Archive - 2012

Xray Visions
The Dong Whisperer
Hoofin’ It
Madonna MaDON’T
Dropping the Ball
Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop Stand Up
Dance Dunce
Writing Girls

Xray Visions

Lately I have been subjected to several xrays. Of my wrist. Nothing else. Yet every time I head into the Xray room, a technician asks me if I’m pregnant. I am momentarily flattered, until they immediately add, “We have to ask” with a wink and a smirk that says, “We know you couldn’t possibly have an egg left, you post-menopausal train wreck.”

I always laugh and say, “Not a chance, but thanks for asking!” We share a moment and laugh. (You could at least pretend I pass for an amniocentesis candidate, bitches.)

As I sit down and place my scaphoid wrist bone in the cross-hairs, I add, “Well, unless there is an alien baby in there.”

The nurse brings over a lead apron and places it over my shriveled, useless ovaries smiling, “Just in case there is an alien in there.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t want it to have three additional arms.”

“Or two sets of eyes.”

She hides behind the lead-enforced wall-of-safety while another technician pushes the zapper. They chat briefly in radiology-speak.

“What are you ladies talking about? Do you see something I should know about?”

She comes back to rearrange the position of my hand. “I see you have a screw in there.”

“Seriously? That damn alien! He must have left that behind after he probed me.”

“I’ll make a note of that for the surgeon.”

“You’d better. He probably won’t even notice.”

She heads back and starts talking medical gibberish with the button-pusher again and I hear the buzz of the x ray machine.

“It burns!”

“You’d be surprised. There are some people who actually think they can feel it.”

“No way. You must get all kinds.”

“Well, we can’t really say. It wouldn’t be professional.”

“Uh ladies, that ship sailed.”

She ushers me to the door smiling, “Can you stay with us all day to make it more tolerable?”

“I’d love to. People take this shit way too seriously. Of course, if they’re in pain…”

“Yes, well, sometimes we’re the ones suffering.”

“I’m sure you are, but imagine when this side-show baby wants to come out? I hope it doesn’t have horns or talons.”

“Come back again and we’ll take a picture for you.”

“Excellent. I’ll post it on Facebook for all those fertile bitches who expect people to gush over their ultrasound pictures. Like a fetus is a big accomplishment.”

“Good luck with your little alien.”

“Thanks. We could have skipped the damn apron, I’m going to drink heavily through this one.”


                                       Here’s looking at you, kid.

The Dong Whisperer


I have spent countless hours absorbing Cesar Millan’s wisdom. I have had marginal success with my neurotic dogs, but thanks to Cesar, I have found his philosophy to be unerring in the training of a different beast. I offer this sage advice to anyone who will benefit from it. I rehabilitate dongs. I drain penises…I am the Dong Whisperer.

Penises are very simple. We make it complicated for them, by not understanding who they are, what they need, their language and how they create their behavior. Penises need discipline. Give them rules, boundaries, and limitations as well as love. Avoid nurturing a penis’s fears or unstable mind. Imagine a successful scenario and hold it in your mind when dealing with a penis.

The most important rule for any penis is: exercise, discipline then affection. Penises must earn your affection. Let them know what you want. Always be clear, calm and assertive. A penis wants you to be the leader. It wants to please you.

When meeting a penis for the first time remember, “No touch, no talk, no eye-contact!”  It does not understand your language. If you stare directly at a penis, it thinks you are being confrontational.  When the head is down, it is submissive. When the head is raised, stroke it calmly and assertively. Learn to read its language.

Never reward a penis when it is excited. Wait until it is submissive. Excitement is often mistaken for aggression. If a penis jumps all over you, say “tchhhhh!” and give it a swift poke-touch. You must redirect its focus. You must be the penis leader. If you are not the penis leader, it will step up and become one. When you have a pack of penises, you must be the pack leader. The pack needs to trust you. A pack must feel safe or it will become unbalanced. Each penis will find its place in the pack behind you.

Penises require exercise to lead balanced, healthy lives. Make sure you burn off excess energy before trying to train your penis. Every penis needs exercise. Daily. They must get out. Daily. Just because a penis is small doesn’t mean it needs less exercise. Find what keeps the penis’ interest. Playing with balls often works. A drained penis is a happy penis.

To establish you are the Penis Leader, never allow a penis in the bed unless you invite it. If you do allow a penis in your bed, remember it is not your alarm clock. Don’t let the penis wake you in the morning. The Penis Leader decides when the day starts!



A penis is a simple thing. Don’t confuse it. Penises live in the moment. We can all learn from them. They are here to teach us. Just make sure you are the Penis Leader or it may lead you astray.

Hoofin’ It

My grandmother used to say: “It’s better to sit than stand, and even better to lie down than sit.” When she wasn’t lying down, she didn’t make her bed because she claimed to be “airing out the sheets.” Reaching menopause brought the wisdom of the latter to light. Night sweats definitely warrant airing out the bedding along with wringing out pajamas, midnight showers and waterproof mattress pads. I’ve gone from “hottie” to “clammy” and my husband thinks I should sleep with an IV at night to replace the fluids I lose. He certainly won’t reach out for me anymore without donning latex gloves.

Despite needing to sleep on layers of Sham Wow towels, lying down is still my favorite past time. As soon as I get out of bed, I am plotting my return. Naps are a necessity. I zealously honor my Grandmother’s memory by following her sensible guidelines to good health. I struggle with the guilt of feeling lazy, but only while I’m awake. So when I have the fortitude to be up and about, I prefer tolerable shoes to counter the grueling effects of gravity. During the cooler months, I wear shearling-lined slippers indoors and fleece-lined Crocs outside.


There is nothing more accommodating to my feet and lifestyle. No need for socks. No need to bend over. Just slip one off and slip into the other. Slip either one off when getting back into bed. The simplicity is godly.


One day, while relaxing in bed, I read in TIME Magazine a quote from Tim Gunn, the fashion guru who guides and prods the talented designers on Project Runway. When asked about his fashion pet peeves he responded: “Generally speaking, it’s footwear trends. I mean, today, the era of the Croc—it looks like a plastic hoof. How can you take that seriously? I know it’s comfortable; I understand that. But if you want to dress to feel as though you never got out of bed, don’t get out of bed.”


My problem is, I don’t want to get out of bed. Naturally, staying there isn’t an option since no one is willing to push my king size bed around town or bring me meals until paramedics need to break through the wall to rescue me. So who’s to say my little piggies don’t belong in plastic pig hooves? For me, cloven clogs give me the strength to leave my bed and get on with my day.


Thanks to Mr. Gunn, I now feel self-conscious about my Croc ped-beds. Instead of reveling in their comfort and practicality, I walk around feeling bad about myself for choosing a hose-able shoe over a shoe that should be worn with hose. Despite my sensitive psyche, my tender feet win out and I continue to wear what makes them happy. Tim has made Crocs a guilty pleasure. I already feel guilty about wanting to lie down all the time, I don’t need any guilt about being upright.

The irony is, my dedication to hoof-like footwear shows I am not sheep-like in following whatever some fashion fanatic deems appropriate. I’m working on my esteem issues being entangled with a person I have never met and who will never be personally assaulted by my barn-worthy fashion sense. (And by “working” on it, I mean “sleeping” on it.) But if I ever do have the pleasure of running into Tim Gunn on the street, I will squeal like a pig with excitement and rapidly follow that up with the bleating of a lifetime.

Madonna MaDON’T

Women are unfairly judged for aging and that is a damn shame. That being said, I am fascinated by desperate women who can’t face the natural order of things. They do everything in their power, along with science, surgery and Satan to stop it. My favorite example of this is Madonna. I love a good a freak show.

Madonna Live

Body Exhibition

Who doesn’t admire a living person who can star in the museum exhibit of cadavers that are preserved to show the inner workings of every muscle, organ and blood vessel?  ‘Creepy’ is the new fifty.

Photo courtesy of Andreas/Getty Images Europe

'Body Worlds' Exhibition

Madonna is so proud of her physique, she parades it on stage with abandon. Too bad she abandoned looking in a mirror.

Photo courtesy of Getty


Her recent display of butt droop hanging down the backside of her thigh is my greatest treasure. I’m embarrassed to admit how much time I have spent studying this picture. 

I imagine the rolling heads when she saw her photo and began screaming:  “Why didn’t any of you f’n morons tell me what I looked like from behind? And where is my soon-to-be ex costume designer? You’re all f’n fired, you ASSHOLES! I am f’n MADONNA! You can all kiss my flabulous ass on the way out!”

It delights me to no end, that someone as desperate to look hot as Madonna is, pulls the biggest MaDON’T in a live show. Her latest ‘assgaff’ is worthy of The People of Walmart photo site.  The Empress Wore No Shame should be her next children’s book.

Having just celebrated my fifty-seventh birthday, I am tuned in to what women my age look like. I’m all for trying to look current, but dressing like a barely legal lingerie model is not sexy at this stage of life.  I don’t care how in shape a woman is, when she’s past fifty, she’s PAST exposing herself. There is, and always will be, a difference between a fit twenty-five-year-old and a fit fifty-five-year-old. Allow me to introduce you to ‘juicy’ versus ‘jarring.’

Clothing courtesy of the Tog Shop

Mother Madonna

I’m taking it upon myself to show this diva cougar how to dress her age.  She’s a mother for God’s sake. It’s time for her daughter to shine. Madge should encourage her by offering words of wisdom while passing the torch before her flickering flame has been surgically manipulated into an LED flashlight that is bright, harsh and totally unrealistic. Let people remember you for the hottie you were, instead of the tortured ‘nottie’ you’ve twisted yourself into.

Why’s it so hard to move on, Madonna? You’re not even close to being like a virgin, your mental health is borderline, and you need to learn to express yourself without exposing your privates in public. 

For crying out loud, show more class than ass!





Me:    Uh oh. Sprout’s having trouble pooping.

Brad:  Are you watching a dog poop through binoculars?

Me:     Don’t be silly, a dog can’t poop through binoculars.

Brad:  I hate you so much.

Me:     This is way easier than running outside to search the yard for evidence.

Brad:   Just when I thought you couldn’t get any weirder about dogs…

Me:    Oh God, she’s gonna need a wet wipe.

Brad:  I’m eating here.

Me:    These binocs really zoom in.

Brad:   You are beyond sick.

Me:     Bird watching is fun, but turd watching really serves a purpose. Turding could become a thing!

Brad:   Hey, I’ve got a big bird for you.

Me:      You’re an ass.

Brad:   I know an ass I’d like to tap.

Me:      That never gets old.

Brad:    Neither do you.

Me:      Just go get the wet wipes.

Brad:   I’ll get something wet.

Me:      Christ. I’m grabbing Sprout and wiping her ass on your pillow.

Brad:   I’ve got something sprouting.

Me:    And now I hate you.

All Pooped Out

    Pooped Out Sprout


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