My webmaster, Dutch, and I were discussing ye olde blog last night. He’s a good sounding board, but I can’t watch him read my posts. It’s too painful. He will silently read through something that I personally found hilarious, then look up at me and deadpan, “It’s funny.”
Nerd that I am, I make myself laugh out loud all the time. But the hubs just keeps a poker face and says, “I like it,” before pointing out the parts he finds pithiest.
I like belly laughs, the kind my three-year-old rips when anything even a little bit funny happens. And yet, if I can make Dutch laugh, I know it’s really good. He’s a hard sell, but a good barometer for humor.
Some things make us both laugh, a lot. Like the other night when Dutch reminded me that during my entire growing up years, my family called the Persian mechanic who fixed our highly needy import car by the wrong name.
We called him Mossad. This is because Shirley, my mom, thought that’s what he said his name was. Their meeting was not ideal, however. “Mossad” shortly accused Shirley of being late for her car appointment. Shirley, who had just finished reading Not Without My Daughter, was subsequently unfairly wary of all men of middle eastern descent. She was highly offended and huffed, “I am not!”
Basically, things just started off weird.
That foreign-built car of ours needed plenty of service over the next decade and a half, so we saw “Mossad” all the time. His name was as familiar as that of a not-too-distant relative’s. Except that it wasn’t actually his name.
One day, like fifteen years after Shirley met him, my sister returned from picking up the car from “Mossad’s” and was all, “By the way, his name isn’t Mossad. It’s Mosen.”
Shock and disbelief swept my family. We were clearly clueless that the Mossad, the real one, is the name of Israel’s intelligence organization. We had basically been calling our Iranian mechanic the Israeli equivalent of “CIA” or “MI6.”
Poor Mosen. He had to deal with us.