Category: humor

Things a Mom Says

Deana2 Comments

My boys are making a video over Spring Break. Charlie is playing with his new Mac Imaging Software and Dillon is enjoying the ride. Making videos is nothing new for these boys. I bought Charlie his first video camera when he was 13 and they have been making movies ever since. His love for filmography, writing, and editing is in part what led him to major in broadcast journalism in college.  He’s smart, good-looking, and funny. I think he’ll do well.

I was listening yesterday to my boys discuss a scene which would involve Dillon flying through the air, suspended (I’m assuming) by some sort of wire and harness. My maternal-protection instincts kicked in and as nonchalantly as possible, I interjected my two-cents.

“We don’t have the budget for special effects.”

I could see the wheels turning in their creative brains. Their eyes danced and as soon as they made eye contact, Charlie blurted out the inevitable.

“I got it. Yes we do!”

I can only attribute what happened next to the fact that I’ve been their mom for 19 years and I know how they think.

“No. You cannot hang your brother from the roof with the dog harness.”

QUESTION: Mom’s say the craziest things, what crazy thing have you said to your kids that makes you laugh?

My Life: The Flying Circus

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Dreams of running away and joining the circus are best left to childhood. That or Spring Break when everyone is home. Don’t worry, I’m not running away. I remember too well that clown college is all fun and games right up until you put a dyslexic clown trying to juggle silk scarves next to a flame thrower.

Who knew yak hair wigs are so darn flammable?

I live in busted stick Oklahoma with a husband, two boys, two dogs, two white dumpies, a Holland Lop, some kind of dragon and a tank of fish. I don’t need Ringling Brothers or Monty Python for that matter; My life IS a flying circus.

Growing up in a single parent home I have lived in over 25 different cities, attended nine different schools from Kindergarten through 12th grade, and had my own share of comedic mishaps including dropping out of clown school and being dumped for a shot at dating Brooke Shields. Granted the only funny part about that last bit is he never got past her mother. I think that is hilarious.

You were dumped? Who’d he dump you for? (wait for answer) Yeah, well I got dumped for Brooke Shields, top that!

Personal misery stories makes people laugh and apparently pays well.

My mother was pretty selective on what she allowed me to watch as a child so I’m fairly certain that I received my first introduction to Monty Python’s Flying Circus while living in Varnamo Sweden. It was during that formative year in Sweden that I learned about the wonders of Spam, dead parrots, silly walks, and lumberjacks in women’s clothing.  Now please understand that I am in no way shape or form making fun of cross dressers, it’s just that at 15, well, this was new to me and I thought it was all hilarious right up until…..

I met one.

Åre, Sweden has got to be one of the best places to ski. The mountains are wonderful and so are the Northern Lights —  which are best seen in baby doll jammies and ski boots in case you are wondering.  Rotary must have thought so too (about the locale, not my attire) because that is where they chose to send our motley crew of highschool students for a week of snow and fun.

Being experienced youth leaders, our guides understood the rule of thumb that girls are red and boys are blue. In order to not make purple as my son would say, the boys had the main resort while we gals were stuck half a mile or so down the road in a smaller cabin with multiple rooms. Staying in the cabin were also a visiting family and the staff of the hotel. For some reason, they believed this set up would keep us out of trouble. Silly youth leaders. Teens love the color purple and where there is a will, there is most certainly a way. And if my Mom is reading this — we always stayed in our own cabins Mom, no worries.

I learned many lessons that week — mostly about the laws of gravitational physics. What goes up (via a ski lift) will come down at a rapidly alarming rate, ricocheting off every fir-tree on the path. Somewhere in this world exists a photograph of two crisscrossed skis and me buried in a snow mound. I also learned if you are going to pick a fight with an image in the dark recesses of a basement, you might not want to be wearing baby doll jammies and ski boots. Or maybe you do, I’m not sure. I guess it just depends on who you are.

Which is how I met my poor lumberjack in women’s clothes.  I don’t think he started out that way. I believe he came over for a party hosted by the hotel maids in the basement of our cabin, whiskey was involved and I believe he was the first to fall asleep. That’s where I come in.

Which just goes to show: I don’t care how old you are, never be the first to fall asleep at a party.

A group of us had gone outside to see the northern lights. And when we came back in, we could hear them all down there. Not wanting to get in trouble again for being “loud all night” like we did for the last three nights, I went to the stairs and started yelling at whomever to be quiet.  They must have woken him up and sent him up to deal with me.

I could see a figure emerging from the shadows of the basement and by the time I realized I was chewing out a 6’10’ lumberjack with blue eyeshadow and other assorted accessories, my girlfriends had all scattered to their rooms, locking me in the hall.

NICE.

I’m not sure what amused this poor man the most, the fact that I was wearing baby doll jammies and ski boots or the fact that this little 5’4″ fly of a female was poking him in the chest and chewing him out for being so darn loud. Either way, he didn’t like being poked in the chest and apparently thought if he picked me up and kissed me, I’d stop.

I was mid-air when I kicked him and he let go with a velocity that sent me flying backwards. No worries, the wall behind us stopped my trajectory. I screamed, he looked in the mirror and screamed and while he was distracted I ran upstairs to safety.

My arrival to the second floor sent the boys (who weren’t really there) flying out the windows like lemmings off a cliff. No one wanted to be caught in our cabin, especially not with a crazy lumberjack on the loose. And no one would send help because doing so would mean admitting they were there. Only Duffy remained. He either wasn’t fast enough to jump out the window, or he was full of more testosterone than common sense. Either way, Duffy went down stairs to chase away my boogie man so that I could get back into my room.

Mr Lumberjack wasn’t as amused by Duffy as he had been me and well, Duffy wound up with a black eye before he left for the main cabin.

We all stayed locked in our various rooms while the lumberjack vacuumed the halls that night.

This story does  have a happy ending. The maids didn’t throw any more parties. We all got a free breakfast, courtesy of the resort, and Duffy? Well, he went down in my book as one of the sweetest heros I’d ever met. Too bad I can’t remember his real name.

So dear readers, now that you know that I am a clown school failure, was dumped for Brooke Shields, and once picked a fight with drunken lumberjack in drag, what silly thing about you have you never told someone? Why don’t you share it with us.

This post written by Deana O’Hara for Redemption’s Heart. All rights reserved.

Deana is presently staying home with her family for Spring break, watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus, enjoying tales of college told by her oldest and throwing in a few of her own stories now that they are old enough to enjoy them.

Conversation With my 15 Year Old Self

Deana8 Comments
Susan Sarandon and Goldie Hawn in The Banger Sisters

Call me Susan and color me beige. My 15-year-old self showed up this week, and she has a bone to pick with me. It seems I’d kept her locked away in a tattered old box in the bottom of my closet and she isn’t happy about it.

How come you never told anyone about me?

What are you talking about, lot’s of people know about you.

Really. Do they know we were in Sweden?

Sorta, yeah. They know we were in Sweden. But that was 30 years ago. A lot’s changed since then. I have a life. I have a husband and kids and responsibilities.

What about your husband and sons, do they know about me?

Are you kidding. No.

WHAT?

Oh don’t get all hurt. They know I went to Sweden when I was in high school, but that’s all they know.

Did you tell them about Grimslov?

Not exactly.

The hockey players from Yale?

Dear God no.

Why not?

I was 15. I made a complete and total blithering idiot out of myself. No one needs to know about that. It was pathetic.

No it wasn’t. It was sweet. See I have pictures.

I’d glare at her, but she’s too busy digging through our box of stuff she found buried in my closet. She is right about the hockey players though. They changed the dynamic of Grimslov when they showed up. Everyone looked up to them. They were college men afterall, with nice cologne (Polo), cigars, and brandy. I thought they were the coolest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I had a huge crush on one of them and went out of my way to get him to notice me. He handled it very well and was really sweet about it. I just wish I’d remembered that before I found him on facebook. Now, I’m just embarassed.

What about this? Remember the castle at Malmo and that statue of Michelangelo’s David?

Give me that! No one needs to see a photo of me and the statue of David. I’m pretty sure that had nothing to do with y appreciation for art.

The ski trip? Don’t you remember those lumberjacks in drag? One of them tried to kiss you and you kicked him in the shins with your ski boots, remember?

NO.

Sure you do, Duffy came to your defense and got a black eye. I’m sure you have a picture of him in here somewhere.

Oh shut up already.

What about the time you saw the French Lieutenant’s Woman? You drank wine for the first time that night and spent the whole movie in the bathroom throwing up.  Or what about the time you got stranded and had to hitchhike back. Two Iranians picked you up and you lied and said you were from Australia. You even got engaged for a short time, remember?

No. No. And No. If I drink wine will you go away?

You can try, but I doubt it.

Darn. She was right.

When did you start putting the hyphen in anal-retentive? You used to be so much fun. We lived life together. You never cared what anyone thought. You fell in love and pursued it with your whole heart – you threw yourself into everything you did every day you were there.

I threw myself at boys and put myself in dangerous situations.

You did more than that. We did more than that. Did you at least tell people about meeting the King? That was cool.

I insulted him.

So what. You met him didn’t you? Think about it. We came from the wrong side of the tracks and yet here we are meeting the king. How cool is that?

Yeah, that was cool. But the picture is all faded. No one will be able to make it out.

So tell them about it. Paint a word picture. If you won’t tell people about me, will you at least tell people about meeting him?

I’ll think about it.

Cool. Then maybe later we’ll talk about the Lumberjack.

Don’t push it.

 

THE LUMBERJACK STORY

This post written by Deana O’Hara for Redemption’s Heart. All rights reserved.  A friend from Sweden found me a few weeks ago and I am having fun going through my box of memories. Over time, I’ll blog about different parts of my trip and how those events impacted who I am today. It’s that or listen to my 15-year-old self continue to give me a hard time.

I See Dead People, and other church funnies

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“I had a receptionist job once. Man was it tough. I got yelled at, had things thrown at me, I was lied to, lied about, hit on and called names — yeah, last time I ever work in a church.”

Do you know that joke get’s high laughs. Not just a polite chuckle, but high sustained laughter. Are people laughing because they are shocked, or because they can relate? Church workers have it rough.

It’s often said that great humor is born from tragedy. And there is truth in that.  I poke fun at a lot of things that did not start out as funny becauseI choose to find the funny through the tears. Like my funeral story — pastor has a funeral on Friday, Wedding on Saturday and Sunday service. That’s three services and three sermons. Friday morning pastor gives me his funeral sermon and asks me to put it on the pulpit for him. I start to read it and realize he may have given me the wrong sermon so I go back to his office. I try to tell him it’s the wrong sermon and he tells me it isn’t and to do what he asked. Walking away I mutter “alright, but I don’t think the Browns are going to be happy when you open Mom’s funeral with I see Dead People. Just sayin”  — I promptly received the correct sermon for the funeral and no one was the wiser. Funerals might not necessarily be funny — but that story is.

Pastor started his Sunday Sermon with a quote from the movie The 6th Sense. “I see dead people. They just don’t know they are dead yet.” I’m really glad that one didn’t make it to the pulpit for the funeral, that would not have been good. His sermon verse was Matthew 23:27-28  “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.”

Many of us walk around as part of the living dead. Including ministry workers.  We either kill ourselves with overwork or get killed by flying arrows so to speak,  either way we keep standing up until we fall down.

I rarely write about that season. I’d rather write about this season. I’d rather write about the fruit I’m living in now than the saddness I lived through then. But maybe that’s not the right approach.

I read and hear so many stories about broken ministry leaders. There are so many people walking around with severed limbs, bleeding profusingly on everthing they come in contact with. The burnout rate for ministry leaders is higher than any other field. We should talk about it.

Are you a ministry leader? Have you ever been burnt out? What did you do?

Written by Deana O’Hara for Redemption’s Heart. February 10,2010

My Husband, The Prophet

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Jeff:  Ooh blueberry cobbler! My favorite. Is that what you are making for dinner?

We’ve been together for 22 years and he knows me. Having dessert for dinner on a cold icy snow-stormy night would not be that far-fetched. But not tonight. Tonight I wanted to impress him. Contrary to popular belief, I really do like to impress my husband from time to time.  I think he rocks.

Me: No, I’m making Cornish hens for dinner. The cobbler is for dessert.

Before you start thinking I’m this wonderful cook or something, I really need to tell you that my house has a kitchen because it came with one. And my family is well fed because, well… I try, but you know…I’m not Julia Child. I’m not even that other Julia chick that wrote the blog that got made into a movie. I’m the daughter of a baby boomer. I don’t sew and cooking is questionable. 

Granted I do have my days where I am able to cook fantabulous meals. I think I just made that word up. Fantabulous is a good word. It means edible.

Apparently though, today is not one of those fantabulous days.

In honor of today’s winter storm I want to be daring and cook a fancy meal. I want to cook the kind of meal that is great to eat by candlelight, in case the power goes out. With my Cornish hens thawing in a sink full of cool water, I whip up a mean blueberry cobbler thing — (Cheaters cobbler: canned blue berries with yellow cake mix sprinkled on top. Dot with butter and bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.)

I bake the hens at 350 degrees for 90 minutes. They are brown and yummy looking. The legs wiggle when I move them and juices from the breast runs clear. They are P-E-R-F-E-C-T.  I carefully set each plate with one Cornish hen, mashed potatoes and steamed snow peas. Everything looks and smells wonderful! My husband smiles, I smile and my son (who is already cutting into his hen) asks, “Mom is chicken supposed to bleed red all over everything?”

You know, blueberry cobbler for dinner on a cold, snowy night isn’t really that bad.

My First Hate Letter

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It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Someone, somewhere was going to tell me that because I’m a Christian and a Comic I shouldn’t tell jokes about X.

It doesn’t really matter what the X is because it is different for everyone. This person was offended because I was telling Tiger Woods jokes. I think because he’s an international celebrity, he is fair game. She thinks because I’m a Christian I should know better. She chose to be offended, and I chose to allow her to feel that way, and she has now unfriended me on facebook. I’m okay with that. Why?

1. I am a professional comic. I can call myself that because I do actually get paid to perform now. Paycheck = the right to call yourself professional in my opinion. If I want to keep getting a paycheck, I need to write and tell jokes. That’s how it works.

2. Yes, I am a Christian. And I do keep that in mind in my set. Meaning I don’t swear or tell dirty jokes. I keep my humor clean. I do not intentionally set out to offend people, but it is going to happen from time to time. I can’t control that.

3. Just because I’m a Christian who happens to be a comic does not make me a “Christian Comic.”  That’s just a marketing term that was coined a few years back. It doesn’t mean anything really.

4. We live in an overly sensitive politically correct society and it’s got to stop. Sooner or later, I will offend you. I spent the first 40 years of my life trying to please people, being crushed over anytime I offended someone in the slightest and have a hefty mental health bill to show for it — translation, my people pleasing drove me to a nervous breakdown five years ago. I don’t want to go back here.

So there you have it in a nutshell. As my friend Joie put it to me this afternoon, “I’m sorry if I haven’t offended you yet. Please give me some time and I’m sure I will.”

Peace Out Ya’ll

I See Dead People

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A pastor has three big sermons to write. He has a funeral on Friday, a wedding on Saturday and his regular Sunday Sermon.  Friday morning arrives and he hands his receptionist what he believes is his funeral message and tells her to put it in the pulpit for him. 

While she is walking toward the sanctuary, she realizes he’s given her the wrong sermon. The opening line is a qoute from the movie Sixth Sense, “I see dead people.”

Question.

Does she tell the pastor he made a mistake? Or does she do what she is told?

From Vasectomies to Coupons – everyone is cutting back these days

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This recession is hitting all of us these days. I know for our family of four, my learning how to cook on a more reasonable budget is vital. Learning how to cut coupons to help save us money, is equally important. I’ve used coupons in the past but according to Sarah Roe, I’m using them ineffectively. She uses coupons, sales and even double coupon days to purchase her items for free if not close to it. Her system takes a lot of work and dedication, but it is learnable she says and my husband is all for cutting back.
On other news fronts people are taking more drastic cuts these days.
ABC news reported this statement. “Lawrence Ross, a urologist and former president of the American Urological Association, said he and his colleagues have noticed a roughly 50 percent increase in vasectomies in the past four to six months, which he attributes in part to the ailing economy.”

Vasectomies are up 50%?  Wow. That is pretty drastic if you ask me. If given the choice, I’m thinking my husband would rather clip coupons.

Granted we’ve already been through that “procedure” a few years ago, but it still seems drastic, not to mention expensive if you don’t have insurance. I know I said “we” and you married couples out there are probably thinking I’m using the universal “we;” the one that means HE and not ME. But I don’t. We were there together in the same room through the whole procedure.

His doctor ran a guilt trip on me, and so being co-dependant, I went in to support him. I carried a grudge for a while there and I almost puked. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and I will follow him anywhere, I just didn’t expect to follow him to the urologists office and procedure room.

There were no training classes for this. No Lamaze, no shoulder rubbing or funny breathing, just me in a room with nothing to do but watch. I tried to be cute, and that went badly. I did bring a magazine in with me from the lobby. It was “Appaloosa Monthly” – their stud for hire edition. Pages and pages of pictures of big beautiful Arnold Schartzenegger looking horses for hire. Their prices ranged from $1,000 – 10,000 per encounter. I thought it was fascinating until I got the part about skipping all the romance and they’ll just send you the stuff and you can do it yourself. If you are going to read magazines like that while you are in the room with a man having a vasectomy – don’t ponder things like “I wonder how they do that?” out loud. Just saying, it’s a bad idea.  And it’s really bad form to bust out laughing from reading while doctors are handling sharp objects around your mates nether regions.

I wasn’t going to go in. I really just wanted to wait for him in the waiting room. I did my good wifey job, I drove him there. I was going to drive him home, fill his pain script and baby him for a few days. Wasn’t that enough? Apparently not according to his doctor. Sparkey hit me this this guilt trip.

“Oh now but he was there for you when you delivered your babies. All things being equal, shouldn’t you be there for him?”

All things being equal? I’ve been married almost 20 years, all things are not equal. Never have been. I mean sure, he brings home the money and I spend it. I cook the dinners and he eats them. He wears clothes and I wash them. Balanced, maybe, but not equal. Besides, what does a vasectomy have to do with childbirth? Other than the obvious. I was there, all things are NOT equal.

I gave birth to my oldest in a teaching hospital in Chicago. Now there’s a meet and greet opportunity right there. I met everyone from the janitor to the Chicago Bears that day. Oh no, that’s not right, I met the janitor and the Bears were playing on TV in my private birthing room – where my whole family, friends and various strangers gathered to share this joyous event and ignoring me completely. When I screamed, they just thought I was chearing on our team.

I still remember when my OB came in with her little entourage’ of wannabe doctors and who knows who else. She was checking me over and then turned to everyone and said, “Okay, who wants to tell me how far she’s dilated.”

I was really hoping she was talking about my eyes.

She wasn’t.

Then I hoped they were going to guess.

They didn’t. They had to measure.

I won’t tell you how they measured. I’ll just say that everyone got a turn, including the janitor.

I am happy that I went in with him though for his procedure – even if he was jumping up and down behind the doctor waving his arms and shaking his head no. I just told him he didn’t need to be brave for me and that I would be happy to be the supporting spouse he’d always dreamed of having. And I promised not to laugh or anything. I’m glad I went in, the poor guy didn’t have a clue what the drink holders were for and I had to explain it. So I guess he really did need me afterall.

Delivering our babies was a wonderful experience in retrospect, but that could just be an epidural induced hallucination. I got the epidural shortly after Jeff leaned in close to kiss me and a contraction hit. Poor guy spent the rest of the day sitting in a corner, slapping his ear with his hand and answering imaginary phones. But all in all, it was a good day, surrounded by friends, in a nice calm room, watching the Bears play, and taking pictures. They even let Jeff cut the cord.

I will admit, giving birth is a much better experience than having a vasectomy, and all things are not equal by a long shot. No TV, no visitors, no real drugs for either of us, no cameras and well.. If you ask the urologist if he’ll let you cut the cord – you’ll get escorted back to the waiting room.

We should have stuck with coupons.