"Punch Line"

           I have a sense of humor. Sometimes the serious aspects of life take over, and it’s the warped humor rippling through my veins that keeps me sane. My friends and family have learned not to tell jokes if I’m drinking or eating. Nothing burns like Coke squirting out the nose! I’ll roll helplessly on the couch weeping copiously at The Ghostbusters. I love puns, satires, riddles, and even knock-knock jokes.

          I have a sense of humor, and I cannot tell a joke.

          It’s a horrible thing to admit. I admire those people who can memorize and recite long passages from poetry or plays. I have in-laws who watch a movie once and replay dialogue word-for-word. I’m lucky if I can remember the title once I’ve left the theater! Jokes? They seem so simple. A few lines, the right intonation, and then the punch line. No matter how much I try to remember it all, it gets jumbled and botched.

          My mother always told me to leave the house with a little extra time and money. But I arm myself with my joke, too. Over the years, I’ve managed to refine the telling of one specific joke. I carry it prepared in case I’m in a social situation where a joke becomes necessary. “Better safe than sorry” really describes my up-bringing.

The Joke

Several teachers were driving between Austin and San Antonio one day when they saw the sign for the town Buda. They began arguing about how to pronounce the town’s name. One person insisted the pronunciation was “Booda”. The other claimed it rhymed with “You da.” Finally, the driver in the car decided to settle the argument. She pulled into the local Dairy Queen and drove up to the take-out window.

           “Excuse me,” she said politely when the young girl asked for her order. “I need to ask you, how do you pronounce the name of this place?”

           The girl looked puzzled for a moment, and then she said very slowly and distinctly, “Dare—ree—Queeeen!”

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Blocked"

 

         I grabbed my spiral notebook yesterday with the intention of writing something spectacular. The blank page pulsed with emptiness. After a few minutes, I wrote the word “Blocked” across the top, believing that by labeling my affliction, I would begin the process of overcoming it.

         No other words followed. I left pen angled across the page, hoping that seeing the two paired together on the coffee table would trigger some inner well of creativity, and words would flow forth effortlessly.

         Nothing happened.

         Not a single word.

         I don’t know why my ideas and thoughts ram against this invisible wall. In my mind, I see them ebbing and flowing. I stand on a precipice, watching my words undulate in silent waves. They never reach the shore.

         So this morning, instead of taking pen and paper in hand, I pull up Word. The curser’s insistent blink-blink-blink-blink challenges me. I type the single word, “Blocked” again, centered perfectly on the page.

         And words push through the water’s rolling surface.

         Not perfect.

         But there.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Life's Bloopers"

         Different people respond to stress in different ways. I hurt myself. I turn into this blundering, woebegone Charlie Chaplin who bumps and bumbles through the day. I fall up the stairs, tumble out of chairs, or ram into pieces of furniture. I spend a great deal of time looking at my bruised body and mumbling, “Where did that come from?” I don’t know why I have this response to stress, but it’s dogged me as long as I can remember.

         I can spend an afternoon showing off various scars that testify to the clumsiness that plagues my life when my mind spins with preoccupation. Anything that generates heat becomes my enemy. When calm, I can iron without worry, but the moment tension enters into the room, the iron finds a way to fall against my arm, or I manage to “press” one of my fingers. A little strain in my life means I must avoid the curling iron unless I want to display my warrior markings.

         About a month ago, I strained my left arm. The day-in-day-out repositioning of Mom tugged at my shoulder muscles and irritated my elbow joint. I’ve taken care to rest whenever possible, iced down the sore muscles, and resorted to Tylenol (or wine) whenever the discomfort peaked into the pain zone. My care paid off, too. Each day I’ve ached less and enjoyed more movement.

 

         Pulling myself off the injured list proved extremely short-lived. Yesterday, hands submerged in warm sudsy bubbles, I absentmindedly washed dishes. My attention drifted to gazing outside the window instead of paying attention to my task. I sensed David leaving something on the counter, but didn’t pull from my wanderings enough to register the fact that he’d set a pan, hot from the stove, into the pile. Needless to say, I will soon have another scar to brag about.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

          

"A Different Divorce"

         I gained outlaw status without even trying. My upbringing and my personality, or just some vague essence of "me" proved too different for my matriarchal mother-in-law to tolerate, and very early on in my relationship with my husband, she instructed his siblings to exclude me, not accept me into the family, and to make me uncomfortable and unwelcome.

Of course, I didn’t know this thirty-three years ago when I struggled desperately to find my place in the dynamics of my husband’s family. Within the first six months, though, I learned that I could never raise my voice or correct any of David’s brothers or his sister. The first lesson came quickly as we unloaded and hauled our meager belongings up three flights of stairs into our first apartment in San Antonio. Two of David’s brothers decided to pitch the football into my own brother’s face, and as Charles carried a box at the time, it made it impossible for him to dodge the shot.  The other boys laughed hysterically.

“You stop that now!” I shouted at them. “If you think I’m letting you into this apartment after doing something like this, you’d better think again!”

“What did they do?” my mother-in-law asked.

“They threw that football into Charles’s face and laughed! I’m not feeding them dinner if they’re going to be mean!”

I didn’t anticipate the slap. My family doesn’t hit. My mother gave me my last spanking around my sixth birthday. My father yelled. My sister sometimes squished my cheeks together and told me I’d better listen to her, and my little brother never once raised his hand to me in anger.

I stood, dumbstruck in my new little apartment, tears brimming and cheek burning from the impact. My mother hastily set down the box she held and hustled me into the small bedroom.

“Well, Elizabeth Anne, you’ve definitely learned a lesson with your new mother-in-law,” she whispered as she put a cold washcloth to my face. “Don’t criticize her children. Ever!”

That dire warning became increasingly difficult for me to follow over the years. My husband’s family gathers almost constantly, so the potential for saying or doing the wrong thing loomed into my destiny with certainty. Although I longed to fit in with the family, I just couldn't. I came from a family that encouraged differences and independence. David's family wanted everyone to fit into the same mold. It was difficult because I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t lie, or cheat, or manipulate. I didn’t hit, or scream, or even verbally defend myself from the little mean and cruel digs that stabbed at me during their family gatherings.

The Exclusion Game began during those first years, too. The rules are easy. Make certain Liz and David know about some planned outing or activity at the last possible moment so they have to decline the belated invitation. It always made us look like the ones who weren’t trying to get along because we couldn’t make a function. They always overlooked the fact that often we received the invite an hour before the event started. This game extended to the next generation, and my mother-in-law would claim she couldn’t include our son on sleepovers because “one more child was just too many.”

I cried many times, and I threw up often after visits. Whenever I did visit my husband's family, I tried even harder to fit into their expectations. During those early years, I called to suggest shopping trips or lunch out with my husband’s mother and extended invitations for dinner at our home. Most of the time, I received rejections for my suggestions. Sometimes my mother-in-law would accept an invitation, but then call to cancel at the last minute, or not show up at all. After three or four meals ruined because of no shows, I stopped trying. My husband insisted that his family didn't intend to hurt my feelings. They were simply "thoughtless."

One Thanksgiving, my family came to San Antonio to celebrate the holiday. We couldn’t make it to my in-laws until that Saturday, when the entire clan gathered for a second meal. As the kids played football in the front lawn, my mother-in-law came out onto the porch and stood next to me.

“You ruined my Thanksgiving!” she snarled.

“What do you mean? You had everyone here on Thursday but us, and you have everyone here now,” I responded. Then I continued, “I hadn’t seen my parents in four months. This was the first time this year all of my family has gotten together. You have you family together at this house every month!”

“I don’t care about you or your family!”

A simple truth.

My dysfunctional dance with my in-laws continued for more years than I can remember until eventually one brother-in-law physically harmed me. The details of that day burned forever into my psyche. The ability of this family to circle around, protect each other, and rewrite the event within hours made it clear that I could no longer count on being safe in their company.

And so I divorced my husband’s parents and siblings. This decision came after advice from many friends and even other members within my husband’s extended family. They’d watched the shunning over the years. They’d heard the comments not just spoken to me, but also said about me in my absence. They offered a more objective point of view and had enough distance from the situation to suggest I simply sever relations except for public events like weddings and funerals.

I recently asked for suggestions for blog topics from friends, and one posted the idea of writing about people in our lives that we’d love to hate, but have to love. For many years, that conflict of emotions swirled into every interaction I had with my husband’s family. I don’t think I’d love to hate them, but I also grew to learn that I don’t have to love them. Eventually, it dawned on me that I don’t even have to like them because when it’s all said and done, they never bothered to extend friendship to me, and they never accepted my tentative gestures. For some reason, from the very beginning, they simply didn't want me as a member of the family. I'm not even certain they know why. It makes me sad that they've missed the opportunity to get to know me, but so many years have passed now that I've lost all interest in anything but nodding courtesy at functions. I honestly believe that since I divorced them, they’ve felt relief in not having to deal with the unexpected catalyst my presence created within their family.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Shoes"

 

         The other day, someone posted on Facebook a photo of Fred Astaire lounging in a chair, relaxing by a humongous pile of shoes. I couldn’t help but smile. I immediately passed the photo along and thought blissfully of my love for shoes.

       

  As a little girl, I had wonderful Baby Jane patent leather shoes for my Sunday best. The white pair I wore from Easter Sunday until September. The black pair came out after Labor Day because you never wear white after Labor Day. I loved these shiny shoes and carefully walked in them to limit the chances of scuff marks along their smooth surfaces. My sister envied these shoes. Her long and very narrow foot made it more expensive for my parents to purchase shoes for her, so she ended up wearing practical loafers or Saddle Oxfords. And like many younger sisters, I found myself longing for her plainer shoes. I loved the black and white practicality of her Oxfords, and when I finally owned a pair of penny loafers of my own, I polished the copper coins to a sheen.

            When I hit fourth and fifth grade, many of my friends wore Converse shoes. I longed to lace my foot up into a high top, but my parents’ limited budget meant I donned plain white tennis shoes purchased at the local Winn’s store. Near the end of junior high, my mother surprised me with these fantastic brown leather boots that climbed almost to my knees. The boots fastened up with a hook-n-eye, and I loved them dearly. Their smart two-inch heels gave me the height I needed since I still stood a little less than five feet. Fortunately, my foot size didn’t change once I hit thirteen.

            In high school, the demands of our dance team meant my parents shifted shoe money to tap shoes and short, white western boots that looked very smart when performing high kick routines. I schlepped around in white tennies again until I discovered huaraches after a trip to across the border. These wonderful sandals looked fantastic with anything from sundresses to swimsuits. They withstood any amount of abuse and still looked good enough for casual wear. I wore my sandals until they fell apart after I started college!

            The long miles I trekked daily while at Texas A&M meant I selected my shoes during college more for comfort than for style. A good pair of running shoes and a pair of soft suede boots the color of caramel carried me through my studies. I didn’t buy any dress shoes until I purchased my wedding sandals—something with thin straps and high heels that cost more than the simple dress I wore.

            Over the years, I’ve indulged my fondness for footwear. Soft green suede pumps, kill-me heels with peek-a-boo toes, black leather boots or purple faux snake skin. Shoes with sequins, little satin bows, or bold and clunky buckles lined up in my closet.

            Since retirement, I’ve pared my pairs. My closet cubby designated for shoes now has empty slots. I tend to grab my black Skechers or a simple sandal if I leave the house. The other day, while getting ready for a wedding, I pulled out some of my favorites and oohed over their clever bows and sexy heels. I’ve decided that I may have to start dressing up a bit, just to get my shoes out of the house once in a while.                 

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman