That Should be in a Sitcom!

Lucille Ball was a master of physical comedy. I am a victim of physical comedy. I have hydroplaned on countless wet floors. A mechanical parking gate has karate chopped me in the face [see image below]. I am attacked by the swinging dryer door on my stacked washer and dryer on a weekly basis. I should wear a helmet.

We live in the hills and that darn Hollywood sign taunts me daily. Like Lucy, I drive my “show biz” husband nuts with my schemes. A few years ago, they were casting his first studio feature. It was a romantic comedy a la High Society. All of the characters were dreamy, rich, and attractive. Guess the part I landed: the puking roommate. My first big screen Hollywood close up and I have chunky minestrone soup smattered on my face. Because, like Lucy, I can be egged on to do anything for attention. And what's my special talent? Burping on command. 

My husband developed a sitcom this past winter. He named the wife character after me. I admit this went to my head. Anytime I did something I found to be cute, clever, or amusing, I'd say: That should be in a sitcom. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge. I was impossible to live with. 

Before you start feeling sorry for my Desi, remember: he proposed. He knew what he was getting in to. Okay. Well, maybe he didn’t. But everyone at our wedding seemed to. During our vows, our sweet minister asked him to repeat after her: "I ask that you [wifey] be no other than yourself, loving what I know of you, trusting what I do not yet know of you—" The guests broke out in laughter. And not in an “oh, that’s cute” sweet chuckle, but in a “jeez louise, good luck to him” full on chortle. What bride has to shush her guests during her wedding vows? That should be in a sitcom.