When I was four, my grandfather taught me an Irish song that he thought was hilarious but in truth was a pretty terrible, horrible song. It involved an old woman, a baby, a policeman, a hanging and fight and a knife and prison, but not necessarily in that order. But the tune was a pretty lively one and I loved my grandfather so much it took no urging for me to learn the song and of course sing it on command at family events and dinners. I was a hit. Everyone laughed and I have to say I loved every minute of the performance. Sometimes I would close the act with my favorite joke: If a carrot and lettuce ran a race, who would win? The lettuce by a head. I was slaying them at the after dinner table in my home in Wantagh, NY.

When I started Kindergarten, I decided to share my hilarious performance with my class. Instead of unending laughter and milk shooting out their noses, I got a note pinned to my sweater and my Mother was asked to teach me more appropriate songs for a child like Old McDonald Had a Farm. But even though my singing career was short-lived, I discovered I had the unique talent for making people laugh. I also realized funny things just happen to me.

I was the kid whose mother gave her a perm and left the solution on too long because she got involved in watching Perry Mason. For weeks I was called Little Orphan Annie. In junior high I got conked on the head with an apple. Who has that happen to them? And if that wasn’t bad enough, the next week I was hit in the head with a Frisbee. My principal suggested I wear a helmet until graduation.

 Plus, I have a funny family. They don’t mean to be funny, they just are. My Dad once put wooden blocks in his socks to make him taller so he could weigh more at an annual physical. My mother puts people in the phonebook under their first name so you can never figure out her system. My brother once took a dead bird in a bag to a pet store so he could find an identical live bird and replace it in the cage so he didn’t have to tell his daughter her bird had died. My niece once tipped an entire fish tank into her underwear drawer and weeks later, we still hadn’t found all the fish. These are not normal things. We are not a normal family.  

 For instance, many years after I had learned that terrible Irish tune from my grandfather, I decided to teach my own son, who was four at the time, the song so he could sing it for my Dad on St. Patrick’s Day. I thought it would be funny. And it was. My son’s little angelic voice singing the words of this truly terrible song had the family in stitches. But then he decided to share his new song with his friends and teacher at Sunday school. Not the best plan. He came home with a note pinned to his shirt and I was asked to teach him more appropriate songs of worship.

 Funny things just happen to me and I share these stories with other people. They call it comedy, but I just think of it as lucky. Most of my jokes are about raising a teen by myself (Kids, don’t try this at home). I also talk about my senior citizen mother who I am certain has joined a gang, and pretty much everything else from hairstyles to funerals, and dating. It’s all regular stuff but somehow when it happens to me, nothing is regular.