OF COURSE, I may be prejudiced, but I think Phil Baker is one of the top comedians on the air today. Also, as his wife, I wish to go on record as saying that he has a collection of strange habits around his home which I find most unfunny.
Phil is without doubt one of the most considerate persons I have ever known. But in the matter of such things as scrambled eggs, shower caps, addresses and a few other items he is completely maddening.
Take the scrambled egg situation. To most people, a scrambled egg is just that. Breaking in a new cook to Phil's way of scrambling requires the utmost tact in both directions. There are more do's and don'ts in the formula than in the preparation of crepe suzette. It seems to me that it tastes just the same, but Phil claims to have a sharpened perception on this subject.
There there are the shower caps. Phil has conspired with his valet against me for years in this matter. Regardless of color or kind, or how many I buy for him, he likes mine best and frankly turns thief in his own house. I've even purchased the old-fashioned bonnet type in baby pink with a ruffle on it. That, too, went the way of the others.
Money is another thing that's slowly driving me toward the nut factory. Phil must have been frightened by a wallet at a tender age, for I cannot bribe him to carry his money in one. I've bought six wallets for my husband in the past year and he still carries his bills and change loose in his pocket. I've tried varying sizes and colors of bill folds, and put pictures of the babies in one to tempt him. This one he does carry, but only for notes, cards and addresses.
AND SPEAKING of addresses! That brings to mind another plaint I have to make about my otherwise reasonable husband. Phil jots down addresses and phone numbers on the handiest piece of paper, irrespective of what it may be. I walked into the library the other morning to glance through a new novel, and there on the fly leaf was scrawled "6739 Hollywood." No clue, you see, as to whether it was Blvd. or telephone exchange, nor a hint as to whom it belonged. I devote every other Sunday to sorting addresses written on envelopes, shoe boxes and sheet music. Then I put on my Sherlock Holmes outfit and try to track down the owners of the numbers.
By this time, I have become reconciled to a few things that are required of me. Every wife is expected to laugh at her husband's jokes, but the wife of a radio comedian must "give a reaction!" As Phil's wife, I find that I am not exception to the rule. What's more, a comic's mate must reconcile herself forever to the fact that nothing, absolutely nothing, is sacred to a gag writer.
A meeting of Phil and his writers looks like a convention of Ministers of War. They are weightily solemn about the whole matter, and everything is grist for their mill.
For example, the births of our three children. Margot, our first, who is Miss Muffett to intimates of the three-year-old, was born at a very opportune moment, when Phil and his writers were running low in material. And both boys, Michael and Stuart, were impersonated on the air so often by Phil and McNaughton that I maintain they are entitled to a considerable amount of back salary.
Though he is not the cut-up type around the house (for which I am duly grateful), Phil does have lots of fun with Miss Muffett. She is decidedly her father's baby, and it's amusing to watch the companionship between them. Sometimes, however, Phil is the despair of the children's nurse. We have a capable, strict French governess, who is doing her best to make a lady of Muffett, but it's tough going to compete with Phil, who conspires with the baby against us constantly. Ma'amselle has taught Muffett as much French as English, and Phil succeeds in crossing up everyone by teaching her double talk in both languages. Muffett, in turn, is Phil's very best audience, his every remark "kills" her.
THEY HAVE little private games and entertainments from which everybody else is excluded. A favorite pastime is the daily musicale in which they both take enthusiastic part. Muffett sits at the piano with serious mein, playing an accompaniment of hit (but hard!) and miss notes to Phil's worst voice. As he turns each page of the music, Muffett demands an explanation of the printed musical terms. "Pizzicato" is her favorite. She goes into gales of laughter at her father's pronunciation and interpretation of the word.
This is all very funny to them, but it is a bit of a hardship for me when I'm sitting in the same room attempting to do the household bills. Any requests for them to tone it down a bit gains me no more sympathy then just sad looks that commiserate my lack of appreciation of the finer things in life.
In the matter of clothes, Phil is a tailor's nightmare. He wears a suit for an outrageous span of time, and has to be constantly reminded to refurbish his wardrobe. He has never been known to purchase, on his own initiative, a pair of pajamas, shirts or socks.
Then, too, like a small boy, he carries a veritable museum in his pockets. In a frantic search for one of his scribbled addresses, he will empty out of a pair of trousers such a variety of objects as old Shubert contracts, string, buttons, badges and ancient mints. The new high came when he dumped out a piece of Little Rock. He had been presented with a bit of the Rock itself when he appeared in the Arkansas capital on a personal appearance tour, and there it had nestled in company with marbles, chewing gum and empty match boxes for some time.
PHIL'S moods are a thing to be reckoned with on occasion. Like all Russians, he fancies himself as the brooding type. Usually the gloomy state of mind is brought on when Phil hears of some talented performer who isn't getting the breaks he deserves. He spends days figuring and maneuvering so that he may be able to give somebody else a boost. If the rest of the family doesn't "commune" with him, he is as distant and "not of this world" as though we were but shadowy forms about him.
Phil is a most companionable fellow, though he rarely makes an effort to entertain formally or to be especially amusing to friends or family. We live quietly, with little planned diversion. We take long and frequent walks in the country, and golf a great deal. Phil plays golf very badly, and enjoys it tremendously.
There's another grievance I have!
More often than not, we arrive at a golf course only to discover that Phil has forgotten to change shoes, and is plowing around in bedroom slippers.