Anne Palumbo: Underwear ads cure writer's block

People always ask me: "Is it hard to write humor when you're not feeling so zippy?"

Yes, I say, very hard, harder than cracking something as silly as the DNA code. But because I am a professional with draconian work habits, I always manage to squeeze something out.

This morning, for example, I awoke with a raging headache that rivaled being skewered in the nostril by a rhinoceros. Although I badly wanted to remain in bed with my good friends, the mites, I had a full day of demanding writing ahead of me and knew I needed to squelch the pain pronto.

Oddly, nothing did the trick. Not the fistfuls of Excedrin, cupfuls of coffee, cool compresses or online purchases from Nordstrom. Zippo. Nonetheless, I sat down at my desk and tried to think of something funny to write about.

Nothing amusing popped into my head. So I did what I always do when confronted with a grave professional challenge: I moseyed on into the kitchen and got something to eat.

Lest you think I was postponing my writing duties - I was not. I was also scanning newspapers and magazines for column topics, scrutinizing the inside of my refrigerator for a morsel of an idea, and debating the benefits of resting my aching head on a bag of frozen peas in the freezer compartment.

Unfortunately, I did not latch onto anything noteworthy while holed up in the kitchen, but I did come across this tidbit: models in magazines sure are a surly lot. You would think, being so thin and beautiful and in demand, that they would be flashing smiles as wide and as white as my granny's Amazonian step-ins. But, no! The models I encountered all looked ready to chew barbed wire.

But back to my dilemma. I returned to my desk feeling a little better, but not great. My head still hurt, and my critical thinking processes were suffering as a result. Adding insult to injury: My anxiety over not having a topic was beginning to crest.

I don't know about other writers who have deadlines, but my brain turns into tapioca when the anxiety curtain starts to come down. That said, I knew I needed to do something fast. So I abruptly got up and rushed back to the kitchen, where I commenced a mid-morning snack of granola eaten straight from the box. Bad idea! The loud crunch rekindled the migraine, returning me to my original state of distress.

But not all was lost. While buckled over in agony, I happened to glance at the paper and saw something that made me snicker: an underwear ad. I know, I know: grow up! Believe me, I try. But then, I'll see something that raises my imp radar and all is lost. I'm 13 all over again, howling at Sear's catalog underwear ads with my sister.

My point is, we humor writers take our work very seriously and keep on trucking even when our funny bone is as hollow as an old gourd. Sure, we may not be solving the world's woes with our proclamations, but we are performing an equally valuable service every time we put our pen to paper. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some highly important research to conduct for my next column. Do you think Sears is open yet?

Anne Palumbo writes this weekly column for Messenger Post Newspapers. Email: avpalumbo@aol.com