Funny Guy

I was driving to work on Friday (Friday the 13th, by the by) and feeling really down. It had been a melancholy morning, so far, and I decided to cheer myself up! I put on my favorite outfit, which consists of white jeans and a funky, colorful shirt, and got in the car for the first leg of my Commute Triathalon. I started thinking about how funny my husband, Jerry, can be and started really cracking myself up!
A few days ago, Jerry and I were bellied up to the bar at King Street Blues just chatting and people-watching. A man came in to order some carry out food. He was indecisive, like that kid on Caddyshack (I want ... a hot dog ... no! ... a hamburger ... no! ... ), the man stepped up to the bar and said, “Yeah .... gimmee ... a Sister Mary (bbq chicken sandwich) ... ummmmmm ... some fries ... annnnnddddd .....”
He was wiggling his fingers like a little kid doing “Gimmee” or a weird back scratch, “ ... annnnndddd .... some coleslaw!”
I did the weird finger wiggle thing to Jerry and asked, “What is that? The universal sign for ‘Coleslaw’?”
Jerry said, “That’s not ‘Coleslaw’!” He looked like he was really irritated about the guy getting his signs mixed up, “If anything, that’s ‘Grabass’.”
That thought reminded me of another time we were ordering food from a little carryout joint near our house. We call it Barbie Q. The woman at the counter had a weird, mewly way of talking. Her voice was whiny and her southern accent seemed painful, each word stretched to the point of nearly snapping. Someone ordered a bbq sandwich and Counter Girl repeated the order into the microphone, “Baaaaaaaah ba que....”
What else could I do, but imitate her words back to Jerry, “Baaaaaaaah ba que...”! Jerry said, “Yeah, it’s like when people think their cats are talkin’!”
Some time ago, we were sitting in my step-brother’s kitchen and my mother was taking some pills. I don’t know what pills, she’s in her sixties and that’s what you do, I guess, take pills. My mother had cancer in the mid-seventies. I don’t remember it all that well as I was just an infant (infant/4th grader - potayto/potahto), but she was gone for a week or so and came back with a scar on her neck. It was never very noticeable to me, but to hear her tell it, one of her many million admirers stalked up behind her and slashed her throat out of sheer love and adoration for her. So she put any number of pills in her mouth, took a tiny sip of water and threw back her head violently as if the back of her head desperately needed to touch her shoulder blades STAT! Her head returned to it’s normal, upright position, and when her eyes rolled back down from their inspection of her brain activity, I must have had a look of pure horror on my face because she felt the need to explain, “I have trouble with pills ... too much scar tissue...”
Jerry, more quizzical than horrified, asked, “Well, then, how do you eat?”
And, it was upon revisiting that memory, that I spit Diet Coke all over my crisp white jeans while driving over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge!