I queried an editor once, ‘…if Andy Rooney and Erma Bombeck had a love-child, I would be the writer which emerged from their illegitimate tryst’. It didn’t get results, I didn’t want to write for that editor anyway, but it did get me to thinking…when I get older will I have bushy eyebrows, oh wait, I am already older and I haven’t had to tweeze in years.
With apologies to both families of the dear-departed I am beginning
to hum the old tune by Donny and Marie, I’m a little bit housewife, I’m a
little bit pain in the ass.
Now that I’m writing a weekly column for a great local paper
I’m beginning to realize that my writing is indeed morphing into a kind of mix
of down-home Bombeck witticism (updated) and Rooney’s darted-wit (I smile more).
When I read my columns out loud before I send them I hear the lilt, the rhythm of
Rooney’s voice. It’s oddly comforting, I miss the old guy on Sunday nights.
I can see myself behind a desk speaking into a camera, ‘so
when did pregnant women start calling their big bellies, bumps and when did we
start to wear scarves, inside the house in June, instead of outside when the
weather goes arctic? Stuff like that.
Not much more to say on the subject…the phone is ringing…maybe
it’s 60 minutes...nope, it's a Republican neighbor.
I love caller ID? I remember when phones were big black hunks of plastic with a dial and a cord and no way of knowing who was calling. It was kind of like not knowing whether you were having a boy or a girl. Whose calling, which bill collector, which kid asking to send money? Oh, it's the Republican neighbor, complaining. Some things are still the same.