Rugelah, Fish, and Salad

Wait! What happens when people tell you you're funny and then you're not funny? Do you become your own mediocre sequel? What if you don't know you're being humorous - this happens to me a lot - and then someone tells you "you're so funny," and you're like oh, ha, ha - and then there is this expectation of you, so you try to actually tell a joke, and your teenager says "ya know, Mom, when you try to be funny, you're really not." It's like the daddy in Finding Nemo who tries clowning with those two fishy guys and he's fucking pathetic.

My daughter came home and in an eerie foreshadowing, or perhaps simple shadowing, of this dilemma, told me a story about a very nice girl in her class, Mabel. I happen to know the girl's mom is an uptight and wealthy withholding automaton, yet the girl's a sweet little thing. My daughter, Rugelah we'll call her, told me that Mabel's always saying how funny Rugelah is. Rugelah seemed to enjoy this, but she was also baffled: why does this kid think I'm funny when I'm just being me? I was wringing my hands internally: oh no it's a Jewish thing. It's a Lucy thing. My own warped DNA. What if she tries to tell a joke, along with all the other kids? She'll fall flat on her ass, just like her mom and Nemo's loser dad. Worse - worse - what about all those money-soaked suburbanites we chose to live amongst so we could leech their educations, covet their homes and their many bathrooms, and populate the area during the vacations when they go skiing? They may be among the not-laughing people, finally acknowledging the brutal line between filthy rich and middle class. They may wear Gap, but we wear Gap Clearance. They may have an inheritance, but all we have is a house and some food. The families in town find us quaint because we don't have a horse or a gate house. Ouch.

If Rugelah follows my decline into mediocrity, going from funny little friend to - oy vesmir - the girl who used to be funny, her classmates and pals may push her aside for another, funnier child. Maybe a distant cousin of Nora Ephron, or a Lily Tomlin wannabe? We will be cast aside, like so many old Groucho glasses. The cyber-neighbors will silently disappear, too, deleting Rugelah and me from their memory banks like so much spam. A pox on those lousy chicken jokes!

Well, there's nothing to be done, I tell ya. If I'm funny I'm funny; if little Rugelah's funny, she's funny. And if I'm not so comical, and she's not either, so be it. She's cute as a button, and once she's old enough, I'll set her up with a modeling agency, where people will truly understand her value. We'll go to the mall, eat salads, and get plucking. I still got my looks, too. So between us, the important stuff's covered. At least until my ass sags all the way behind my kneecaps. No way in hell could I cover that.