Okay I have a confession. Or maybe it's a diagnosis. I'm not really sure. Anyway, sometimes I think I'm missing my funny gene. Or maybe my funny bone is broken. Or my sense of humor has allergies. I just don't know. But I can tell you that what I think is funny, often other people don't. And my family would be glad to tell you that what they consider funny is often met by a blank look by me and despair by them because I often just don't get it.
Many is the time I have been on the wrong side of a joke. Take, for example, when I was about 19 or 20. I worked in a bank and drove 15 miles over a mountain to and from work every day of the week. One evening I came home to what I expected to be a routine night. Now I suppose, since I mentioned driving 15 miles and over a mountain, you do realize I grew up way out in the country. At night it is very dark out there. It's great for star gazing or hiding. But that's about it.
Anyway, that night I went to bed. Each family member, I assumed, was tucked in for the night. Then a light started flashing in my window. I shared a room with my sister and asked her if she saw the light. She didn't. I jumped out of my bed and turned on the room light. My mother came down the hall with an absolutely evil look in her eyes. No one seemed to know anything about the light flashing in my window. Everyone indicated that I had lost my mind! I began to try to figure out how to escape to my car and drive away from this twilight zone nightmare I was in. Then they broke. They admitted to working all day to set up a light that was controlled by my brother around the other side of the house. My parents and siblings were all in on it. Not funny. At least not to me back then. And even now I just don't get the humor in it even one little bit.
Often times things I consider fun, others consider a bit odd. For example, this summer's vacation was spent primarily at a beach with rather calm, clear water. It was easy to find sea shells on the bottom in the sand and I discovered that I could actually skim the flat ones across the top of the ocean. Easily spotting where the shells sank, I would wade through the water, pick up the shells again, and see how many times I could skip those shells back the other direction.
While I found this activity quite entertaining, at one point it was asked if I didn't 'drink'. Considering this a compliment that it was noted that I was having a good time without alcohol being involved, I congratulated myself on that achievement. Then it hit me. My idea of having fun may have appeared more to others like I had been partaking too much from a bottle, glass or some other form of intoxicant! Oh well. I'm pretty sure I was having fun anyway.
This past weekend was a classic example of the crazy circumstances I can get involved in that, I'm sure, others might think funny but I consider serious. After I had spent a good part of Saturday holding our Pippa the Pomeranian so that she wouldn't 'help' the repairmen who were at our house most of the day, one of our sons noticed a tiny white dog running up the busy street right beside our house. Well, when Pippa sneaks the opportunity to run out of the front door, run is just what she does. It has taken several neighbors, friends and family to catch her at times. So when our son told me he saw that helpless little dog running down the street, of course I encouraged him to go to the rescue!
Using Pippa on a leash as 'bait', he went down the street to try to lure in the little lost guy. Instead he was met with growling! He brought Pippa back home and I then ran down the street calling the puppy. Cars where stopping. Brakes were tested to the fullest as I ran down the street after this unknown little helpless guy. One passer by turned around in his truck, stopped and put on his hazard lights in the street as he attempted to help me catch what he assumed to be my dog.
Over the next 15 minutes or so, my son and I ran across streets, down allies, through yards and wherever we could to try to rescue this poor little scared puppy, all the time afraid he was going to get hit by a car right in front of us. I finally gave up and called animal control as I ran across the street another time. Then it happened. No, the dog didn't get hit but a car and neither did I. But with the help of a man who stepped quickly out of a car, we had the puppy cornered. My son reached down and grabbed the little fellow. All of about 6 pounds of dog turned quickly, bared his teeth and angrily bit my son on the index finger!
I sent my son home to clean his wound as I continued chasing that little monster. Calling animal control as I ran back across the street again, I was advised not to corner the beast. Too late. He stood against the fence of a house of someone I didn't know and I wasn't letting him out of my sight. In fact, I enlisted the help of several people who were outside in that neighborhood to help me guard the little white terror. He sat there tired and falling asleep as we stood in a semi-circle a good 20 foot distance just to be on the safe side. I explained to my new friends what had been happening up to that point and how this ferocious beast had bitten my son. They, like the person who answered the phone when I called animal control, asked "How old is your son?"
Then another man and his little boy walked up trying to see what the attraction was. He commented that he thought we must have an anaconda cornered or something. I explained what had happened and how we couldn't let the dog get away because he had bitten my son. He asked "How old is your son?"
Animal control showed up. The dog was safely in the cage on the truck. A report had to be filed. And, just like everyone else, the officer asked "How old is your son?" Well, he's almost 21. Okay. So I guess that was kinda funny.
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