Tag: humor

A collection of my more humorous adventures.

It is the Silliest Things Really.

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Have you ever had days where you just feel touched by God? I don’t have them often, but when the creator of the universe wants to touch me – he does it with such flourish that I cannot help but know he see me. I’ll give you an example. I like to spend time in my gardens, watching butterflies and birds make their way. I’ve come to appreciate the beauty of Oklahoma since moving here 18 years ago. The sky just goes on forever and most days I can see a hawk or an eagle if I’m lucky. The clouds are large and white and look like cotton candy just waiting for me to reach out and touch them.

I feel closest to God when I’m in my gardens. It’s there that I spend most of my time talking to him. I was having a particularly rough go at it one day and was spending a large amount of time just pouring my heart out. Feeling that I was being sucked down into a negative state of mind, I decided to start thanking him for the blessings in my life. I rattled off my family, my friends, the birds and wildlife in my yard. As I looked up to comment on the beauty of the sky I talked about how much I love the expanse, and the clouds. Except that one cloud God, that one looks like a monster’s head, I said and I shivered.

Without warning, the clouds began to shift and the monster head disappeared and became something that looked like a lamb. In a state of total shock I asked out loud, “Is that you God?” and again the clouds shifted and revealed a hand.

Show off.

I giggled for days.

When the creator of the universe wants to dazzle me, he makes it intimate, and he does it with subtle flourish. Why not? He is an artist after all.

I have times and seasons where I really do wonder if I’m doing the right thing, on the right path, or if I’m even seen. I’m really not one of those women who is content to stay behind the scenes and work unnoticed all of the time. Not that every day should be my own private Oscar celebration, but still – sometimes I need to see small snippets; some kind of reassurance that I’m heading in the right direction. Don’t we all?

If you cannot relate to that statement, please let me come check your pulse. Everyone needs those small moments of acknowledgment or thanks at least once in a while and if you don’t – well then I believe you might be lying to me or even to yourself. That or you’ve bought into the lie that not needing affirmation is a sign of strength. It isn’t. It’s a sign of self-reliance and tells me you’ve isolated yourself to such a point that your relationships are dried out. And maybe your own spirit as well. No one is an island. Whether we are capable of admitting it or not, we need each other.

I’ve been second guessing myself lately. This whole going back on stage, learning stand up and improv, auditioning for movies and plays and commercials, and interviewing agents is a scary deal. I’m not a kid anymore. I find the irony of officially joining SAG at 46 years of age both funny and frightening. I’m a mother now, shouldn’t I be doing something more respectable? I caught myself making a plan B. Well if this doesn’t work out, I could always go back to school and become a nurse.

Where does that thought come from? Is it fear? Self Reliance?  The desire or need to hang on to an assured ending?  That’s why I remembered Second City not that long ago. I did the same thing to myself when I was 22. Remember? I chose the safety of a data room and guaranteed income over my dreams. I did the same thing when Ringling Brothers came to town. I had a chance to audtion and I chickened out.

Not that I was wrong to do that, after all I met my husband that year, but still Plan B doesn’t get me where I want. Plan B is always about safety, lack of risk and is loaded with fear based choices. Plan B doesn’t come close to leading me into being the woman I always wanted to be; Fearless, strong, interdependent, and full of purpose.

I did what I’ve learned to do which is pray and ask God for direction or okay a sign maybe. I can’t tell you what he did, I’d be a little embarrassed actually if you knew. But he did something so closely tied to SC that I cannot help but know that I’m seen and yes, I’m on the right path.

You might say he moved the clouds that were distorting my vision and revealed again the endless sky of possibility.

And you guessed it, I’ve been giggling for days.

 2011 is a new year, ripe with possibility for all of us.

While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die – whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness. Gilda Radner

REPOST: Epic Fail: On Romance and Marriage

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Rumor has it, great romances involve planning. Every good relationship book will tell you that you have to plan for time together in order to keep romance in marriage alive and well. What every good relationship book does not tell you is there is a right way, and a wrong way for such planning.

Movies make it look easy. All a woman has to do is show up in his office for a surprise lunch wearing nothing but a fur coat, that sort of thing. The real world? If I did that, my coat would get stuck in the elevator and I’d wind up on his floor with just my shoes. Oh yeah, he’d be surprised alright. Along with the rest of his staff.

Still, I want adventure and I like doing fun things for my husband, but…

I tried to get creative once. It didn’t work.

I found his blackberry one night and decided to write on his calendar. I picked a random date out in the future and posted a lunch meeting for him to “go home and ravish wife.” AKA me.

Did you know that a Corporate issued Blackberry syncs up with corporate calendars?

Me neither.

And apparently, corporate secretaries have access to corporate calendars.

Husbands do not like getting phone calls from their secretary saying “Mr Robinson wants to schedule a lunch meeting with you for Tuesday, but it says here you are supposed to be ravishing your wife at that time. Should I reschedule that appointment or move Mr Robinson to a different date?”

Corporate secretaries are vastly underpaid.

Watching the Bears in Peace

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I love my Bears.
I love my husband.
I love watching my Bears WITH my husband.
Our oldest is away at college.
 
Our youngest was at work.
We are alone.
On the couch.
Watching the pre-game show.
When the old quarterbacks start talking about Cutler and Thigpen.
I can’t make this up.
One former quarterback to another:
“Thigpen might be third string for Miami, but he’s got a great tight end.”
Seriously, would YOU let a comment like that pass you by?
It gets better.
Another announcer mispronounces the word “version” and says “Every team has a virgin like that.”
My husband has decided that the boys can never move away.

The Roar of Courage

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Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, I’ll try again tomorrow. – Mary Anne Radmacher

I am not much of the roaring lion type — unless I’m dealing with a rebellious teen — don’t ask. Still, I do find new days and new ways of doing something brave.

Take stand-up for instance. Those who’ve been following my blog know that I’ve stepped out of the house and onto the stage. It hasn’t been easy. Truth be told my first few times doing comedy, my fear spoke more loudly than my jokes. Even though I’m afraid, I keep going back. My biggest hurdle facing me right now, is the microphone. I don’t know how to handle it well and therefore I’m intimidated by it.  And yes, Sigmund Freud would have a field day with that.

Jeff, “Touch it.”

 Me, “I don’t want to touch it.”

Jeff, “The Microphone is your friend, Deana.”

Me, “Yeah, well you told me something else was my friend and now we have two sons.”

I was asked to perform recently and it was the first time on stage since my hysterectomy. Nervous would be an understatement.  The mic was “hot” according the host and for me, that spelled trouble. So, I handled my fear the way I handle all fears, I just avoided the mic. And lost a lot of laughs because of it.

Good news is, I still got invited back and will have my chance to try again. Which is a good thing, because I have a show in Yukon at the end of the month.

What about you?

What thing do you get to try again?

From Clown School Drop out to Major Film Star? News at 11.

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What secret dream do you dream when no one is looking?

I dream about juggling and being a clown in the circus. That’s a nice practical dream to have when you are 45 don’t you think?   Sometimes, I go into my garage and dig out my old polyester scarves and practice juggling them. Just for fun mind you. When no one is home, I will stand there dropping juggling tossing up my colorful scarves. While I watch them float to the ground, I remember what it is like to dream about running away and joining the circus, . Not just any circus mind you, but THE Ringling Brother’s Barnum and Bailey Circus to be exact. Clown College filled my hopes and dreams for many years. I had the chance to audition for it back in 1988 and I chickened out. True story.

The auditions were a cold call in Chicago.  A come as you are – no make up, no costume, no character, just me. I couldn’t do it. I never arrived – I never tried. I failed before I even began.

Deep down in the secret places of my heart I still want to be a clown, just like my hero Emmett Kelly.

Sometimes secret places can be good places and sometimes not. This kind of memory brings joy mixed with regret. 

I studied clowning for a short time under a former Ringling Brothers clown named Bonzo – aka Barry DeChant – he’s long retired by now I’m sure. Barry worked with our class of wannabes and did his best to teach everyone every secret he knew. I would hang on to every word he said and would try to master every last stance, grin, guffaw, and stunt right up until he taught us how to juggle.

Did I tell you I’m dyslexic? Dyslexic people should probably not juggle. Just sayin.

They shouldn’t twirl batons either — I did that in Junior high. Everyone would toss their batons up and to the left. Mine would go up and to the right. I took out more basketball players with my baton during half time than the cheerleaders did all season.

juggling was no different.

Toss Toss Catch Catch became Toss Toss deargodrun!

The class excelled and Barry gave me scarves proclaiming proudly I couldn’t possible hurt anyone with those — he would have been right too, if he hadn’t stuck me next to the flame thrower for our final show. Good thing those flames weren’t real or that would have been really ugly.

I’m too old for clown college but I’m not too old for second chances. I’ve MCed various fundraiser events for several years. I’ve performed comedy during open mic nights and in churches. I even tried to perform at a Christian Comedy Association conference last year for their open mic night — I suffered severe stage fright, but I did it. I’ve traveled and taken classes on speaking and teaching and performing. I’ve narrowed my focus from speaking and teaching to mostly comedy and I have no regrets. I’m actually pretty funny in case you were wondering. 

I don’t want to wake up 20 years from now and find myself in my garage with my microphone tossing out jokes to an invisible audience.

I have an audition today – with a major motion picture filming director. It’s an open call, come as you are, no character, no costume, no experience necessary — it’s just like the one I ran away from in ’88. Only this time, I’m gonna be there.

Wish me luck.

Things a Mom Says

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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

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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.

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