Archive - May 2012

Madonna MaDON’T
Dropping the Ball
Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop Stand Up
Dance Dunce
Writing Girls

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