Erma Does Not Live Here!

I recently bolted down to Florida to conduct some Florida business. Lots of things happened there. Lots of things that are way far outside my normal modus operandi.

For instance, I signed autographs. Lots of them. It was kind of awesome because a full 1/28th of the people for whom I signed them knew who I was.

I got in a germy kayak wearing an even germier life vest. If that’s not bad enough, you should know I wasn’t wearing any make-up and I hadn’t even had a shower that morning.

The night before my “friends” had filled me full of whale ass wrapped in seaweed.

It occurred to me that they were trying to kill me by making me shark bait. Everyone knows sharks enjoy sushi more than even New Yorkers who have moved to Florida.

Yes – I’m a middle-aged woman who has never before eaten sushi… or raw anything frankly. But when in Tampa, one must do as the New Yorkers do and eat stuff that should only ever be seen if a Seafood Coroner is trying to determine the cause of death for an octopus.

“Eat it,” said my friends.

“Suck it,” I said back to my friends, and then I broke my chopsticks in half in an act of defiance (and an act of not knowing how to use chopsticks.)

Probably the highlight of the Tampa trip though was getting to see the Scientology Headquarters up close and personal. I admit I’m not an expert or anything, but I know at least enough about the “religion” to know that this is where Tom Cruise’s pretend god lives.

I think on the third floor.

I wanted to go knock on the door and see if maybe I could get myself a bucket full of money or magic or something, but I was afraid the guards on the roof would shoot me in the eye.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Sher… who put on a clown wig, a leisure suit and a smile and when everyone was watching, killed fitty men.

Currently my darling soon to be ex-husband is all broke back and whatnot. This means four very important things – things I hope will be admissible in court as evidence that I am in fact completely, but justifiably, bat shit crazy right now.

1. He is in tremendous pain, but completely stoned so that he rarely knows it. Unfortunately I get to know it. I know it from the grunting, the moaning, and the way he whimpers when he asks me to refill his water dish.
2. He resides solely in his bedroom, coming out only long enough to growl like a hibernating bear who was suddenly awakened – and who happens to be stoned on The Vicodin because he’s a broke back bear and whatnot. (Coincidentally my husband also has all the charm of a pissed off, completely wasted, grizzly.)
3. He’s not working. I realize in the rest of the universe, when one doesn’t work that means that one is on vacation or sabbatical or some damn fancy thing.  Not this one. This One is not working for an entirely uncool reason and is therefore receiving a very uncool salary.
4. I’m not getting any.

Let’s go ahead and bust out your chubby pencil and ruled paper and do the math, kids.

Add one drugged up, pain-dipped, grumpy ass man who never leaves the house

with one middle-aged woman who is a single missed dose of estrogen away from the legal definition of insanity

subtract the salary he’s not making

multiply that by the number of people who think we should be able to crap money and pay our bills anyway

carry the cane

divide by the number of times I’ve told him I’m gonna hump the cart boy at Wal-Mart and/or rob the cart boy at Wal-Mart

and you know what you get?

A CHICK IN A MOTHER TRUCKING CLOWN WIG WHOM YOU CAN ONLY PRAY NEVER FIGURES OUT HOW YOU MAKE A HIGH POWERED ASSAULT RIFLE OUT OF A CANE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PS: Don’t tell Mr. Man that he’s my soon to be ex. He hasn’t received my standard “I’m divorcing you” singing telegram quite yet.

I know you’re dead. I know you’re in the midst of that big bowl of cherries up in Heaven – this time the ones without pits. But I figure you were nice while you were down here matching wits with the Maytag repairman, so chances are you’re still nice.

Especially what with being in Heaven and what not.

So here’s the thing, Dear Erma, people are mean and I’m not sure how to handle it. I don’t know if you knew that when you were around ’cause maybe everyone was sweet as sugar to you when you wrote If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits?

Maybe your neighbors all showed up at your house with casseroles made with Ritz Crackers and cheese to celebrate your fabulousness.  Maybe those fancy ladies you played Bridge with said things to you like, “Erma, you so funny bitch! I’m lovin on you like no other,” and then they yelled Bridge or Ho Down or whatever it is you yell when you win at Bridge.

But Dear Erma, it’s not like that now. Myself, Ry & KK thought we might get together and blog about our lives – whatever that means. We thought it might be funny once in awhile. We thought it might make others feel better about themselves if we pulled back the curtain a bit on how truly messed up we are and shined the light on it.  Sorta like you did – except with swearing and too many references to sex. What happened then was totally not cool.

People started leaving us mean comments and actually took time out of their day to tell us, “you suck”.  Not a single casserole, Dear Erma, and when anyone yelled Ho Down, it wasn’t because they beat us at a card game.

Yes, they said nice things, too. Well different people said the nice things – but the mean people said the mean things and those are the things that stick like warm marshmallows to a penis. (See what I mean about the sex references?)

The other non-Ermas don’t know it because I never told them, but I got email from people who wanted to tell me they didn’t like those “rich, snooty women” and that I am the worst of all, because I do “redneck humor” and make fun of Dooce while I am not fit to hold her breast pump.

Yes – I make fun of Dooce. Repeatedly.  And you know what, Dear Erma? If you were not in Heaven flying around making people laugh, I’d make fun of you, too. That’s ’cause humor writers should stick together and laugh at and with each other. We should be able to see the funny in everything – even being pretend arch enemies. I’m pretty sure you could take it, just like I’m sure Dooce can take it. I just happen to think her minions can’t quite wrap their minds around it. They wanna beat me up and what not.

And as far as those rich, snooty women who co-author this blog, they’re two of the funniest women I’ve ever met. When I’m on the phone with them, or ooVoo, I can’t quit laughing. To think they’re snooty is like saying you Dear Erma were snooty. I’ve seen these chicks with no make-up after just cleaning up a pile of dog doodie but before showering. They’re just as gross as the rest of us – and they’ll be the first to tell you so.

So in conclusion, Dear Erma, I’m not sure what to do. If you could send me a sign, that would be completely awesome. Don’t like show up in my bedroom late at night though talking about, “Boooo” and moving my furniture around. That would scare the shit right outta me.

See? Swearing. I’m sorry I said “shit” to a humor writer angel. That was fucked up.

Sher

PS: Tell the haters to take their hatin’ comment and shove it right up their … (insert orafice here).