The Funny Thing Is... (9 page)

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

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.

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!

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 think 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.

February 28,

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

[]

March 3,

Dear Diary,

I’ve been working out my act at a few clubs around Los Angeles. Last night went great. Of course, at this stage of the process I haven’t memorized anything, so I’m still reading off notes I’ve written all over my hands. The audience didn’t seemto mind. Even though I started out every joke with “Hands sure are funny, aren’t they?” while staring intently at my palms…

[]

March 7,

Dear Diary,

I leave in two days, so I guess it’s time for me to think about what I’m going to bring. When I’m on tour I usually travel with about fifteen steamer trunks. The hardest part is figuring out what I’ll wear for each show. Should I wear a pair of pants? Or should I wear pants instead? I weigh the options. Pants? Or pants? Then I realize I’m usually most comfortable onstage in pants. Still, bringing along some pants is probably a good idea. Just in case I change my mind …

[]

March 8,

Dear Diary,

I’m going to stop writing “Dear Diary” at the beginning of each entry. There’s no need for it. I’m just writing to myself. I suppose I could begin with “Dear Ellen,” but then it would be as if I’ve got a second personality with the same name and personality as my main personality. Anyway, spent most of my day working on my act. Getting my material just right for an audience takes a lot of serious preparation, so I practiced my routine in front of my cats. They always have pages and pages of notes for me. The critiques usually focus on why there aren’t more jokes about cats in my act. Why don’t I have a “Phone Call to a Cat” joke or a “What if Gloria Estefan Was a Cat” bit? I try to explain to them that my audience does not usually consist of cats, but they feel that I’m limiting myself. Maybe they’re right. You know what they say about a cat’s intuition … or is it the nine lives of a good woman?

I’ve also decided to learn about each city I’m visiting on my tour. It’s so important to connect with the crowds at my shows. When I take the stage I want to say more than just: “It’s great to be here in (insert your city here)!” With the intensive research I’ve been doing, I’ll be able to open with: “Hello, Kansas City! Did you know that your annual relative humidity is 60%? You guys ROCK!!”

[]

March 9
—
Luther Burbank Center, Santa Rosa, Calif
.

Well, I’ve finally hit the road. I just finished up two shows in Santa Rosa, California. Both performances were sold out! I was so excited when I heard. I was afraid I was going to have to take a bullhorn to the mall and give the tickets away. Since I didn’t have to, I had more time to shower and change before the show.

Speaking of which, my act is really starting to take shape. The best part was that the audience was definitely laughing
with
me and not
at
me. Like the time I performed with my oxford shirt on backwards by mistake. You’d think someone would have told me before I went on.

The staff at Luther Burbank Center was so accommodating. The theater had a very nice greenroom. “Greenroom” is a fancy showbiz term for a backstage waiting area. It’s not actually green. But no one dares ever mention that. Not if they want tokeep their jobs. The room was appointed with my few simple requirements: just a big bathroom, a comfy couch, and a kiln, in case I want to calm my preshow jitters by fashioning an urn.

[]

March 11
—
Capitol Theatre, Yakima, Wash
.