Where the wit hits the fan

and I've always got your back, fat.

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Dance Dunce
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Writing Girls

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 godaddy.com, 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 witfaced.com 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

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