The craziest part is that a few years ago, you randomly ran into the daughter (who is now a grown-up) in an LA comedy club, and she recognized you because you said the name of our street growing up in your act: Dumfries. And that was the name of her street. That was the name of her street where she lived when her father killed her mother then killed himself. That was where she lived when her entire world changed in a single moment.
Anyway, the room upstairs is haunted, and you and your friends used to play poker up there. In the video, there are ten of you hanging out, drinking beer, and playing cards. It’s extremely loud. That room was always extra echoey: “Hi, Maureeeen!” They all chime in and latch on to the end of her name and scream it out and raise their beers and make toasts.
Title card: What they meant to say was they love you…and thank you for letting them constantly destroy your home.
Now let us here from the man—you spelled hear like here; if you were alive, I would text you now and give you all sorts of shit about it—who we all love… but seriously wonder how on earth he ever became a doctor.
Cut to Dad, standing in the middle of your room wearing cargo shorts and a dirty, white T-shirt: “Say, um, Maureen Morris Wittels, you think I miss you or is this a banana in my pocket?” He laughs heartily at his own joke, takes the banana out of his pocket, and starts to peel it. He sits down on the foot of your bed and continues: “Fifty-four years old. (Sigh.) Not a kid anymore but more beautiful than ever. And, um, happy birthday. Sorry your life hasn’t worked out like you planned it, but hey, it’s your own fault, you married me, but I digress, so um…” He takes a bite then rubs the banana all over his nose. “So, um, happy birthday.” He sticks it in his ear. “Hey is this a banana in my ear? And, I love you. Bye Bye.”
Title: And now, what the kids have to say…
Cut to you, sitting in a spinning desk chair in front of a backdrop of red curtains that hung in your room growing up. You say, “Um, my stand-up career actually got started by trying to make Mom laugh. The old toothbrush-up-the-ass-draw-a-smiley-face-on-your-ass trick—uh, that’s still one of my most popular bits that I do today on stage.”
Then you cut to a close-up of my face in my room doing this stupid nasally voice that always made Mom laugh. It’s really stupid and grating. I have no idea why she liked it. “Hi, Mom, this is my birthday message to you. I just wanted to say happy birthday and I love you very, very, very much, and it’s really nice of you when you gave me a bath when I had to get my mucus sucked out of my face because I was dirty and for a mommy to do that to her big child is so nice, and you’re the nicest mommy ever in the whole wide world, and I love you and, um, I just want to say happy birthday.”
Then, back to you: “Mom always had unorthodox parenting techniques. Brings me back to the time I had a wart on my hand and mom swore the trick was a raw potato. Can’t be cooked, can’t be french-fried, lyonnaise, can’t be anything. It has to be raw. She cut it in half, made me rub it on the wart, and then buried it in the backyard. I think it had to be like a full moon or something. And I thought it was very weird. But the wart did in fact go away. Granted, it went away after I went to a real ‘doctor’ [air quotes] and he ‘froze it off’ [air quotes] ‘medically’ [air quotes]. But I still hold the potato largely responsible for that wart being gone today.” You do your little pinched-lip, Harris nod. An early version of your original Small Mouth character. “Happy birthday, Mom, love you.” Then, you purse your lips into the shape of a kiss and follow it up with an awkward grin and eyebrow raise.
The music swells: “Birthday” by the Beatles.
Title Card: Happy Birthday! We Love You!
30 Before
December 25, 2014
Every family has its traditions. Even though we grew up in a Jewish household, Christmas was ours. It doesn’t make any sense, but the root of it is that my dad didn’t want us to feel left out, so he incorporated Santa Claus into our childhood and, over time, it grew and grew into this epic family tradition. As kids, we would leave milk and cookies out for Santa and the reindeers and spend long, restless nights in sleepless anticipation of all the epic shit awaiting our frenzied entrance. We would wake up before the sun came up and run into a living room littered with perfectly wrapped presents. Presents on the floor, presents on the table, presents on the sofa, presents in the kitchen. Wrapped presents, presents in gift bags, presents in envelopes. Presents everywhere. Only crumbs remained on the plate we’d left out and the milk was all gone. A letter from Santa sat on the fireplace underneath the Christmas stockings that were stuffed with lottery tickets, candy, and Playboy magazines for Harris, compliments of my dad, the resident weirdo. Over the years, the letters became the focal point of the day. It was the one time a year when “Santa” expressed his feelings to the “little girl” and “little boy” who lived in our house. It meant a lot to all of us.
Naturally, Iris’s first Christmas was a big deal, and I wanted it to be special for her despite all the heavy shit that was weighing the rest of us down. I was still bothered by what Harris said on the porch but had
