It's My TV….It's My Peanut Butter

Would we have coffee with…Erma Bombeck?

Cammy:  A resounding YES.  Bombeck was held out as the benchmark for humorous newspaper writing by my journalism teacher (who didn’t generally encourage us to write humor in her class, but had no problem with us reading and appreciating it).  Reading her column was the first time I really realized that people wrote funny shit for adults, too.  Before there were “Mommy Bloggers” venting about the housewife life, there was Bombeck.  Not only did she write about the absurdities of suburban moms and their families, she wrote it in a way that anyone could snarf their Dr. Pepper over.  It’s been more than 10 years since I first read one of her books (When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It’s Time To Go Home), but I still recall clutching at my sides laughing.  For that alone, I owe her a thank you cup of joe. I’d like her take on the Mom blog phenomenon mentioned above–I have to imagine she’d have something humorous to say about that one.  I think it would be interesting to get her take on women and humor in general (more than once I’ve heard that women can’t be as funny as men–something that women like Bombeck render totall untrue).  And if nothing else, I once read she was twice as funny in person as she was on paper, so as long as I’m careful when I take a sip, this should be a riot.

Kristy: Sure. I’ll shamefully confess that although I’d heard her name for years, I didn’t really know who she was until tonight. But you know I like people that bring the funny, and a quick google search for quotes reveals that this woman could indeed bring the funny. So while I lack Cammy’s passion for journalism, I share her passion for spending time with smart funny people. Like Cammy, I’d also like to hear her thoughts on the “Mommy Blogger” phenomenon. I’d also like to ask her about her forays into television, even though they were largely unsuccessful. Perhaps even more to the point, I’d be interested to know what she thinks about the dearth of female writers in television, particularly on comedy shows. Is this just social prejudice or something else? Does she think there’s any thing that can be done to help? I will also be careful when I sip my coffee.

I don’t know when it happened.  I’m fairly certain it’s been coming on for at least 10 years, but when the actual breakdown happened is anyone’s guess.

I used to be content to write in a spiral notebook of the 50 cent variety.  Or on plain notebook paper, lugged around in a red binder left over from someplace my Dad used to work.  People had given me a journal or two, but I was intimidated by the permanency of sewn binding.

But somewhere along the way, I lost the intimidation.  I filled up the two bound journals I had.  I picked up another.  Filled it as well.  Then came the first pocket Moleskine with graph paper and it’s perfect size for the purse.

Then came another pocket Moleskine.  And a larger one received as a gift…..

And I think that’s when the wheels came off.

It makes absolutely no good sense.  I have Field Notes notebooks (awesome, simple and Made in the USA), Picadilly notebooks (Moleskine imitations at a fraction of the price), no name black cover books, a brand-less fat cream colored book, more Moleskines, hand-made books found in Harry-Potter-esque shops in Budapest….

And the vast majority of these?  Aren’t full.  In fact, most of them I’ve not even begun.  It’s embarrassing.  Even more so since I haven’t stopped looking for new ones to add.  I try to refrain, but when you see that mark-down on a Moleskine that you know you’ll fill eventually.  And what am I to do when a family member who’s actually paid attention to the fact that I don’t stir out of the house without a pen and notebook presents me with a new one as a gift?

I honestly wish I could fill ‘em up as fast as I seem to acquire them.  I refuse to use them at work (cold day in hell before the job intrudes upon the notebooks!), but work eats up time I might spend filling that obscenely large stack of notebooks.  Damn real life.

My apologies to Kristy for this, I know she is not a fan…

In my previous post I mentioned an example of my night-owl-hood in my childhood habit of staying up until all hours on the weekend watching musicals.  This reminded me of a yearly vigil I had yet to keep, and which I will not have the opportunity to take care of after Thursday.

I have watched The Sound of Music once per year, minimum, since I was about 6 years old.  I stopped counting the number of times I’d seen the movie sometime in high school.  At that time it was 82. If I were a little more Sheldon Cooper-esque, I wouldn’t have stopped counting.  And I wouldn’t feel quite so ashamed about the size of that number.  Or of the fact that I can recite every word, name all the supporting nuns (my favorite is Sister Sophia–played by Marni Nixon), and point out the scene in which the real Maria von Trapp walks through the background along with two of her daughters.

At this point, I get that it’s sappy, schmalzy and utterly saccharine in the eyes of most of the universe.  I honestly wasn’t too aware of this until I moved to Virginia and encountered the ridicule of a “friend” in high school who liked to mock me and use this as evidence of my banal and parochial musical tastes (which, in turn, evidenced how parochial I was in general).  He was a narrow minded douche, but I was forced to acknowledge that this movie is not deep or sophisticated.

I’ve stopped trying to convince people that it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.  I have totally accepted that my best friend will never, ever like this movie (but she doesn’t give me shit about it though, for which I’m eternally grateful).  And, until this particular post, I’ve definitely been keeping it on the D.L. with new friends and colleagues.

But that doesn’t mean I can let it go.

The bloody thing is completely entwined in my life.  It was the impetus for many a learning experience: European geography ( “Daddy, where’s Vienna?”), Catholicism (although, for the longest time I assumed all nuns were nice), WWII, the division of Germany, communism (Dad’s lectures go on for a while and branch out quite a bit), submarines, the Austria-Hungarian Empire, WWI (“Daddy, how can Austria have a navy if they aren’t by an ocean?”) telegrams (which I thought were the single dumbest idea in the world and yet I really hoped I would get one someday–still haven’t)….  I spent a good decade measuring my age against the ages of von Trapp kids.  Turning 13 was awesome because Lousia was my favorite of the kids.  Turning 17 was honestly daunting because I was completely without a point of reference, except Rolf, and really, who want’s a Nazi as guidepost?  Not me.  And, God help me, I really, really, really want my own puppet show.

But the biggest connection came in 6th grade. My English teacher, who was truly a kindred spirit, initially connected with me because I’d checked out The Story of the Trapp Family Singers from the school library (the last person to have checked that one out was my teacher when she was back in junior high).  She, it turns, out, had always loved the movie herself.  That led to me being willing to reveal to her that I liked to write.  She was the first adult I ever talked to about writing, and she read, edited and encouraged in a way that (unfortunately for all of you) led me to believe it was something I could do and do well (well actually, all you have to worry about is the part where I think I can write.  The “well” part was adequately obliterated by the College of William and Mary).

So, you see, at some point, this became more than a family-friendly musical of extreme length–it became a focal point for a lot of memories, and the starting point for a lot of education.  When I put in this movie as a comfort flick once a year, I get to wallow not just in nostalgia for the movie itself, but in the nostalgia of late nights in the living room of my old home as an elementary school kid up way past bed time, of spreading out maps on the floor in front of the TV with Dad point out borders, of sitting in Mrs. D’s classroom after school reeling at the wonder of a grown up taking me seriously.  I can see that it’s sappy, but, unlike the douche who mocked my tastes, I also see more than just what plays on the screen.

I would dearly love to participate in NaNoWriMo.  I actually made a half-ass attempt once.  Unfortunately, there are few months of the year more crappy as far as timing is concerned.  Honestly, who the hell picked November?

In college it came at the end of the mid-term crunch which extends into the hellish push to the end of the semester.  When you’re pulling all-nighters and paying the kind of money you shell out for an education these days, it’s hardly the time to try and churn out a novel.

I thought once I was done with school it would be better, but it’s not.  I’ve found that in my meat-space job, November is a push month to clear things out before December which is a hell month for business with people constantly going out on holiday.  It’s like everyone’s last ditch effort to get real work done before the year ends, and the closer you get to the end of November, the worse it is because you also have the kink of Turkey day thrown in.

Even when I was unemployed (the one year I attempted the run), November proved to be a nightmare because of the number of family get togethers and my continued ass-busting to find a job.  Thanksgiving week was a total bust.  Telling my family I need time to work on a novel just isn’t going to work.  No one believes you’re serious.  And even if they do, they don’t grasp what it entails.  And then they want to know why you’re not polishing your resume to find a job.  That was a week gone.  Plus an additional week gone since I was sworn in as an attorney that month and the family made a to-do there as well.

Even December works better.  For students you get a chunk of the month off (the first part’s a bust, admittedly).  The family togetherness is still an issue, but for my family it’s always spread out more than the November blitz of Thanksgiving.  In my job, things at work tend to slow down a lot as people take off.

I’ve considered doing my own novel writing challenge in some other, less poorly-timed month, but I lament the lack of mass support of other writers, and the fun of badges and kick-off parties, write-ins and bragging that you made it.  There’s something to all of that.  In my one attempt to participate, I found that solidarity with other writers quite heartening and helpful.

Anyone out there want to rebel with me?  Name the month.  Seriously.  Leave a response, or, you can drop us an e-mail–all addresses are @mytvmypeanutbutter dot com (before the at you have your choice of Kristy, Cammy or themanagement).

Separate Note:  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.  I did not do my duty and post Sunday.  I’ve got company in town and it totally slipped my mind.  You may feel free to either suggest punishments, hurl virtual rotten food, or just tell me that it’s actually nicer when I don’t post.

I  found the “masterpiece” I wrote at the ripe old age of eleven again today. I was actually looking for something else. I forget what it was I was trying to find because I’ve been laughing my ass off at this piece of trash. I kind of feel like I’m living that scene from Anne of the Island where Anne finds some of the old stories from the Story Club, including the ever-tragic “My Graves” and gets a good laugh out of it.

It was called Cassie and the Camp Wiggee-Hama Ghosts and though I was quite proud of it at the time, I look back and see a story riddled with one cliche after another, filled with the kind of things that seem incredibly cool when you’re eleven and told from the point of view of a character which I know now was nothing but a Mary-Sue of myself.

Opening lines?

“Oh, 99 bottles of beer on the wall….” chorused most of the bus.

“Ohhhhhh,” I moaned pitifully.

“The headache strikes again,” said my friend Helen sympathetically.

“If I hear that kid,” I said, pointing to a girl two rows ahead of me, “hit that wrong note again–”

“You’ll scream,” Helen filled in.

“No, I’ll calmly rip out her vocal chords and place them in formaldehyde.”

Out of the mouths of babes, I tell ya.

I wanna know how I learned to spell “formaldehyde” when I was 11 because I really don’t think I could spell it now if I weren’t looking at it.

Just be glad that the internet was still an experimental toy of DARPA and certain Universities, or a broader swath of people may have suffered exposure to this particular exercise in amateur writing.