In the current economy, it takes a lot of effort to keep a small business afloat. I was funny but being a comedian wasn’t paying the bills, so I tried calling myself a humorist. But after years of winging it with unsteady work, I hired a marketing consultant to help me define my business. When I got the bill, I realized I had been a fool calling myself a humorist. I should have called myself a humour consultant — that’s where the really big bucks are.
Marketing consultants, just like bankers, have their own secret language. My consultant and I met at a restaurant. Over a plate of fries I tried to explain to him what I did for a living: I was a writer, actor, motivational speaker and improviser, and apparently I was funny.
Funny. That was one f-word the man didn’t like. I said it again: “I’m funny.”
He didn’t crack a smile. He just picked up the saltshaker off the table and said, “Yes, sure, but what is your salt?”
I thought he was joking but he is a consultant; humour is not in his mission statement. He said it again. “This is a saltshaker, and you have to ask yourself, what is your salt?”
“My salt?”
“Yes, you can put the salt in a crystal saltshaker or a packet like at McDonald’s, but it’s still your salt.”
“It certainly is.”
“So what is your salt? Deb, what is your salt?”
“I didn’t know I had salt.”
“You do. What is it?”
This line of conversation was depressing me, especially when he started yelling, as if that would make me understand. Here I was, 53 years old, and I didn’t know what my salt was. In fact, I didn’t even know if I was salt. Maybe I was more like pepper? Or nutmeg? Or worse, what if I was cream of tartar, which a lot of people have in their spice rack and never use?
As an entertainer, I just did the next thing that paid. I never knew if I was between work or washed up. One time I was cast in a film as a nurse, but I was so hungover they made me a terminal patient. Because I was funny, in between real gigs I would work for side companies that hire actors to perform corporate skits. This included jobs like dressing up as fruits and vegetables and singing for a lot of cash. It was insane. One time we were hired to do a skit about empowering women, and the speaker before us did a talk on something she called “Undress For Success.” This woman got all teary-eyed, telling us about the day she discovered her inner stripper. The only inner stripper I have wears polyester nightgowns and smells like Bengay.
Apparently, it wasn’t enough she had found her own inner stripper; the women in the audience had to find theirs, too. My comrades and I sat back and watched in horror as a bunch of middle-aged ladies got up on stage and tried their hand at pole dancing. Trust me when I tell you, the only people who should be sliding down a pole are firemen.
“I hired a marketing consultant to help me define my business…”
Another time I was hired to work in a murder mystery, where a bunch of performers act out a fictional crime. When we got to the gig, we were met by the event planner. Event planners are like real estate agents on crack. She had this murder mystery planned down to the last detail: the costumes, the weapon, the victim, and she’d even colour-coded napkins for each team along with their fingerprint-dusting kits.
However, there was one thing she didn’t count on happening. On location, all of the staff had been alerted that a murder mystery was going on — everyone but the dishwasher, who happened to have just immigrated to Canada that month. The poor man came out of the kitchen and into the dining room with two trays of freshly washed glasses, just as one of the actors pulled out a prop gun and shot a fellow actor. When she fell down clutching her chest, the dishwasher’s tray of dishes went flying as he ran around the room, terrified.
This event planner ran behind him trying to explain: “See, this is just a game here in Canada. Because we don’t have a war going on in this country, we hire people to pretend to be murdered. Isn’t that fun? Don’t you love us so far?”
When we tried to point out how funny it was, she just didn’t see the humour in the situation. Some people take themselves way too seriously. Like the time I was hired by a huge pharmaceutical company for a campaign to advertise a new drug for treating yeast infections. I was cast as the woman with the yeast infection.
You might think I would be humiliated at the idea of playing such a part. I was, but only for about 10 minutes. Especially after I discovered what the rest of the deal included: a seven-day, all-expenses-paid cruise to the Caribbean, without my husband and kids. I guess my artistic integrity can be bought. The best part was the boss who wouldn’t let us use the words “scratch” or “itch” in the skits because they offended him. Maybe you shouldn’t be in the yeast infection business if those two words offend you. Anyway, it took the form of a mini-musical play called “Beauty and the Yeast: Tale as old as time…”
“What if I was cream of tartar, which a lot of people have in their spice rack and never use?”
My point is I didn’t know if I have my salt or how I tried to stay viable. So, I took a poll and asked my friends what they thought my salt was. They totally misunderstood the question and thought it was time to do a character evaluation. One told me I should get a real job, another tried to sell me disability insurance, and another wanted me to return the blue blouse I had borrowed from her in high school.
Finally, Sandra, who is one of my oldest friends and doesn’t suffer consultants gladly, laid it on the line.
“Oh, for crying out loud, you’re a Kimmett.”
“What’s a Kimmett?”
“It’s witty and wise.”
It is? I thought it was old and gassy. So that’s when I decided how I made a living was fine. And I thought it was okay just to keep my company name: Kimmett.
When I went to visit my mother I told her I just spent three thousand dollars to find out I was a Kimmett. To which she said, “Ha ha, very funny.”
I replied, “Yes, let’s hope so.”
Give yourself the gift of creativity. Get information about writing workshops here.
As an improviser, I know that saying “yes” opens you to new ideas and better ways of getting things done. As a writer and teacher who is over 50, I know sometimes life brings you choices.
This year, I made a promise to do three things I love: write, teach, and travel.
That’s why I am taking “Chip off the Old Writer’s Block” on the road. This year I’m heading to Toronto Island, Vancouver, Oakville, and da dah….Peru!
How do you know if “Chip off the Old Writer’s Block” is for you? Answer the questions below:
Do you want to write but never seem to have the time?
Do you have a story to tell but don’t know how to get it on the page?
Did you used to have good ideas but they seem to have dried up?
Is your writer’s block the size of an iceberg? The kind of frozen block that did in the Titanic?
If you answered “yes” to even one of the above questions, attending the “Chip off the Old Writer’s Block” is guaranteed to get the creative juices flowing.
Really? How?
I have more than thirty years of experience writing and teaching writers. I know how to get you writing, or painting, or, for that matter, any other ‘ing you can think of. Using a series of right-brained exercises, I can help you make the shift from a wannabe writer to an “I did it!” writer. Let me show you how to follow the compass to your subconscious. You’ll experience the first success right in the classroom with a group of like-minded people, and you’ll leave with a map for future writing success.
Don’t just listen to me. Click HERE to find out what people are saying about my writing retreats. And watch my video to get more information about what you’ll learn if you sign up.
Okay…now what?
Here’s a list of everything you need to bring to the retreat:
Pen.
Paper.
An open mind (or a closed one we can pry open).
Here are the dates and times for upcoming retreats:
Saturday, April 14, 2012 from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. at Stone Edge, a luxury B & B north of Oakville (details here)
Sunday, April 29, 2012 from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Toronto Island at Artscape (details here)
Saturday, April 21, 2012 from 10 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. at The Hive in Vancouver (details here)
Thursday, August 16, 2012 from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Toronto Island at Artscape (details here)
If you still want info, please drop me a note for a free writing tip. I’d love to help you start writing today.
Personally I have found getting right with your money, is not about math. It’s not about getting a bigger calculator. Its about seeing the truth about what it does to you when you look at it. The emotions that come up tell you where you are and how much power it holds over your life.
But it can be changed. By getting HONEST. By feeling, dealing and getting real with what is really going on. Look at it.
HERE are some things I did to get right with my money.
Read Soul of Money.
I stopped debting.(with help) and
Kept track of what I was spending.
I created time and space for me in my spending plan, to do things I loved.
Got my spending in line with what I valued.
Stopped people pleasing, and had more cash.
And got honest about saving for what I loved, not what I wanted.
It can change.
It can get better.
Heal it. You heal your life. From a woman still in process.
Tell me below in the comments section, what you have done to get right with money.
Got a great gig on DNTO for CBC RADIO.February 29th 2012. Telling my cat with a can on its head story,. The premise of the show are true stories about a particular topic. Should be great fun. EVENT sold out. Same night have to speak to The Second City Theatre students about surviving the comedy business. Yes I am now taking my place as a comedy crone.
Most people can go their entire lives and not feel the need to tour a prison, but I’m writing a movie about prison guards.
Female prison guards, to be precise. I got interested in female guards because I am in comedy. In the world of comedy, men outnumber women about ten to one and I was interested to see how women coped in another primarily male-dominated system. As I started doing research, I quickly found not only that there’s a high percentage of females working in corrections, but that a good deal of them guard men. We all guard men in one way or another, especially after a few cocktails, but I was surprised. After countless interviews, I realized I needed to visit an institution if I was going to be able to reflect the culture.
I thought about going into Quinte Detention Centre, but there would’ve been too many of my relatives in there wanting me to bring them smokes. So I booked a tour in Millhaven, which is very simple, really. Like five degrees of separation kind of simple. I must admit, I had no idea what to expect. There wasn’t a brochure. No pictures. In my imagination, I thought it would likely be worse than a Kimmett family reunion, but not as bad as when my hometown lost a hockey game.
Yes, I am joking. I use humour to deflect fear. The more freaked out I am, the more jokes I make, then three days later, I feel my real feelings and freak out. So the day I went in to The Clink, I was hilarious, cracking jokes about what I should wear. Sporting a rack like I do, I don’t want to set anybody off, having the boys overcome by an avalanche of lust. (Yes, they were bad jokes.)
In the end, I opted for a loose sweater and jeans with a gel bra (because the underwire one could be used as a shiv). And then, to top it off, I put on four pairs of underwear, which I know logically wouldn’t have saved me, but it might have slowed things down while the big-necked officers came to save me.
As I drove up the driveway, the first thing I saw was a sign that said “Trespassers will be prosecuted and can spend up to five years in jail.” This is when I hoped they had received my request for the tour. When
55 LIve COMIC WALKInG: My TOur OF A FeDerAL PrISOn
LIve COMIC WALKInG: My TOur OF A FeDerAL PrISOn 56
I got to reception, I was greeted by my tour guide — a former female guard. She didn’t have a thick neck. In fact she was kind of, well … short. And very pretty. So I said, “Boy, you’re short,” which went over as well as you can imagine. And that was just the beginning of the stupid things I did and said that afternoon.
There are so many dos and don’ts when touring a maximum-security facility. Don’t wave at the guys with the guns in the tower. It makes them nervous. At security, don’t ask if they can check your IUD while they’re doing that body search. Don’t pet the drug dog. Just smile and let him sniff your crotch. Don’t be worried that he’ll bite you. He’s a drug dog, so he’s probably getting off on the smell of your J’Adore cologne. In fact, don’t wear J’Adore cologne to a correctional institution, because it won’t be just the dog sniffing you.
Don’t make small talk with the guys in jeans and T-shirts. They are inmates. They don’t wear carrot suits in federal. Yes, I said “carrot suits.” I know the lingo. And don’t say “carrot suits.” You sound like an idiot. When you see inmates wearing jeans that hang low like plumber’s butt, don’t say, “For God’s sake, pull your drawers up and get a belt,” because cons can’t have belts. And don’t call them cons. They might just be murderers or bank robbers, not con artists. And speaking of art, when you see ink drawings of Medusa all over a guy’s arm, don’t say, “Hey, love your ‘too. What gang are you from?” And don’t ask, “Are you holding?” Not even as a joke, because some chicks might suitcase drugs up their woohoo, but you’re not that kind of gal. Besides, you’re old enough to be their mother. Or grandmother. The inmates at Millhaven are younger than you’d expect. A lot younger.
When you see the cells, which are painted pale pink, blue, and green, don’t say, “Who the hell picked out these paint colours? Did Martha Stewart get loose in here and make them paint it the colours of Whoville?”
When I go anywhere, I develop an accent. Two days south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and I’m saying “Y’all want some grits, y’all?” Within sixty minutes of being in Millhaven, I was developing a swagger and
spouting lines like “Guard or cons, we’re all doing time. The only difference is I get to go home at night.”
And then I started comparing my job as a humourist to theirs. “Oh, you were part of a hostage-taking? That’s nothing. I worked with Mike Bullard.”
Just because I “died” on Mike’s show, it’s not the same thing. That metaphor won’t fly, because being a woman in corrections is front-line feminism. Some psychologists claim women are a calming influence on men. The concept is that a tough guy sees a woman, he’ll just be struck peaceful. He’ll fall into some estrogen-induced form of narcolepsy. (And if she has PMS, he’ll voluntarily put himself in solitary confinement.) I don’t know how it works. I do know that anyone in a uniform is seen as an authority figure. And authority is what everybody in there is buck- ing against. So, everybody has to find a unique way to survive. To be seen as human or not to be seen at all. It’s a delicate balance for women. And the ladies I met were tough, funny, and very serious about doing their jobs well. But here’s the thing: Working in corrections, whether female or male, is not an easy job. It makes that gig I did for the Buffalo Tow Truck Operators look like a picnic.
After my hour-and-a-half tour, I was released. As the gates opened, I yelled, “Live comic walking!” and everybody thought I was a riot. But three days later, the jokes stopped. I heard on the news that a guard had shot one inmate for trying to kill another. I finally got that I don’t have a clue how you walk off a day like that. I don’t know how impending violence plays on a psyche day after day, year after year, because I am not a guard. I am a comic who gets to go home at night. And hopefully, never go back in. — excerpt from new bookL http://kimmett.ca/products/the-reviews-for-new-book-that-which-doesnt-kill-you/
