I would like to be on a comedy sitcom. I think I would specifically like to be on Psych. It isn’t that I would like to work with these particular actors, except they seem to bust out laughing during their takes at least once a day. During the ending credits, they play the bloopers of that weeks show and you always see them laughing. And they are laughing hard. I don’t laugh hard every day and I would like to start.
Last night I did homework with my son for an hour. Second grade math and science does not make one break out into gut-wrenching laughter. Instead, you often count to ten as your child tries to get out of doing homework. It is as if they believe you have all evening to sit down with them and go over subtraction and that you enjoy making a Jupiter model out of a large Styrofoam ball. All the while, a three year old is hitting you because he cannot find his Iron-man toy.
There was also ever so much laughter when I chose to make ribs for dinner and even read the recipe early enough so that the ribs could cook for the required eight hours. I had planned this meal earlier so the ribs were defrosted and I had all the ingredients out. I hadn’t really read the quantity requirements, however. It called for 4 pounds of ribs and 6 cups of barbeque sauce.
Background information must be inserted here. My husband trades dental services with a cattle rancher. His children get crowns and we get half a cow. It comes in four large boxes with segments wrapped in white paper. I read the labels and pretend to know what they mean. I didn’t realize there were 43.4 different types of steak before we started doing this. I still don’t know the best ways to cook each. I just reach into the freezer, pull out something white, defrost, and cook.
So I unwrapped the defrosted package labeled ribs and four teeny ribs rolled out. I put them in my large crock-pot and they looked even smaller. I had a bottle of barbeque sauce, so instead of 6 cups, I just poured that all over the ribs. I put the lid on and turned it on low.
Four ribs don’t take eight hours to cook. At two o’clock, I realized I now had an after school snack instead of dinner. My sons ate them while my daughter made a snowman. While this was going on, I was making cookies for a community Nativity display. I was supposed to make two dozen, but bought three pre-made packages for a total of 72 cookies. I made them all and decided to give away 48. The whole time I was doing this, I was wondering what would be for dinner since the ribs were snacks. As I left the cookies to cool, I went to lie down and read a book. Thirty minutes later, I went back into the kitchen and ¼ of the cookies was gone and my kids didn’t look so good. I looked at the clock, saw it was 5:30pm and declared that dinner had been served. I ate one of the cookies so that we could eat dinner together as a family – therefore my children will grow up perfect and wholesome because we are always told that family dinners fix everything.
Insert gut wrenching laughter anywhere during this evening. And then add the fact that my kids would not go to bed and were crying while asking why they had to go to bed if they weren’t tired. I answered that they had to go to bed because I was tired and this wasn’t any sort of democracy. Then I got into bed with a young adult fantasy novel and my three year old who kicks and tried to pretend I was in another place. Still didn’t laugh over something funny being said accidentally.
So that is why I want to be on a comedy sitcom. I want a guaranteed gut-wrenching laugh every time there is a “take.” And then when I get something wrong, I want to be able to do a retake. And my children can only accept something is real if a clapperboard is used telling us we are rolling. Anything I say or do before a clapperboard is used does not count in the raising of my children.
I really don’t think this is too much to ask. I need to call my BFF James Taylor. I bet he could get me on Psych.