Erma Bombeck Contest Entry

This is a short piece I wrote for a competition that involved writing something in the style of Erma Bombeck. I enter and lose every year because it's a tradition and Erma is a personal hero. I really liked the piece I wrote this year though, especially after surviving my Grandmother's 80th birthday wherein one of my aunts got hideously drunk in public and booed a band at a local bar. This is my life. Enjoy! 

Introducing my fiancé to my parents was easy. In fact I allowed it to happen way back when he was just my boyfriend. But I made sure a ring was firmly attached to that finger before I unleashed my extended family on him. Especially the Lashmet women.

My mother has three sisters, all of whom have names that begin with the letter K. Some say the Kardashians stole it from us, and by some I mean my Aunt Kelly, loudly, in a Target, every time we go to Target. They are extremely close, very loud, and I’ve often been known to describe their Christmas Eve party as entering a frat house full of old ladies. Do you mean a sorority house you ask? No. I do not.

My fiancé, a soft spoken man from a religious family assured me he was prepared for Christmas Eve with the Lashmet women but I also got the sense that he thought stories of my crazy family were exaggerated. That particular Christmas Eve was a bit tense because the year before we had broken my grandmother’s table in half during an especially heated round of the card game Spoons, so competitive games were outlawed.

The film The Hangover had just come out and all of the Lashmet women agreed it was the epitome of hilarity. So, when searching for something to fill the festive space after presents and before someone inevitably left crying, one of my aunts pulled the DVD from her purse. (I guess she just carried it with her at all times?) She suggested we watch it, and do a shot of Wild Turkey every time they said “the F-word.”

 My fiancé glanced nervously at my Grandma, apparently fearful of her delicate constitution. “Katrina!” My Grandma grumbled in disapproval. “It’s Christmas...Wild Turkey is for Thanksgiving! We do Peppermint Schnapps at Christmas!” I had seen my fiancé do shots once. On his 21st birthday. He didn’t like it. I gave him a nervous shrug. I had warned him. He just smiled and took the shot glass Grandma handed him. His family was probably silently curling into bed for the evening, full of milk, cookies, and the Lord’s light, as we watched a naked man jump from a car trunk onto Bradley Cooper’s face.

Watching The Hangover at Christmas became a new family tradition and my husband has learned to (mostly) hold his own with the Lashmet women. Although, I must say he still can’t hold his liquor like my Grandma. 

A Fan Letter That I Wrote To…Myself.

Dear Lydia,

My name is also Lydia, because we are the same person. Just thought I would take a moment to let you know I’ve been really enjoying the work you’ve been doing over on Cracked.com. Honestly, I wasn’t too sure about you working with people whom you’ve admired at a far for years. It seemed to me at first that you were really, really, really, really, like really, unqualified. Why you? I said to myself, who is also you. Of all the talented people who Cracked could have asked to write a weekly column why did they chose a girl who had only submitted six articles, three of which had been rejected.

I have to say, you’ve assailed some of my fears. Your article on Superman’s mustache being digitally altered out of the Justice League movie made me laugh. Then again, it’s almost impossible to make that article NOT funny. What I’m trying to say is, I think there might possibly be a universe in which you are a writer and against all odds, it might be this universe. Sorry that it has to be the same Universe where Donald Trump is president.

I know you’re not one for acknowledging how your feeling, because again, I am you. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided it’s ok for you to be overwhelmed.It seemed like submitting your first article was playing a baseball game, and you won! Then you realized that was the opening pitch of a tournament. Also, you don’t really know the rules of the tournament, or how long it will last. The tournament could end tomorrow and everyone will forget that it even happened to you. Or, you could become the next Babe Ruth. No one knows. Life is crazy, but that what makes it fun, but that’s also what makes it poo pants scary.

Lately you seem like a teenage girl in love. You can’t sleep because you’re waking up at 3AM to jot down an article idea in your iphone notes. You’re smiling all the time because you thought of a great fart joke about the Incredible Hulk. You remember what happens at the end of a teenage romance, though. That’s why you don’t date anymore. Well, mostly you don’t date anymore because you got married, but that’s beside the point.

In summation I just wanted to say, congratulations girl! You did it. Don’t be all #blessed all over the place, but fuck it. You earned it. How many whole novels have you written and thrown away without ever showing anyone? How many short stories have you written just for you? You worked your ass off to become a better writer and now you’re getting what you’ve literally always wanted. SO DON’T SCREW IT UP. Stop second guessing yourself, listen to the infinitely more talented people who are giving you advice, and if you need a day to be overwhelmed, fucking take it! You’ve got this…I’m pretty sure you’ve got this. Jesus Christ, I hope you’ve got this.

Family Vacation, 7AM.

EVERYONE AT ONCE: Where's Kim? Have you seen Macy? Where's Jordyn? Patty? Kelly? Has anyone seen Kim? Who made this mess? I haven't seen Kim all morning? Did all the kids get fed breakfast? Was it Macy? I think it was Macy. Oh there's Jordyn. Did all of you guys get breakfast? Kim is nowhere. Macy you need to pick up all these Tacos. Mom, you're so annoying. Is this a bathroom or a closet? Closet, but you can pee in it if you want. I didn't make those tacos. There are so many kids. Why would I even need that many Tacos. I think it was one of the boys. One of the boys made tacos last night. How many kids are there? I'm pretty sure Kim is dead. Can we count all the kids? That swimsuit is too revealing. We have all of the kids. Jacob get down here and pick up all these tacos. You look like one of the Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling. Welp, Kim is dead. Shut up Jacob. We didn't leave any of the kids at a gas station again did we? I'm not picking up all these tacos. The funeral for Kim will be at 3:15 today, after the volleyball game. You're picking up the tacos. We have an extra kid. Fine but I'm going to do it while making as much noise as possible. There's six here there should only be 5 right? It will be a closed casket since there is no body. Are you forgetting about the baby? Jacob spilled hot sauce on me! No, there is definitely at least one extra kid here. I did it on purpose. This one has red hair, no one has red hair. You could put some shorts on over that suit on the way to the beach if you want. Yeah, that's definitely not one of ours. If anyone would like to speak at the funeral I would encourage a theme of friendship be addressed in each speech, you know for uniformity. Mom you're being so controlling. Is anyone cleaning up the tacos? WHY DO WE HAVE AN EXTRA CHILD? I think Kim is on the patio. Just put the one that isn't ours outside. Is Kim on the patio? Jacob, I don't care who made the taco's, you're cleaning up the mess. I'm releasing this extra child into the wilderness. Hopefully it knows it's way home. Why won't you let me get my belly button pierced? Goodbye child. Oh, theres Kim. You can do whatever you want when you turn 18. Fine I'll pick up the tacos. Kim where have you been! I will do whatever I want when I turn 18. I took a walk on the beach. Has anyone seen Charlie? I just cleaned all this up and I'm hungry again. Oh, there were supposed to be 6. My son is missing. No he's not, he's right outside. Why were you looking for me? Oh, do you want a Mcmuffin. Actually I'm kind of cold, where are the shorts?