THURSDAY, MAY 21, 2009 12:00 ET/PT (TVPG)
Coming May 21st on LAST NIGHT with Rick Rantamaki --Special Guest: Lucy Adams – Syndicated Newspaper Columnist and Author of “If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny” (http://www.ifmama.com)
Yes, published author Lucy Adams has agreed to stop by MY blog next month. So, obviously, we're busy getting the house band back together and ironing out the back rent issues with the studio.
In the meantime, as customary, everyone must have their permission slips signed and returned to me by no later than Wednesday. Otherwise, you’ll have to sit in the cafeteria with the other special needs patients, while the rest of us enjoy the hilarious antics of Ms. Adams – and believe me, you don’t want to miss this funny lady.
Here is an excerpt from her book (just so you’ve got an idea of what to expect):
In the meantime, as customary, everyone must have their permission slips signed and returned to me by no later than Wednesday. Otherwise, you’ll have to sit in the cafeteria with the other special needs patients, while the rest of us enjoy the hilarious antics of Ms. Adams – and believe me, you don’t want to miss this funny lady.
Here is an excerpt from her book (just so you’ve got an idea of what to expect):
Too Old for Summer
by Lucy Adams
Growing up, I always thought my parents were too old for summer, because they would constantly nag us kids not to sit on the sofa in our wet bathing suits.
Freshly finished with conducting my own drenched children away from absorbent upholstery, I heard someone call for adult skiers. My husband smiled devilishly and said, “That’s you Babe.” Briefly, I empathized with the surprised fish on a hook dangling in the sunshine.
I hadn’t water skied in years. “I just had a baby,” I protested.
“Honey,” snapped my spouse, “she’s five. You’ve had a sufficient post-partum recovery period.”
Friends cajoled me, saying, “I’ll go if you go.”
It’s like riding a bike, they all encouraged. And I meekly agreed, although I had never swallowed a lung of water toodling down the sidewalk on my two-wheeler.
My diabolical alter ego teased, If you don’t do it, you’re too old for summer.
Currently, in a cosmic battle against middle age advance, I simply refused to be too old for anything…reasonably safe.
“One ski or two,” the Captain asked. I paused to asses my options. Yes, I could probably get out of the water easier on two, but I might deteriorate into that awkward, out of shape stance, bent at the waist, reaching forward to hold the rope, with one ski in and one ski out of the wake.
“One,” I blurted, as I stripped myself of visor, hair clip, sunglasses, and self-esteem, exchanging them for a life-preserver. They don’t call it that for nothing, I reminded myself. My rapidly beating heart made my hands tremor.
Adrift in the lake, just me and a ski, I thrashed about in an effort to insert my left foot into the boot. All the while the rope circled like a predatory shark, alerted by the scent of struggle. Finally, I grabbed the handle, someone yelled, “Get ready,” and I hollered, “Okay;” meaning, Okay, I’m getting ready.
The rope tightened, jerked, and spun me on my axis. My arms loosened from their sockets and the handle sprang from my grip, taking with it a fingernail and my one scrap of dignity.
When the boat came back around, my husband fussed, “I said get ready.”
A retort got lost in a gurgle.
The second go, I got situated, gave the thumbs up, and immediately submerged under a rush of 30 mph water. Resurfacing, my head felt like someone shoved hot knives into my sinuses and sadistically turned them.
My beloved, unknowingly motivational, taunted, “You don’t have it in you anymore, do ya?”
Third attempt. I popped up…but my bathing suit didn’t. It needed a not-so-mild adjustment; which meant I had to let go of the rope with one hand. While I considered the ramifications, a peep show proceeded behind my back. Needless to say, I soon got everything straightened out in the end.
Eventually, I relaxed, leaned back, and tried a few cuts, until I swung like a pendulum, kicking up spray and breathing as if I’d smoked several packs of Marlboro Reds. Winded, I pointed toward home.
On the approach, I raised a triumphant hand to my audience. Just as I completed the elbow-elbow portion of the beauty queen wave – SWOOSH – I got my pipes cleaned. My bathing suit required another not-so-mild adjustment.
I floated limply, chagrined.
None of the gawkers on the dock took a turn, as promised. They clung to their pride like a leaky life raft.
My solace: I might have my bathing suit twisted around my axis, but at least I’m not too old for summer.
Freshly finished with conducting my own drenched children away from absorbent upholstery, I heard someone call for adult skiers. My husband smiled devilishly and said, “That’s you Babe.” Briefly, I empathized with the surprised fish on a hook dangling in the sunshine.
I hadn’t water skied in years. “I just had a baby,” I protested.
“Honey,” snapped my spouse, “she’s five. You’ve had a sufficient post-partum recovery period.”
Friends cajoled me, saying, “I’ll go if you go.”
It’s like riding a bike, they all encouraged. And I meekly agreed, although I had never swallowed a lung of water toodling down the sidewalk on my two-wheeler.
My diabolical alter ego teased, If you don’t do it, you’re too old for summer.
Currently, in a cosmic battle against middle age advance, I simply refused to be too old for anything…reasonably safe.
“One ski or two,” the Captain asked. I paused to asses my options. Yes, I could probably get out of the water easier on two, but I might deteriorate into that awkward, out of shape stance, bent at the waist, reaching forward to hold the rope, with one ski in and one ski out of the wake.
“One,” I blurted, as I stripped myself of visor, hair clip, sunglasses, and self-esteem, exchanging them for a life-preserver. They don’t call it that for nothing, I reminded myself. My rapidly beating heart made my hands tremor.
Adrift in the lake, just me and a ski, I thrashed about in an effort to insert my left foot into the boot. All the while the rope circled like a predatory shark, alerted by the scent of struggle. Finally, I grabbed the handle, someone yelled, “Get ready,” and I hollered, “Okay;” meaning, Okay, I’m getting ready.
The rope tightened, jerked, and spun me on my axis. My arms loosened from their sockets and the handle sprang from my grip, taking with it a fingernail and my one scrap of dignity.
When the boat came back around, my husband fussed, “I said get ready.”
A retort got lost in a gurgle.
The second go, I got situated, gave the thumbs up, and immediately submerged under a rush of 30 mph water. Resurfacing, my head felt like someone shoved hot knives into my sinuses and sadistically turned them.
My beloved, unknowingly motivational, taunted, “You don’t have it in you anymore, do ya?”
Third attempt. I popped up…but my bathing suit didn’t. It needed a not-so-mild adjustment; which meant I had to let go of the rope with one hand. While I considered the ramifications, a peep show proceeded behind my back. Needless to say, I soon got everything straightened out in the end.
Eventually, I relaxed, leaned back, and tried a few cuts, until I swung like a pendulum, kicking up spray and breathing as if I’d smoked several packs of Marlboro Reds. Winded, I pointed toward home.
On the approach, I raised a triumphant hand to my audience. Just as I completed the elbow-elbow portion of the beauty queen wave – SWOOSH – I got my pipes cleaned. My bathing suit required another not-so-mild adjustment.
I floated limply, chagrined.
None of the gawkers on the dock took a turn, as promised. They clung to their pride like a leaky life raft.
My solace: I might have my bathing suit twisted around my axis, but at least I’m not too old for summer.
Copywrite Lucy Adams – “If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny”
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