View from the North 40:

The trouble with using sarcasm as your favorite communication device and then doubling down on that by writing a humor-based column is that it hurts your credibility.

It’s not that people think I’m a liar, it’s just that they think they can’t necessarily believe what I say. Sure, that’s a fine line, but I like to think it’s an important one.

When a co-worker asks, “Do I put a comma right here?” and I say, “Only if you want to sound like an ignorant hillbilly” — which, of course, means no. The co-worker understood and that comma didn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t have been. A few other commas had found their way into the wrong positions, but not that one.

And we had sarcasm to thank for that.

The trouble is that when I try to tell the truth, it sounds like sarcasm and people don’t believe me.

So when the co-worker asks, “How come you complimented his writing and not mine?” and I say with all honesty, “Because I like him better than I like you,” it gets big laughs.

And it gets me a ration of one liners, like “Everybody’s a comedian,” or “Will you be here all week performing that shtick?” And then I’m like “Apparently not everybody is a comedian — you’ve proven that,” or “I work here. I get paid to show up all week. I would not willingly volunteer to be here.” Statements that aren't funny so much as truth-hurts-y.

I would blame myself for not being able to make my sincere voice sound different from my sarcasm voice — and that’s ironic — but people don’t believe me a lot of other times when they think I’m underselling or overselling a situation.

Like how I tell people my cat seems happy to kill anything he can get his claws on. I say this emphatically. I use arm gestures. I feel my face and my vocal chords contorting with expressed emotion. And yet: “I know!” they say. “My cat left a dead bird on my door step last week.” Nope, not what I meant.

We pretty much have a daily body count, and that’s just the creatures he kills, doesn’t eat and leaves where we can find them. Also, his victims list now includes snakes and bats, and I kind of think that shredded, days-old carcass if found the other day was a frog, but I can’t confirm that.

He has two food dishes continually filled with kitty kibble, but “Feed him!” people say when they see evidence of his carnage. Um, he left the carcass there to rot, I don’t think hunger was the issue. Maybe blame natural instinct and blame his starvation prior to his moving in here for making him into an efficient, conscienceless killing machine. I had nothing to do with it.

Even my husband of 27 years thinks I’m nothing but a drama queen.

I drove through a storm last weekend traveling home from North Dakota. The rain was coming down so hard in giant, wind-driven drops that I couldn’t see where I was driving because the lines on the road were obscured by splashing and blowing rain. It didn’t last long, but it was fierce and I was thankful to find a little pull out to wait things out.

Mmm-hmm, he said with a tone that clearly translated to “It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t there to drive for you, you little scaredy baby.”

The next morning he points to a news article on his computer screen and says, “Hey that storm — just past where you got in it, tore down a bunch of buildings and stuff, and FEMA is coming in to assess the damage.”

No surprise to me, and yet he ends with, “It must’ve gotten worse after it passed you.”

(What?! at [email protected].)