For Part Two or Часть вторая, I present several stories – some from my long ago youth, some from less long ago and some of my precocious child. I hope they make you laugh. Or send me pity-induced monetary compensation.
What a Sweet Child Until…
When I wasn’t actively getting lost in any number of public venues, I was talking everyone’s ear off. I loved to talk and talk and talk and – well, you get the picture. Apparently, one day I was standing in line at the grocery store with either my Mom or my Uncle, and I smiled coyly at this lady in front of us and said to my Mom/Uncle “That lady looks like Aunt B—!” The lady smiled sweetly at me and my Mom/Uncle – until I let loose the second part of my observation “except she’s fatter than Aunt B—.”
I can only imagine how thrilled my mom/Uncle was to be standing behind that lady.
During the holiday season, when I was just a wee lass, less than 6, my Uncle took me to see the Christmas display at TSS (Time Square Stores – anyone out there from New York remember this department store?). I LOVED Christmas at this store – every time I see the Santa scene from A Christmas Story, it makes me think of this story because in my mind, TSS’s display was that magical. Chances are Santa was probably hitting the flask pretty regularly… but ANYWAY… this is a story that my Uncle used to tell me.
We both watched this young clerk laboriously setting up huge display of plastic huge Christmas Angels (lawn ornaments) in a 20×20 formation on the floor. According to my Uncle, the guy was almost done with his 400th angel, when I bounced up to the closest angel, touched it and my Uncle watched in horror as the domino effect took place. I guess the clerk tried, in vain, to stop one of them but only ended up falling into the display so that every single one of those angels crashed to the ground and scattered amok. My Uncle grabbed me and fled the scene. I didn’t get to sit on Santa’s lap – and I’m pretty sure I made the ‘naughty list’ immediately afterwards.
Should I Kiss Your Boo-Boo Too?
My brother and I fought like cats and dogs throughout our entire childhood (he was 4 years older). On any given occasion, he would chase me around the house with a butter knife, punch me repeatedly until I bruised, or tie me up and draw on me with magic marker –he was a real charmer. What would typically happen would be that he would tease me relentlessly until I could take it no more – then I would explode with anger and do something impulsive. For example, once I accidentally broke his finger when I jumped on it. It was entirely his fault for laying stretched out on the couch, barring me from sitting there despite the fact that I had CALLED the couch prior to getting up to go to the restroom. I actually think his finger broke, not from me jumping on it, but from him pounding on my locked bedroom door in order to maim me. But payback’s a bitch, right?
My brother was also slightly given to histrionics. When he was 15 and I was 11, we were fighting about something – he was trying to take my blue felt tip marker from me (probably a nanny-nanny-boo-boo scenario) so I stabbed him with it. I’m not proud of it – but he could drive a saint to murder. It was a minor wound but he FREAKED out because the blood was purple. I told him it was that way because his red blood mixed with my blue marker and it made purple. Well, he was convinced he was mortally poisoned and he made me go with him to Urgent Care at the local HMO clinic.
When it was our turn, the nurse was looking all over him to find the source of his panicked babbling about poisoned purple blood. She saw the mark on his arm, and trying to hide a
smirk smile, explained that the blue marker mixed with the red blood to produce the purple color and then put a Band-Aid on it. I swear she was going to ask if she should kiss his boo-boo all better too.
Least you all think I’m a horrible sister- this is the kid that stood right behind my parent’s closed bedroom door that I was knocking on, opened it and beaned me in the eye with a tennis ball as hard as he could throw it, he also tape recorded me going to the bathroom and played it for his friends. So don’t waste too much sympathy upon him… he’s got some karma to work off.
You’re in the Wrong House
One of the funny things about my father is his inability to ever be wrong. Regardless of the situation. One time he was on his way to my house (I’m a married adult living in the same house for several years by this point) and called me asking where my car was. I said it was parked in the driveway like always – and he tells me that he cannot see it and he’s right in front of my house in his car. I assured him he was at the wrong house because I was LOOKING out my front window and I did not see his car. I suggested he might be on the wrong street looking at the right house number. He insisted that he was on the correct street and asked me if I WAS SURE I WAS IN THE RIGHT HOUSE. As ludicrous as it sounds, it never occurred to him that HE might be wrong; it was ME that was wrong. And guess what? I was in my house and he was on the next street over at the WRONG HOUSE. Weird, eh?
The next series of vignettes are about my son.
King of the Queens!
When my son was about 3 years old, he was ‘helping’ with the laundry. He put my sports bra around his neck and a one of my Indian cotton skirts on his hips and announced “I’m King of the Queens” – and in my family, he could be right.
Philosopher’s World Cup
When D was about the same age, 3, he loved to play ‘kick-a-ball’. This basically consisted of him kicking a soccer ball back and forth to whoever was willing to play. One time, he had to play by himself and Scott & I watched as he walked around his ‘soccer’ field ignoring the ball, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and talking to no one…he did this for about an hour. Have you ever watched Monty Python’s Philosopher’s World Cup skit? If so – it was a lot like that… if not, watch it below and know it was a lot like that.
Because That’s How I Feel Inside
Even at a young age, D was curious about what every song he heard meant. He would listen, ask me to stop the CD and inquire. At one point, I was listening to a lot of “Drinking with Jesus” by The Red Elvises – which had a song called “Wearing Black”. The lyrics in question were:
So I explained that the singer’s girlfriend was leaving him, he was sad and black was reflective of his emotions and feelings.
So weeks pass and I have forgotten the conversation – but D did not. He got really upset one day, started wailing, ran to his room, came back out dressed in a black tee-shirt and with tears streaming down his little red 6 year old face, cried “I’m wearing black because that’s how I feel inside!” Oi vey, kid.
Bend Over, I’ll Drive
One time when he was younger (age 4-ish) and we listened to a lot of The Cramps’ “Look Ma, No Head!”, he asked me what “Bend Over I’ll Drive Means”…Um… it means we have to skip this song… possibly this entire CD. I did concoct a fast explanation about how Lux, the singer, was a passenger and the driver broke her leg, so he asked to bend over so he could drive. Four year olds are notoriously gullible.
At D’s 6 year old party in the park (with his kindergarten friends, their parents and my boss), he became completely inconsolable when I told him that he had to wait to open his presents until after we ate cake and broke the piñata. I must have said something about this being a nice place for having cake. But he was having NONE of it; crying he informed EVERYONE at the park in the loudest voice possible that “THIS IS NOT A NICE PLACE, THIS IS A PLACE OF PAIN AND MISERY!” Sigh…
And now I’m done.
Wait – for El Guapo…. FUNICULAR!