Bumper stickers that say, “I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.” Or, “I’m late, but worth the wait.” Okay, we get it…. You’ve got terrible money and time-management skills. These are character flaws. Why advertise them? While you’re at it, how about, “I’ve got poor personal hygiene.” Put that on a bumper sticker, why don’t you?
The way ranch dressing is always ordered “on the side.” It’s the mistress of salad dressings. Won’t somebody stand up and make a commitment to ranch dressing? Stop treating her like a whore. Let her come with the salad to the dinner party. Don’t force her to drive in a separate car!
Dr. Muflin’s blinds in his den. They’re those metal ones instead of wood and they are almost impossible to clean. I know it’s only his den, but you should never skimp on window treatments.
Well, I’d write more but I don’t want to be late for therapy. My chores today are organizing Dr. Muflin’s sock drawer, mulching his prize roses, and trimming the high branches in his apple orchard. Golden Delicious. It figures.
My Dad Was Like a
Father to Me
I get a lot of cards and letters asking me to write about my dad. Well, most of them come from my dad. Sometimes he tries to fool me by signing a woman’s name, then putting on lipstick and kissing the envelope. His scheme doesn’t fool me. The return address sticker he got from donating to the ASPCA is a dead giveaway.
Since his birthday is coming up and I haven’t found a good card yet, I figured I might as well give him his wish and write something about my dad.
I remember my childhood like it was yesterday or even this morning. Yet I was a little innocent girl, so I know it wasn’t this morning because I was this age even yesterday. But what I remember most is late afternoon, dinnertime. Mama would be in the kitchen with Suky, our nanny. Suky was blind, so I don’t even know why she’d be in the kitchen because she wasn’t allowed to help cook. She once sprinkled the Christmas cookies with Ajax. I didn’t mind. But anyway, if it was Friday, supper would be a big kettle of fresh vegetable soup. Grandma would chop the carrots and celery. Every week she’d wave her big cleaver in the air, calling out the same thing: “Ooh, this knife is sharp. Y’all be careful. Whoa! I can’t control my arm! Just kiddin’.” Grandma was so funny. And dangerous.
Usually, I’d be in the backyard playing Starsky & Hutch with my best friend, Lucy Tanzamar. (Hi, Lucy!) She had a huge head and always wore jumpsuits. My favorite was a bright yellow one with nuts all over it—every kind of nut, not just two or three. It had peanuts, pecans, pistachios, almonds, cashews, Brazil, acorns, macadamia, walnut, chestnut, pine, beechnut, filbert, hickory, mixed. Later we found out that peanuts, almonds, and walnuts weren’t nuts at all but actually something called “drupes.” We used to laugh about that, thinking, Here we are knowing that, just little girls, and whoever designed that jumpsuit must’ve been an adult, but they didn’t even know they made a huge mistake! We wanted to write somebody but didn’t know who to write. Anyway, I loved that jumpsuit.
When we heard my Dad’s moped pull into the front yard, we’d get so excited. We’d run inside, where Mama would be making a big batch of banana daiquiris. We’d all be trying to guess what he’d be dressed up as. Every day it was different. Sometimes he’d be in a monkey suit, sometimes he’d be in pink fur, like a giant bunny. He passed out flyers for new businesses in the mall, so he got to keep all the suits. Sometimes, to surprise him, we’d all be in suits too: Mama would be a swordfish. Suky would be a mongoose. (We told her she was an alligator—she didn’t know.) Grandma was an iguana, and so on. We’d light all the sparklers and dance around in circles, like elephants in a circus. Then my dad would enter and start juggling dishes while singing some Glen Campbell song….
Whoa. Wait a minute. Okay, I’m so embarrassed. That’s not my childhood, that’s a play I saw in London. I’m sorry. I was wondering, because none of that sounded familiar. I’m thinking, Who’s Lucy? No, my childhood was totally different. I had a twin brother who was an albino Mexican midget and my dad sent us to a Swiss boarding school. No…that was a movie I saw. Okay, I’ve got it now. Obviously I’ve been trying to block it out, it was so painful. When I was eleven, my dad made me swim in a pool full of rats. No, wait, that was last week’s Fear Factor.
Okay, I remember now. I look back on my childhood and I remember how my dad would play these practical jokes on me all the time. I remember one time so vividly. I was seven years old and I was in the backyard playing. Real hot, sunny day, about 97, 98 degrees, but not real humid. It was hot, though.
Anyway, I went into the kitchen to pour a glass of lemonade, because I used to just love lemonade. I still drink it. I don’t drink it as much as I did when I was a little girl. Sometimes I’d drink it all day long. I’d drink so much that I’d be lying in bed at night, “Mom, I got a tummyache!”
Anyway, so I’m in the kitchen, and in the kitchen were my dad, my mom, all my brothers and sisters, just standing there, staring at me about to start laughing, and I’m like, “What?” So my dad said, “Ellen, honey, uh, we’ve never liked you as well as the other children. So, we’ve sold you to a tribe of Iroquois Indians. They’ll be here to pick you up in about an hour. We’re going to the Ice Capades. Good-bye! Good luck!” I was seven.
So, I lived in the Uriginees mountains for about nine years with the Iroquois, learning basket weaving and pottery making, and I taught them that noise you make under the armpit. That was the skill I had. And it was customary to marry within the tribe at thirteen and have several papooses, which I did. Cluck Cluck and Too Koo were their names.
Anyway, nine years later, trudging up the mountains came my dad, my mom, all my brothers and sisters, carrying a big pitcher of lemonade. Of course my tribe and I didn’t recognize them—we were shooting them with bows and arrows and everything—but they got up to the top and said, “We’re just kidding! We love ’ya! Come on home.” And we went home and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
Here’s the funny thing. The funny thing is, they weren’t even real Indians. They were actors my dad had hired to play Indians, just to fool me! Even today, I’ll be watching an old rerun of Love Boat or Mannix with my dad, and we’ll say, “Oh, hey, there’s Running Steve!” That’s not his real name; I know that now. It’s Rick Schroeder! I thought he was an Indian! I didn’t even know. He was always joking around, my dad.
My dad’s famous saying was, “Kids, this is no picnic.” Once he said it and we already had the tablecloth out on the grass and everything.
Actually, because my memory is so bad, most of that stuff about my dad isn’t exactly, totally 100% true. But here’s some stuff that is…kinda, a little bit.
My dad would always pay for things with change. I can see wanting to get rid of it; it’s change. But if he was always paying for stuff with change, why was his dresser always covered with it? The entire top of it. I asked him about it one day and he said to me, “Beth, I’ll tell you what, I’ve always loved coins. In fact, I wanted to be a pirate when I got out of college, but then I met your mother and before I knew it, I had a family to raise. I guess these coins are like the booty and this dresser is my treasure chest that will never be.” I’m pretty sure he was just joking about not knowing my name.
When my dad would buy gas, he’d say to the attendant, “A dollar of regular, Pahdnah.” He called a lot of people “Pahdnah.” I don’t know if it was a New Orleans thing or if he just couldn’t remember people’s names. Come to think of it, he called me “Pahdnah” a lot. Not to mention that one dollar. But then to try to sound cool, he’d call the attendant “Pahdnah.” I would slide down in my seat feeling sorry for the “Pahdnah.” Don’t know why he’d never spring for more than a dollar.
Of course back then (boy, that’s when you know you’re old, when you can say “back then”—you never hear a child say “back then”) a dollar took you a lot further…farther? Let’s just say it took you a long ways. We didn’t have money really, but I didn’t feel poor at all. That is,
until we’d go out to buy something and my dad would pay for it with change. It’s one thing to buy the newspaper or candy with change but a shirt or a lamp? That’s not right. We’d be standing in line with him while he counted, “$34.50, $34.55, $34.60, $34.65. There you go, Pahdnah.”
Every Saturday and Sunday of my youth was spent looking at real estate that we couldn’t afford. Not that these houses were mansions, which actually could have been fun. No, we looked at normal two-bedroom homes in regular middle class neighborhoods just out of our price range. That didn’t stop my dad from looking at the same house over and over and over again. As a kid, I didn’t really realize how completely insane this was. I was frustrated, though, because it was very exciting to think we could own our very own house. Every weekend when we would go back to look at it, I would imagine what it would be like to live there. Never mind that we were two children, grown, and these were two-bedroom houses.
There was always the same discussion at every house; “Well, your brother could sleep in the breakfast nook. Yes, a bed could fit in there. Or in the closet or garage.” It would always end the same way. The house would be sold eventually and we would move on to the next one. I’m sure the real estate agents hated us. We must’ve been famous in the city of New Orleans for being “the family that looked every weekend for months at the same houses but wouldn’t even make an offer.” Actually, that seems unlikely because it takes so long to say; I doubt people would take the time to repeat it enough to make us famous. We were probably slightly well known.
We never owned a new car but we looked at quite a few. I remember being at a car dealership one time; I must have been around eleven years old. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a luxury sedan, flipping the vanity mirror up and down on the visor and wishing my dad’s moped had a vanity mirror. Or even a passenger seat.
I looked over to see my father standing in the salesman’s office, a sight I had never seen in all the time we’d spent wandering around every auto showroom in town. I looked around the big, beautiful new-car-smelling car that I was sitting in and dreamed of pulling up in front of my school in it, with everyone watching, even the substitute teachers. All the kids would ask me if they could have a ride; I’d say yes; and they’d hoist me onto their shoulders and parade me around the tetherball courts.
Right at the best part of this fantasy, the part where I was being awarded a lifetime supply of cafeteria Tater Tots, my father leaned into the car and said, “Let’s get going, Bellhead.” He called me that every once in a while when I was a child. I think it was his idea of a funny nickname, but it just made me think my head was really big. What did I know? I can’t see my head the way an objective observer can. It took me years of therapy to realize that if my head could fit into a standard-size hat, it couldn’t be much bigger than anyone else’s. Thank God for that new school of psychology that developed hat therapy or I would’ve been convinced I was a bigheaded freak for the rest of my life.
Anyway, I asked my father what kind of car we were getting and if it could please be orange because that was the color car that I figured would make me most popular at school. He looked at me with a sweet, salty expression and said, “Oh, no, honey, I wasn’t in there buying a car. The salesman and I just got to talking about how it’s impossible to find a decent house in this city.”
My disappointment must have gotten the better of me because I burst into tears. Come to think of it, I know it got the better of me because there was an unspoken ban on expressing emotion in our family, so I wouldn’t have cried unless it was an absolute emergency. My father turned away until I was finished, then handed me one of his handkerchiefs with the little nose embroidered in the corner.
“Don’t cry, Ellen. Someday you can write about this in your memoirs.”
I looked up at my father, listening to the faint jingle of change in his pockets and seeing the love and kindness in his eyes and said, “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not the boss of me!” Come to think of it, I was probably thirteen at the time. A wave of frustration had crested inside me and on that wave was the tiny, brave surfer of self-expression. I found myself “hanging ten” in a way I never dreamed I could before. I realized I liked that feeling.
Yes, thinking back, that outburst has come to symbolize for me the end of my childhood. After that, all my dad ever got from me was door slamming, curfew breaking, and the occasional eye roll, until I turned eighteen and left home to make it big on my own. I immediately gained thirty pounds just to prove I could, and for my efforts, my dad sent me a congratulatory Bundt cake with the words, “Keep it up, Darlene!” written in chocolate icing on top. I laughed and laughed, then I read the card he had so preciously tucked away in the empty center of the cake. It said,
Ellen,
Be sure to have your laughs after you finish eating Bundt cake. It’s thicker than you’d expect and can be dangerous if not eaten with caution, just like life.
Love,
Dad
The Serious Chapter
As a comedian, I’ve learned that people expect me to be funny all the time.
That is a lot of pressure, as you can imagine. I’m not the kind of person who is “on” all the time and I don’t really like being around those types of personalities. It’s draining to have to be their audience. I am funny but that doesn’t mean I’m always funny. I’m also sad and mad and shy and serious. This is a chapter in which I can just be serious.
For some readers, it will be a chapter they skip over. “Why should we read a chapter that isn’t funny,” they might say. “I bought this book to laugh. I want to laugh at everything. What is this nonsense? I want my money back!” Well, calm down. I’ll write one extra chapter, a bonus chapter, for those of you who feel ripped off. For others—the less demanding—this will be a welcome change of pace.
I’ve heard people say, “Why must everything be a joke with Ellen? Can’t we learn a little bit about her as a person? Must she always be funny?” This chapter is for those people.
I hope that I’ve given you what you needed. I hope you feel complete in some way. I, myself, am bored.
The Controversial Chapter
After that last chapter, I find it necessary to give you something controversial. After all controversy sells. Or is it “sex sells”? Well, in my next book maybe I’ll do a sex chapter too. But for now, let me be controversial. That is what I’m supposed to be. I don’t want to let anybody down. So here goes.
I hate puppies and kittens. That’s right, you heard me. I think they’re stupid and ugly. And I won’t pet them or play with them, even if someone puts them on my lap. I find them repulsive and vile. Also, I abhor ice cream and I’m not even lactose intolerant. I just refuse to acknowledge its significance in society. I also despise all things that are soft: Cotton? Yuck! Fleece? Peeuuee!
Oh, and children’s laughter is a turnoff to me. Children in general are creeps, the color yellow is stupid, and I hate all green things, especially trees. Shrubs are okay, I guess. They’re shorter, not as full of themselves. I dislike anything with pride or confidence. There, I’ve said it. If I’ve upset anybody, it’s too bad. I don’t care. I’m controversial! I’m a rebel!
The Chapter of Apologies
I didn’t mean any of that. Who could not like puppies and kitties and ice cream and trees and soft things that are yellow? You would have to be a monster, a cold, heartless monster, born with no feelings! Wait a minute, I suppose it’s good to have strong opinions and voice them. What’s wrong with people expressing their opinions? We all should have that right. Freedom of speech! Freedom of expression! Obviously we can’t all like the same things. That would be boring and it would create a nightmare for grocery shopping. Let’s say everyone only liked vanilla ice cream, and that’s the only flavor that was sold. We’d all be fighting over the last container of vanilla ice cream or they’d be out of it all the time. We’d all wear the same thing every day, like we were in Catholic school. We would be like robots, programmed to t
hink and feel the way someone decided was the “right way.” What is the “right way?” I like that we’re all different. I want us to be different.
Me, I love cats, and I don’t understand when people say they hate cats. I just think they’ve made a blanket judgment about all cats because they don’t know a cat, or they met one bad cat with an attitude. I guess as long as people don’t harm anything or anyone, they have the right to hate anything, but really, it’s a shame to waste that kind of energy on hate. It’s such a negative and draining emotion. Also, you’re shutting yourself out of a possible opportunity to grow in some new area, to try to understand something that up until now you haven’t understood. I’ll tell you right now, I can’t stand pepper—but I don’t begrudge people putting it on their chicken. If they want to ruin a perfectly good cordon bleu, then let them.
You may still find you don’t like cats (What’s not to like?), but you don’t have to hate them. You can say, “I don’t understand cats, but I appreciate their existence.” What I’d really like to express is, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I pretended for three paragraphs in the last chapter that I disliked defenseless, beautiful, soft, and yellow things (which could be baby ducks).
So, in closing, I don’t have a problem with controversy. I only wish the word we used was different.
Dear Diary
February 28, 2003
Dear Diary,
My thirty-five-city Here and Now stand-up tour starts in a week. I’ve decided that I should keep a journal to chronicle my adventures on the road. I tried to keep one on my last tour but I didn’t have the discipline. Not this time. This time Diary, I vow to write in you every day, even though I have a huge problem finishing things I start. It seems to me that