The Little Entries That Couldn't

I Prefer The Term "Winning-Adjacent"

Every couple of years, the public library in Centerville, Ohio hosts the Erma Bombeck Writing Contest and blahblahblah I didn't win. And neither did some of my very funny and talented blog buds.

But. That. Is. Oh. KAY. [cleansing breath!]

Now, what to do with our contest entries? It seems wrong to let them languish in their high-security, climate-controlled storage facility at undisclosed coordinates beneath the Rocky Mountains. Nay, nay! The essays must be free to roam the countryside, assailing passersby at will with their good natured, domestic humor.

And so it was that, as we bitched moaned commiserated over a few rounds of apple-boilermaker-tinis, the Leftovers Tour was born:

4 women.

4 blogs.

4 victory-challenged Erma Bombeck essays.

Joins us on this teeny-tiny tour as we each post our essays and share our individual interpretations of Erma Bombeck's legendary style, wit and warmth.

I've been an Erma Bombeck fan since I was 12 years old. This essay is my homage to the great lady who, as far as I'm concerned, started it all.

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Uptight, Outta Sight
by Anna Lefler

When my purse spilled in the grocery store yesterday, I could tell by the looks on the other shoppers' faces that not everyone carries around a snakebite kit, road flares and freeze-dried astronaut food.

"I like to be prepared," I explained as I crouched to gather my belongings. "Now, who wants to help me fold my emergency hypothermia blanket?"

I am not a spontaneous person. I need to know what's coming—kind of like NORAD in mom jeans.

While other mothers seem to roll with ease through a day of instant playdates, pop-in neighbors and the last-minute duty of sewing a dozen liederhosen for third-grade Oktoberfest, my default response to a sleepover request from one of my children is, "What, this month? We're not ready!"

Grown-up events are no different.

"We should have a dinner party," I said to my husband last week.

"Oh, no you don't," he replied, his eyelid fluttering like Scarlet O'Hara's hankie. "I'm not falling for that again."

"Are you still grumpy because I asked for a little help last time?"

"The way I remember it, I was bludgeoned into painting the kitchen, sodding the front lawn and replumbing the powder room. And for what? The pleasure of listening to three couples brag about their children's standardized test scores while implying that our kids would be lucky to find work in a Bolivian mining operation."

It's true that I tend to overdo the preparations. It's compensation for the fact that I am not a natural hostess—one of those women who emerged from the womb clutching a pitcher of perfect martinis in one hand and a three-bean salad in the other. As someone better suited to throwing together a load of laundry than an impromptu supper with friends, I am in awe of some women's uncanny knack for effortless entertaining.

There is nothing effortless about my entertaining. My uncanny knack is selecting a recipe that seems manageable at first, then turns on me like a rabid dog two hours before my guests are due. Nothing saps my hostess mojo like the chilling realization at recipe step number nineteen that not only do I not know what a "rouelle" is, I also have no idea how to "flonday" it.

I suppose I should just accept that I'm not a spontaneous, easygoing person who thrives in the social flow, but rather an uptight person whose idea of "me" time is smearing my chin with hair-removal cream then vacuuming the coffee table.

Don't get me wrong—you're welcome to come over, but could you call first? I'd like to polish the houseplants before you get here.

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The Leftovers Tour:

Because Failure Is Its Own Success

Click on the links below to read entries
from these very funny ladies:

** Erma fans will also want to read the lovely tribute post written by Jennifer Sutton at These Are Days.

[This post brought to you by the colors avocado and harvest gold.]