My Mother's Influence

My mother’s contribution to my sense of humor is definitely her fault. I couldn’t help it if I got those genes. I even know why I’m so warped. My dad, who never finished high school, suddenly got the calling to be a pastor long before I was gleam in their eyes. They moved to Springfield, MO, for Dad to attend college. While there, my next oldest brother, Randy, was born and my father came down with a nasty case of hepatitis. http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/hepatitis.html



He was bad enough he had to be put in quarantine, which lasted about 24 hours before he got dressed and started walking down the hall toward home. The doctors, in their wisdom, saw things Dad’s way and sent him home with the promise not to go out in public. So, with Dad home, Doug was barely three, and a new one was coming, Mom threw up her hands (to stop trying to do something because it is too difficult.) and insisted they return to Michigcan. Moving back home was good because Doug had all kinds of family to play with. It was good for Mom because she could get more sleep. It was bad for Randy because he died from pneumonia. http://www.mychildhealth.net/all-about-pneumonia-in-children.html I came along less than a year later, which was good for me.


And how does that affect my sense of humor? I was warped from the very start. Someone was fooling around with someone else when I was conceived, and since I look like my father, sound like my mother, and have the worst of both their senses of humor, yous knows whats thats means. I’m okay with telling stories because of Dad. If you didn’t know him, you didn’t always know if he was joking or not. Mom can do that too, but not as convincingly as Dad could. Actually, I’m not good, I can be downright convincing. And the more I dislike a person, the better I can be, assuming those in the know can keep their faces straight. I remember I had one poor girl thinking that my youngest brother was having trouble but I wasn’t about to help him because I was tired of him. Just to let you know, I am the youngest child in my family.


One of the games that I like to play with Mom is based on words and how stupid but plausible definition we can give them. To wit: When I turned 40, Mom took me and a few of my colleagues out for lunch. While waiting for our meal, I turned to Mom and asked, “Mom, what’s sex?” The table went silent. Remember, these are all women I have worked with and they all know my sense of humor. Mom looked around the table and the faces my colleagues were making, then she looked at my grinning face and answered, “Shonda, I’ve told you a hundred times. Sex is the number after five.” We giggled, then looked at my colleagues who still looked a bit stunned, and then a couple giggled, and then they lost it. I had finally put to rest that “Yes, this really is how she talks to me.”


Just the other day I asked Mom the meaning of porn. She said it was the first two letters of “pop” and the last two of “corn.” It made sense to me. This is what some word play is like with my mother. We’ll use perfectly good words, but bend them to fit our need. If we saw a tiger, I would ask why it wasn’t a lion. Mom would say only if it was asleep would it be a lion. I would say that a lion is a falsehood while resting on your back. Mom might say that was a recline-on. It pretty much goes downhill from there.


Another word game we’ve used is when we’re struck in traffic and desperate for something to do. We’ll start making anagrams from license plates, signs, anything that’s hand. Given the sign “We Luv to Serv” I’d make the anagram “uv”; Mom, “vuw”; me, “swell”; Mom, “vesul”; me, “luser”; and so on. (In case you weren’t paying attention, I did use the semicolons correctly here.)


Do I blame my parents for my warped sense of humor? Damn right, I do. Do I wish I had something more sedate? Hell no.


You must understand a couple things. 1. I was born fat. It’s just a word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.


IT. JUST. A. WORD. But, the more you look at it as a way of life, the more miserable you become. I have lived long enough being miserable, and I refuse to live that way anymore.
2. Because your society is soooooooooooooooooooo hung up by the word FAT, we forget to see the person below the flab. And, like most people with problems, we don’t forgive them their faults until they accept themselves for what they are.


Case in point: In August of 2002, I was lying in my motel bed, which on vacation, thinking about why my left shoulder and arm hurt like they were on fire. When I finally admitted I need to go to the hospital, I told my companion (Joyce) and also my colleague, that we need to go to a hospital, she said fine. I stood up to get dressed and found I couldn’t breathe, so I laid down and said we needed an ambulance. To cut it short, I went in early Friday morning and got out Tuesday morning after having had angioplasty, and with a lot of drugs including something for angina, depression, high blood pressure, and hi triglycerides. I was 41. Talk about a messed up life.


This is why I laugh. This is why I must laugh. I cannot let something simple like a bum ticker and diabetes rule my life. I refuse. Therefore, I laugh. Relapses? Not yet. Although Dr. Brill, the cardiologist, says it’s nice to see me in the office at least once a year since I refuse to go twice a year and hear him say I’m fine and come back in six months. I am not made of money, thank you. Anyone have a legal recipe for a money tree?