Amy Hartl Sherman is a freelance writer, poet and humorist. A graduate from the University of Illlinois, a retired flight attendant, improv comedian, empty-nester and overall wunderkind, Amy writes erratically as opposed to erotically, and sometimes humorously, while living with her husband, a Chihuahua, a barking parakeet who is minus one toe, and one toe-eating Dachshund. Her sons escaped without harm.All posts from Amy Sherman
Well, Clog Your Blog Month has finally taken a toll. I have got to focus on one thing at a time.
Let the laughter begin…
Just when I thought the 2013 NHL season couldn’t get any better, the Stanley Cup came to my hometown. It all started with a tip from someone, followed by a call-back telling us to keep it on the down-low because The Cup’s presence at our Civic Center wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge. No problem.
When the alleged time for The Cup’s arrival came, our neighbors discreetly piled the whole family into the car. That’s suspicious on an ordinary day. My husband asked them where they were going and they wouldn’t even give a straight answer, simultaneously suggesting we should go now, if we were going to go at all. This was getting good. My husband decided we needed to buy garbage stickers at the Civic Center. Now. And we always buy stickers together, right? Hurry up. Stealth mode on.
As we approached the building, a family adorned in Blackhawk jerseys (“sweaters” for the true devotees) was hurrying toward the Civic Center and we knew it was game time. The Mom called out to the kids speeding towards the doors, “Why don’t we wait here for Daddy?” They didn’t even look back. “Oh well, Daddy’s on his own.” Cup – 1, Daddy – 0.
Any ideas of keeping this information on the DL had obviously been about as successful as the Bruins’ last two minutes of play. People were in a wide line, snaking all the way up the stairs towards the gym. Edward Snowden probably leaked it from Russia. The line continued to grow right out of the foyer and into the street.
Eventually the Chief of Police worked his way through the crowd towards the elevator with a black trunk on wheels and an entourage. I’m surprised it wasn’t cuffed to someone’s wrist. We all watched with envy as a select group of people accompanied the Chief and The Cup into the elevator and disappeared.
Finally, people were allowed into the gym. It was just like snaking your way to the best ride at Disney. Everyone was patient. Everyone was in a good mood. I saw my dentist ahead of me. This was everyman’s ride. A couple of young ladies behind me were fantasizing about kissing The Cup, knowing it had been touched by all those gorgeous, hunky winners.
To make sure everyone who made it in had a chance for a photo-op, there were people in front of The Cup taking pictures for the giddy fans. The closer I got, the more nervous I got. My phone battery was waning. My sardonic husband was smiling like a dope. The Cup brought out the little boy in him. We strategized doing separate turns to have twice the pictures and more time with the cup. This was like a surgical strike and we didn’t want to blow it.
They had us moving so fast I didn’t even get a good look at it. I was able to touch it and get a great picture. Mission accomplished. Time to get home and post it on Facebook. Suck on this anyone who had playoff tickets!
Now here’s the part I didn’t expect. Naturally there were a lot of “likes” and comments on my FB post about how cool it was that we were able to get up close and personal with the mythical Stanley Cup, but the comments that mattered to me were along the lines of: “I’m not sure which is more beautiful, you or The Cup.” “So cute!” And my favorite, “You’re adorable.”
As a woman pushing sixty, I haven’t been called adorable since the middle of the last century. It’s a close second to the Blackhawks winning the series. I hold no false illusions about my looks, but this trophy made me feel good in ways I never expected. There is truly something magical about The Stanley Cup.
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.
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.)