Hey Mom Read online

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  My Mount Rushmore (I used to joke): McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Cold Stone Creamery, Krispy Kreme.

  Very early in my stand-up career I did a bit about going to fat camp and competing in the Olympics competition there. “The pole vault? I drove that sucker right into the ground. In gymnastics I did a good thing—straightened out those uneven parallel bars.” I did a third joke, which nowadays might be considered a little inappropriate: “The broad jump? I killed her.”

  Then I capped off the routine with, “After the competition I snuck into the woods to meet a dealer who sold me Snickers.”

  I was always the fattest boy in class. (I felt so sad for the one girl who was even fatter. When you feel empathy in that situation, that’s when you know you’re a people pleaser.)

  Later, I was the fattest kid everywhere.

  I was the fattest person everywhere.

  That’s no joke.

  I added a week to my stay at fat camp, for a total of three weeks. I wasn’t ready to return to the real world. The clinic-spa was expensive. I knew I could have done a lot better there than I did. In the first two weeks I’d lost fifteen pounds but probably could have lost forty. It was a good experience but I didn’t take proper advantage. I didn’t go to all the programs or the meetings—therapy, body manipulation, and more. I didn’t exercise as much as I should have. I was lazy some days. I skated through. The spa attracts people from all over, and so many nice ones, and they’re all there for the same reasons—to get thinner, to get healthy, to save their life.

  In the third and final week I really tried to buckle down, which helped me lose some more weight. I heard about residents who had made great improvements with their triglyceride numbers, who went off their blood pressure medicine, who felt in better balance physically and psychologically. But the big question for me remained: How would I keep it going after I left, and no one was there to run these programs and keep me from being exposed to less healthy food? Does McDonald’s simply disappear? Do sprouts automatically get sprinkled on every bite of food? WHERE’S MY BLUE-GREEN ALGAE?? I thought about developing a sitcom about a place like the fat camp spa, with characters from the worlds of both the staff and guests. I liked the coming together and clashing of these two groups—normal “real life” and this fantasy world of perfect health and energy that we all say we want but we hate doing the work to get there.

  Still, even just a few weeks at such a place changes the way you think about almost everything, not only about eating but how you treat yourself as a person, how people look at you, how you let them look at you, whether you accept that or push back against it, what parts of your childhood and upbringing you carry with you, often damaging baggage, wherever you go and whatever you do, a great reminder that we are, ultimately, in control of so much about our lives. And just because we forget it or ignore it or overlook it or put it at the bottom of our to-do list, never to rise to the top, doesn’t make it any less so.

  On “graduation day,” one of the guests, a French woman, stood and said simply, in heavily accented English, “This place is so special,” then stopped talking and began singing, without accompaniment, “La Vie en Rose.”

  I don’t have to tell you how many dry eyes were in the house, Mom.

  Love,

  Your son, the Hungry Hungry Hippo Louie

  MyWorld

  Hey Mom,

  I work a lot. Did you know that about me? Did I seem that driven when I was younger? I don’t know if you would call me a workaholic but I have a very heavy touring schedule. Over the last two years, I did close to two hundred shows of stand-up. For the last two years I’ve been one of the main actors on Baskets. I just became a regular guest panelist on the syndicated TV game show Funny You Should Ask. I’m shooting a new comedy special in November. I guess you could call me ambitious, though I really want to figure out a way to do all my work while lying down. (The game show I’m on almost accomplishes that: I call it Hollywood Squares in Chairs because my fellow comedian-panelists and I just sit in our chairs and deliver funny lines cooked up for us by talented, funny writers. And they pay me to do this?)

  I have at least five books I want to write after Hey Mom, if this actually becomes a book. (Trust me, Mom, when I say that this one here would be the most important to me.) And I don’t plan on rushing the others because I know it’s important to let good ideas sit. I already wrote three books, including Dear Dad. I guess I’m not the only one trying to make sense of growing up with a volatile alcoholic parent because not only was the book a bestseller but, as I wrote you earlier, I got so many letters from readers.

  Maybe my desire to create comes from Grandpa Alfred Anderson, Dad’s dad, the inventor, who had more than fifty patents to his name, including for the clamp clothespin, a railway switch, a version of a stove hood, a mechanism for opening and closing doors, and a deep fryer. Hopefully, I don’t take after him completely, since he squandered his money so badly on drunken trips with Grandma Engaborg and they neglected their family until it was ruined.

  Can I tell you about my biggest idea, Mom, much bigger than the others?

  I call it MyWorld.

  It’s a website to change the world. I know, I sound full of myself. But I really think it can save the world. So you would think I would be working harder on it, right? (Remember, I may be ambitious but I also just want to lie down.) Anyway, the idea first came to me in a dream. I think the reason it came to me like that was because once, not in a dream, I overheard someone say, “Websites are living, breathing animals, they feel like they’re alive when you go to them,” and that idea hit me deeply, and it probably squirmed into my subconscious.

  Okay, the idea. You wake up in the morning and before you do anything (fine, you can have some coffee or juice, maybe a cinnamon roll or a banana) you log on to a site called MyWorld (or whatever name close to that is available). A world comes up—an image of the Earth. A globe that has your name at the top. You can rotate it. As you turn it, you see “problem flags,” things you would like to see changed, remedied, improved, eliminated—really big problems and issues like climate change, human trafficking, access to clean water, hunger, genocide, destruction of rain forests, mental health care, care for wounded soldiers, etc., etc. You see images or videos showing the problem, and situated right where it’s most a problem—so you can see a faucet dripping with just a few drops of water in sub-Saharan Africa, and you see the rain forest being cut away in the Amazon. You also see all the wonderful things in the world that you want to see more of or be part of or create: exotic travel, gorgeous settings, beautification projects, etc. Now, to make sure that you don’t get overwhelmed trying to save the whole world and fix every problem, you see only those issues that you selected to be involved with. And whenever you log in, other people can see your profile, and know which problems you care most about, just like you can see everyone else’s. Yes, it’s a little like Facebook. (Remember Facebook, Mom?) And you and the people who care about the same problems and issues can join in helping to solve them—thousands of people, hopefully millions—which makes you feel like you’re shrinking the world just a little bit. Because, let’s face it, this is a big project. It’s hard to fix or improve even one of these problems, and part of the reason is because it all feels way too big, so why bother? Maybe by looking at your world in this way it would change how you woke up in the morning, and how millions of others felt when they woke up. I also want to get charities and corporations involved, as well as the one thousand most influential people in the world, some of whom, I realize, because of their wealth and power and agendas, are not exactly what we would call “the good guys.” But we have to get as many people involved as possible if we’re going to make a real dent in these problems. It’s about inclusion. It’s about looking at things in a more manageable way.

  I have to go lie down now.

  Does everyone dream about saving the world? Being a catcher in the rye? I have another idea, for an animated serie
s called Louie Saves the World, where Louie, a comedian, goes to the big city to do stand-up—but it’s really just a ruse because his mission is to save someone, do something.

  MyWorld. Think how good you would feel if you woke up and dealt with even one of the issues plaguing the world every day, especially when it’s an issue that matters to you. We all have something that matters to us.

  MyWorld is my new way to look at the world. It’s a canvas we’re all trying to paint, together. It’s a living, breathing animal but we’re not just content to keep it living and breathing. We want it flourishing.

  I have other ideas, Mom, but that’s enough for now. I’m going to finish this letter, then have a healthy snack. Then save the world.

  Entrepreneurially yours,

  Louie

  Family Peace

  Hey Mom,

  The Family Feud producers called to ask me to participate in an episode of the show with our family as contestants! With Steve Harvey hosting! Of course I said we would do it!

  Me, Jimmy, his son James, Nettie, and Valerie.

  And we were absolutely terrible.

  We got crushed by the other team. I was particularly bad. I was under the weather the night we taped, and I thought I let everyone down.

  But after the show, Nettie came up to me.

  “Louie, this is a dream come true,” she said. “I will never forget it. I’ve always wanted to do this.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. After all, I’d been the host for three years.

  “Oh, I didn’t want to say anything,” she said. What a sweet woman. No wonder Roger loved her so much.

  And that moment with Nettie, Mom, made me very happy and also a little sad. Her dream had come true and I had helped to make that happen—but it also made me realize how often people don’t express their dreams, whatever they may be, however small or big. We should probably say what our dreams are every day, speak them out loud, in the presence of others, or they can get buried or forgotten. Why would people need to probe you with questions to find out what you’re dreaming? That shouldn’t be. We should be transparent about our dreams, to others and ourselves. Never assume that people, even those you’re close to and who love you and who you love, will just volunteer their most important aspirations and thoughts.

  Is that why I’m asking you so many questions, Mom? Because I fear you lived your life without fulfilling some of your dreams? Most of your dreams?

  Love,

  Louie

  Hat Day

  © FX

  Hey Mom,

  Last year I started this thing on Instagram called “Hat Day Sunday.” (Instagram, Mom: Remember the slideshows we had to watch of relatives’ vacations? Same thing, except now you watch it in private and don’t have to fake emotions about the pictures. And it’s not just pictures of vacations but things like salads and rustic doorknobs.) I just love doing Hat Day Sunday and lots of people out there seem to like it, too. Every Sunday now I post a picture of either me or someone I know wearing a hat. Everybody should have a day where they wear a hat. Hats are wonderful things. Hats don’t get enough credit. They transform you from one person to another, one profession to another. You get to be someone else. Hats give you cover if it’s raining or snowing. If it’s windy they hide a case of bad hair day or bedhead. Mom, did we use the expression “bedhead”? Hats are underrated. When you wear your favorite sports team’s cap, sometimes you’re saying a lot but sometimes not. Because hats don’t have to mean anything, either. They’re just fun. Look at my Instagram, @louieanderson, and you can see all the Sunday hats. Or even better, put on your best or most favorite hat and send me the picture.

  Who am I talking to, Mom? You don’t have an Instagram account.

  Besides great hat pictures, I continue to get great responses from your—I mean, Christine’s—admirers, who share with me stories about their moms:

  Baskets and your character Christine came into my life at a time when I desperately needed laughter. I was pregnant and had also just been diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a scary time and the doctors kept stressing to me that I needed to really try hard to keep my anxiety down for mine and the baby’s sake. So I watched a lot of Baskets lol. I’ve probably watched each episode a dozen times. I’m happy to say I’m cancer-free now with a healthy 16-month-old little boy. But I wanted to thank you for getting me through a very tough time in my life!

  My mom story:

  She very much reminded me of Christine! I lost her to breast cancer when she was 47 and I was 21. She was a very conservative Christian lady and didn’t listen to much music outside of Christian artists. But she LOVED the song “Gangsta’s Paradise” by Coolio! I can still picture her dancing and rapping along with the song. Such a random thing but it’s still one of my favorite memories of her.

  Rebecca Bennett

  My favorite memory of my mother took place in the 1970s.

  We lived in a rural town. We had fruit trees, grape vines, an enormous vegetable garden, and horses. It sounds idyllic, but it wasn’t really.

  I had very good parents, but my father was very controlling. He had been an abused child and it manifested itself in him wanting to have mastery over his environment. He picked out my mother’s outfits each day, took her income and gave her no allowance or access to the checkbook, and kept her from getting a driver’s license. He had the neighborhood kids so spooked, they all would get quiet near our house so they would not upset him.

  My father provided well. My mother, thanks to him, looked like Jacqueline Onassis, but if she needed eggs or milk, she had to ask for them.

  My flamboyant and demonstrative uncle sent me two kites, among other goodies, for my birthday one year, but no kite string. So the kites were mounted on my bedroom wall for a long time. We lived in a rural area and really could not walk to a store, and we did not dare ask my father for kite string.

  So my mother, and I am tearing up as I type this, tied every piece of yarn and string we had in the house and made perhaps a twenty foot kite string perfect for a small paper kite. And we went outside, and by God, we tried to fly that little yellow kite.

  My father died in 2001. I forgave him. He could not help himself. I can say I love him.

  My mother lives with me now. She is my friend and I love her.

  Regards,

  Johnny Michnay

  Fellow Minnesotan here, with my mom story, one of many: I was about four years old and my mother had three daughters four and under. I was born in 1960, my sister in 1961 and my little sister 1963. I remember clearly not being happy when my little sister showed up. It was like my mom had no time for me and I hated this little screaming thing that was taking all of my mom’s attention. So I acted out a lot. I was a brat! I would make scenes in the grocery store. You name it. I’m sure I made a stressful time in her life even more stressful.

  We lived in Elgin, Illinois. It was a beautiful summer day when my mom took me for a car ride. I think she dropped my sisters at my grandmother’s but I don’t remember that part. We drove to a huge red brick building with lots of children in uniforms playing in the front yard. She pulled me out of the car and said, This is where children that do not have parents go.

  She quickly got into the car and drove off. She had driven around the block, which I didn’t know at the time. I remember the clear sunny day. I remember the children. I remember the building. I remember the tree-lined street. I remember crying so hard tears and snot ran into my mouth. I remember feeling so horrible for how I had been treating my mother.

  She may have left me there a minute or two but it seemed like a lifetime. She drove up and I hopped into the car. I don’t remember the drive home but I remember the relief in seeing her pull up to pick me up.

  My dad to this day can’t talk about it without getting red in the face. But it was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I had no idea there were children without parents. It’s not that I became the perfect kid, I still got in trouble, but it
changed me and made me even at 4 appreciate all that I have. I tell her often how thankful I am that she did that.

  I found an old postcard on eBay of the orphanage, which I keep on my refrigerator.

  Thank you, momma.

  A big fan,

  Becky Meverden

  Doing What We Shouldn’t, Not Doing What We Should

  Hey Mom,

  Why are people so careless with something so precious, for a potential return of something so silly?

  It takes a split second to smash into the back of a car while texting. Talking on the phone isn’t much better except the talker usually doesn’t look at a screen. A split second—for what? You can’t take it back. Yeah, maybe the texter-driver texted perfectly 99,999 times, with no typos or mangled bodies or mischosen emojis or future charges of vehicular homicide. But the next time, the very next time, there could be death. That’s all it takes. Just once. I tell my Lyft drivers, “If you look at your phone one more time, I’m asking for another driver!” And when they put it down it doesn’t make me happy. No, it makes me angry. Because they just proved that they can put it down. They just don’t. Ever. This habit, this addiction, this itch we all think we have to scratch—it’s none of that. They can put it down while they’re driving. They can put it down most of the time. We all can. Stop it, we can. Stop kidding around, we can.

  But we don’t.

  Why do we believe that the laws of physics and the impact of a metal box moving at seventy miles an hour on flesh and bone will somehow halt, like a game of freeze tag, because we want to respond to a non-urgent message with another non-urgent message?