« Fabulous | Main | Goats, More Trams, and More About TV! »

March 20, 2005

Am I Really Doing This?

From Stephanie, March's Guest Literary Chick!

As research for a novel I'm planning on writing, I'm taking a stand-up comedy class. At first I kind of fooled myself that I'd just sit in the back and take notes and watch everyone else go through the process. But by the end of the first class, I realized that I really should write up some material. Then I realized that I really should do the performance we're all supposed to do when the class ends in a few weeks.

Then I realized that instead of reading from some note cards, I really should try to memorize what I've written. This performance is in a few weeks, and there will be about 100 people in the audience at this comedy club, and it looks like i really am going to attempt to do this. Now I realize that I really should commit myself to a mental institution.

I'm really, really scared. I'm supposed to stand up on this podium with a microphone in my hand telling jokes! I have never performed, unless you count when I sang with my junior high school choir, where I learned that if you don't know the words to a song, you just mouth "watermelon" over and over and no one can tell. Every time I think about what I've gotten myself into, I get this acidic wave going from my throat down to my belly. Writers should not have to perform. Actually, I have done readings, come to think of it, and that does count as a performance. But at least you have the words right in front of your face. And you don't have the pressure of being funny.

Here's a sample from my "material." It's takes a long time to get to the "punchline." I'm saying that because I can imagine everyone reading along and going, this isn't funny... Maybe it's not funny, even when you do get to the "punchline." Who, me? Insecure? God, I'll be glad when this class is over...

You know how they keep saying married couples aren't having sex anymore? They use the word "epidemic." Like it's a disease. The thing is, there's always an excuse. There's always an excuse not to have sex. Especially when you have kids. Sex is impossible with kids around. When they're babies, and breastfeeding, they're sleeping in the room with you, that's a real sex killer. Then, when they're toddlers and they're finally sleeping in their own room, you're so happy to get a good night's sleep, sex can wait. Then when they're pre-pubescent, they're having nightmares, they're back in your room again. I'm someone who can't have sex if I know my children are awake in the apartment. I feel like they'll put their ear to the door and then go commit suicide. Now my daughter is a teenager. She stays up so late, it's impossible to outlast her. Of course, eventually, the kids move out. You finally have the apartment to yourself. So you can't use the kids as an excuse anymore. That's why so many marriages break up after the kids move out. You need another excuse. You can't make love... you aren't married anymore!

Okay, maybe it's funnier when I say it out loud.

Posted by at 11:46 PM | Comments (1)

Comments

Posted by: Bozoette Mary at March 21, 2005 9:29 AM