They're All Gonna Laugh At You

My last semester of college-level Spanish was coming to an end. I had spent four years studying, practicing, and mastering this beautiful language, and, finally, the time had come for me to say adios to Spanish class. I was confident that I could now travel to any Latin community, summon the waiter at a restaurant, and successfully order two Coca-colas, please. I could tell him that my eyes are brown (they’re actually hazel, but no one knows how to say THAT in Spanish), that I like to go to the beach, and that the librarian is very skinny.

As I walked into the classroom one last time, my amigo Lee (amigo means friend in case you’re not bilingual like I am) was sitting at our table holding what appeared to be a flash card. I sat down, ready to practice our new words for the day, and in my best Spanish accent I read the two words written on the flash card to the other students at the table:

“Grah-day esteh-mah-tay. Weird, I have no clue what that means.” I said, a little nervous because after 4 years I was pretty sure I knew all the Spanish words.

“Uh, Rachel? It says 'Grade Estimate,' Lee said, turning over his card and revealing the letter A written in red ink. I was suddenly concerned that my grah-day esteh-mah-tay wouldn't be quite as high as Lee's.

Sometimes in life we say really stupid things. Every now and then, our brains short circuit, our common sense abandons us, or we might have added a little too much bourbon to our morning coffee. Some of us are just giant klutzes fumbling through life. My point is, why do we pretend like we aren’t all 5 seconds away from the most embarrassing moment of our lives?

Oh, you don’t think my Spanish story qualifies as the mother of all humiliation? How about this one:

I decided to attend a women’s breakfast at church because someone told me I really needed to make friends (thanks, Mom). I went to the breakfast by myself and found an empty seat at a table with seven older women who all knew each other. I tried to participate in the conversation, but none of the women seemed interested in my comments, which shocked me because I thought I was on a roll. Twenty minutes in, I heard someone say the word, “Disneyland," and I knew that this was my moment. I was about to make a new friend.

“I’m taking David to Disneyland; he’s ten and this will be our first time,” said one of the ladies.

“Oh my gosh! You’re taking your grandson to Disneyland!” I said, ready to offer any helpful tips and answer the multitude of questions I was sure she would have.

“David is my son,” she said, as laser beams shot at me from her bifocals. Her face reddened, complimenting her freshly permed salt-and-pepper hair.

I could go on and on regaling you with stories of my utter humiliation. Like when I was twelve years old and a teenage boy (who I had a huge crush on) tickled me so hard that I tooted while sitting on a countertop made of very thick, very hard wood. (In case you're unaware, solid wood countertops make incredible amplifiers.) I saw him six years later and the first thing he said to me was, "remember when you farted?"

I just want you to know that your incredibly embarrassing, most mortifying moments—the ones from which you think you’ll never recover—will one day be a source of great amusement. Especially for your family. And for those who were there to witness your disgrace. And for your children. And probably your grandchildren.

It’s alright. Go ahead and laugh at yourself. Everyone else is.

A Lesson From My Cats

When we moved from Tacoma to Olympia it was a big change. But mostly for our cats. We decided to introduce Kitty Cross-Eyed and Jake Jammies to their new home one at a time, so they could each have a chance to adjust to their new life. Kitty Cross-Eyed was first. He was such a good boy—lazy, clumsy, and unintentionally hilarious—he was a perfect fit for our family. We brought him in his cat carrier to our backyard, opened the door for him, and he sauntered out.  He slowly walked the perimeter of the yard, sniffing every shrub, and every blade of grass, deciding which spot was best for napping, and which was best for… well, napping. He took his time getting used to his new home, and when he was finished, he lay down in the grass and looked contently off into the middle distance (or straight into my eyes. It was hard to tell with him).

Jake Jammies, on the other hand, was a bastard. That’s the only word I have in my vocabulary that adequately describes him. Once I found him in my closet, pooping on a shirt that had slid off the hanger onto the floor. And he just looked up at me like a defiant kid looks at his parents while touching something he’s not supposed to, with that “What are you gonna do?” expression. While Jake Jammies was waiting his turn in the cat carrier, he was screaming like someone was lighting him on fire. When we opened the door of the carrier for him he ran out ready to attack someone. He looked left, then looked right, and then running at full speed, Jake Jammies jumped our five-foot fence and we never saw him again.

Life changes for all of us. How do we  react? How do we adapt? I suggest that we learn a lesson from my cat. From both of my cats, actually. If we can learn how to avoid starting forest fires from a bear wearing jeans, and how to give a hoot about not polluting from a Peter-Pan hat-wearing owl, then we can certainly learn a lesson about how to handle change from an obese cross-eyed cat. And how not to handle it from a demonic one. 

When you are faced with a life change that you didn’t ask for, or that you didn’t expect, the best thing for you and everyone around you, is to examine every aspect slowly and carefully. And when you’re done, and you realize this is just the way it's going to be now, go ahead and lie down and make yourself at home. Don’t be a bastard. Don’t poop on other people’s things, and don’t run away leaving a bunch of crying kids behind.  Your life won't get better if you run away. You'll probably be picked up by the pound and euthanized because you're a jerk.

Why I Laugh

My sister and I received a sweet e-mail from our mom recently. (I didn’t ask my mom's permission to share it because I’m the baby in the family and we get away with these kinds of things.)

Mom wrote: "I love you guys! I just feel like I need to tell you all that today for some reason.  I'm being emotional.  But I love my family so much and you girls and your husbands are so great, I just want you to know how much I love you!”

Here’s my reply:

“Leah and Mom, This e-mail was very timely. I wanted to tell you both something. I got some test results from my doctor yesterday and they aren’t good. I mean really not good.

Just kidding. I love you, too.”

Humor is a very complicated and wonderful enigma. It brings some people together and divides others, it relieves tension or causes it, it makes most people laugh but there are always the few who end up confused or upset. But above all, humor makes an incredible shield and a fun coping strategy.

How do you cope with the hard things in life? Do you drink too much? Self-medicate with illegal or prescription drugs? Impulsively shop? Compulsively clean? Compulsively hoard? Do you play a cute little game of make-believe with your life? Work out like Jane Fonda on crack? (I’m sure there is a more relevant illustration of a fitness guru, but I’m a stranger to the culture of “exercise.”) We all have some way of coping. Every single one of us.  Now, there are many people who are perfectly stable, knowing how to deal with the stresses of life in a healthy, normal way.

Just kidding. There aren’t.

One of the things that annoy me more than anything else in this world is having to explain myself. So please, let me explain myself: I make jokes. It’s just what I do. I instinctively find humor in everything because of the heart-breaking despair in most things.

I am about to compare myself to Steve Martin. I know, I know—it’s like Kim Kardashian comparing herself to Mother Theresa, but just hear me out. In his autobiography, “Born Standing Up,” he describes a brutal beating his dad inflicted on him when he was 9 years old. And how it ruined their relationship for the next 30 years. Steve (I pretend we’re on a first-name basis) writes, "I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know… I am qualified to be a comedian." 

If you look, you will find a hundred examples of comedians with similar stories. Bob Newhart said, “I think there’s some trauma, probably, in a comedian’s background, or upbringing that this is the way we compensate for it.” The funnier the comedian, the more painful the past. Please know I am not calling myself a comedian, but merely saying that I relate to their methods.

There is a reason people spend their lives being funny.

I have reasons for making jokes. And I don't need to explain them. 

If I don’t laugh about life, I will spend large portions of my day sobbing hysterically. Who wants to see that? Who wants to do that? And so I joke. The security-blanket-like protection it offers is just a cool bonus.

When my second step-mother swallowed a bottle of Xanax and hurled us into the horrific aftermath of suicide, humor (what little I could find) is what made the whole disaster manageable. And my sisters allowed me to make jokes when most people would’ve labeled me insensitive. The fact is, I am so overly-sensitive I don’t know how to deal with that much emotion.

You can sympathetically shake your head, and say “you poor thing, I’m glad I don’t do that.” And I will reply, “You probably don’t. But you do something.”

Speaking of replies…Here’s Leah’s response to my e-mail:

“You are an ass.  I mean really an ass!” 

A few minutes later I received a follow-up e-mail from her:

“...I cannot believe it.  I almost ran out the door and down Martin Way.  That was so scary.  I just knew it was cancer and you were gonna be gone by your birthday.”

I still haven’t heard from my mom.