IWSG: Should Women Shy Away From Self-Deprecating Humor?

                                                                   

   

It's time for another edition of  the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the other talented writers.

The other day I ran into an old classmate that I hadn't seen in years. We went all through school together, and though his hair had turned salt and pepper, I immediately recognized him. He reminded me that we were Facebook friends, and offered up suggestions for my blog.

Though he thought it had "potential," he felt I needed to "ease up" on my self-deprecating humor. 

 "Men like confident women," he said. "We don't want to hear about your flaws. It doesn't reflect well on you or your family. Take pride in your accomplishments, and stop going for the cheap laughs." 

Then he smiled when he asked, "I'm glad your mom still has a great sense of humor. Does she still wear those tight leather pants?" 

For once I was tongue-tied. Though part of me was flattered he actually read my blog,  I was shocked he had found it offensive, and creeped out that he still had a thing for my mom. It was high time I put him in his place.

"Many female comedy legends are known for their self-deprecating humor. Look at Joan Rivers, Carol Burnett, Tina Fey, and Amy Poehler. Even Lucille Ball was at her best when she was stomping on grapes, or shoving chocolates down her uniform at the chocolate factory. Comedy isn't always sexy, yet many of these women are very attractive. I know I'll never be in their league, but you know what I mean."

He stared at me for a minute before asking, "Remember you mom's leopard couch? They sure don't make couches like that anymore. Didn't she have a matching robe too?"

I almost dropped my vanilla chai latte. "I don't remember inviting you over. When were you ever in our house?"

"Your brother asked Donny and me to come over after baseball practice one day."

Donny? Then it all came back to me. He and Donny were in a group of boys who traumatized me in grammar school. When he wasn't calling me names, he was busy shoving me on the playground. He was the ringleader in a group of kids who picked on everything from my buck teeth to my clown shoes. 

Funny how someone who spent years deflating my ego found my self-deprecating humor unbecoming. 

*Note: This is a repost from November 4, 2014.

                                                           

IWSG: Should Women Shy Away From Self-Deprecating Humor?

It's time for another addition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit  Alex J. Cavanaugh, and the other welcoming writers.

The other day I ran into an old classmate that I hadn't seen in years. We went all through school together, and though his hair had turned salt and pepper, I immediately recognized him. He reminded me that we were Facebook friends, and offered up suggestions for my blog.

Though he thought it had "potential," he felt I needed to "ease up" on my self-deprecating humor. He added, "Men like confident women. We don't want to hear about your flaws. It doesn't reflect well on you or your family. Take pride in your accomplishments, and stop going for the cheap laughs." Then he smiled when he said, "I'm glad your mom still has a great sense of humor. Does she still wear those tight leather pants?" 

For once I was tongue-tied. Though part of me was flattered he actually read my blog,  I was shocked he had found it offensive, and creeped out that he still had a thing for my mom. It was high time I put him in his place, "Many female comedy legends are known for their self-deprecating humor. Look at Joan Rivers, Carol Burnett, Tina Fey, and Amy Poehler. Even Lucille Ball was at her best when she was stomping on grapes, or shoving chocolates down her uniform at the chocolate factory. Comedy isn't always sexy, yet many of these women are very attractive. I know I'll never be in their league, but you know what I mean."

He stared at me for a minute before asking, "Remember you mom's leopard couch? They sure don't make couches like that anymore. Didn't she have a matching robe too?"

I almost dropped my vanilla chai latte. "I don't remember inviting you over. When were you ever in our house?"

"Your brother asked me and Donny to come over after baseball practice one day."

Donny? Then it all came back to me. He and Donny were in a group of boys who traumatized me in grammar school. When he wasn't calling me names, he was busy shoving me on the playground. He was the ringleader in a group of kids who picked on everything from my buck teeth to my clown shoes. Funny how someone who spent years deflating my ego, found my self-deprecating humor unbecoming. 

                                                                      

Beauty Shop Bullies

For over fifty years, my mom has gone to the beauty shop for a weekly fix.  Most visits include a wash, blow dry, and endless teasing. Unfortunately, as her designated driver much of that teasing is aimed at me.

Recently, I picked her up a few minutes late, and we drove in complete silence. Finally, I told her that a friend called who was falling asleep at the wheel during a long drive. She asked me to keep her company on the phone to prevent her from dozing off. Thus, I ended up leaving ten minutes later relieved to know that my friend made it home safely. I felt satisfied that I would be off the hook until my mom replied, "That's not a good enough reason."

After I helped my mom in with her walker, and replaced her coat with a smock the manicurist gave me the evil eye and said to my mom, "Why didn't you take the bus? You're never late when you come on the senior bus."

Then I noticed one of the "regulars" from across the room. Our friend "Vivian" is a very nice woman in her mid eighties who looks great, and is incredibly sharp. Vivian always has cute photos of her great grandchildren with her, so I thought I would share some pictures of my sons. I could hear the spaghetti western music playing, as we were getting ready to draw our cell phones. Vivian pulled first, and showed me beautiful clear photos on her iPhone, while we had to use a magnifying glass to see the images on my no-frills flip phone. Vivian laughed, and told me that I should get a better phone. She checked her emails, and continued to giggle, as she awaited her hair stylist.

Three hours later, when I was immersed in enough secondhand hairspray to kill a horse, my mom announced she was ready to leave.  While I was helping her with her coat, she saw that a button was loose, and asked her hair stylist if she had a needle and thread. Not only did she find one, but she proceeded to sew the button on my mom's coat, while she was wearing it. If I had the power to knight this saintly woman who is quite a dame I would.

After forty five minutes of saying goodbyes, Vivian came over to apologize for her remarks
about my phone, and all was forgiven. No nails were chipped, no hairs were blown, and Mom made it back home safe and sound: mission accomplished.

"Overcoming Adversity" Bloghop

                                                                  

Nick Wilford is hosting the  "Overcoming Adversity" bloghop  where writers are invited to share stories to help raise funds to send his stepson Andrew to a  specialist college. Nick has graciously offered to compile these short stories into an anthology. Thanks to Nick for all of his hard work, and best of luck to Andrew. Be sure to visit the other writers who are joining forces to help Nick's family reach their goals. This is my story.

             

 

Tales From The Back Row        

Growing up I had my fair share of run-ins with bullies. Recess was always my worst part of the day. When I told the supervisors that older classmates were chasing me, and often tackling me to the ground, they just looked away. Eventually, I took matters into my own hands, and pushed a boy back. He fell on the playground, and had to have stitches. I felt empowered, but not for long.

It didn’t help that I had big buck teeth, and walked like a penguin. My own brother silently terrorized me by giving me the “buck tooth signal” at the dinner table when my parents weren’t looking. Suddenly, I would start crying, and my brother would be innocently eating his vegetables. Occasionally, my dad would just give him a whack although he never caught him in the act.

Years later, I wore braces, and practiced walking with an encyclopedia on my head which alleviated my waddle, but I was still a klutz. Then I joined the school chorus, and finally felt like I belonged.

 

I continued singing in junior high, and was excited to audition for my first high school play. After I was rejected, I joined the stage crew. There I was reunited with a nasty neighbor. Nothing I did was good enough, and he was hurling insults like a family member. Finally, my brother knocked on his door, and told his father that if he didn’t leave me alone, he would have no choice but to beat up his son. My brother was shorter than him, but more powerfully built. His father nodded in agreement, and they shook on it. This happened at the end of my freshman year when my brother was a senior. From that point on, the boy never bothered me again, and we even became friends.

During my sophomore year, I began taking voice lessons at school, and still had no luck. The following year, my voice teacher suggested that I perform an opera in a state competition. After I won first place, the musical director had a change of heart, and cast me in the chorus of the spring musical. I was finally going to be in my first school play, after three long years of rejection. I didn’t even mind that they stuck me in the back row, because I was tall; though I knew it was because I couldn’t dance.

Sadly, my dad never got to see me onstage. He was hospitalized before my first performance, and passed away about a month later. I’ll always remember the day I came home from school after I made the play. There was a big, shiny silver star on my bedroom door with my name written on it. When I excitedly ran to thank my mom, she was caught unaware. Next, I took a closer look at the star, and saw that the inscription was in my dad’s handwriting.