Putting Lipstick on a Pig

I am a reality show junkie. Truly. I am the audience they make these shows for. Think less of me, that's fine, but I can't help it.  I find I am rooted to the spot whenever one of these wild romps through human hilarity takes place. I can't take my eyes off the amazing display of insane behavior on these shows. I am, after all, a comedienne.

Therapists must feel like they are in Disney World whenever they flip through the channels! Such drama! Such sneakiness! Such pathos! I tell you the only thing I regret is my in laws have passed on and I am no longer married because I am telling you, my ex's family could BE the mother of all reality shows! We could have made it into a combination of Survivor, Fear Factor and Hell's Kitchen.  I know we would have busted the Nielson ratings!

My recent favorite show was Charm School featuring the Flavor of Love girls! This was beyond hilarious. The point was to take foul mouthed, trash-talking street wise women and turning them into ladies. It was sheer comic brilliance. Just imagine if you took the girls from the Facts of Life and mixed them up with the criminals from Law and Order, stirred in a little Chiller theater and Welcome Back Kotter. Now this was must-see t.v.

The best lines were bantered about on this show. One contestant who was filmed having a serious discussion with a guy actually said, on camera, "I played rock, paper, scissors with this guy and that's pretty deep!" My favorite all-time line though was when a judge turned to a contestant and said, "You can put lipstick on a pig but that doesn't make her a lady."  Now, personally, just imagining lipstick on a pig is enough to make me laugh. But I beg to differ about it not making her look like a lady. Petunia Pig of Looney Tunes fame breaks that myth. I am telling you, she was swine who knew how to apply her cosmetics and play up her good points!

Anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know that my new website is currently under design, thanks to my webmaster guru, Mikey (who I am not allowed to mention owns a great recording studio called MRE Studios in Merrick, New York, but don't ask me anything else, because I can't mention anything about it.) And I wanted the chance to share that pig line. 

Keep checking back. If the site isn't finished Top Model and Project Runway will be starting soon and I'll have even more lines to share!

These days...it's not often a vision comes along. At least not one that doesn't involve a lot of viewpoints and arguing and suing and sign waving.

But a vision...that really can make the world...a nicer place. As many of you know, I do comedy, at an incredible place known as Samantha's Lil Bit of Heaven. It's a Christian coffeehouse and is a place where everyone of all faiths are welcome, our kids can come so no one is ever alone, there's no smoking, there's CAKE (a big plus in my book) and it has become a true place of peace, faith and love....I know...that sounds impossible in today's world...but having been there... it really is the closest thing to a Lil Bit of Heaven (minus Jimmy Smits but that's a personal thing) that I have found here on earth.

Heaven has a chance to move to a bigger facility. They are a 501 c non-profit and before you think I'm peddling for big bucks here, read the attached letter from Samantha. Her goal is for 5 million people (she calls them Miracle Makers) to read the letter and each send $1 to help create this vision.

 We've all spent $1 on scratch off lottery cards that we lost on, or greetings cards that were opened and later tossed. I know personally, I have eaten a fair share of Hershey's that would amount to a hefty sum of greenbacks. A dollar is a small enough amount on it's own, but imagine….if Samantha is right. Imagine if we could make a vision, a reality. And for just $1. It's a crazy thought….but hey, so was discovering America,  finding a cure for polio and the invention of the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (a product I highly endorse!)

If we could make this vision happen, a new bigger big of Heaven could be built, helping thousands of people, bringing comedy and music to so many and hopefully, bringing the vision of a better world into clear view.

CAN YOU IMAGINE???
Have you ever dreamed there could actually be a place where goodness prevailed and love resided? … A place where all ages were welcome (so no one would ever have to be alone and lonely)? … A place where all backgrounds were welcome (so we could celebrate our differences instead of being divided by them?) … A place where people from all walks of life would be greeted with love, kindness, forgiveness and mercy... A place where there is music, laughter, friendship and classes to help heal even the deepest hurts...

Picture a type of mini-retreat that takes you away from all your problems for a few hours and give you that "Spiritual Faith-Lift" you need to get through this world of ours.

Sounds like "Heaven" right? Or at least "A Li'l Bit Of Heaven" on earth?
That was actually my cry over 15 years ago when I watched a devastating story on the news that involved the kidnapping of a child here on Long Island. I cried out to God and said, "Can't there just be a place for good people?” Two words immediately came to my spirit..."That's Heaven"...

With no money, a lot of prayer and a mustard seed of faith, 2 years later on April 8, 1994, Samantha’s “L'il Bit Of Heaven" Ministries was born.

An oasis, a refuge, a haven away from all the negative things that go on today. Since we have been opened, lives have been restored, renewed and revived. Over 50,000+ guests have visited from all over the world!!!

Weekly, I receive letters, cards and e-mails from guests who visited that are so grateful that we are here. Articles have been written about "Li'l Bit Of Heaven" in many major newspapers,

Until now...
It recently came to my attention that a HUGE building in this area is for sale. The size is vast and that would allow us to continue in a major way to make a difference. I have safely attached a photo of the place for you to download, if you care to. In faith, I took the liberty of adding the name of the building on the photo: “Samantha’s Li’l Bit OF Heaven,” for you to catch the vision of what it will be like.

We need a miracle!
The total for what would be needed is close to 5 million dollars. That would include the sale and estimated renovations, etc.

That sounds and feels impossible, and what seems even more impossible is that I know that for us to have this property, it must be debt free.

In praying about it, I had this vision that if 5 million people reading this letter believed in what "Li'l Bit Of Heaven" does and stands for, gave only $1.00 each...we would be able to purchase it...debt free!!!

I know it sounds crazy....but what if? What if we could do it? My biggest regret would be if we did not at least try. This is so impossible in the natural, but oh so possible with God!

If you believe in what this ministry has been doing for almost 13 years, would you pray about giving $1.00? We are a non-profit 501c3 so if you needed a tax receipt we can send that to you if requested.

$1.00 seems like so little, reaching 5 million people seems so huge but together it can give a "Li'l Bit Of Heaven" its own home and give thousands of more guests a home away from home. Reaching 5 million people in just weeks...will you take the challenge with me?

Help us to "Reach 5 million Miracle Makers." Can you think of others that you could pass along this e-mail to that would be blessed by or would believe in a "Li'l Bit Of Heaven" on earth, and more? I cannot think of any other way to see this dream come to pass.

It is mid-February 2007, and we have a very short time to do this...please if you feel led to be a "Miracle Maker" and participate in making this miracle happen, would you send a dollar today?

Thank you so much! I will stay in touch!
God Bless You,
Sincerely,
Samantha
Please note: If for any reason, we are unable to raise the total funds needed to purchase this building, or should someone else purchase the property before us, I will gladly refund your dollar OR put it into a future building fund at your request. Thank you.
 

Remember those warm and folksy Christmas Specials of the 60s and 70s? Andy Williams and Julie Andrews would be bundled up in a horse drawn sleigh and “jingle all the way” across the studio floor as faux snow flakes stayed on their nose and eyelashes? Then, by a roaring fire, Dinah Shore, resplendent in a winter white sweater, served hot cocoa to the Jackson 5 and the Osmond Brothers, while the King Family, perfectly matched in their red and green sweaters and elf hats, sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” in the background. And to close out the evening, Dino and Bing surprised everyone by both sliding down the chimney as as Santa.  

And then there was my family. A Shea Family Christmas was indeed an event to behold. My father, a NYPD police officer, worked straight up until Christmas Eve so nothing happened in my house until that day. And then…sheer madness ensued! My father would drag us out to a tree lot that was filled with all the other last minute shoppers hoping for a bargain on a tree. We would walk for what felt like miles and jump up and down to keep Under the bare white bulbs my father would flail his arms and point at the trees shouting, “You want how much? It’s Christmas eve for crying out loud!” But eventually we would snag an evergreen, strap it to the roof of our car in an endless spider web of twine and make our way home.

Once there, we dragged the tree into the living room, leaned it up in the corner where my father would grumble how everyone forgot to remind him NOT to get a 9-foot tree when we had a 7-foot ceiling. My parents lived in that house for nearly 35 years. How in the world my father could forget the height of the ceiling was beyond me, but my mother of course blamed it mostly on the fact that after dealing with criminals all day and the four of us by night, well…my father’s mental capability was slightly diminished.

So here was this huge tree that needed trimming, but did my father cut the trunk to make it work? No! He would go straight to the top of the tree and hack it off so we ended up with a Christmas tree with what resembled a Mohawk. “It just needs to settle,” my father announced. That tree could have settled down and regrown where we put it and it would never look like a tree again. Its branches fanned out flat against the ceiling which confused visitors and gave it the  appearance the tree continued on the second floor of our home. This unique display also required us to place our angel for the top of the tree in a precarious position that gave the impression it was leaping for its life. Which, given the fact my father used the original set of lights from his childhood Christmas tree that gave off tendrils of smoke each time he plugged them in, I can understand why the angel seemed ready to abandon all hope at any given moment.

The tree was placed in an old metal tree stand that had a whimsical Christmas scene on it and leaked like Niagara Falls. It also required someone (aka one of us kids) to crawl under the tree and screw each side of the bolts into the trunk until either your hands fell off or you went blind from the pine needles poking you in the eyes. When you finally came out from under the tree you were covered in water, sap and needles and your hair resembled the upper part of the tree. Yes, Christmas had come.

Then came the “tying off of the tree” an event my mother insisted on every year, convinced that this work of art would come crashing down at any moment. My father, an avid fisherman, never had fishing line in the house when we needed it, so he would find a piece of bakery string or an old hunk of ribbon and nail it to one corner of the room grabbing a hunk of branches and tying them off like Houdini was planning to escape out of it.  You can imagine how panicked our angel looked now!

Once the tree was up, the nativity was put in place. Instead of “a great miracle has happened here,” our nativity looked like a “great monsoon has blown through here.” We had a donkey without ears. A sheep with three legs, a cow with one horn and a headless king. Finally, one year my mother put her foot down and demanded my father get a third king with a head. Of course the only store open was John’s Bargain Store and the only king available was about an inch tall, in comparison with the rest of the figures that were about 6 inches tall. My father quickly solved this problem by placing the king on the far side of the room and claiming he was traveling afar.

Finally came time for the outdoor lights. As was our custom, all the women folk would leave the home to do last minute Christmas shopping while the men folk (my Dad and my younger brother) would stay behind to hang the outside lights. The one problem with this plan was my brother had no artistic talent and my father was color blind. One year we drove up to the house to find my brother and father standing proudly on the lawn, arms slung around each other while a giant “S” shone across the front of our house. The colors were staggering, resembling the native flag of some distant land.  Seventeen green bulbs were followed by 5 orange bulbs, three blue bulbs and one white one. Grinning my father said, “Isn’t this great, it says “S” for Shea!” My mother surveyed the display and sputtered, “It says “S” for stupid! Take it down and try again!”

My father has been gone now for about 10 years, and Christmas has changed a lot in our family. We live in separate places now, my brother, sisters, Mom and I, and we have our own children and our own traditions. My mother replaced my father’s nativity with a gorgeous one of matching pieces, but if you look in the stable, you can still see the donkey without ears and the sheep with three legs. And instead of the Don King Christmas tree, she now has a 12-inch fiber optic tree that turns colors with the click of a switch. The house on Essex Road where I grew up was sold a few years ago and her outdoor decorating is limited to one front window that she hangs a few blinking candy canes. It’s easier for her now, especially that she’s in her seventies, but as perfectly aligned as the decorations may be, it doesn’t scream out “Joy to the World,” the extent a  giant “S” does.

But even with all of us in different homes and all of the changes, I can still feel the ghost of Christmas past visit every year. Unlike Scrooge, it’s comforting. Even familiar. I can picture being huddled on the stairs with my brother and sisters, speaking in whispers while we debated if Santa had arrived. I can still feel that thrill of wanting to know if what I truly desired would be under the tree come the morning. And I still feel blanketed by the knowledge that for one night, no matter what the other 364 days might bring, Christmas Eve was a night when magic happened.  I still believe that. And nothing, not even every member of the King Family with matching sweaters and hats, can compete with the comfort and joy that brings me.

Happy Holidays!

It’s sometimes it’s the hardest thing to be funny when you feel anything but. The past few months have been difficult due to numerous problems in my personal life. That sounds so mysterious— so I don’t think I will explain more than that. It makes you wonder. It makes me sound more interesting and it gives the illusion I have a more exciting life than I probably do. But it’s just not easy being funny when you’re being held captive by underworld spies in the belly of a sonic submarine in the middle of the Middle East….ohhhh darn…I gave some of it away.
But seriously. Some days it’s hard to laugh….and when you’re a comic, it’s a little scary, but that’s when I have to pull the funny from somewhere inside. It’s a harder process than the spontaneous funny that just makes me laugh right where I am. Like when you see babies trying to figure out where you go when you play Peek-A-Boo. They crack me up. Or when you trip over the coffee table and half your family falls down in hysterics. Of course YOU don’t think it’s so funny at the time, but after your leg heals, and the cast comes off, it makes you grin a bit.
But finding the funny can be hard won, hard pressed and just simply hard to do when you’re a comic. People think you have the funny just hanging around in your head….and normally, I do. I have a pretty funny life so usually I don’t have to do more than just take a brief look around me and I can always spot SOMETHING that is hilarious or ridiculous. Generally it’s my clothing. But pulling out the funny….really digging deep for that one event, or piece or memory when my entire heart is screaming “FOR PETE SAKE THIS IS NOT FUNNY” is when I really mine the golden bits that shine forever. It’s worth it to push u through the pain for the funny. I find those are the bits that help people the most when they’re in pain.
One of those times for me was finding the funny during my Dad’s funeral. I ended up with a golden bit of comedy about a relative and a hat that has become one of my best bits. Of course, perhaps the relative who stars in this bit wouldn’t think so, but everyone who has ever heard the bit has laughed till nearly their head fell off their shoulders. Literally. Heads all over the place. It’s quite a sight.
Now I’m not the kind of person who planned to laugh at her Dad’s funeral, and truth be told, it wasn’t all the giggles I have now created around the event. It’s called creative license. Some of it was difficult to get through— I mean, it WAS a funeral after all…and he WAS my father. But there was a great deal that happened that day that would have made my Dad crack up and nearly choke from laughing…if he hadn’t already been dead. So I like to think of that day more along the lines of a gift instead of grief.
My father was the consummate storyteller and his funeral has given me so many moments of sheer golden comedy bits that I know it was a present from him to me and for me to share. That’s why in times of sadness, it’s critical for me to find the funny. If I can find the funny, I can take the worst moments of life, look at it and actually say, “Someday I’ll laugh about this…” and I actually do.
 

Update 8-21-2006

40 Years of Mikey.

 I met Mikey when we were 5. Unbelievable but true. This bizarre relationship has gone on for 40 years. It’s a lot like Burns and Allen, Edger Bergin and Charlie McCarthy Jagger and Richards and Fred and Barney all rolled up into middle class kids. We were in kindergarten together. That’s where we met. A lot of those early days are blurry but I do remember that

 a) he was tall

b) he made fun of my freckles

 c) he did not have a dog.

 Height is a big thing in kindergarten. I was one of the tallest girls and Mikey was one of the tallest boys so we spent a lot of time clumping next to each other since public school believed in the buddy system. I have no idea why the buddy system was so important. It wasn’t like we went to the Little School on the Prairie. Our classroom door was maybe three feet from the cafeteria and the gym, which seemed like a mile away, but in truth was about 2 hallways from where we were and was no big adventurous walk, but still, there we would be, walking hand in hand, smallest to tallest. I guess the teachers figured who knew what wilds could be found roaming the hallways—it was the 60’s after all. And there was the time that one kid almost got run over by Miss Fleishman (a.k.a Mrs. Cleet) when she was pushing a piano down the hallway. You did have to be careful. There were teachers with carts all over the place. It was a dangerous time.

 Mikey and I have a lot of history together, but we also have a great friendship which now includes his lovely wife and my goofy son. The four of us are well matched: TJ and Mikey like to debate and argue for hours: Rita and I love America’s Next Top Model. It works.

 Mikey is one of those rare people I don’t have to be anyone else but myself with. Which is both frightening and comforting…..frightening for him…comforting for me. There’s something to be said for knowing someone 40 years and not having to marry them. You get to know all the good and all the bad and there comes a point where none of it really matters, it’s just good to have a friend who knows you that well. And you have your own home with your own TV. and so do they. It works out.

Bowl Me Over

I have never been good at bowling. First, I hate using someone else’s shoes. Call me crazy, but when you’re the third kid out of four, the thrill of wearing anyone’s anything has seriously worn off.

 And I never understood the point of washing the ball, other than it gave you something to do with a dime. Why should the ball be dirty? What has it been except down an alley that is shiny and glistening with wax?  Is someone else on the other side throwing mud at it before it returns and now it needs to be washed?

 Bowling is just such a strange sport. I went online recently to find a vintage bowling bag—I had thoughts of using it as a purse and then I realized that was fine if I wanted my wallet to smell like old sweat socks——and I just discovered bowling has become HOT, fashion-wise. Apparently you don’t have to lug that big old smelly bag into the alley anymore! There is an entire line of new-age bowling bags that you can wheel in, nice as you please. What the heck? What was wrong with using those vinyl bowling bags that Ralph and Ed used on the Honeymooners or even that cloth brontosaurus bag that Fred and Barney would carry into the lodge? No, today’s trendy bowler uses a traveling case on wheels. I somehow don’t think that’s fair. We had to haul those bowls from one end of the alley to the other testing to see which one was going to pull your arm out of its socket or which would be least likely to peel the skin off your thumb and today’s bowler just wheels in with their bowling ball. It’s unfair I tell you.

  And don’t be looking for those horrible two-toned hush-puppy-meets-a-saddle-shoe kind of bowling shoes either! There’s shoe covers now! Shoe covers! And they come in designs like pink lizard and polka-dots! Now with just a quick snap, you can create your own style, even over rentals! Unbelievable.

 When did bowling get to be such a highly stylish sport? For years it was the sport that for one brief moment appeared on the television set as you flipped channels on a Sunday afternoon. But within a few seconds you realized, “hey, it’s bowling,” and you moved on to something more interesting like Johnny Quest.

 Why has bowling suddenly gone Hollywood? There isn’t exactly a bowling craze hitting the nation, but suddenly the balls come in various shades, even neon colors and you can cover your shoes. Why is there this effort to make this a cool sport? Who’s responsible? Of course the shirts have always been cool. Bowlers tend to have cool shirts. I once had a friend, Dennis, who was not a bowler, but used to buy bowling shirts from this thrift store where people donated them or gave them away if people on the team didn’t pay for them. Dennis had a whole line of bowling shirts with names like Les, Buck, Jimmy T, Dougie and my favorite—Marv.  You never knew what name Dennis was going to have plastered across his broad chest. And on the back of the shirts were the name of the teams—like the King of Pins, or The Gutter Balls. You gotta love a guy who has enough confidence to wear “Pin-Up Boys” on the back on an electric blue shirt with lightening bolts.