Monday Reruns: Help Not Wanted: Comment Editor

(original post-date: August 25, 2010)

Several months ago, I was having lunch with a gaggle of gals. The conversation turned to a magazine interview that had recently got some attention. A popular musician had made some comments about himself and others, and many of those comments were either prurient, potentially offensive, or both. I won’t mention the musician now because it’s old news and it’s not important to this essay. What I will mention, however, is one of my friends’ statements. Referring to the musician, she said, “He just doesn’t have an editing mechanism when he speaks.”

I did not contribute to the dialogue, but I listened intently. I also felt self-conscious. Why? Because I don’t have that mechanism either.

And you know what? Thank God I don’t! If I had that editor, I would not be able to write fictional dialogue. It would not flow from me. I’d undoubtedly stifle it.

Now, I’ll admit that this deficiency comes at a price. Sometimes, I say things that are utterly inappropriate. I could give you several examples, but I’d rather not embarrass myself. And trust me, the examples I’m thinking of are embarrassing. I recall them with a certain amount of shame. I should, though, also share that – in my adulthood, at least – I don’t think I’ve ever hurt anyone with my off-the-cuff remarks. A desire to hurt people is simply not part of my make-up, so if anything “bad” comes from my lack of editing, it’s generally just bad for me.

But despite those moments when I’m not altogether pleased by hearing what I’ve said at the same time that you hear it, there also have been numerous instances when my spontaneous, unedited remarks result in a hearty laugh. So, in my opinion, it’s a pretty cool deficiency to possess.

Admittedly, a hearty laugh is not always elicited without the participation of a foil. I am therefore grateful that I grew up with a few folks who enjoy this type of humor. There was an occasion when one of them (oh, what the hell, let’s call a Dad a Dad) seemed to not mind his foil status at all. Here’s the story:

I was in my mid-twenties, and I had traveled from Manhattan to Cape Mey, New Jersey, where my parents were gathering with a close circle of friends for their traditional Fourth of July weekend of bridge, tennis, partying, and fireworks. It was good to join the group, as these couples (nine, in all, I think) had been in my life since I was a kid. At one time, the original Bridge Group (a number divisible by four) all lived in the same small community in Virginia. And although their proximity to one another began to change in the late 60’s, when families moved by choice or due to the husband’s employment, the group remained close. (They are to this day.) The Fourth of July weekend was therefore always filled with love and laughter.

The particular weekend I am recalling, I enjoyed hanging with the group as a “fellow adult.” I felt comfortable and relaxed, knowing I’d grown out of that phase of my life when I was destined for the Kiddie Table. Sure, I wasn’t really their peer (let’s face it, they had been driving for probably 20 years when I was walkng to school as a first-grader), but with the collective easy-going attitude that always permeated this group, it was easy to sit back and join the circle.

And we were, in fact, in a circle when the moment occurred. It was a circle of chairs. In the backyard of one of the rental houses. It was the before-dinner hour(s), and everyone had their beverage of choice. To my right and left were many of the wives. I don’t recall where most of the husbands were, but I do know where my father was. Standing. In the middle of the circle. Holding court, as he loved to do. His audience, primarily female.

At one point, he reached for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on one of the small tables. In doing so, he bent his lower torso to such a degree that the inseam of his shorts split from bow to stern. He acknowledged the incident with a grin and a subtle shrug, proceeded to stand tall, and then he casually scarfed down his handful of peanuts.

Which is when one of the wives said, “Oh, Robbins, you show great aplomb.”

Which is when I blurted out, “That’s not a plum!”

Immediately, several women who had known me since I was “yea-high” doubled over laughing.

And Dad – his true reaction hidden behind those WWII Ray Bans – just smiled and kept eating peanuts…

***

Two quick notes unrelated to the Rerun:

(1) I've joined the Platform-Builders Campaign, which is all about writers supporting writers. You can join, too, but only through this Wednesday (8/31). To learn more, click on the blue/purple button over there on the left, below the Blog Archive list.

(2) I've finally set up an email subscription option. (What took me so long!?) It's also on the left, above the grid with all your lovely faces. Feel free to sign up for emails re my posts, or just keep dropping by for new posts on Wednesdays and reruns on Mondays.

For the Love of Rob

Five or six years ago, I was working regularly with a nonprofit youth drop-in agency based in South Central L.A. Though my role was as a consultant, I was given a desk to call my own, and so I was there, on-site, about two or three times a week.

On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.

Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.

I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.

“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”

“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.

I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).

So, that’s as far as our conversation went.

But it has stayed with me.

… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.

Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.

And I wanted him to be my dad…

But why?

I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.

Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.

So why would I want to replace him?

I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!

Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…

Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.

Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.

But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.

And he adored her. That part was always clear.

And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.

So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…

I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.