Comedians Aren't Funny When You're Pregnant

Sometimes even professional comedians aren't all that funny - like when you're living with one, or married to one, or find yourself impregnated by one. No, not funny at all.

My ex-husband, Michael at a run 

to end breast cancer - finally 

doing something helpful for women.

Photo courtesy of Michael Aronin. 

For instance, most husbands of women turning forty and overdue with their first child, know enough to keep their mouths shut - about pretty much everything. But when the husband is a stand-up comedian, he doesn't know enough to do this and says things men planning to live long enough to see their babies would never say.

Picture this: I'm standing there, so pregnant my nose has gained weight. The baby is inside me, hanging window treatments, rearranging the furniture, and ordering from Wayfair, showing no signs of coming out. My then-husband, Michael looks at me suspiciously and asks, "How do I know you're the real mother?"

Then imagine this: I'm somewhere into my 104th week of pregnancy. I have given up shaving my legs. Our shower stall is tiny and when I bend over and lather my legs, the soap immediately washes off and I'm cutting myself. Even if I shut the water off first, bending over to shave is miserable.

And forget shaving in the tub; just sitting down in the tub is like centering a house onto one square of a sidewalk. 

So I give up shaving for a while.

After a few weeks, as I roll into bed, Michael reaches over, pats my leg and mutters, "Dad?"

Anyway, I blubber and sulk my way through my fortieth birthday and two weeks later the baby is still a no-show. By the time I am finishing the nursery, I am enormous, and if I am sitting on the floor painting a baseboard and need a rag from the other side of the room, I roll there to fetch it.

One night, I am putting up a wallpaper boarder at chair rail height. When it starts peeling off faster than I can slap it back up, I scream for Michael to help. He does his best, but we end up watching helplessly as all my hard work comes crashing down like a home improvement project in a Laurel and Hardy short. 

I throw myself on the floor in a hormone-enhanced tantrum and begin to bawl. At first Michael takes the sympathetic approach and tries unsuccessfully to comfort me. Then he decides I will settle down if he leaves me alone for a few minutes. My hysterics, however, continue.

After a full thirty minutes of this, Michael grabs the bull by the horns and, using the same judgment he too often employs, takes the tough love route.

"Teece!" he bellows from the bottom of the stairs. "Pull yourself together and get down here - NOW!"

I yell back what he can do with his order.

And his stand-up buddies weren't all that different. When one of them got in trouble with his pregnant wife, he solemnly absorbed her words, looked at her with mopey eyes and a divorceably straight face, and said, "That's okay, honey; it's just the baby talking."

As another of them was coaching his wife through labor, the baby's head emerged, but his wife was exhausted and stopped pushing. The doctor told him to say something motivating, so he told his wife, "Sweetie, if you don't keep pushing, you're gonna have a helluva time buying pants."

Yes, comedians are a very glib bunch - which is just one of the reasons so many are divorced.   

                         

         

It's Got to Be a Sign!

If I were a standup comic I'd kick off this essay by asking, "And what is it with signs these days?" But really, what is it with signs these days?


Back in the day, we could count on signs to tell us important things like STOP and YIELD and FREE FOOD. But now, way too often, they either tell you to do things that don't make any sense when you think about them hard enough or they warn you not to do things that even Justin Bieber would have the sense not to do. Or that even Miley Cyrus would have the sense not to do. Or that even Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus at a party hosted by Robin Thicke would have the sense not to do.

I've been making notes for the last year or so every time I see one of these signs. One is in the picture right up there. Notice it says that the screen is intended to keep insects out and is not equipped to keep someone's drunk behind in if he or she were impaired enough to think that wedging their rump into the window would be really, really fun just to see if it will fit or how much it will hurt if it falls out and lands on the concrete five floors down. 

Then there's the sign at my local Kroger that invites me to say hi to the manager. It goes on to say that their goal is to greet every customer and that their success rate is 95%. 

I'm not saying Kroger doesn't mean well, but they are asking us to acknowledge them so that they can meet their goal of acknowledging us. That's like getting a pat on the back for saying hi when all you did was say hi back.

Late last summer that same Kroger set about a dozen half-dead plants outside the store with a sign reading HALF OFF. Maybe Kroger meant that the plants' leaves were half off or that the plants themselves were halfway off to whatever place it is that plants go when they die. A good customer would have used the leaves to spell out HI! thereby helping Kroger to meet its greeting goal even as it was selling off the plants.

One day when the kids and I were out for a drive, we passed a sign advertising free rocks. Why would I bother with those when all I have to do to get free rocks is have the kids bend over and shake their heads real hard? Granted, a construction project manager or a landscaper or even a gardener might have seen value in free rocks, but egoist that I am, I see things through my own narcissistic filter so a sign advertising free rocks looked ridiculous to me; especially since, as I said before, I had my own quarry buckled up in the backseat. 

I need to get over my critical negativity lest locusts descend upon me; or a plague; or locusts infected by a plague. 

Because no matter which of them I got stuck with, it would be a really bad sign. 

The Watched Pot of Winter

It’s been winter for weeks now and I’m still trying to catch up to the notion that winter is a good and natural thing, a thing needed by the earth, a time for nature in my part of the world to close its eyes and rest; a time for things to take stock and catch their breath before the bustle of spring returns.

Like his mother, Jon gets a  
little flaky in the winter. 

Winter never was my favorite thing, but years ago when I was about to drive from Michigan to Colorado, my view on winter took an uptick. It was January and someone remarked that it was a shame I wasn’t making the trip in a few months when the scenery would be prettier.

“But winter has its own colors,” a friend replied, “and they’re beautiful.”

On the trip I appreciated the landscape more than I would have had my friend not made that observation. Winter’s sepia and olive tones became nearly as appealing as the purples, greens, yellows and reds due to burst from the soil come April.  

Why then has winter become so unappealing to me again? Why can’t I think my way back to that long-ago road trip when winter was cold, bleak and barren, yet beautiful nonetheless; when it was something to love despite, or even because of its harsh embrace? Why can’t I get back there again?

It’s not as if I have no good memories of winter. My son was born in the winter, umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, his first cry the bleat of a newborn lamb, raspy, plaintive, yet raging, simultaneously helpless and furious. 

That little bleat told me my son had arrived and that he planned on staying, despite the scary start, and his grandmother’s first thought at the sight of him was that he should pick up a hammer and help the other elves. He was a minikin, but he was my minikin and he was healthy.

And one of the things I laughed at the hardest in this life would never have happened had it not been for winter.

One morning my mother landed on her fanny after slipping in the snow, her coat leaving a nubby-textured imprint next to a Nike-esque swoosh from where her boot had shot out from under her. If I’d seen her fall, I’d have been upset, but walking up on the plop and swoosh, and knowing she was fine, made me weep with laughter. Mean-sounding, I know, but she was laughing, too.

Maybe I'd feel better if I just stopped fighting winter and stopped staring at the calendar as though winter were the proverbial watched pot. Maybe I need to remember my son’s first wails, picture him as he was the other day, wind-whipped and thrilled, barreling down a hill on his sled. 

Maybe I should think about moments like those and stop fighting what is as inevitable and as necessary and as natural as death. At least winter is temporary and there will always be another spring. 

There will always be another spring, right?

Jenny and the Christmas Vomity Mess

In early December my house was a Christmas vomity mess, then it looked lovely, then it was a Christmas vomity mess again. I hate it when Christmas vomity messes go full-circle - and they always do. 

Kitt, our cat, staking her claim in the
Christmas vomity mess. Copyright,
Teece Aronin. 

The Christmas vomity mess is that stage of home Christmasness characterized by ornaments scattered across floors and ornament hooks that hide among carpet fibers and don't come loose until they hitch a ride out of there embedded in the sole of your foot. 

The Christmas vomity mess is scraps of gift-wrap strewn like confetti - your house looking like New Year's Day, six a.m. It is also whole hanks of gift-wrap curled up on the floor like victims of a war on gift-wrap because someone didn't measure once and therefore cut twice. 

The Christmas vomity mess is every construction paper decoration and tree ornament your children have made since pre-K, now flung across the dining table from which the table cloth hangs, all catty-wompus and drunkenly grazing the floor. 

The Christmas vomity mess is all your Thanksgiving paraphernalia co-mingling and canoodling with the decorated plates, candy dishes, hand soap dispensers and towels which must be trotted out or it just wouldn't be Christmas. 

I first heard the term Christmas vomity mess from my smart, sparkling, optimistic friend, Jenny. Even though it can't always be easy as a working, single mother, Jenny has a gift for seeing the good. 

Jenny is the kind of woman who can tell you that someone just graffitied her truck and manage to spin the tale so that it sounds like the sun just flooded her garden, every flower turning its little face toward the light - and that it was adorable when one of them sneezed. 

When Jenny sees a Christmas vomity mess she sees fun-loving elves playing peekaboo in the debris. When I see a Christmas vomity mess, I see elves dressed as Chucky dolls. I don't perk up until the Christmas vomity mess is downgraded to at worst, a Christmas hiccuppy mess.  

I first heard Jenny use the term on Facebook right after Thanksgiving when this post appeared next to her pretty, smiling face: My house is a Christmas vomity mess! 

'Oh, my God!' I realized, 'So is mine!' 

This year I did almost all of my holiday shopping online, causing my Christmas vomity messes to expand and include cardboard boxes, stacks of them; a small-scale homage to Citizen Cane and the crate maze remains of a life spent grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. And spilling from the boxes to tumble all over the room were tiny air-puffed packing cushions equally useful as floaties for little baby rabbits. 

And because ninety percent of this stuff was intended for my kids whose last scraps of holiday innocence I'd like to protect by keeping at least some gifts a surprise, the Chrismas vomity mess has spread into my bedroom in a big way. This gave me pause one night as I turned out the bedside lamp. Normally, I navigate my dark bedroom like a fish in black waters. I know every curled corner on every throw rug and gracefully sidestep the tiny three-legged stool near my closet door.

But this Xanadu microcosm could send me tush over teakettle if I connected with it in the dark. I could fall, break a hip and become a burden to society when I'd be perfectly happy just burdening my children someday. Then a Scroogey voice inside my head nagged, "And you'll keep Christmas by losing your independence!" So, even as I told Ebeneezer to shut his figgy pudding hole, I got up and shoved the boxes out of the way.

But almost enough about me; Since the Christmas vomity mess is a multi-stage phenomenon, I manage to clean it up in time for Christmas morning and holiday guests only to witness it reinventing itself during the gift opening phase like an antibiotic-resistant bacteria. 

This year I found these cycles exhausting and so did my Christmas tree which eventually refused to light whenever the place was a shambles. Like me, it can't seem to get turned on when the house is a mess. 

So that's it for this year's Christmas vomity mess. I might feel nostalgic for Christmas from time to time but never for the Christmas vomity mess. 

And Jenny - smart, fun, light-hearted Jenny - what planet are you from and may I spend next Christmas there with you?

Dial D for Dick

Years ago, I was a headhunter who recruited actuaries.

Proof positive of how much I
love being on the phone.

An actuary's work is a little like an accountant's, only snore-ier. They’re the ones who calculate probability of death and things like that and they often work for insurance companies.

I’ll preface this by saying that I was a bad recruiter; I was a very bad recruiter. I was such a bad recruiter that I spent less time at my desk than I did hiding in the ladies’ room. I lacked sales skills and I hated being on the phone, which I was, almost constantly, when I wasn’t in the bathroom – in other words: roughly half the day not counting my lunch and two coffee breaks.  

Worse was that the nature of my work, talking someone into quitting a job and hooking up with my client’s company, felt to me like stealing. Whenever I tracked down an actuary who qualified for a position I was looking to fill, got him on the phone and pitched the opportunity, I was nervous and awkward and couldn’t get the words out. I hated being a recruiter.

One day, I dragged my sorry carcass onto the phone for another day of telephonic misery. I was trying to reach a man by the name of Dick Smith (I’m making up the last names but the Dicks were real) and called into the company where the phone was answered by a receptionist.

“Hello,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, “May I speak with Dick Smith?”

"Just a moment," she said before transferring my call. Seconds later a man answered.   

           

“Dick here.”

           

I introduced myself, rising above the knots in my stomach then launched into the details of the job. I must’ve prattled on for three minutes straight with Dick listening politely, asking an occasional question, then allowing me to continue. When I finally shut up, he said, “That sounds like a terrific career move, but you're looking for Dick Smith and I'm Dick Jones. Hang on while I transfer you.”

           

Instantly my stomach resurrected my breakfast and I began catastrophizing the horrible end now awaiting Dick Smith and his family: rumors flying that he talks to headhunters, his boss firing him and his wife divorcing him. What felt like hours was just seconds before a husky, elegant female voice cut in: “Mr. Smith’s office; this is Phyllis.”

“Hello, Phyllis. I called in a few minutes ago and asked to speak with Dick Smith – you know him, he’s your boss." Of course she knew that Dick Smith was her boss. “Anyway, I called in and asked for him, but somehow I was transferred over to Dick Jones and must have talked to him for almost five minutes before he told me that he wasn’t Dick Smith at all, but was actually Dick Jones. So anyway, it was just a bit of a mix-up and I’m hoping you can help me, because you see, it turns out that after all that talking, I'd totally gotten hold of the wrong Dick.”

There was an exquisitely timed pause before Phyllis, cool as an April breeze, replied, “A mistake any woman could make.”

I’m happy to say that I’m no longer an actuarial recruiter but I have no idea what happened to either Dick after that.

They probably work for Phyllis now.

           

To a Few of the Gentlemen on OKCupid

Dear Gentlemen:

Man with the Twitchy Mustache by 

Teece Aronin. Available on products at

redbubble.com/people/phylliswalter. 

Thank you all so very much for taking the time to "view," "like," "favorite," etcetera my profile and for all your lovely messages.

Since each of you was memorable in your own way, I am writing this letter in an effort to acknowledge the unique impression each of you made on me.

First, to God'sGift, no, Heaven isn't missing an angel, but I'm flattered that you thought it might be. Hell might be short one little devil, though, you little devil, you. ;-D

And Iamblessed451, thank you for saying that if there was anything in this world that God took His time creating, it was the perfection of my beauty. Actually, I think He spent no more than a few minutes whipping me up and if you saw me first thing in the morning, you'd think so, too.

To CarnivoreYum who wrote: "Oh yes, you are meaty where I like it," believe it or not, I wasn't thinking of you when I threw all that junk in my trunk mindlessly eating my way through last winter. But if it works for you, it works for me. 

Howfine69: I liked the way you didn't beat around the bush when all your message said was: "have sex with me?" You didn't even waste time capitalizing the H. Very swift, bold move, 69, but I'm afraid it still missed because, well, your message kind of creeped me out.  

And speaking of creeped out . . .

KittyLiquor - While it would be mice to meet you, too, I really must pass. My cat gets crazy jealous, and whenever that happens, she throws up in my shoes. But thank you.

James: While your message was charming, I was a little confused when your picture was of a beautiful young woman. I think that in your rush to scam me, you neglected to switch out the female profile photo with one of a man. But don't be embarrassed, James; that kind of thing happens to scammers all the time. It must be hard keeping track of all the little details, like if your scam target is a man or a woman. If I'm wrong, and you really are a beautiful young woman named James, please accept my apology, and know that if I were wired a little differently, I would definitely go out with you. In other words, it's not you, it's me.

I still have more of you to thank and in the meantime, I'm sure others of you will step forward with your own unique ways of sweeping a girl off her feet.

But until then, buzz off -

T

The First Thanksgiving, a Heavily Exaggerated Back-story

"Firsts" are interesting things. First, the very nature of the word makes one expect that, at minimum, a second will follow. But at the first Thanksgiving, one might surmise that after the meal, for Pilgrims at least, the focus was back on surviving the upcoming year. 

It was the winter of 1620 when the Mayflower neared the East Coast and the Pilgrims, escaping religious persecution in England, were aiming for Virginia. Foul weather forced them to land in Massachusetts. 

"Who in their right minds would choose to live in this godforsaken place?" the Pilgrims wondered, when, as if on cue, the Wampanoag walked up. 

The Wampanoag were an indigenous people who had already seen English visitors come and go. A man stood among the Wampanoag from an associated tribe. His name was Samoset and since he spoke a little English, Massasoit, a leader in the group, shoved him front and center to do the meet and greet.

"Welcome, English. I am Samoset! Do you have beer?"

As it happened, the Pilgrims had plenty of beer because beer stayed potable longer than water. In fact, upon their arrival, among the first structures the Pilgrims built was a pub because the Pilgrims prayed about it, and God spoke to them, telling them a pub was the best place to bond with the Wampanoag. 

So, with relations off to a rousing start, the Wampanoag taught the Pilgrims to hunt, fish and plant. Meanwhile, the Wampanoag stayed dry and toasty in elaborate huts called wetus while the Pilgrims froze their patooties off building their houses - and the pub. 

Then of course there was Squanto, the man who taught the Pilgrims to grow corn by planting a dead fish with every seed. Squanto was fluent in English, but not because he'd invested in a Rosetta Stone online subscription; rather it was because some pre-Pilgrim Englishmen kidnapped him, taught him English, then forced him into service as an interpreter.

Thanks to the efforts of previous English visitors and the Pilgrim's hard work, by harvest time, 1621, Caucasians were well on their way to stealing a new country, and someone suggested that the village celebrate with the feast we now regard as the first Thanksgiving. 

Would you like to know what else happened? Then imagine with me if you will . . . 

. . . a snowy, blustery day on a spit of land that will one day be Cape Cod. Everyone is hoping that the weather settles down in time for the feast. Pilgrim women's aprons ripple in the wind like flags, their dresses whipping about their legs like bat's wings. Feathers in headdresses flatten under the force of deafening gales and the occasional errant feather breaks loose to soar away like the winged creature to which it once belonged. 

A voice louder than any shrieking wind pierces the day. 

"Robert Dudley! Come here this instant!" 

Robert Dudley, a.k.a. Deadly Dudley, winces at the sound of his wife's voice. The reason for Dudley's nickname is his keen eye with a musket. Whenever Dudley takes aim, precious and few are the ducks that live to quack about it. 

"Aw for corn sake, Liz; what is it?"

"Go shoot us some ducks! You know the feast is today and we're nowhere near ready! We need at least three!"

"But I was just on my way to the pub to meet Squanto."

"Don't get me started on Squanto!" shouts Liz. "Him and his dead fish! Why I'll have you know that after you two did the planting, my sister, Mary and I were up to our hats in cats for weeks every time we dared step foot out of the house! And why? Squanto - that's why! Squanto and his rotten, stinking fish. Whoever heard of planting corn like that! Disgusting!" 

Dudley wants to tell Liz what she and Mary can do with their hats, not to mention a few feral cats and a couple of ears of corn - maybe even the fish - but he doesn't dare. He grumbles to Liz that he'll go shoot her some ducks, picks up his musket and trudges out of the house. He slams the door just to show Liz who's boss. 

Shocked by the force of the winds and holding hat to head, Dudley runs - straight to the pub. Squanto is already at the bar, sourly nursing a beer, sure that Dudley's late arrival is due to his "woman trouble." Dudley bellies up next to his friend. They chat and though Squanto can't stomach her, he asks how Liz is doing. 

Thinking how loathsome his wife truly is, Dudley lies to Squanto. He pretends to confide in Squanto, telling him that while historically Liz hasn't been big on affection, he thinks she's coming around.

Squanto, who's been on the receiving end of Liz's affection, says, "Yeah? Well, good luck with that." He downs the rest of his beer and leaves. 

Dudley sits in the afterglow of male bonding, thinking how nice it was of Squanto to wish him luck. Then it dawns on him that he still has at least three ducks to shoot. He scrambles off the bar stool, tosses a few clams on the counter and hurries out. Heading to his favorite duck blind, Dudley finds the wind still lashing. He pulls his hat down over his ears and prays it stays on; Liz would be furious if he lost his hat.

Suddenly, there comes a strange sound, a tenor-like warble Dudley can only describe as gobble. He looks to his left where the most horrific-looking beast is ambling by. It's toppled by the wind, rights itself, falls over again, then gets up again. Dudley can only describe the creature's looks as "godawful."

It has to be some kind of bird, though, because it has feathers, some of them blowing away in the storm. But it also might be some kind of diseased bird since dangling about it's throat is a red and ugly mass flapping in the wind. 

Then again, on the plus side, the bird is bigger than any three ducks combined. 

"Hmmm . . . What to do?" Dudley ponders. Then, motivated by the image of his wife's displeased face, Dudley takes aim. Just as he fires, a gust knocks Dudley to the ground and the musket fires.  

The gust lifts the bird into the air and off in the direction of the village. It is spotted some hundred feet up by an opportunistic Pilgrim with musket at the ready. He pulls the trigger, more feathers fly, and the bird is unceremoniously dumped into the ceremony. 

"Hurray!" shout the Wampanoag whose diet has included turkey for years. They wanted to suggest it for today's menu but feared the Pilgrims would be put off by its appearance. 

Hours later, the storm passes and the revelers linger over coffee. When Dudley's empty, battered hat blows onto the table, it occurs to his wife that he is missing. 

And so ends the story of the first Thanksgiving and of Robert Dudley, a.k.a. Deadly Dudley, a.k.a. Dead Duck Dudley.