I WOKE UP ONE DAY IN AUSTIN TEXAS.

How? Why did I leave LA?

I grew up in Chicago. Then it was NY for eight years. I've always wanted to live in SF. D.C. is a scary place. Never got a good feeling there. I used to work a comedy club in D.C. above a Strip Joint?
I did love living in NY...until one day I didn't anymore. It was about the obstacles, getting from one end of my day to the other. That and I wanted a car and room to put my stuff.

Then it was off to LA for twenty some years.

LA ended with a parking ticket. Now that I think of it so did Chicago, many of them. I had to wait for the statute of limitation to expire to go back for a visit my mother. Funny how one thing can push you over the edge and change your life.

The LA ticket was for my front wheel being eighteen inches from the curb. My back wheel was snug to the curb "because it's a dually you moron". That truck was a hippie lady. Had a hard time finding a parking space big enough, I’m talking two-seats-on-a-plane hippie. You know when your vehicle won't fit down your drive way it's time to move. Some people will get a car that fits their garage. I had to get a garage to fit my truck.

Don’t you see I had to buy a warehouse in Austin?

My truck kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger. Maybe it was the LA traffic. No it was the ticket. LA was broke, they needed the money, so they raised the price of meters, lowered the minutes, threw in more restrictions, a few machines that took credit cards…LA became desperate. And they say don't let them see you sweat. To feel desperate and to live in a desperate city was too much for me.

Austin is a place that sees your sweat and offers you a glass of sweet tea.

Truth be told, I have a secret.

I have been on hiatus. I took a leave of absence from comedy. Many say “Oh, it’s been hard since nine eleven.” Though it’s tempting to jump on that bandwagon, nine eleven, though it rocked my world, it wasn’t what left me wondering what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. It was that nasty little book, “The Secret”.

You probably don’t’ even remember it. It’s the little book that could. Could what? Bring negativity to its knees. Yes. It’s the book that gave negativity a bad rap and sent me into a downward spiral. It just about ruined me. Who am I without negativity? It got so bad I couldn’t even say I had a cold without someone telling me I was being negative. I would protest, “I’m dot being degative. I just have a cold.”

Here’s a secret about me and you can only tell three people. I am hopeful 98% of the time. I spend 2% of my time at Smith-family events. Do the math. Even I can only take seeing so many alcohol related injuries at a time.

Let me tell you another secret about me. I’ve been working “The Secret” my whole life. But here’s my secret ingredient: I work “The Secret” backwards. That’s right. I’ve been working “The Secret” backwards my whole life. That’s how I make people laugh. I don’t ask what’s right with people. I ask what’s wrong with people.

It’s my job to make people laugh at their problems. I honor the shadow side. That’s why I don’t need to drink. Drinkers like to be positive. And they’ll crash their pretty cars to do it. Look, Christmas is special because it’s not every day. The one who shines the light does so from darkness. The chicken crossed the road to get to some shade. I feel good on rainy days. It gives me a break from all that LA sunshine. What can I say, my Irish skin prefers Seattle.

This is Margaret Smith from the bottom.

Blog 4-9-09

I have two kids. There’s the little one and there’s the big liar.

The big liar worries me and I’m mad at him for that. The only way I seem to be able to not scream at him like I want to do is to get creative. And by “get creative” I mean get even.  I find little ways to get even.  The littler the better.

My most recent creativity is to walk by the bathroom door when he’s in there on the toilet and jiggle the knob like I’m gonna walk in. The door doesn’t lock so it’s a real threat. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m in here.” I smile and try not to laugh. I do it again a minute later on my way back into the kitchen. “Jesus! Someone’s in here.” Now it’s not him, it’s someone. Gee, could that someone be you, the liar? Is the liar having a moment of truth? Did someone almost see you on the toilet?

I’ll admit, after that one I did have a moment of feeling sorry for him or maybe it was the onions I was cutting. All I know is that I got a warm feeling inside and the anger was gone. Getting even takes the edge off.

It’s not something I’m proud of. My higher self tells me I’m being a baby and I’m supposed to be teaching my kids and what does that teach him?  And to my higher self I say, “C’mon. Didn’t you feel joy when you heard the “Jesus I’m in here” line?  Don’t you feel like a weight has been lifted? Look, I’m not mad at him anymore.” 

What is wrong with getting even when it’s so beneficial to me? It’s good for my health because it’s a great stress reliever, and no one gets hurt? It’s like money in the bank because the next time he lies, cheats, deceives or sneaks I react more calmly knowing he’ll have to use the bathroom sooner or later. I highly recommend getting even. I mean creative.
 

Hi Everyone,

So, my five-year-old (he says he’s five-and-a-half) calls me into the bathroom, as he does every day, to wipe him. He is a clean freak. So, this time I ask him, “Who wipes you at school?” He tells me he does it himself at school.  I said, “then why don’t you do it yourself at home?” He said, “Because you do it better.”

My other one, a teenager this year, is sickened by it all. He says, “Make him wipe himself.”  I nip the family drama in the bud by telling the older more perfect one, the teen, to mind his own business.  He keeps it up so I remind him he’s not that good at it either. I’m the omniscient one; I do the laundry. 

So I have a five-year-old who admits he’s a lousy wiper and a teen who’s a lousy wiper in denial. It occurs to me I might be doing something wrong because my kids can’t wipe. I have an emergency on my hands. I call my mother to ask her opinion. She’s raised six kids (four girls, two boys) all of whom I assume can wipe like the pro’s.

I asked my mom, “When do boys learn to wipe?” She said, “When they’re about twenty-six.”  I said, “I might have to get my own place, then. I can’t wait that long.” And I certainly can’t wipe that long. 

Then I remember a mom I used to know who’s nine-year-old still had accidents. She’d sit down with tears in her eyes. “David shit in his pants again. I just can’t take it anymore.  I had to ride in the car with him and the shit in his pants all the way home.” 

To that mom I say thank you. Thank you, thank you, and thank you for having it worse than me. Personally, I couldn’t do it.  From one mother to another, there’s always some poor mother who has it worse than you do. Be grateful.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

   

Blog 3-11-09

Teachers

Miss Dobson bowed forward when she stood. I don’t know if it was her skinny legs that bowed or if she had a natural pelvic thrust. I suspect her bone density numbers were low. She held one arm up with the other, which crossed over her chest. I’m not sure if she had breasts because the arm was always there. The hand that she rested on her arm held her glasses, which were secured with a chain around her neck. She chewed on the end of the glasses. The ends were gnarly from her chewing. She was my first grade teacher. I was six and she, I believe, was one hundred and six.

My eighth grade teacher Mrs. Carey had a permanent look of distain. The only time I saw what I thought was a smile on her puss was the day we graduated. The smile was eerie, as if to say, I let you live and now you’re free to go. 

Those two teachers book-ended my elementary school years. In between I had teachers that were happy to be there. My Favorite was my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Heineman. She was kind and creative. She had a reading club. I still love her for that. On the backs of the reading club chairs were Annie Oakley, Wyatt Erpp, Daniel Boone, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans. When I sat in the Dale Evan’s chair it was so special I could barely concentrate on the book I was reading. I hope she made more money than the rest of them, or at the very least, more than Miss Dobson and Mrs. Carey.

I was listening to NPR and how our president, Mr. Obama, wants to give teachers their raises based on their merit and performance. I like that idea. Based on my experience, most teachers should get more money. It is a labor of love to go into teaching. If you stop loving it, you’re not going to be a good teacher anymore. Kids can’t perform when they’re in the presence of grown-ups that don’t like them.  Based on my experience, if a teacher is happy to see the kids, the kids are going to work hard to please her.

How do we know who’s working well with our kids and who isn’t? Evaluations by superiors, class averages, teacher cams? I’m not sure.  But base pay should go up. I wouldn’t mind splitting the bill with all the people in the form of higher taxes. It’s better than the tens of thousands of extra dollars I spend on private school for my kids.

Did I mention Miss Dobson used to shake kids (mostly boys) by their ears? One day she shook David Meinke by an ear and his head hit the metal file cabinet. There was blood all over the place. I hid under the stairs at home after lunch when it was time to go back to school. Miss Dobson was still there the next day and continued her teaching career.

Where will the money come from? Let’s start with a freeze on congressional wages, CEO wages and keep talking.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom. 

Blog3-8-09

Octomom

Right now my partner and I have two kids, two of them and two of us. We’re bigger and smarter. We win. For now, that is, we win. We have a plan as they get bigger and smarter and can outrun us. On paper it looks a lot like a football play. Keep them going in different directions and we run up the middle… each with a ball. That’s right, we cheat. When it comes to kids, you do whatever it takes to stay one step ahead of them. Not easy with the Internet telling them how to build a bomb and informing them how to frame us in a court of law. 

I was one of six kids. We outnumbered my parents three to one. Let’s just say we all lived in fear. Us of them and in hindsight, I bet, them of us. At any given time my Dad could only be one of four places, home, work, helping a friend or the tavern. On Sunday add church and subtract work. My mother was never far either. She had three places, home, grocery store or at her sister’s beauty shop getting her hair done.  She was “Octomom” because she seemed to have six extra hands although she constantly reminded us, “I only have two hands.”

Now there’s a new Octomom on the block. And by the way Octomom was coined by a reporter for one of the tabloid papers. Brilliant, and this time they’re not making it up. Octomom is real. Octomom, already a mother of six, gets eight embryo’s implanted and gives birth to a litter or eight. When a human being has a litter it is always man made. Much like Lake Meade, the Hoover Dam and the Washington Monument. People will do anything to get into the Guinness World Book of Records but that is not Octomom’s goal. What then is it? What sane woman with six kids tries to have eight more? That’s an entire soccer team plus a bench warmer.

I’m a little jealous. I haven’t been able to get a pitch meeting with Mark Burnett. You know he’s going to call her personally? She could do a season of Survivor with just her and the kids. People are outraged. I’m not outraged, I’m curious. Remember the Hugh Grant debacle? The first thing Leno asked Hugh Grant was, “What were you thinking?” What would Leno ask Octomom? Even the Catholics are going “damn”.  If you think about it, she did use birth control. And, well, they did vote “Yes On 8”. Careful what you pray for.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

Blog 3-2-09

Hi Everyone,

I was a houseguest this weekend and I loved it. Why have I always been reluctant to accept invitations? It’s like staying at a hotel for free. They made a room up for me with my own television and reading material. They let me sleep as long as I wanted. It was the end of the month and they paid the whole rent.

All I had to do was listen to a few stories about their childhood, hear about their medical conditions with a concerned face, and look at every picture on every wall and hear every story about the people in them. It’s a good thing I like stories.

My first day as a houseguest, I was afraid to ask where “the old country” was. I know the old country is Europe but where is her old country at in the old country? I couldn’t place the accent. She said she was from Lithuania, which I had always pronounced “Luthuania” because I got it mixed up with the Lutheran religion, but said she grew up in England. Honestly, she sounded Irish.

On the second day I took my kids snow boarding. I really wanted to snowboard because it looked like fun. It wasn’t that cold, sweater weather. I didn’t go because I had a cold and could barely walk a block without getting tired. It was one of those times that I thought it was important for the kids to have fun than for me to be sick. I tried to downplay the fact that my ears were plugged up and my balance was fuzzy.

We’re back home now and as always we talk about what our favorite part of the “field trip” was. My little one calls it a field trip. His favorite part was playing video. My oldest one’s was snowboarding and mine was watching them snowboard. Oh yeah, and the stories.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

Blog 2-22-09

Hi Everyone,

I am going to watch the Oscars tonight, how about you? I’m getting ready for them. I’m not getting ready like they’re getting ready at the Kodak Theater. I’m doing laundry. I hate to be so unglamorous as to admit it but that’s what I need to do before the Oscar party I’m attending tonight. I’ll be at a friend of a friend’s house named Tony. And no I’m not in New York.

In the past I usually had the Oscar party. Not so much since I had kids. After kids, when all my single friends vanished like Girl Scout cookies at an AA meeting, I watched them with the family. And guess what? I liked it a lot. Gone was the pressure to make my famous hot wings. Gone was the running out to Circuit City the day before to buy a bigger TV. Gone was my friend Cindy (now Luc) who talked incessantly through the best parts. I never heard Sally Fields say “You like me. You really like me.” I’m paraphrasing because I didn’t actually hear her.

Tonight I’m putting on some lipstick and taking my well-behaved kids to an Oscar party at Tony’s. My kids will go into another room that Tony’s setting up for “the kids” who’ll be attending. Don’t you love Tony? I will once again be with a group of people to watch the Oscars. I’m really looking forward to Hugh Jackman. He’s so cute I don’t care if he falls off the stage in one of his dance numbers, I’m gonna say nice things about him.

I have changed since the good old days of being single at the Oscars. It will be a new experience for me. I have more patience for young people and less patience for adults. I’m told Luc (formerly Cindy) will be there. Surely he will not be as chatty as Cindy was. I will not weather it well if he so much as utters a word during a Hugh Jackman moment or any of the acceptance speeches. He can talk all he wants if Sally Fields is on during a commercial talking about Boniva. Then he can let it rip. But don’t mess with my Jackman or my speeches. I’m bringing a tazer just in case.

This has been Margaret Smith reporting from the bottom.
 

Blog2-21-09

Hi Everyone,

Here’s what I’ve learned about jobs this week. There are a lot of jobs out there and they all pay ten dollars an hour. And the lower the pay, the more you have to reduce yourself to get the job. For the first time in my life I had to get a drug test to be considered for a position. This job is definitely not about the money I’ll make. The only reason I’m interested in it is because I think it will be fun.

The drug test was not fun. They frisked me before I went into the bathroom to pee in a cup. Then they drew a line around the cup about a third of the way from the bottom and said, “Don’t fill it any more than this.” I wanted to go, “Or what? You’ll stick me with a shiv?” But I didn’t. I went in the bathroom and peed in the cup.

I don’t know if it was a throwback to my bartending days or what but I filled that container right to the line with one try. I felt like putting a little umbrella in it and handing it to the phlebotomist.  I didn’t because, I don’t know if you know this but phlebotomists don’t have much of a sense of humor.

The best part of my day was taking my son to the doctor to get four vaccination shots. Wow, maybe I’m having a bad day. We laughed so hard in that doctor’s office.  My son was wincing in pain one moment and looking at me and laughing the next. I had written on a board in big letters the word OUCH and every time he’d get another shot I’d tally it up under the OUCH. The size of the tally was relevant to how much the shot hurt.

The tetanus shot was the worse.  I know because I got one recently for another job. That brings me back to where I started. Here’s a thought. Maybe I should stop looking for a job and let a job find me.

This has been Margaret Smith from a third of the way from the bottom. 

 

Blog 2-19-09

Reinventing Yourself

Hi Everyone,

Did you ever wish you could climb inside a comfortable machine, put some headphones on with your favorite music, push a button, drift off to sleep and wake up eight hours later totally reinvented? “You’re now Jim Smith with a whole new set of career skills and a complete new group of professional friends. Welcome. “

You went to sleep poor-bastard-without-a-job-Jim and you woke up Jimbo with ten job interviews scheduled back to back. You programmed the machine to your field of choice and bingo you can now prosecute Bernie Madoff personally.  And when he’s in jail you can reinvent yourself again.

When I was a kid I saw my Dad, who actually is Jim Smith, lose his job to a new thing called sheet rock. He was a very gifted plasterer and it seemed like in one day he was without a job. So, he did what any one would do in his shoes. He went to work in a prison for a while. He told me he was in charge of counting the silverware after dinner. Eventually he retrained and became a pipe fitter.

We’re all so identified with and defined by the work we do. It’s the first thing you’re asked by a dating service, (not that I would know) or someone at a “Reinventing Yourself” seminar, (not that I would know) or even a party. (Not that I would know.)

So who are we now, all of the jobless people? I am in between jobs, wondering which direction to go in. I’m doing things that are an about-face for me, but that might just be because I’m 50. (And so you know, I’m fifty until I’m sixty. That’s the way I’m doing it.) I’m taking classes just for the challenge. Tonight I went to a get-to-know-your-neighbor mixer. I’m having as much fun as I can have in order to keep the fear that seems to be gripping the developed world by the larynx at bay. 

I’m not sure who I am but I’m going to act as if I matter and I’m gonna try to treat the people I meet along the way like they matter.  When the dust of Wall Street and Main Street settles, I have a feeling we’ll all be reinvented.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.