When you walk into my house, there is a small little red sign that announces, “Bless This Home With Love and Laughter.” It’s been there for so long that I don’t even remember where I got it, or…why. I love neutral furnishings with pops of red, so I’m sure I bought it because of the color. Regardless, I leave it there. It’s cute, and true of my household.
Many years ago, a female acquaintance stopped over. I remember her glancing at my little red sign and laughing. I looked at it, then at her, and asked her what she was laughing at.
“What?”
She gestured to the sign.
“Cute, Mary. You crack me up.”
Ummmmm, ok.
I get prickly when someone accuses me of being funny when I’m not trying to be funny. Think of the famous “Funny Like a Clown” scene featuring Joe Pesci’s Tommy to Ray Liotta’s Henry in “Goodfellas”:
Tommy gets done telling a funny story, and while everyone laughs, Henry says to Tommy:
“Really funny. You’re really funny.”
Tommy, looking at Henry: Waddya mean I’m funny?
Henry: It’s funny, y’know, the…the story. It’s funny. You’re a funny guy.”
Tommy: Waddya mean? You mean the way I talk? What?
Henry (getting nervous): It’s just, y’know, it’s…you’re just funny. It’s…you know, the way you tell the story and everything…
Tommy: Funny how? I mean, what’s funny about it?
Henry: (worried now) Tommy, no, you got it all wrong…
Tommy: Funny how? What?
Henry: Just, you know, you’re funny.
Tommy: You mean, let me understand this…cuz I…maybe it’s me? Maybe I’m a little fucked up, maybe? I’m funny how, I mean funny like I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m here to fuckin’ amuse you? Waddya mean, funny? Funny how? How am I funny?
This scene, which has aged into cinematic lore, just gets more and more uncomfortable and oozes with boiling tension, ending with Tommy breaking a glass over Sonny’s head, then kicking him.
On that day, I looked at my cute sign again, and back at her, and then realized what she meant. She had a big, fancy house, the kind that no one is ever allowed in. She was a domestication queen, the type who spends hours looking at, what, swatches? Who the hell knows, it’s not up my alley. Maybe she expected a Renoir there? Maybe she thought it was crass? Silly? Low budget? I questioned her lightly.
I crack you up? Why?
No, your sign. It’s funny.
It is? How?
No, I didn’t mean anything.
I know, it’s ok, but why is it funny?
Because it’s you, you know, you’re funny.
I’m funny? Like, how? Like a clown? Does my house amuse you?
No, seriously, forget it.
I intend to.
(It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was a medium-to-light moment, but these women with these big fancy houses that they never leave, I don’t understand them. They don’t like our signs, I guess)
Why the sudden teasing backlash on social media over these cute house signs? I like mine.
Near my coffee station is a wooden placard that states, “Coffee served hot.” It’s super cute, and of course people know the coffee machine is there, and that it will come out hot, that’s not the point.
In my downstairs bathroom, a sign states that our family is loud and messy, but that we love a lot and apologize when we’re wrong. On top of it is a little wooden sign, “Life is Good.” And it is. So would everyone know that our life is good without that sign? Yes, but that’s not the point.
In the upstairs’ bathroom you’ll find “The ABC’s of Being a Good Human.” Without those ABC’s, would I still have raised good humans? Of course. But that’s not the point.
What’s the point?
These little affirmations we put in our homes remind us that it’s our space to do with what we wish. So the next time a pretentious domestic goddesses walks into your home and laugh at your signs, just tell her:
You ain’t clownin’ around.