Have ya’ seen that commercial? -- The one where the older brother is (almost) touching the sister’s arm, and she keeps saying, “Quit touching me.”? How did SunnyDelight find out about my older brother?!?! His given name was Jeff. Currently, he is known as Pastor Jeff. But back then….well, I thought of him as SATAN(and the echo goes, “satan,satan,sata--)
“Oh surely, you jest,” you protest.
No, I do not jest….and don’t call me Shirley.
Oh, you want proof? Ha! Where to begin? Where to begin?
Exhibit A
Perhaps we should start with something where you see the power and superiority of Jeff's brain. What a chess player: start at checkmate and work backwards...and remember all the moves necessary! Here's a play-by-play, ala Memento style:
Step G: Jayne protests that, "I hit him because he was picking on me! I told him to stop!"
Step F: Jeff proclaims it was self defense, because, "Jayne hit me first!"
Step E: Mom calls Jeff into the kitchen to get his side of the story.
Step D: Jayne runs crying to Mom, "Mom! Jeff hit me!"
Step C: Jeff hits Jayne in the arm.
Step B: Jayne slaps Jeffs hand away, and gripes, "Cut it out! Leave me alone! Quit picking on me!"
Step A: Jeff pokes/picks at air around sister Jayne, while repeatedly uttering, "Pick, pick, pick, pick--"
Step H: Jeff announces with much innocence, "I never touched her."
Which was true! How many hours did that take to work out!?!?!? Sheer genius! But used for evil purposes....
Exhibit B
It was a dark, cold night. Mom and Dad had gone out – one of those rare occasions – and left Sata—Jeff in charge. (Why they left him in charge, when John was older, we could never figure out.) JoJo and I were awake in bed and whispering to each other. I glanced around, making the bogeyman visual safety check of the room, and realized that the closet door was slightly open. This would never do! Who knows what could be hiding in the closet? There could be a monst--
“JoJo! The closet door is open! Go close it.”
Being the obedient little sister, she leapt from bed, pushed the door shut, and flew back to bed. Mission accomplished. The whispered conversation continued, but when I made the next bogeyman visual safety check—
“Jo! You didn’t close the door good! It’s open again! Go close it!””No way! You close it this time!”
So, taking a deep breath, I jumped from bed, pushed the door closed (hard), and leapt back into bed. Again, mission accomplished – but I was wary. I kept glancing back to the door during our conversation. Waiting for the slightest movement, or hint of move—
“JoJo!” I whispered/warned, “The door is open, again.”
“Jaynie” she whimpered, “I’m scared.”
“Jo, don’t cry. Keep talking, pretend like you don’t notice. Maybe I can sneak—“
--and the door continued to open – steady, not fast, but fast enough that you could see it. And fast enough that I knew there was no way I could get to the door fast enough.
“Jaynie, I’m scared! What are we gonna do?”
I started to answer, but then the monster came out of the closet. It was so tall, it had to bend it’s head to get under the door. It had a hat on, so we couldn’t see it’s face, and a long coat. It was moaning, coming towards us, with its’ arms reaching towards us –
JoJo and I scampered to the farthest corner of the bed, and still it came forward. We screamed…we prayed….to no avail. The monster was at the foot of the bed. It had something in it’s hand… was reaching towards it’s head…. Sheer terror took over, and Jo and I clutched each other screaming for someone to save us—And the monster snatched it’s hat off, and turned on the flashlight in it’s hand
“Boo!” screamed Jeff.
The beam of light revealed that Jeff was riding on John’s shoulders, a long coat draped over the two of them.
Yes, I know, funny, eh? ...UNLESS IT’S YOU COWERING IN THE CORNER!!!
Exhibit C
I had just finished reading the book, The Exorcist. As I was only in 8th grade, I had to “sneak” read it, because my Mom thought it was too scary for me to read. (Note to Mom: you were right – the book still scares the shi** out of me!). My friend Emily C was spending the night (side note: it is a wonder that any of my friends ever spent a second night at my house..). We were discussing the book when suddenly the sofa bed…well it kinda jumped up in the air a bit.
“Emily! Stop it!”
“Jayne, I didn’t do anything”
“Oh…well, maybe we put too much weight on part of the bed or something.”
So, we went back to our conversation, and as it drifted towards the Devil (the real one, not Jeff!), the bed jumped again – but higher!
“Jayne! That’s not funny! You’re scaring me!”
“Emily! I swear I didn’t do a thi—“
And at this point the bed began to….well to pitch and bounce, for lack of a better description.
And so yes, I found myself, once again screaming….and praying in bed, clinging frantically to my friend as the sofa bed went satanically insane.
And then we heard laughter – but human laughter.
And out from under the sofa bed came….yes you guessed it – Sata—I mean, Brother Jeff.
Oh, I could go on and on – about the time he wanted to see how long I could hold my breath, so he held my head under water….or the time he closed the bedroom door to make JoJo and me cry because we were afraid of the dark……or the time –
But that’s not the point, is it? It’s that commercial – that crazy commercial makes me remember my brother Jeff….and I smile. I smile because as cruel and mean as his jokes were, in hindsight they are hysterical. I think it’s even more hysterical that he has an entire congregation that is impressed with his piety…his goodness…..his sincerity.
Perhaps one day, I may get brave enough to don that bear skin rug….and make an entrance into his church…..possibly during a midnight mass.
Hmmm….what kind of bears do they have in New Orleans?
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Friday, July 6, 2007
family - my dad
My father is so strong. So resilient. And yet, he is tethered to life by tubing. He tells me that it is his lifeline – and he knows how far it will reach: to the back patio to take the trash out, to the front patio to check the mail, and all around the first floor.
But it doesn’t reach the basement. It can’t reach his bedroom on the second floor. And it can’t reach my house in California – so I have come to Nebraska to see him.
The sound is the same: a whooshing noise that is quickly cut off. Silence, and then another whoosh. But the silence isn’t so quiet – it’s filled with motor sounds, water gurgle sounds, and breathe sounds. I hear those sounds, and I’m immediately taken back – taken back to that horrible time when I was hooked up to a machine – a machine that was my link to life. The machine that kept me breathing. But now, it’s not me breathing, not my breath and life that is so dependent. It is my father. And I am helpless.
Dear Daddy,
I remember when I was little; you would come to wake me up in the morning. You would knock at my door, open n it a little, and softly call, “Lady Jayne, time to wake up.” I usually would already be awake, or wake up when you knocked. But I never said anything, because I loved to hear you call, “Lady Jayne.”
I remember when I got my first lead role in high school – “An Inspector Calls.” I didn’t even think you knew about it – or anything! But there you were on opening night – bouquet of flowers (yellow roses) in hand. And afterwards, you said, “Great job, Lady Jayne.”
And college - ha! Remember when I went to Kearney, Ne? And that pipe broke on the car – the one by the muffler? I called you and asked if I should stay and get if fixed, or come home. You said that I should take a look at it and do what I thought was right. So, I crawled under the car, pushed that pipe up, made a “U” from a wire hanger, and wrapped the entire contraption in duck tape – and drove the 2+ hours home. You came out of the house, crawled under the car, crawled out, went into the house, returned with the Polaroid camera, crawled back under the car to take a picture, came back out, grinning from ear to ear and said, “Great job, Missy.”
I have been truly blessed to have you as a father. Thank you for always thinking that I could do anything. Shoot! I think I always believed I could do anything, because you believed that I could!
Love,
Lady Jayne
It hurts to see him like this: This is a man who flew planes over Vietnam and Cambodia (although we still aren’t supposed to know about that part of that war). This man who carried the 12-year-old me into the hospital with a ruptured artery in my nose now struggles to carry a small load.
But still, he is strong. Still, he is resilient. He has already pissed off and impressed the hospice nurses. Pissed them off because he insists on driving to McDonalds for breakfast each morning. Impressed them because he seems to be defying the odds by getting better.
But it doesn’t reach the basement. It can’t reach his bedroom on the second floor. And it can’t reach my house in California – so I have come to Nebraska to see him.
The sound is the same: a whooshing noise that is quickly cut off. Silence, and then another whoosh. But the silence isn’t so quiet – it’s filled with motor sounds, water gurgle sounds, and breathe sounds. I hear those sounds, and I’m immediately taken back – taken back to that horrible time when I was hooked up to a machine – a machine that was my link to life. The machine that kept me breathing. But now, it’s not me breathing, not my breath and life that is so dependent. It is my father. And I am helpless.
Dear Daddy,
I remember when I was little; you would come to wake me up in the morning. You would knock at my door, open n it a little, and softly call, “Lady Jayne, time to wake up.” I usually would already be awake, or wake up when you knocked. But I never said anything, because I loved to hear you call, “Lady Jayne.”
I remember when I got my first lead role in high school – “An Inspector Calls.” I didn’t even think you knew about it – or anything! But there you were on opening night – bouquet of flowers (yellow roses) in hand. And afterwards, you said, “Great job, Lady Jayne.”
And college - ha! Remember when I went to Kearney, Ne? And that pipe broke on the car – the one by the muffler? I called you and asked if I should stay and get if fixed, or come home. You said that I should take a look at it and do what I thought was right. So, I crawled under the car, pushed that pipe up, made a “U” from a wire hanger, and wrapped the entire contraption in duck tape – and drove the 2+ hours home. You came out of the house, crawled under the car, crawled out, went into the house, returned with the Polaroid camera, crawled back under the car to take a picture, came back out, grinning from ear to ear and said, “Great job, Missy.”
I have been truly blessed to have you as a father. Thank you for always thinking that I could do anything. Shoot! I think I always believed I could do anything, because you believed that I could!
Love,
Lady Jayne
It hurts to see him like this: This is a man who flew planes over Vietnam and Cambodia (although we still aren’t supposed to know about that part of that war). This man who carried the 12-year-old me into the hospital with a ruptured artery in my nose now struggles to carry a small load.
But still, he is strong. Still, he is resilient. He has already pissed off and impressed the hospice nurses. Pissed them off because he insists on driving to McDonalds for breakfast each morning. Impressed them because he seems to be defying the odds by getting better.
family - dad
Sorry to all who’ve missed me – life’s a bit nuts right now: I was given one class of 6th graders this week – please note, I usually teach 7th grade, so now I’m…err…..inventing a curriculum to use with my 6th graders that is “not-too-different-from-what-the-7th-graders-are-doing-so-that-I-don’t-go-crazy-making-lesson-plans.” Sigh.
My dad is back in the hospital – which also adds to my frenzy. His emphysema is not much worse, but his brain is a bit fuzzed. He’s often confused, and doesn’t remember if he took pills, needs to take them, etc – even though my Mom has them all organized on a schedule and has a great system. So, he’s back in the hospital – primarily to take him off all his meds, and try to get a handle on that.
So – that got me thinking about my Dad. I thought I’d share with you some of my favorite Dad stories……
1973 – 12 years old, Merced, California.
Who would’ve have thought that blowing your nose was dangerous? Got Boogers? Blow!!!! And yet, there I was, thirty minutes later, still trying to get my nose to stop bleeding. After another thirty minutes dragged by, my Mom and Dad decided that it was time to go to the hospital. I made it to the car – but felt very woozy, and the wooziness grew during the twenty minute drive to Castle AFB. I tried to get out of the car, but my legs collapsed from underneath me. My father scooped me up and carried me into the hospital. “Hold on, Missy,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.” I knew I would be fine – ‘cause my Daddy had me.
(postscript for those of ya’ who gotta know: I’d blown a hole in the artery in my nose –and lost over 2 pints of blood. Artery was cauterized (big ouch), and nose was packed with 3,000 miles (slight exxageration) of yellow stinky (no exxageration) gauze.
1979 – Lincoln, Nebraska
If you think being “stuck in Lodi, again” is bad, try Kearney, Nebraska. Sure, fun place to party (for Nebraska), but definitely not a place to stay. But there I was, on a Sunday afternoon with a broken car. And, of course, this was way before the invention of credit cards…..at least in my families existence!
“Missy, what is the car doing?”
“Daddy! That pipe thing in front of the muffler is broken. I took it to a gas station – but they said they can’t do anything until tomorrow! And they said it will cost a couple hundred dollars!!!! Daddy!!! What should I do?”
“Missy, I’m not there. What kind of sound is the car making?”
“Well, it just sounds really loud. Kinda like a muscle car – is it okay to drive? Can I fix it with something? Should I wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“Missy, I’m not there, so I can’t tell you what to do…but take a look at it and see what you think.”
So – under the car I went to take a look. And then I got all MacGyver on it. Uh-huh—that’s Missy MacGyver to you. I pushed that broken pipe as close to the muffler as I could, and took a wire hanger and made a big U-shaped support underneath it. Then I wrapped the whole think in duct tape….just in case. And then….I drove home…..130 miles…….2 hours…….across Nebraska……..and, just to remind you – IN THE DAYS BEFORE CELL PHONES!!!!
I pulled into the driveway – and there was my dad. Waiting. As I got out of the car, he didn’t say a word – he just crawled under the car – and then crawled back out.
“Is that okay, Daddy?”
But he didn’t answer – he just went inside. “Shit!” I thought to myself, “I screwed it up! I knew I shou—“
He was back again, crawling under the car. And crawled back out – with a polaroid of my repair, and a big grin!
“Wait ‘til Darrel (the mechanic) sees this!””Is it okay, Daddy? I didn’t mess it up too bad, did I?”
“Missy, you did good.”
2002 - Fresno, California
“Missy, I’m worried about you.”
“Daddy, I’m okay. A little shocked, but okay.”
“Missy, I can’t believe he left you.”
“Me either, Daddy. Me either.”
“I’ve got you Missy, you’ll be okay.”
“I know, Daddy. I’m just scared. What did I do wrong?”
“Missy, you did good. This is his problem, not yours.”
“Thanks Daddy….”
Thanks Daddy. Thanks for always thinking that I could do anything. Thanks for believing in me, and helping me believe in myself.
My dad is back in the hospital – which also adds to my frenzy. His emphysema is not much worse, but his brain is a bit fuzzed. He’s often confused, and doesn’t remember if he took pills, needs to take them, etc – even though my Mom has them all organized on a schedule and has a great system. So, he’s back in the hospital – primarily to take him off all his meds, and try to get a handle on that.
So – that got me thinking about my Dad. I thought I’d share with you some of my favorite Dad stories……
1973 – 12 years old, Merced, California.
Who would’ve have thought that blowing your nose was dangerous? Got Boogers? Blow!!!! And yet, there I was, thirty minutes later, still trying to get my nose to stop bleeding. After another thirty minutes dragged by, my Mom and Dad decided that it was time to go to the hospital. I made it to the car – but felt very woozy, and the wooziness grew during the twenty minute drive to Castle AFB. I tried to get out of the car, but my legs collapsed from underneath me. My father scooped me up and carried me into the hospital. “Hold on, Missy,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.” I knew I would be fine – ‘cause my Daddy had me.
(postscript for those of ya’ who gotta know: I’d blown a hole in the artery in my nose –and lost over 2 pints of blood. Artery was cauterized (big ouch), and nose was packed with 3,000 miles (slight exxageration) of yellow stinky (no exxageration) gauze.
1979 – Lincoln, Nebraska
If you think being “stuck in Lodi, again” is bad, try Kearney, Nebraska. Sure, fun place to party (for Nebraska), but definitely not a place to stay. But there I was, on a Sunday afternoon with a broken car. And, of course, this was way before the invention of credit cards…..at least in my families existence!
“Missy, what is the car doing?”
“Daddy! That pipe thing in front of the muffler is broken. I took it to a gas station – but they said they can’t do anything until tomorrow! And they said it will cost a couple hundred dollars!!!! Daddy!!! What should I do?”
“Missy, I’m not there. What kind of sound is the car making?”
“Well, it just sounds really loud. Kinda like a muscle car – is it okay to drive? Can I fix it with something? Should I wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“Missy, I’m not there, so I can’t tell you what to do…but take a look at it and see what you think.”
So – under the car I went to take a look. And then I got all MacGyver on it. Uh-huh—that’s Missy MacGyver to you. I pushed that broken pipe as close to the muffler as I could, and took a wire hanger and made a big U-shaped support underneath it. Then I wrapped the whole think in duct tape….just in case. And then….I drove home…..130 miles…….2 hours…….across Nebraska……..and, just to remind you – IN THE DAYS BEFORE CELL PHONES!!!!
I pulled into the driveway – and there was my dad. Waiting. As I got out of the car, he didn’t say a word – he just crawled under the car – and then crawled back out.
“Is that okay, Daddy?”
But he didn’t answer – he just went inside. “Shit!” I thought to myself, “I screwed it up! I knew I shou—“
He was back again, crawling under the car. And crawled back out – with a polaroid of my repair, and a big grin!
“Wait ‘til Darrel (the mechanic) sees this!””Is it okay, Daddy? I didn’t mess it up too bad, did I?”
“Missy, you did good.”
2002 - Fresno, California
“Missy, I’m worried about you.”
“Daddy, I’m okay. A little shocked, but okay.”
“Missy, I can’t believe he left you.”
“Me either, Daddy. Me either.”
“I’ve got you Missy, you’ll be okay.”
“I know, Daddy. I’m just scared. What did I do wrong?”
“Missy, you did good. This is his problem, not yours.”
“Thanks Daddy….”
Thanks Daddy. Thanks for always thinking that I could do anything. Thanks for believing in me, and helping me believe in myself.
family - Mom
--or "part doo" - as what the shit?!?!?!? If my Mom finds out that I made her sound the saint, I might be in trouble.....so I thought I'd share some of the errrrrr less stellar but still shiny memories of me mum:
1. My mom never said no. Before you get your hopes or hackles (whichever the case) - that's not to say she let us do whatever. No, she never said no. She sang it. Sang it!?!?!?
Mom: APj! Time to come inside!
Me: Mom, can I just stay outside a little longer?
Mom: No. It's too late.
Me: Aw, pleasepleaseplease can I just stay outside a little bit longer? ________(insert current bestfriend's name) 's mom always lets her--
Mom: (a sing-songy tune) "No, no, --"
Me: (running to the house, trying to stop her from finishing) Ahhhhhhhh! Mom!!!!! Stop--Mom
Mom: "-- a thousand times no. I'd rather die than say yes."
Me: Geez, thanks Mom. Now we gotta move again.
2. I was the straw that inevitably broke the camels back. Hey, with six kids, it was bound to happen, but it seemed to happen to me more often than the rest of the clan. What do I mean, "break the camel's back?"
Upon arriving home from track practice, I hurriedly sat down to eat.
Mom: What kind of milk would you like?
Me (thinking to self): Choice? That means we have chocolate milk!!!! Special Day, yeah!!!
Me(aloud): Chocolate, please.
Mom proceeds to fix me a plate of food, and brings me a glass of milk. White Milk. As in the non-chocolate variety.
Me: Hey, I asked for chocolate milk.
Everything switches to slow-mo as
a. Mom tosses the milk in my face (really) ,
b. a look of shock and tears mixes with the milk on my face.
c. a look of horror comes over my Mom's face.
d. we both burst into tears in the kitchen.
3. And, my all time favorite. Growing up, I noticed that there weren't a lot of baby pics of me. Unlike my two older brothers, my pics seemed to start around 6months to one year old. Oh sure, there's a picture of a bald baby in a crib that they SAID was me, but really......So, of course, I grew up thinking that I was adopted. Whenever I felt my mom was being unfair, (please refer to #1 and #2 above), I would scream -- err--suggest to my mother, "Why don't you just tell me the truth! You know I'm adopted."
One day, in which I was (according to my mother) being unusually hateful, as opposed to my normally hateful self (again, according to me mum), I spewed -- err--suggested the above to my mother. My Mother was (and still is) the queen of the one-line zingers. Hey, now you know where I get my wit. To which my mother responded, "What makes you think we'd pick you?"
::rimshot:: "thankyou, thankyou very much"
family - Julie
when you're the oldest girl, you pick on your little sisters. When my baby sister, Julie, broke her arm while jumping from the Stereo stand to the couch --
--hey, I don't know why we thought it was so much fun -- we just did...
--we made her promise to not tell Mom that we had all been doing it. Poor thing -- there she lay --in agony-- while we made her promise to face the music alone....
And then there was the time when it was my turn to get to go shopping with Mom (hey, with six kids, an outing alone with Mom was rare), and Julie wanted to go. I said no. She said she was going. She tried to beat me to the car. I arrived at the car, dove in, and slammed the door. The door of a VW Bus. The door of a VW Bus on her hand -- or more succinctly -- two of the fingers on her left hand. Which left her with wrinkly fingernails for the rest of her life. Which, of course, she pointed out when she got married. Geez -- some people never let things go....
In most families, this ceases when you become an adult. Not so in my family. Poor Julie.......
When
we were kids, sister JoJo had a 24" doll named Francesca. Francesca had beautiful brown ringlet curls, and wore a kind of Victorian Wedding(ish) gown. JoJo and I loved her. Julie thought she was evil. And would lock her in the closet every chance she had. Eventually, Francesca was relegated to the attic -- and forgotten. For many years. Decades even.
Until one year, when we all ventured home to Nebraska for a family visit. Julie's daughter, Madi, was around a year old. Julie had left JoJo and I babysitting while she and her husband went out. I don't remember who thought of it first -- I actually think we both had the thought at the same time -- and we scampered up to the attic -- screaming to Mom, "Where's Francesca!?!?!?" A few boxes later - eureka! Mission accomplished! Francesca was brought downstairs, and all was made ready for Julie's return.
JoJo and I waited, wiggly and giggly, until we heard the front door open. Julie and Marc came into the living room. Marc smiled and said, "How cute!"
Julie, silver bullets zipping from her eyes, glared and said, "Why is that evil thing reading a book to my innocent daughter?!?!?!?!"
Julie -- I love you sweetie. As horrible as I was to you (in child and adult-hood), I can't believe you got me through my divorce and took me to China! Oh, and thanks for not leaving me stranded in China.....
**FINAL NOTE Edited on 10/1/06**
::manical laugh::
Years later, Julie saw that old episode of Twilight Zone (or the other one?) with the doll that walks around the house killing the family. She said that doll and Francesca were evil sisters.....silly, silly, girl.....
Francesca always said she was an only child...
--hey, I don't know why we thought it was so much fun -- we just did...
--we made her promise to not tell Mom that we had all been doing it. Poor thing -- there she lay --in agony-- while we made her promise to face the music alone....
And then there was the time when it was my turn to get to go shopping with Mom (hey, with six kids, an outing alone with Mom was rare), and Julie wanted to go. I said no. She said she was going. She tried to beat me to the car. I arrived at the car, dove in, and slammed the door. The door of a VW Bus. The door of a VW Bus on her hand -- or more succinctly -- two of the fingers on her left hand. Which left her with wrinkly fingernails for the rest of her life. Which, of course, she pointed out when she got married. Geez -- some people never let things go....
In most families, this ceases when you become an adult. Not so in my family. Poor Julie.......
When
we were kids, sister JoJo had a 24" doll named Francesca. Francesca had beautiful brown ringlet curls, and wore a kind of Victorian Wedding(ish) gown. JoJo and I loved her. Julie thought she was evil. And would lock her in the closet every chance she had. Eventually, Francesca was relegated to the attic -- and forgotten. For many years. Decades even.Until one year, when we all ventured home to Nebraska for a family visit. Julie's daughter, Madi, was around a year old. Julie had left JoJo and I babysitting while she and her husband went out. I don't remember who thought of it first -- I actually think we both had the thought at the same time -- and we scampered up to the attic -- screaming to Mom, "Where's Francesca!?!?!?" A few boxes later - eureka! Mission accomplished! Francesca was brought downstairs, and all was made ready for Julie's return.
JoJo and I waited, wiggly and giggly, until we heard the front door open. Julie and Marc came into the living room. Marc smiled and said, "How cute!"
Julie, silver bullets zipping from her eyes, glared and said, "Why is that evil thing reading a book to my innocent daughter?!?!?!?!"
Julie -- I love you sweetie. As horrible as I was to you (in child and adult-hood), I can't believe you got me through my divorce and took me to China! Oh, and thanks for not leaving me stranded in China.....
**FINAL NOTE Edited on 10/1/06**
::manical laugh::
Years later, Julie saw that old episode of Twilight Zone (or the other one?) with the doll that walks around the house killing the family. She said that doll and Francesca were evil sisters.....silly, silly, girl.....
Francesca always said she was an only child...
family - Jason
We are a family of word-lovers. My mother instilled in each of us a desire to know words. Instead of “said” we were encouraged to use replied, retorted, exclaimed, whispered, shouted, admonished (personal fave) – well, you get the picture. There were a couple of word rules:
1) we couldn’t use it if we didn’t know what it meant. And
2) we couldn’t say it unless it was in the dictionary.
This was my mother’s way of keeping us from cussing – wouldn’t work so much now, ‘cause “those words” are in many dictionaries -But it worked just fine back then.
We couldn’t call each other f*ck*rs, bi$ch@s, as$ho(es, or even ba4t#rds – cause we couldn’t find them in the dictionary. But phenomenal alternatives were found, and creative compounds built: Mucus-hound, Feces-dweller, larvae-lover.
What a wonderful life, eh? (Rhetorical – yes, it WAS a wonderful life…..)
Poor Jason...
Jason is my youngest brother, and as a child he received quite the pickings on by his five older siblings. We would call him names...he wouldn’t know what they meant...he would look them up... – and cry... and then we would heartily laugh.
Jason spent oodles of hours with eyes in the dictionary....
One day, I was sitting outside with my sister JoJo and her boyfriend – the boyfriend we all tolerated, but considered a fecal-dweeling maggot-munching, toad-toting fiend.
“Whatcha doing?” Jason asked.
“Noneofyerbizness, Four-eyes,” Danny sneered.
--see why we didn’t like him? I mean it’s one thing to pick on your OWN sibling…
“Hey,” I retorted, “Don’t call him that—“
“It’s okay,” interjected Jason, “I don’t care what he says. He’s a hemorrhoid!”
“A what!?!?” I choked.
“A hemorrhoid,” Jason calmly repeated.
“Jason,” I admonished (heh-heh, personal fave), “You know the rules: if you don’t know what it means, you can’t say it.”
“Hemorrhoid,” explained Jason, “ Hemoorrhoid. A painful and inflamed area near the butt-OCKS. And that is what Danny is: a painful area near the butt-OCKS.”
Dontcha jus' love it? I mean, dontcha!?!?!?
1) we couldn’t use it if we didn’t know what it meant. And
2) we couldn’t say it unless it was in the dictionary.
This was my mother’s way of keeping us from cussing – wouldn’t work so much now, ‘cause “those words” are in many dictionaries -But it worked just fine back then.
We couldn’t call each other f*ck*rs, bi$ch@s, as$ho(es, or even ba4t#rds – cause we couldn’t find them in the dictionary. But phenomenal alternatives were found, and creative compounds built: Mucus-hound, Feces-dweller, larvae-lover.
What a wonderful life, eh? (Rhetorical – yes, it WAS a wonderful life…..)
Poor Jason...
Jason is my youngest brother, and as a child he received quite the pickings on by his five older siblings. We would call him names...he wouldn’t know what they meant...he would look them up... – and cry... and then we would heartily laugh.
Jason spent oodles of hours with eyes in the dictionary....
One day, I was sitting outside with my sister JoJo and her boyfriend – the boyfriend we all tolerated, but considered a fecal-dweeling maggot-munching, toad-toting fiend.
“Whatcha doing?” Jason asked.
“Noneofyerbizness, Four-eyes,” Danny sneered.
--see why we didn’t like him? I mean it’s one thing to pick on your OWN sibling…
“Hey,” I retorted, “Don’t call him that—“
“It’s okay,” interjected Jason, “I don’t care what he says. He’s a hemorrhoid!”
“A what!?!?” I choked.
“A hemorrhoid,” Jason calmly repeated.
“Jason,” I admonished (heh-heh, personal fave), “You know the rules: if you don’t know what it means, you can’t say it.”
“Hemorrhoid,” explained Jason, “ Hemoorrhoid. A painful and inflamed area near the butt-OCKS. And that is what Danny is: a painful area near the butt-OCKS.”
Dontcha jus' love it? I mean, dontcha!?!?!?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)