at the Reading Comedy Outlet on July 10.  I have 2 weird ideas poking around in my brain.  The first is, what if my dental technician was a Nazi?  She might stick the ultra sound cleaning device up my vagina.  She might have have a cover for the spot lamp made of human skin.

The second idea is about how dumb medicine is getting.  Blue Cross Blue Shield made an announcement that they will no longer pay for a surgeon taking off the wrong limb or removing the wrong organ.  Seriously, truth is funnier than fiction.

3)  I’ve been asked to be the master of ceremonies at a fund raising event for mental health at a really nice lounge in the area, that sells drinks and sushi and yummy appetizers.  I can go on stage and talk about my vagina, but I feel shy about this.  Go figure.

4)  I’m working on my cooking, trying to make low fat food taste good.  It’s not easy.  As a general rule, if it tastes good it has fat in it.  My father coined that saying.  He’s a friggin’ genius.

Tonight I made steamed halibut wrapped in spinach and flavored with minced garlic, chopped dill, lemon zest, paprika, and no fat Italian dressing.  The salad was seedless watermelon and feta cheese with an olive oil, lime juice and serrano chile dressing.  Sound good?  Well it was.  It only took 87 hours to make.  At this rate, we’ll all eat really well, but I’ll have to quit my job and stop taking showers.

I go to catch up on my blog reading.  Be back soon!  Right after I raise a chicken, kill it, pluck it, and marinate it in a low fat viniagrette.

Movie Mavens

It’s that time of month again, Dudes and Dudettes.  Yes.  I’m having my period.  And, coincidentally, it’s Movie Mavens time.  Tomorrow, Wed June 3, at 9pm on BCTV is a new episode of Movie Mavens.  We’ll be discussing the new Star Trek and Pixar’s UP.  I’ll laugh with my stupid hyena-like laugh, Carole will say intelligent stuff about movie making, and we’ll give away freebies.

For you out-of-towners, go to www.bctv.org and you can watch it live, or watch the archived episodes.

Not only are call-ins welcome, but when not enough people call in, Carole gets really pissed and keeps trying to ram the car into buildings on the way home.  Save a life.  Call 610-378-0426 and tell us your thoughts on anything.  We even want to hear about your bowel movements.  Really.  We do.

A special shout out to Kel, who is a loyal Movie Mavens fan, all the way from Maine.  As a reward, you all must immediately read her blog here, or go to Publishing Renaissance, where she is the queen.

AMA Update A La Robin

I’ve been saving up a couple AMA updates for you, my faithful readers.  I try to save the most amusing interesting tid bits for you.

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BBC News (5/27) reported, “The number of US adults following a healthy lifestyle has fallen in the last two decades despite increasing public health campaigns.”

Furthermore, the “number of people who exercised 12 times a month or more dropped from 53 to 43 percent,”  And, “the number of people eating five or more servings of fruits and vegetables daily decreased from 42 to 26 percent.”

Why the hell is Britain worried about our health?  Are the British sitting around gloating?

Sir Edmund, munching on a scone, turns to Georgina Wittlesworth. “Well, we might have rotten teeth, but those Americans are a bunch of fatties, eh?”

“Oh, Eddie!” Georgina giggles, reaching for a carrot and dunking it in her sweet tea.  “You’re such a clever man!”  She bites down on the carrot and her tooth falls out.

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IOM releases updated pregnancy weight gain guidelines: For the majority of women,  “including those who are underweight, normal weight, or even overweight at conception,” the unchanged guidelines still suggest that “women with a healthy body mass index, or BMI…of 18 to 25 are advised to gain 25 to 35 pounds during pregnancy,” while “overweight women with a BMI of 25 to 29.5 should gain less, up to 25 pounds; underweight women, with BMIs below 18.5, should gain more, up to 40 pounds.”

I’d like to translate this for you.  If you’re already a skinny bitch who barely eats lettuce for dinner, pregnancy is great.  Pig out.  Have some cheesecake and wash it down with a milkshake.  If you’re a normal neurotic chick chronically watching your weight like a good doobie, pregnancy is going to suck.  Those urges?  Ignore them.  Ask the skinny bitches to loan you some lettuce, and wash it down with skim milk.

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The FDA “said Wednesday that it will consider approving Arzerra [ofatumumab], a proposed leukemia treatment that would be marketed by GlaxoSmithKline PLC for patients who have failed treatment with at least two other therapies.”

This is terrific news.  May I offer a suggestion?  Let’s make everyone call it by the chemical name, “ofatumumab”.   Is that not the worst name you’ve ever heard for a medication?  Did someone think that up to be mean?  When the Arzerra patent runs out, we’re all going to have to call the drug “ofatumumab”.  I’m going to really enjoy that.  I might even switch specialties so that I can say “ofatumumab” a lot.

Feel free to ask any medical questions you have.  Hahahaha!  Oh, that was a good one!