shorthand

“So I says to the guy… you prick fuck.”

Lovey. Dearie. Sweetheart. Beautiful. Doll face. Honey. Honey chicken. Honey chicken-bok. Love pineapple. Roo. Roopie. Ru-Paul. Shortie. Short stuff. Hot stuff. Smoke show. Sugar pants. Sweet cheeks. Muffin. These are just a few of the countless names my husband has called me in the decades we’ve been together. Some are classic terms of endearment, others distinctly creative and many inexplicable, even to me (love pineapple?). But I loved and happily answered to all of them, and have only ever pined for one or two other names … including an English-accented drawl of “Darling” executed à la Mr. Darcy, that I’m afraid he just cannot provide for me.

More consistent over the years has been “Baby”, or (annoyingly for close friends) a 10+ year run of “Beb” as we copied Kirsten Wiig and Jason Sudekis’ recurring SNL sketch called Two A*holes. We thought this skit was hilarious and performed it for each other endlessly to make the other laugh. Is it stupid? You bet. Would others around us not know why we acted like this? Most definitely,  which made it even funnier to us, because there’s nothing better than an inside joke. 

the right side of the line

The ultimate form of kinship and belonging is sharing shorthand language. Funny phrases, names you call each other, ways to describe others, it all becomes proprietary; a code that only those in the group understands. It’s powerful stuff. It is often used subconsciously, imprinted so deep into your language cortex it just becomes the right way to describe something. It can be used to include people, as knowing the context and sometimes actual moment when the words were formed means you were in on the joke from the beginning. It can also be used to exclude people as not everyone knows what you’re talking about and therein lies the power. The deep comfort of being on the right side of that line paradoxically proves that the fun and bonding of shorthand language always comes woven with a darker thread. Because by definition, being “in” on the joke means that there are others who are “out” on the joke, or are occasionally the actual butt of the joke. We’ve all been in situations where that lack of knowledge, that bewilderment about What’s going on? has been used against us. It stings. Being excluded feels awful, and when no one bothers to clue you in, it becomes clear where you sit on the ladder of social status.

the joke’s in the repetition

My husband is generous with his shorthand language. Like me he loves to make people laugh and he has a unique talent to take an innocuous word or comment and turn it into a thing. “It’s in the repetition”, he’ll tell me, (as he also loves nothing more than explaining things to me… bless him), “if it’s funny the first time, it will be even funnier if you keep doing it.” Now, I’m a reasonably intelligent adult so despite him telling me that exact sentence about a thousand times, I was already well aware of the tactic of the comedic callback. But in his hands this notion has reached new heights. I can accurately suggest that he has weaponized repetition, drilling a word or turn of phrase into our collective language with such relentless enthusiasm that it becomes irresistible. You aren’t sure if it is actually funny, or whether HE is just funny, but somewhere around rep #213 it just doesn’t matter anymore. 

even Tolkien is funny

Often the inside jokes are gleaned from popular culture: movies, TV shows, memes and song lyrics all provide perfect ingredients for our ever-changing lexicon. For example our family members are huge LOTR fans and often parody lines from that body of work. If my daughter comes upon me soulfully staring at the horizon and asks me what’s up, I will consistently answer “Dark clouds gather in the East” or “The stars are veiled. Something stirs in the East.”, or if some task requiring elven superpower agility comes up we will look at our son and cry “Legolas! Bring him down!” A tiny moment from the sweet film The First Grader has brought us the clap along sing-song phrase “Well done, well done Maruge” which we use as praise and acknowledgement of hard work in our family. And the over-the-top foul language and humor from VEEP has bestowed endless material probably not suitable for sharing here.

It doesn’t help that I’m short, which apparently provides all manner of comedic material for my (tall) husband. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had “We represent the Lollipop Guild“ or “Short people got no reason to live” sung to me (sometimes, charmingly, from his knees.) But the whole family laughs along when they lose sight of me in a grocery store and he commands the kids (in a booming Uruk-Hai voice) to “Find the halfling!”

Annoyingly, I find all of this all hysterically funny. 

shorthand defying words

Sometimes you don’t even need words for your shorthand communication. Once, we were standing in a checkout line at IKEA in the final death throes of that magical 3 hours we’ve all found ourselves in—marriage hanging in the balance—when we noticed a husband scanning about to find his wife in the crowd. He was ahead of us by two overstuffed trolley carts, standing beside a good $900 worth of balsa wood end tables and flat packed boxes of pain and was inching closer to the cashier. His wife had obviously been lost to the scramble merchandising of the impulse buy section as you near IKEA checkouts—likely holding some wooden coat hangers or a 500 pack of cute napkins labeled “spillüg” in her hands, quietly trying to remind herself why she married Gary in the first place—regardless, he couldn’t see her, and was starting to panic at the idea of checking out on his own. But what happened next caught us by surprise and has become part of our shorthand comedy treasure trove ever since. He whistled for her. No, not a loud catcall whistle but a quieter, unique three tone bird call  (picture if you will Captain von Trapp and his whistle for each of his children in The Sound of Music.) A specific whistle created for her that she would recognize if she were, er, lost out in public and needed to “heel.” And look, my feminist sensibilities aside, I’m sure he lovingly bestowed it upon her, you know, so that it was different from the dog’s call of course.

Once we clocked what was happening: Gary anxiously looking about and worryingly whistling for his wife; we raised our eyebrows in disbelief and then immediately began mimicking him. He was so close to us that we couldn’t mock him outright, but because we both found this incredibly funny we started that kind of “trying to be quiet in church” laughing that is both restrained and uncontrollable at the same time. Tears were rolling down our cheeks as my husband did his best imitation of a hunting dog hearing its master’s call and then standing on point. It is a Top 20 laugh in my life.

it takes two, because someone’s got to laugh

We have numerous bits we’re currently working on together because sometimes a joke needs a set-up guy and I have been a willing co-star in this comedy show for about 40 years now. As the better performer of the two, he usually gets to deliver the jokes, even if I was the writer or curator whose trained ear found the material in the first place. He also has a great memory, which means he has a better chance of remembering the joke when an appropriate opportunity avails itself. Often we discuss our missed cues on the drive home from a night out; recognizing our squandered opportunities or imagining the reaction if we’d remembered to say this, or that. I’m sure we enjoy more laughs together on the drive home than we would have elicited from the group as I’m starting to realize the shorthand and shared humor we enjoy is not commonly understood by most. 

My husband’s good memory also extends to random and miscellaneous nonsense, so if you want to hear him sing a 70s sitcom theme song, or re-enact a skit he performed in Mr. Phillips’ Grade 11 French class, he’s your guy. I have never had a strong memory, and at menopausal middle age it is all but gone, so I’m constantly turning to him with an expectant smile saying “what was that funny thing about rocks I said yesterday?”, or “what was that song I liked?” and without missing a beat he will pull up the info and recite it for me. So sometimes the shorthand is there to support you and give you a laugh, even if you can’t remember what you’re laughing about.

the gift that keeps on giving

Back to the “prick fuck”… No, I don’t hang out with mobsters, but this particular inside joke phrase also made me laugh as it was delivered by a friend some 30 years ago while he pretended to smoke a chocolate-dipped Pocky. His “GoodFellas” imitation was expertly delivered, down to the “cigarette” being held between the middle and ring finger, like a 65 year-old New Jersey thug would. It made us laugh then, and has made us laugh innumerable times since over the years whenever anything cigarette-like (carrot, pretzel, bread stick) was held in our hands, enticing us to perform the bit. Lightly censored for our kids, it made them laugh when Dad performed the joke (over and over again) at the dinner table. And it made me laugh again just last month when I gave that same friend a fresh pack of Pocky for his birthday. His laugh of recognition made it all worthwhile.

Because the joke’s in the repetition right?