Author - Amy Sherman

Dropping the Ball
Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop Stand Up
Dance Dunce
Writing Girls

Dropping the Ball

“Brad, have you seen my eyeglass prescription?”

“Remember? You accidentally kicked it under the radiator.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s okay, I can see pretty well with my old glasses.”

“Seriously? You’re not even going to try and retrieve it?”

“You know it’s too difficult to get back up from the floor.”

“I get that. Gravity hurts.”

I hate dropping things. Well except names, my jaw or the occasional air biscuit, but anything that requires lowering myself to ground level because some object adheres to Newton’s basic law is my nemesis. I’m taking a stand against bending down.

Getting up from ground zero feels like I’m pulling myself out of a swimming pool without the aid of hand rails. Astronauts have more strength after a month in space.

Honestly? I’d be in better shape if I were in a coma because someone else would manipulate my limbs to prevent atrophy. [Note to self: research the cost of a physical trainer vs. a physical therapist.]

My husband and I view our Chihuahuas as service dogs for the disabled. If a dog is too picky to eat whatever food falls, he risks being returned to the shelter. (Don’t worry, we support no-kill shelters, we’re not heartless, just heavy.)

Because the dogs are so little, I freaked out whenever I dropped a pill. I’d strike faster than a Cobra, screaming “NO!” to beat the dogs to it. Now I figure a little anti-depressant will do them good, maybe even cure their separation anxiety. That whole “chocolate kills” turned out to be a myth, so a little chemical bump shouldn’t do any harm.

The only things I enjoy dropping are pounds, but since that takes actual effort and a genuine fight against the Earth’s pull, I will continue to place anything I need on counter tops, tables and shelves. The floor can keep whatever lands and I’ll let my scale do all the heavy lifting.


Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop Stand Up

Amy Sherman Stand-Up At 2012 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

Dance Dunce

In one of our early moments as empty nesters, my husband and I were having an average, uneventful day when the song by Josh Turner “Why Don’t We Just Dance” comes on. Impossible to resist, I kick off my Crocs and dance.

Before Brad can get up from the kitchen table, I turn it into a mild burlesque aimed at him. I’m self-conscious, but Brad looks at me like I’m Jaime Lee Curtis in her dance scene from True Lies and he’s Arnold, so I pelvic thrust onward.

His face is rapt, while I’m forcing an out-of-body experience to get past my cellulite-awareness, hating those damn tabloids at the checkout that show horrible pics of celebrities in bathing suits, while posing the question, “Can you guess who these hot messes are?” (And I do have an enquiring mind. Who doesn’t want to see a celeb who has helped create impossible standards fall? I like knowing they’re human. I like it even more if their lumpy backsides are more human than mine.)

As usual, my mind wanders while Brad’s hopes rise.

My body continues to writhe and work its way towards Brad, who is still seated, knowing he must savor every seductive move because this doesn’t happen every day year. To his delight, my body moves in for a lap dance. I’m in full fantasy mode now and so is Brad. He glances toward our cluttered table and grabs the nearest scrap of paper to stuff down my pants like a high roller at the club.

“Yeah big Daddy, make it rain!”

He shoves the stiff paper where I rarely let the nightstand lights shine, and I lean in to tease him with a kiss, but the piece of paper bugs me, so I pull it out and start to wave it in the air, ‘like I just don’t care’, when my peripheral vision catches a glimpse of what it is.

Try as I might to stay in the moment, being ‘tipped for a strip’ with an AARP magazine ad insert is too ironic to miss. I burst into laughter.

“That is perfect! You really know how to flatter a girl.”

“It was the closest thing I could find. I didn’t want to stop the action.”

Professional as I may be, I cannot stay in character after this. The romance is gone, but it is my favorite fantasy-block ever and Brad is duly rewarded…right in his funny bone.


Writing Girls

Ever since returning from the Greatest Show on Earth, the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, I have immersed myself in trying to understand social media and how it all links together. It was made quite clear this is mandatory for selling yourself, establishing a platform and building your brand. (Industry-speak for whoring yourself relentlessly.)

Some people might think this would come quite naturally to me. As it turns out, until I made a recent call to some guy named Bart at, I had no idea the domain name/website I had purchased a couple of years ago had never been activated.

No street corner. No tricks. No arrests. No nothing.

I knew I had to get to work and start “pimping my write.” Props to all the hard-working people on corners everywhere because I’m finding out struttin’ it is hard. Putting yourself out there and shakin’ the goods in peoples’ faces takes some real confidence. Thank god I don’t have to dress in provocative clothing because I am WAY past that window, but my product still needs to attract attention and be provocative in its own way. Therein lies the rub.

(I guess all forms of whoring involve rubbing something somewhere.)

So I am working the web proudly to introduce you to and beg any johns readers to enjoy your time with me and please recommend my humorous, STD-free musings to anyone you feel needs a good rub. It could be someone you want rubbed out, someone I might rub the wrong way, or anyone who periodically rubs one in or out, depending on your gender.

I welcome any input. (HO yes she did.)

Copyright © 2014 Amy Sherman