But let's get back to that business of apologizing. Could be that I'm really inept as a humor writer, but I don't think so. So why apologize then? After all I have some humor credits even though I never made it on McSweeneys (but then who does?) But there's always the slim possibility--and I really mean paper thin--that you, the reader, think I'm absolutely without a doubt inept as a humor writer. Now that matters, but it's still not a reason to apologize. Because if I'm really, really inept, then it's not my fault. It's my parents' fault. They got together with their uniquely weird set of genes and decided to create another living manifestation of their love. (I don't think that was the real reason, but inasmuch as they're not here to contradict me, I can and will think whatever I want. I love it how death gives you a lot of great freedoms, especially if you're not the deathee.)
Anyhow, back to my parents' fault. Without any regard whatsoever to my future career possibilities and quality of life, they just came together and did the dirty deed. Maybe they hoped I would have a good sense of humor, especially in lieu of the facts: a. I was being thrown into a home with another older and smarter sibling who played dress-up every day of the week, masquerading as the "only child." b. I was being thrown into a house where they allowed birds to piss and poop all over their cages but were terrified of animals with four feet--ie cats and dogs--as well as progeny with brain tissue. c.I was going to have to go through life as a person with questionable looks--e.g. a large, bulbous nose, the early appearance of diaper rash and all-over eczema, the harbingers of acne. I mean fierce, red as your sunburned ass- face, neck, and back acne. Not just the occasional oh-that's-so-cute-she-has-a-little-zits kind. Nosiree babe. I was going to bear the onus of all-over pimples bursting at the seams of my face like serial murderers freed to create mayhem.
To counteract all these challenges, the parents hoped I would be born with a sense of humor because you never quite know what shit is going to hit your fan. And if I wasn't born with a humor halo above my mucousy head, I would develop the skills necessary to waylay the poop that might insinuate its way into my life. I mean next to my older sibling (who shall remain nameless since she doesn't get pimples, poor grades, or miss proms) I was a total hot mess, so bad, in fact, that my friends and I would get together on weekends and hold cry-ins. Yes, cry-ins. Since we were children of the '60s, we desperately wanted to be hip or hep or whatever the slang was at the time. We'd sit on my bed, talk about Elvis the Pelvis and sing kum-by-yah.Then we'd blow our noses on toilet paper (this prop to denote our realization that in 10 or 40 years this hell called adolescence would be over forever). After that, we'd go downstairs for cookies and milk.
Luckily in between cry-ins, my sense of humor flourished. I'd laugh at sit-coms on TV, good or bad it didn't matter. I'd laugh at Bar Mitzvah boys misreading the Torah. I'd even laugh at funerals. I figured it was my mental duty to hone my sense of humor into a weapon of mass destruction that would save me from the misfortunes that were sure to follow me through life. And as reliable as is the urge to defecate over your worst enemy, the days of my life testified to the need for a winning sense of humor. When I failed sewing, I giggled for days, imagining my teacher basting herself to a crucifix where she would yell out commands like "Don't you even know how to use a scissors?" When I failed to get up the nerve to try out for the school musical, I smiled and returned home where I laughed my way through the "When You Walk Through a Storm "part of Carousel. In short, I laughed at every opportunity I had, reserving my tears and sloppy nose drippings for cry-ins.
So at least among my cry-in colleagues, I was recognized as a survivor. I'd get up in front of my audience of two klutzes and a nerd and say,"Hi, I'm Janice and I'm a Cry Baby." Then I'd cry through my short list of woes for 15 minutes, blubbering in creative and fascinating ways, and concluding with a solemnity prayer that transitioned me back to my Funny Girl status. Barbra Streisand never knew her movie titles told the story of my life, especially Up the Down Staircase and Yentl. Up the Down Staircase recounted the miseries of my high school years and Yentl was close enough to my Hebrew name of Yenta to be a perfect match. As Yentl/Yenta I impersonated a happy daughter when I was really a less-than happy dweeb.
In summary, I'd like to say "not my fault." As you can see, genetics and an unhealthy environment joined to render me a fake happy girl (if Trump can have his fake news, I can have my fake persona).
So I'm sorry if you missed my humor posts for the past couple weeks. But get over it! I'm baaaaaaack!
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