Naps and other evils

When I was a little girl there was a song on the radio that went something like this:

"Sittin' in my chair drinkin' beer in my underwear
Telephone rings, knock upon the door.
Ran through the house
Finally got my sneakers on.
Ran to the door
Everybody there was gone.
Didn't have time to answer the telephone
Just let the damn thing ring."

Until this morning, I don't think I've thought of that song since childhood. But this morning I phoned my sister and asked what she was doing and she said, "Just sittin' in my chair drinkin' beer in my underwear."

Well I was delighted to be reminded of that piece of my childhood. Stacie and I used to sing that song all the time. But when we'd get to the last line, we sang "just let the blank thing ring," because we didn't swear.

In our conversation this morning, we sang the song a couple of times and I got so tickled thinking of how human we humans are. So imagine, your sittin' in you chair drinkin' beer in your underwear when someone knocks on your door. You panic and run around trying to fix the situation. Your fix is putting on a pair of shoes. Now you're ready to face the guest as now you have on sneakers and underwear. Well I got tremendous visions as I imagined this scene this morning.

In my family of origin, for some unhealthy reason, sleep was frowned upon. One could sleep and should sleep between 10:30 and 6:30am, but sleeping any other time was simply wrong and immoral. I sleepily carried this feeling into adulthood, scared of sleeping during the day, afraid of being caught by daddy or anyone else for that matter. But I did sleep during the day, I just did it secretly.

One day I was napping when a UPS guy rang the doorbell. I ran to the door in my underwear and sneakers, just joking. But I did run to the door and gave 100% effort to look WIDE awake and fully coherent. I smiled and talked way too much to try to keep him from guessing he'd woke me up. He stared at me suspiciously. I knew he knew.

I signed for my package and when he walked away, I turned to a mirror to see how asleep I looked. Immediately I knew what he was staring at and how he knew I'd been asleep. My feather pillow had a hole in it. Consequently I was sportin' a clump of feathers in my hair and one feather hung precariously on my eyelashes. Yes, I'd felt it while I was talking gibberish to him, but my eyes always itch when I wake up, so I thought it was just itching because I just woke up. I didn't want to scratch in front of him lest he deduce I'd been sleeping.

As I laughed this morning at the lengths people will go to to look prepared for guests they're unprepared for, Stacie said her big thing is making sure she's got a bra on.

I said, "My big thing is making sure I don't have feathers in my eyes."

A Package

Recently I've been doing "investigative work" on the Internet to be prepared to delicately defend my position on a sensitive subject to my darling husband. Said subject, to date has been of no interest to him. So, I've been doing my own research in hopes of presenting a viable position.

After a few days' work, I requested a "package" of information from a person at the other end of my investigative work. I was quickly rebuffed and told a package would contain no additional information.

Rather than divulge family secrets, I thanked the man for his time and sulked to my sister who is always available to listen to me.

She patiently let me finish my pouty outburst then countered, "I cannot believe you requested A PACKAGE. That is so late '80's."

Slightly embarrassed, I defended myself with the reasons I'd done such an ancient thing as request "a package."

"Well it's not like Gordon's going to sit down and look through a whole website. I need a package to leave laying around."

As if on cue, we both started mock conversations with Gordon where we exaggerated and put ridiculous emphasis on "package."

Pretending I just checked the mail, I said, "Oh look Gordon, A PACKAGE."

Speaking slowly and sounding a bit like Lucille Ball on I Love Lucy, Stacie said, "Gordon, look what came in the post today: A PACKAGE."

"Gordon, who do you suppose sent us A PACKAGE?", I said.

My disappointment over knowing I wasn't getting A PACKAGE wasn't totally alleviated, but after laughing at our PACKAGE dialogue, it didn't seem quite as important.

Dress-Up

Gordon and I have a dressy affair to go to tonight and I am really frustrated with my inability to look nice and be comfortable at the same time. I can do one or the other, but not both. There is no way I'll enjoy myself if I'm not comfortable. So off with the girdle, pantie-hose, fitted blouse, high heels. I'm gonna look as nice as I can in a sweat suit. Just joking. I'm not wearing a sweat suit, but oh how I wish I could.

My sister Stacie always gets right into my dressing woes. I think she secretly wants to send me to a fashion farm and let them work me over. She was giving me ideas of what to wear, but she doesn't understand my high need for extreme comfort. Finally I sighed, "You know, I'm gonna wear what I have on. I'm gonna walk in and say, 'Folks, I have got a GREAT personality.'"

PS. Well even what I had on wasn't comfortable enough. Before we left the house I donned something more comfortable. Awhhh, much better.

Christmas Is A Comin'

Isn't my sister Stacie's living room lovely? I love it. I also love the color of the walls. I wanted something like it, but Gordon vetoed.

Happy Birthday Stacie

Today is my sister Stacie's birthday. As with all my siblings, Stacie is years and years and years older than me. She was born in 1964 and I in 1966.

Stacie and I are very close and kindred spirits. Billions of miles apart, (Edmonton and North Carolina), we talk on the phone several times a week. (Before she went back to work a couple years ago, we talked on the phone nearly everyday). My telephone plan is better than her's so when she wants to talk, she phones me, lets it ring twice, then hangs up. Like an obedient sister, I phone back immediately. She is the only person in the world I could talk to that often on the telephone. I'm not a telephone person. Dead space doesn't make me nervous with her and it does with everyone else.

A couple years ago the little girls and I spent February with Stacie and her family. Wheweee! Was that ever a learning experience. What I learned is this: There is a big difference between 26 days and 28 days. At 26 days her family was coping with 4 extra people pretty well. At 28 days, they were packing our suitcases and bag lunches for our trip home - eventhough we still had one day to go. But all in all, I think we did amazingly well the first 26 days.

While with her, we drove down to Florida to our other sister Diane's. On the drive down, we nearly split our guts laughing on more than one occasion. We reminisced about some of the quirky ways we were brought up and gave a generous amount of time talking about our childhood church. We told stories and were finishing each other's sentences. As silence came, we would both at the same time remember another song and belt out singing like we did in our long ago church. We laughed so hard we cried.

Stacie and I were inseparable (well nearly) in my preschool years. My first depression was when Stacie started school. I would have been 4. Of course I never knew that was what was wrong with me then, but every morning when I watched the school bus get out of sight, a terrible heaviness would envelope me. I didn't realize it was because Stacie was gone, I only knew that the bus pulling away was a terribly sad time. (Kind of pitiful, don't you agree?) Mama said I also started sleeping more and she recognized then that I was depressed. What I'm trying to say is, Stacie is at the root of many of my problems and dysfunctions.

I am at the root of a few of Stacie's issues too. We grew up in a pretty straight laced home. We didn't do lots of things that were ok in other homes. One year when the Montgomery Ward catalogue came, we sat on the blue vinyl sofa each of us holding our half of the catalogue. No page was left un-looked at. We dreamed about everything in it. We chose the prettiest garment on each page; the bedroom suites we would have in our grown-up houses; and in secret, we even scrutinized the underwear pages.

As we slobbered and coveted for so many things, we took time to even look at the men's clothes. We chose which man we wanted to marry, and we picked out the clothes he would wear. Stacie has always been more risque and edgy than me. As we looked at the men's pages, Stacie pointed at one man and whispered, "He looks like he has boobs." I turned both my lips inside my mouth and disdainfully said, "Uuummm." She was in trouble. Not only was she looking at men's chests, but she said "boobs."

Terrified of getting in trouble, she begged, "Oh Valerie, please don't tell. Please don't tell." I was such a brat and I'm so sorry for how I acted. I didn't tell her I would or wouldn't tell. I let her squirm and worry. That night as it was my turn to do some kind of chore, I turned to Stacie and raised my eyebrow to warn silently, "if you don't do it for me, I'll tell Mama you said boob." Stacie jumped to do my bidding. For days Stacie was my servant. I would be told to something and I would look at Stacie and give her the look and she would jump up and do my chore. Wasn't I awful?

I don't know how long this went on. Stacie would say weeks, but I figure it was only days. Finally, it was Mama who ruined our new working agreement. She asked Stacie why she was doing all my work for me. Stacie told her she just wanted to, but Mama knew better and pressed harder. The truth came out and Stacie got in trouble for letting me treat her like that. Mama was much more concerned that Stacie had let me bribe her than she was with what I'd done. I got off really easy, but poor Stacie got chewed on for quite a while. But she didn't get in trouble for saying "boobs".

Stacie and I miss each other a great deal. I wish we lived closer. We would go out to eat, we would go to each other's kids' performances, we would probably do stuff we never did before, maybe concerts, ballets, live theatre. We lived near each other for so many years and never knew how amazing that was. Now we would know just how special it is and it wouldn't be taken for granted.

Stacie is smart, classy, profressional (that misspelling is on purpose and Stacie knows why), funny, a great cook and entertainer, a talented decorator, and a wonderful devoted mother and wife. I hope she has a wonderful wonderful birthday and a great year. Happy Birthday Stacie. I love you!

In the Backwoods

When Stacie and I were teenagers, probably 14 and 16, we went to see new friends who lived way, way out in the country. We got terribly lost and were on the backroads of the backroads. In desperation, we took a hilly, rutted driveway to seek help on how to get back to a main road.

At the end of the driveway, we found a dilapidated trailer and a number of barking dogs. As we sized up the situation, a skinny wild-haired old woman came out of the trailer and stood looking at us while she yelled at her dogs. Hesitantly, we stepped out of the car and approached her. As we got close to the lady, we saw horrifying evidence that all people are not created equal. As she smiled kindly at us, she revealed her pathetically bad teeth. They jutted north, south, east, and west. I can nearly assure you that you've never seen teeth nearly as bad.

I have a strange compulsion that I've carried with me throughout my life. Based in my private insecurities revolving around my toes, I always "check out the toes" of new acquaintances. Since this lady wore no shoes, this was very simple. As I pulled my eyes away from her teeth, I was equally as horrified by her toes as I was with her teeth. They too jutted in every direction and each wore a dingy yellow, pyramid shaped, thick, grotesque nail. Up until that moment, I thought I had the worst toes in the world. Suddenly, I was thankful for my minor foot disorders.

Stacie and the lady got it sorted out who we were, who we belonged to, our relatives, and where they lived, all while I stared at this poor woman's toes.

Pointed in the right direction again, Stacie and I bid her our thanks for her time and directions and got back in the car. As soon as the doors were closed, we both bursts out our shock, sympathy, and disbelief. "Did you see her teeth?,"Stacie asked. At the exact same moment, I was saying, "Did you see her toes?" Stacie answered, "See her toes? I was too busy wondering how she eats with those teeth to look down at her toes!"

I'm sure we eventually found our way to a main road. Call me shallow, but I remember nothing else about that day other than that poor old kind woman, her living conditions, her teeth, and her toes.

Sex in the Country Part 2

After I "aired" Sex in the Country, I remembered a few more accounts that I want to share.

As I teenager, I was naive. I worked nightshift in a nursing home as a nurse's aid. One particular night as I did my rounds, an elderly, very elderly, man named Kermit (an unfortunate name, eh?) called me over to his bed. In his raspy old man voice, he said, "why don't you climb on top of me and take a little ride."

I reiterate, I was naive (stupid?). I kindly rubbed his shoulders as soothingly as I knew how and tried to talk him out of his hallucination of thinking he was a horse. Don't you figure that gave new meaning to the expression, "sexually frustrated."

My niece Mindi wrote to remind me of a precious story about my girls. At the time, Hannah was in a very "spiritual" phase and was quick to bring God into every conversation.

The girls gathered around and watched studiously as I changed a baby boy's diaper. Rachael asked matter-of-factly, "What's that?"

"It's a penis. All boys have one, just like Daddy," I informed.

Rachael responded with animation, "Yeah, but Daddy's is HUUUUGE."

Not to be out-done, Hannah chided, "but not as huge as God's."

My experience is mostly with girls. But when my sister Diane brought newborn Misty home from the hospital, the 3 boys gathered around for the first diaper change. Randy let out a horrified gasp followed by, "it's cut off!"

My Sister, the Worrier

Yesterday I was talking to my sister. Her emotions are all over the map these days. Her oldest child graduates this week and will soon be leaving the nest to begin a new life as a college student. Stacie is one of the most devoted, dedicated mothers I've ever known. Yet, as only a mother can be, she is overwhelmed with feelings of having robbed Melody. "I just wanted to be a perfect mom. Was it more about me than Melody?" she asked. "Should I have given her more freedom? Should I have....?"

She began to recall memories. Through her tears, one of the things she recalled was when Melody got lice in elementary school. This was one of her examples of it having been about herself rather than Melody.

Admittedly, Stacie use to be a chronic worrier. When Melody had lice (every other kid in the class did too) Stacie worried that they'd never get the lice out of the house -- the they were permanent "carriers."

As Stacie relived this episode, I was carried away in thought by a different time when she was overcome with irrational worry.

She and I were visiting in her living room when my nephews and two of their friends dropped by. The friends had an uncle in California who had died of aids two years earlier. Stacie was visibly uncomfortable. When the teenagers went to get drinks in the kitchen, her eyes were darting all over the place.

When they left, Stacie shut the door behind them and walked purposefully to her kitchen and began to search through drawers for the tongs. I was unaware of her problem, so I was engaging in a one-sided conversation. I followed her to the kitchen and sat down on a barstool. She started boiling water and filling the sink with soapy water. Having found the tongs, she stuck her behind out to create a bigger distance between her body and the glasses. With her butt sticking way out, she lifted each glass with the tongs. Careful to keep her arm perfectly outstretched, she put the glasses in the soapy water. Then she began scalding them with boiling water. I just watched, assuming she needed to do this before she could have peace of mind.

When the glasses were washed, we went back and sat in the living room. She still couldn't engage in conversation. She seemed a million miles away. Her gaze was directed to the wall and she was totally unresponsive to my stabs at conversation.

Finally she blurted out, "You don't think we'll get aids do you?"

My delightful sister is a recovering worrier. Last night as we spoke, she was tearful when I remembered this story. I started laughing and reminded her of it. It must have been good for her, because she laughed too and I think that was when she stopped crying -- at least for a little spell.

Family and Movies

I just got off the phone with my sister Stacie. She's been way too busy and I've missed our regular talks. We have a delightfully fun relationship. There's so much to be said for sharing a family of origin. Families share a common style of communication, body language, insecurities, and even humor. My siblings and I do and say stuff regularly that would require an explanation to an outsider. I know other families are the same. Gordon's family has a style of relating that I personally can't grasp. They talk "truth," facts, philosophy, politics, and emotions that are "heavy". They enjoy their family visits; I consider them dry and boring. They would undoubtedly consider my family silly and shallow.

Stacie and I share an idiosyncratic bond in that we often quote movies, and occasionally a book, to drive a point home. When we don't really get along with a person, "there's a wall." (The Emperor's New Groove).

When someone gets what they deserve, "there's a price you pay for the life you choose." (The Godfather).

When we are in circumstances that put us way out of our comfort zone, "I just came here to worship, but this is the wrooong denomination." (The Out of Towners).

When things are going poorly, "We have no food, we have no money, our bird's heads keep falling off." (Dumb and Dumber).

When we've had the opportunity to express our heartfelt opinion, we may end it with, "and that's all I've got to say about the Vietnam War." (Forest Gump).

When one of us has a secret, "I am the soul of discretion." (Enchanted April).

When things leave us at the end of our rope, "Damn that octopus." (Portofino).

My kids are picking up on this silly way of communicating. We picked up some "I Love Lucy" videos at the library recently. A few days later Rachael wasn't feeling too great. She said, "I feel dowdy. You know, kind of blah." I knew exactly where her expression came from.

Last night we added to our movie quotes. We took the kids to see "Winnie the Pooh and the Hefflelump." As Rabbit was extolling the dangers of the Hefflelump, Tigger responded with, "You just can't argue with a word like 'fraught'."

From now on when someone presents a good argument, we'll say, "You just can't argue with a word like 'fraught'." The quirky tradition continues to another generation.