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You’re funnier when I can hear you. (TWSS!)

13 Mar

At pottery this weekend, Jill was demonstrating how to make a teapot lid so it is sized properly and doesn’t fall inside the pot after it’s fired. As she worked with it, she explained, “You need to make sure it’s a bit bigger than the actual hole it’s going to cover.”

Then, grabbing a trim tool, she started to point at the circumference of it, “This is probably going to shrink by 15%, and if it does, it will fall right out of the hole.”

I was only half-listening from a few wheels away, but I was dialed in enough to hear the only guy in the class say, “That’s what she said.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I whip that phrase out frequently, but rarely have I had a set-up that perfect.

Unfortunately, Jill didn’t hear him, so she said, “What’d you say?”

He repeated himself, “That’s what she said.”

I’m not sure if it was a hearing thing, a sexual-orientation thing or a generational thing, but she again asked him to repeat himself.

“Oh, never mind,” he told her, clearly embarrassed for a simple one-liner to have required such notice.

And in that moment, I was reminded of something I learned years ago: say it loudly the first time. The more you have to repeat something, the more your confidence sags. This is doubly true when it comes to humor.

Even if it was funny when you started, it won’t be when you’re done beating your punchline to a pulp. Unless the whole point of your schtick is the mumble itself. In which case, you should take a lesson from this guy:

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You can tell we’re related. And not just because of our humor.

11 Mar

In the middle of my otherwise stressful work day, I checked my personal email and found this gem waiting for me from my sister, who shares my sense of humor:

Last night I had my spinning class and was super gassy. I’ve never done this before, but last night had to go to the bathroom to let off a little pressure because I was getting crampy.  There were 2 girls in there, probably middle-school age.  I go whipping in (trying to hurry so I can get back to class), go in a stall, and though I tried to be quiet, end up ripping some of the largest, squealiest farts.  Then the girls started giggling.  I peed and then had some more gas, which was just as obnoxious.  They whispered and giggled some more.  I went out to wash my hands and figured I had to own it.  I said, “I know.  It’s nasty.  But I figure better here than in class.”  They couldn’t even look at me.

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Tip: Until you’ve mastered the language, try a thesaurus.

11 Jan

I’m as guilty as the next girl of cursing like a sailor. But I’d like to think I generally maintain awareness of my surroundings and tailor my language to my audience. (My parents might disagree.)

This morning in National Airport I had the joy of sitting next to two women in their early 30s who clearly thought they were hot shit (despite wearing sweatpants in public) and wanted to broadcast their badness to the world at large.

It was odd because – aside from their poor fashion – they seemed like reasonably intelligent, articulate women. Until they fired up the profanity.

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New year = new bed. A big girl bed.

2 Jan

There are some purchases that make a person feel adult: like one’s first car or first home. For me, it was a new bed. (Ironically, I realized I also purchased a Blanky Boo Boo this week. We call that a “juxtaposition,” people.)

I’ve been sleeping on the same mattress for 12 years. Which would be impressive even if it were a pimped out Posturepedic I received as a hand-me-down from my parents. Unfortunately, this bed’s pedigree is even more dubious… I bought it for $50 off a girl whose room in a group house I took over in DC.

Nothing says high-class like a no-name mattress bought in cash off a stranger.

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My dinner is less interesting than your panties. Probably.

13 Dec

One of the interesting acoustic features of my condo is that the wall separating my kitchen from my neighbor’s kitchen is strictly a privacy shield. It does nothing to block the noise.

Fortunately, of all the rooms in my place, that’s the one in which I’m most comfortable with eavesdropping (or being overheard). A few months ago I posted on Facebook something along the lines of, “It sounds like my neighbors have a pet goat.” This weekend I got to the bottom of that mystery. It is my neighbor, singing.

Apparently the guy is tone deaf. Saturday night we was in the kitchen loading the dryer and I heard him trying to belt out some hiphop. And it sounded like a goat bleating. Bless his heart.

He interrupted the song to tell someone that it was a good thing he was doing laundry because he was out of clean underwear. He went on to inform us that he had considered turning his underwear inside-out to get a few more days out of them, but had ultimately decided that would just make his pants dirty.

Whew.

I thought about pulling up a chair and just sitting there to see what else I could learn, since the guy was cracking me up, but it was about that time my fire turned all kinds of ape-shit crazy in the living room, forcing me to run out and get my fire extinguisher.

Fast forward to Sunday night. I’m in the kitchen alone, frying up bacon, onion and mushrooms in a skillet. And I find myself saying – to absolutely no one other than myself – “Oh hells yeah. This is some awesomeness right here. A skillet of bacon, onions and mushrooms for dinner? Who’s jealous? Who’s jealous?”

Except, I wasn’t exactly SAYING it. I was kind of shrieking it because I was excited. And that’s when I heard the distinct sound of my neighbor’s dryer starting. Which means he was probably over there pointing at the wall so his girlfriend could hear me going bananas for a non-nutritional dinner.

At least he’s clear: I’m not a goat. Hells no.

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