Sometimes we just need a hearty dose of laughter...

I was feeling overdue for a good laugh last week. It was a busier week than usual at work (with the boss out of town there was more to do), and I came home Wednesday night feeling exhausted, burn-out, and slightly irritated. They had power washed the building I work in that day. From 8 am until I left at 4:30 pm, it sounded like I was trapped in a saw mill as I listened to the rumbling blasts of the power hose spraying the building. Sometimes when I hear loud, reverberating and monotonous sounds –like vacuums, blow dryers, and in this case—power washers—I like to try to make my voice harmonize with the buzzing sounds. So, at the end of the day once everyone had left the office, I found myself singing scales around the hum of the power washer. It was great…until I got really into it and began fantasizing about being on some operatic stage, lost all inhibitions and really went for the high note…then in walked Edwin, the Fed-ex man.

Shoot.

Edwin laughed in the doorway, hands on his knees, for about 45 seconds (which feels a lot longer than it sounds when someone is actually blatantly laughing in your face). I think the reason Edwin was laughing so hard was because this wasn’t the first time he has walked in on me pretending I was a Broadway star. With the emergence of the recent Hairspray the Musical hype (it being in movie theaters now), I of course was pretending I was Tracy Turnblad in the middle of the opening song “Good Morning, Baltimore!” when Edwin delivered a parcel early last week. Shoot (again). Or, shoot me, rather.

Embarrassing as both incidents were (especially because I was caught in the act by the same person and he probably has some label for me now and mocks me at the dinner table with his wife and kids), it was good to have a laugh.

And after the American Idol power washing incident, the laughs continued Wednesday night…

I came home (burnt-out as I mentioned before) and started making dinner. Making dinner has never been a chore to me. It actually is one of the greatest stress-relievers, in my mind. I love all the chopping involved—who needs to squeeze a stress ball when you can whack at heads of lettuce with a chef’s knife? So there I was, fixing the perfect meal, putting the final touch on the salad—caramelized walnuts. I took a deep sigh as I scattered the last handful of walnuts on the top of the salad, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir and put all the dishes on the table. I have to admit, after such a long day at work, I was feeling proud. Like Julia Child, only younger (and alive), and without a weird voice that sounds like a robotic frog (sorry Julia…rest in peace). I was happy to be home with Abuelo and Cynthia and excited to sit down, chat, and eat a peaceful meal.

Right when I told Abuelo, “Dinner’s ready!”, he of course got up and left the room. “Excuse me while I make a short visit”, he said. It wasn’t until a month after I moved in that I realized this was just a polite way of saying “I have to use the bathroom—be right back.” Before, it was always hard for me to understand why he wanted to go visit people right when dinner was piping hot on the table. Now I understand, but I still can’t figure out why he sees the need to wait to use the bathroom until the second I announce that dinner is ready.

After Abuelo returned from his “short visit”, the three of us sat down at the table, gave thanks, and started eating. Dinner conversation was interesting that night as Abuelo voluntarily shared that my father was conceived on the boat to Brazil on his honeymoon. “So…my dad was born only a year after you were married?” I asked. “No Abbie! Nine months…I counted”, he replied as he started laughing in that lovable, wheezy, old man way. The laughter quickly turned in to an awkward choke/laughter, then Abuelo’s eyes bulged out a bit and he made a face that looked like he had swallowed a hula hoop. “Ummm…are you ok, Abuelo?” Cynthia asked just before Abuelo started puckering his lips, eventually spitting a small object onto the dinner table. “Is that a walnut?” I asked. Abuelo murmured, “no…I think that’s a tooth.” Cynthia and I started laughing till our cheeks hurt. “I have a funny feeling it’s not my tooth, though”, Abuelo said. I don’t know how the man could make excuses like that when the tooth had obviously just been spit right out of his own mouth.

A half-an-hour or so passed and Cynthia and I were cleaning the kitchen when Abuelo came in with a cheesy grin on his face, missing the most obvious tooth in his mouth—front and center. “In case you were still wondering, I think I found out whose tooth that was” he said. We just all stood there laughing—a perfect ending to the day.

"A cheerful heart is good medicine". Proverbs 17:22