My Inner Comedienne and Memory Lane

clown tears

Well, I’ve left it for about as long as is humanly possible.  For those of you who have followed the progress of life with my Inner Comedienne, you may be aware that, thanks to her caffeine-driven madness, I wound up with a whole load of blonde highlights last time I went to the hairdresser.  Really, she and I should have returned a month ago, but after the loud and comedic scene we made last time I got my hair done, I placed Inner Comedienne under house arrest and have been avoiding my hairdresser like the plague.

I’m not sure who I will find hardest to face this afternoon:  Nicki the stylist who listened to my garrulous prattle about the clear value of blondeness in a world or brunettes, or the shampoo boy, who is now living in rabid fear of middle-aged women.  Well, there is the slight possibility that he may have suffered acute gynophobia in any case, but certainly, if this fact was in doubt, I have sealed his fate.

Today, I am determined to leave Inner Comedienne at home while Rational Me attends the hair appointment, and to that end, I am limiting caffeine consumption to one unit this morning.  We all know how spider-monkey crazy she gets when she’s hopped up on java!

Right now, as I sit here typing, she is draped across a chair in my living room, the very picture of girlish placidity.  She swings her massively oversized candy-red feet and idly twists a lock of rainbow wig in her fingers.  She has fixed me with a knowing expression.  “Go ahead,” she whispers.  “Try and write something amusing this morning without me.”

Rational Me forges ahead, humorless perhaps, but certainly swimming in safer waters.

“You are not coming,” I tell her firmly.  “Look at these dark roots.  I blame you entirely.”

Inner Comedienne chuckles and starts leafing through my planner.  “Our son is arriving on Saturday,” she says.  “We need to look our best.”

Says the clown in the rainbow wig.

“He’s not your son,” I snap.  “He’s mine.”

She laughs out loud at that one.  “Oh please,” she says.  “That boy has belonged to me from the start.  His first word was to imitate a fart.  At 5 months old.  And we all remember Underwear Man…”  I have an immediate mental image of a 3-year-old boy streaking down the stairs wearing underwear on his head, a pillowcase around his throat, and not a stitch more.

“Hmmm… I’ll give you that one.”

“Remember the Gingerbread Man?”  I picture my 5-year-old boy decked out in a frosting collar and gumdrop buttons, arms spread wide, singing, “Ginger, Ginger, Ginger-Ginger-Ginger, Ginger-Ginger-Gingerbread Man…”. followed up by a rousing rendition of “Tooty Fruity” as his encore.  Complete with choreography.   I think he wore that costume for about a year.

“Ok… so he’s pretty funny,” I grudgingly admit.

“That’s because he’s my son,” Inner Comedienne nods sagely and pulls the string on her squirty lapel flower.  I receive a jet of water in the eye.  Or perhaps I am tearing up at this trip down memory lane.  “And we all know that NOBODY does Cletus Spuckler imitations quite as well as our son…”


Rational Me is carried along memory lane to another of our family’s “Big Adventures.”  We have just flown into Washington D.C. for a family holiday.  The entire drive into town is punctuated by wildly amusing commentary on each of the national monuments… all done in the voice of Cletus Spuckler.  I look into the backseat of our rental car, and there is my boy, all of 13, with a crumpled Kleenex emanating from each nostril.  As if Kleenex nostril candles are the most normal thing in the world.   “Hey Brandine,” says Cletus, “Ahh done busted my stankbone!”

I believe Inner Comedienne just won this round.  I look into her sad eyes and notice there is now a black teardrop painted on her left cheek.  She misses her boy.  Nobody “gets” her special brand of crazy quite like he does.

clown tears 2

I can’t help thinking that maybe her rainbow wig could use a touch-up as well.

“Fine,” I say.  “Grab your unicycle and whoopee cushion.  You can come with…but you MUST behave this time!”

Inner Comedienne gives me a watery smile and dashes away her painted tear.  “I’ll be good,” she says, “I promise!”

Then she hands me a can of Pepsi Max…

Mother Hen

© motherhendiaries 2014 all rights reserved

4 replies »

    • My honey is the same… he is a wind-up merchant extraoridinaire and knows JUST where to aim in order to release the spider monkey within! Apart from caffeine, he is the next best trigger.


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