From birth, I worked hard at being the entertainer of our family. I wasn’t the Gary Michael my parents had hoped for, but goddammit, I was going to be the Tina Michelle of their dreams.
I know now what I was doing: trying to lighten the atmosphere made dark by the ever-changing moods of my mom. I could never figure out why she was mad, but if I could make her laugh, I reasoned, maybe then she’d be happy. And we could all stop walking on eggshells.
"One hundred percent of comedians become comedians because somewhere in their childhood, they needed to become funny to diffuse a scary household…to survive."
—Sarah Silverman
I started making jokes at the only venue I could book in those days: The Dinner Table Open Mic. My first two big gigs were disastrous.
I was young, maybe six or so, and had some material I was jazzed to workshop that night.
A schoolmate, Angel, had performed the joke earlier that day on the playground. I hadn’t understood it in the least, but when everyone else roared with laughter, I knew I’d need to try it out later at Dinner Table Open Mic.
(Feminist side-note: I’m now just realizing that only girls seem to be named after huge and weighty concepts? Hope? Faith? Angel?! Where are all the boys christened with an expectation? I guess there’s...Chance. Wow, okay. “Relax, son…you don’t have to be good! Chance just means possibility.”)
“I have a joke!” I declared, spitting pieces of the rice-packed meatballs my mom called porcupines. What a joke. They didn’t hurt at all! Life’s deceptions start early.
Everyone got quiet, and I took the spotlight. "Okay, so there was a boy and girl,” I said, breathless with excitement, “and he said, ‘Can I put my finger in your belly button?’ And she said, ‘Okay!’ And then he did! And she said ‘That’s not my belly button!’ And he said, ‘That’s not my finger!’” And I doubled over, looking back and forth from my mom to my dad, waiting for them to join in.
Their expressions froze before melting into horror. Thank goodness they’d given me the simple 70s name like Tina and not a concept like Grace.
Finally, my mom spoke, trying hard to sound nonchalant. Luck was on my side; she was in a good mood that night.
"Where did you hear that?"
"Angel," I whispered. Why was everyone so quiet?
"Do you understand what it means?"
I shook my head, too scared to talk.
"You’re not in trouble," she said, in a measured tone. "But do not tell it again. It’s not funny."
I nodded, ashamed, and dinner went back to normal.
I puzzled over that joke forever. If it wasn’t his finger, then what could it have possibly been? If it wasn’t her belly button…I gave up. What a conundrum, this unpredictable tale of body parts. I was stumped.
Being an entertainer was turning out to be way harder than it looked. Thanks a lot, “Angel.”
My next memorable performance at Dinner Table Open Mic came a few years later. I was wiser. More experienced. No more parroting controversial hacks like Angel; it was time for me to go big and try out some original material.
I buzzed with excitement. My hand shook with each forkful of gray beans, which were meant to be green but had been boiled by my parents into submission. They sometimes added chopped raw bacon to the pan while cooking, little pieces of pink slime that never reached crispiness. No one knew how to be in our house, right down to the side dishes.
That night was to be the airing of The Wizard of Oz, a movie I loved and, years before VCRs would usher in on-demand viewing, was only available to me once a year. I eagerly awaited every week’s TV Guide, which I would devour, scanning carefully for the annual airing of favorites like The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, or—grab the psychedelics! (caffeinated Pepsi in a glass bottle)—Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
"It’s Wizard of Oz night!" I jittered happily in my seat, sloppy joe-ing everywhere. The youngest in a family of five, I had to work hard to be heard. No one reacted, so I decided to kick it up a notch. I brainstormed hard and fast, and came up with what would be my first-ever original joke:
"I hate the witch," I said, pausing dramatically, ready to bring it home. "She’s such a bitch!"
Gasps all around, then silence. This crowd sucked!
Then my mom spoke, nostrils flaring: "TINA MICHELLE! You are not to say that word again, do you understand?" She sent me to my room, where I spent the rest of family dinnertime alone, my insides churning with gray beans and shame.
If I wanted to make others laugh, I was going to need better material. And no cussing?!? What in the FRICKING HECK? This wasn’t going to be easy.
What I didn’t know then was that with a little boredom, a little household tension, and the Scholastic Book Fair goldmine 101 Aardvark Jokes, I’d have all the material I’d ever need.
Wanna see…
what I’ve been filling my giant head with?
Finally,
a huge thanks to new paid subscribers Molly N., Amy B., Pam K., Alan H. and Mary Catherine N., who are choosing to support my work despite the as-yet lack of paid benefits! That you’re here to help me continue telling aardvark jokes means more than I can say.
Why do aardvarks make bad neighbors? Because THEY’RE NOSY!!!
Thank you. You aare the best.
Dying at the gray beans and non crispy bacon floating. I can almost taste and smell them right now. 🥴Also the “sloppy joeing”all over. Tina you are a gem and that dinner table was lucky to have you❤️
First, the paneling.
Second, the Mork suspenders.
Third, material aside, I bet your timing was spot on even back then. Because you...can't teach........timing!
Nicely done!