Who Ate My Funny?
When I decided I was going to write a blog, I was going to be earthily witty and bitingly clever. I was. What I discovered is, if there’s nothing positive going on in your life, you can’t come up with anything witty to write about. Everything seems negative and drab, and the sense of humor comes right out of you. I USED to be funny. I can REMEMBER being funny. Even now, people laugh when I say things, so I know I haven’t lost it. At least, I think I haven’t. When I read a funny piece, I think YES, exactly, that’s how I would have said it. Now I am not so sure. I have tried to think of things in the past that were funny and I can’t even seem to think of anything. I began to feel more and more like Eeyore. Does depression stop funnyness? It certainly doesn’t stop sarcasm and cynicism. Although I always say, is it cynicism if it’s true? I think that just makes it reality. It doesn’t help that I do all my blog posts at work, between patients. Unless a patient has just been wildly hilarious (and let’s face it, how often does THAT happen?), I am unlikely to come out of the room with a positive mood and a story to tell. And I’m not even ALLOWED to tell a lot of my patients’ stories, because something about the story could be uniquely identifiable to them, and then I would be in trouble. I have a lot of funny vignettes about my daughter, but most of them are really just cute one-liners. Questions like, “Mommy, what was I wearing when I was born?” and “Whaaat? I was in water before I was born? Did I hold my breath the whole time?” are cutesy but you can’t exactly spin a full blog out of them. My daughter is the source of most of the humor in my life. My husband is also a source, but many of our jokes are too off-color (or mean) to publish for other people to read. We had a nice family trip to Atlanta recently, but nothing funny happened at all. We had to rent a car because the air conditioning in DH’s airport car was busted, but really, what’s funny about that?
I’ve had an inspiration. That airport car is damn funny. The car belonged to my parents, and it is a classic parental car. It is an enormous 1996 Buick Regal; a real land yacht, and exactly what you would expect one’s parents to drive. It is an optomistic teal color, and like all other Buicks of older vintages, the ceiling is hanging down in strips and falling down in the middle. The car has not improved in DH’s hands. It was already old but well taken care of when my folks gave it to us. However, to DH, a car of any kind is just a conveyance from point A to point B. It is also a rolling dumpster. The car now looks like a family of Mexicans is living in it. The trunk jammed open in the locked postition, so he just duct taped it shut. There are three big weathered streaks of duct tape over the back of the car. DH just LOVES duct tape. The windows of the car, if rolled down, cannot roll back up. If he goes through a drive-through or a toll booth, he has to open the door a crack to throw out the money, because he dares not roll the window down. For some inexplicable reason, in addition to all the candy wrappers and bent drink cans that DH has thrown over his shoulder into the back seat, the back contains a Southwestern woven blanket covered with stains (hence the family of Mexicans motif), a roll of toilet paper, a filthy pink stuffed rabbit that someone gave A on one of our early trips to visit Atlanta, maps, and the rear view mirror. That’s right, the rear view mirror. It of course fell off the windshield when the car was sitting on the pavement in the Atlanta heat, and DH could never get it stuck back on. There is something wrong with the gas tank sensor. Actually, the sensor is fine. The little tube that carries gas from the tank into the car has pulled about halfway up, and can only access the gas in the top half of the tank. So if you allow the car to run half full, you are essentially out of gas. The car must be refilled every time it gets near half full (or half empty). The car is also a bona fide low rider, because the shocks are so shot it practically sags down onto the pavement. It makes the ride very interesting. Now the air conditioner is broken, and still he uses it. Air will only come through the defrost vents, and that is not particularly cool. He at least spared us the Buick on our last Atlanta trip and rented us a car so we would not burn up. Needless to say, I breathed a sigh of relief that we would not be travelling through Atlanta in that car and waved it a glad farewell when we left the airport. I assume DH will continue to use it until the axles fall off. He should maybe take it as a sign that the car is shot if the Mexicans move out.