My sister Stacie recently posted a somewhat unflattering piece about my gift-giving skills in her blog. I am a man who prides himself on giving high-quality gifts that are entirely appropriate for the occasion. Examples: on various holidays and birthdays I have given my wife such generous, thoughtful gifts as cookware, books, a CD by the guy who played Giles on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and a WNBA sweatshirt. For Hanukah last year, I got my son a full-size, solid hardwood violin. He was three.
However, as wonderful as those gifts are, I have always prided myself on the gifts I have given Stacie. I spared no expense, and went above and beyond in terms of class and taste. For example, last year I gave her cat butts and a book of paper dolls shaped like the Kennedys. In her younger days, I bought her such treasures as plastic hot dogs, bags of Funyons, rice pilaf, and cans of beans. (When you think about it, she should have seen the 20 pound can of olives coming from a mile away.) Yes, perhaps I oversold the olives, promising her a gift that would forever change her life. But was I wrong? Here we are, over ten years later, and we’re still talking about it.
The larger issue here is that Stacie’s complaining about my gift-giving diminishes all the other wonderful things I have done for her and all the valuable life advice I have given her over the years. For example:
Human Can Opener
Like me, my sister was born with horribly unfortunate dental work. Some kids just need braces; we needed entirely new forms of orthodontics and maxillofacial surgery. These were not simple, easily correctable, malocclusions – we practically had teeth growing out of our ears. As a young lady, Stacie was especially sensitive about her teeth, probably because of the way they protruded out of her skull like some sort of warthog. Hers were not teeth as much as they were tusks.
Being the sensitive, protective older brother that I was, I decided I would illustrate to Stacie that her teeth were not a curse, but rather a blessing. Thus, when she was about eight or so, my friend Brett and I had Stacie attempt to open a 46-ounce can of Hawaiian Punch with her teeth. Stacie didn’t even object, God bless her, and upon our mark clamped down on the top of the can with all of the force her mandibles could muster. After about ten seconds she turned red and began breathing heavy. We waited for that loud “THUNK” sound of air escaping the can that always accompanied the puncture of the can opener. Unfortunately, after about thirty seconds she released her deathgrip, complaining that it hurt and that the can tasted funny.
Brett and I saw that there were two quite impressive tooth-shaped dents in the top of the can. My God, we thought, this may actually work. “You can’t give up now!” we yelled. “You’re halfway there!” So again, Stacie clamped down and bit into the heavy, possibly toxic aluminum can as hard as she could. Again, after ten seconds, she had all she could take.
Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but the benefit of age and experience has taught me that biting through a 46-ounce aluminum can of fruit punch is a lot like giving birth to a baby. Some people get through it relatively quickly and painlessly, but for others it’s a long, slow, painful, arduous process. If Stacie gives birth the same way she bites through an aluminum can, I don’t envy her husband Joe having to be by her bedside. It’ll take days. Try as she might, Stacie could not get those massive incisors through the can. It was not for lack of encouragement; Brett and I vociferously cheered her on, offering nothing but solid encouragement and kind words. “BITE THROUGH THAT FUCKING CAN, YOU FUCKING WIMP” I believe we said.
In the end, Stacie was unable to get those walrus tusks of hers to puncture the can, and our experiment failed. Stacie got braces not long after and we were unable to repeat the experiment. But more were to come.
Sledding Without Snow
Stacie and I have always been avid sledders. We grew up in a very hilly area near the Berkshires and snowfall was always met with glee as school was cancelled, sleds were dug out of the shed, and we headed to the large picturesque hills near our house.
I will go into the details of our competitive sledding another time; this story concerns what happened when Stacie approached me during the summer when she was around eight or so, saying she wanted to go sledding. Again (perhaps not coincidentally) I happened to be playing with my friend Brett, and we had a flash of inspiration. We decided to take Stacie sledding. Down the stairs to our basement. In a laundry basket.
A couple of things about the stairs at our house. The good news is they were carpeted, as was the landing where the stairs bottomed out, in thick blue shag that would have made a crash landing relatively painless. The bad news is the stairs had no railing. Steer too hard to the left and you would fall into our guest bedroom and bounce off the dresser, which would probably flip you over and cause you to slam headfirst into the floor. No way you’d take that fall with less than a broken arm and a concussion. Too hard right, however, would have been even worse; there you would drop behind a wet bar with linoleum flooring. Not only would you crash at about 40 miles-per-hour, you’d probably flail your arms a bit on the way down and knock a couple of liquor bottles off the shelves, which would almost certainly land on your skull. I don’t think Evil Knievel would survive that fall, much less a skinny eight-year-old girl. But that is the price one pays for being a daredevil.
Stacie was all for this plan. Children (as I’ve learned from my own kids) have absolutely no concept of their own mortality. As far as Stacie knew, her older brother told her she was going sledding, so she was going sledding, and nothing bad happens when you’re sledding. We lined the laundry basket up at the top of the stairs. Brett held it still while I loaded Stacie in it. There were only about twelve stairs, but we knew the carpeting would make the trip fast, assuming of course she didn’t careen off the stairs altogether. We began the countdown, Brett and I looking at each other in that way that preteens do when they’re doing something they know will get them into MASSIVE trouble if they get caught, but ultimately deciding, fuck it, it’s worth it.
We didn’t just let Stacie go. If we had, I’m reasonably sure the basket would have started slow and possibly turned around, causing Stacie to fall out and probably break her neck. Instead, on three, we pushed her as hard as we possibly could. As a result, the laundry basket flew over the top three steps, causing Stacie to lean back (another reason she didn’t fall out) and start flapping like a ragdoll as the basket bounced hard two or three times before landing sideways on the soft carpet at the bottom of the stairs. At this point, seemingly in slow motion, Stacie did pop out, flying about three feet and hitting the wall at the bottom of the stairs quite hard. Brett and I stared at her lying there, half-in, half-out of what was now a noticeably damaged laundry basket, thinking about various ways one might dispose of a human carcass. Fortunately Stacie popped up laughing seconds later, instantly making basement stairs sledding the new sport in our house. We even tried taking the laundry basket outside in the winter, but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t mess with a classic.
The Bed
Stacie managed to overcome her bad teeth and facial injuries from stairs sledding to become quite a talented actress. After I'd started going to UMass, I traveled back to our hometown to watch her in her first starring role in a high school production of A Christmas Carol. The play required the strategic placing of a large bed on the stage, and Stacie, always one for going all out for the cause, volunteered the use of her bed, which was my bed until I moved to Amherst and she claimed it. It was a queen-size four-poster, surprisingly tasteful given my parents seemingly random style of decorating, and fit the role of Scrooge’s bed perfectly.
So it’s opening night. Stacie is a little nervous, mentally going over lines, checking her costume, and focusing on the upcoming performance. She is also nervous because all her friends are here to see the production, as is our entire family. I have brought my new girlfriend, Debra, the woman who would eventually become my wife. It is the first time she and Stacie have met, and Stacie is worried about making a good first impression.
So we’re making small talk about ten minutes before curtain, and the conversation comes around to the bed; how they were able to get it in the building and onto the stage. How it’s somewhat surreal to be in your own bed, yet on a stage in your high school in front of a hundred people. How it’s not in the best of shape, and may in fact collapse during the performance. Stacie is nervous about this happening.
There is a brief lull in the conversation, and during the nervous silence I say, matter-of-factly, “Hey, I had sex with (NAME REDACTED) in that bed.” Both Stacie and Debra looked at me stunned. They don’t say anything. “Yup,” I add, “deflowered her on that very same piece of furniture. That one, right over there.”
So now, in addition to being nervous about acting in front of an auditorium full of family and friends AND being worried that parts of the scenery may very well fall apart during the production, Stacie has to spend a portion of the play in a bed on which she now knows her own brother got biz-zay. As if that weren’t bad enough, (NAME REDACTED)’s sister is in the play; she’s one of Stacie’s costars. In fact, isn’t this a happy coincidence, (NAME REDACTED) is here, in the audience! I wonder if she notices what bed is up there on stage? Maybe I should ask!
Despite the severe emotional trauma I have inflicted on her, Stacie soldiered through, making every play that she was in from that day forward seem like a walk in the park, even if it involved killing zombies.
So as you see, I should not be judged on the basis of one simple, albeit brilliant birthday gift. I have taught my sister that when the road of life brings you to a staircase, you hop in your laundry basket and slide right down. I have taught her that when life gives you a can of olives, you open that fucker with your teeth and you dig right in. I have taught her that’s impossible to come up with any analogy about a bed your brother had sex in that is not completely disturbing. And that is the most valuable gift of all.
However, as wonderful as those gifts are, I have always prided myself on the gifts I have given Stacie. I spared no expense, and went above and beyond in terms of class and taste. For example, last year I gave her cat butts and a book of paper dolls shaped like the Kennedys. In her younger days, I bought her such treasures as plastic hot dogs, bags of Funyons, rice pilaf, and cans of beans. (When you think about it, she should have seen the 20 pound can of olives coming from a mile away.) Yes, perhaps I oversold the olives, promising her a gift that would forever change her life. But was I wrong? Here we are, over ten years later, and we’re still talking about it.
The larger issue here is that Stacie’s complaining about my gift-giving diminishes all the other wonderful things I have done for her and all the valuable life advice I have given her over the years. For example:
Human Can Opener
Like me, my sister was born with horribly unfortunate dental work. Some kids just need braces; we needed entirely new forms of orthodontics and maxillofacial surgery. These were not simple, easily correctable, malocclusions – we practically had teeth growing out of our ears. As a young lady, Stacie was especially sensitive about her teeth, probably because of the way they protruded out of her skull like some sort of warthog. Hers were not teeth as much as they were tusks.
Being the sensitive, protective older brother that I was, I decided I would illustrate to Stacie that her teeth were not a curse, but rather a blessing. Thus, when she was about eight or so, my friend Brett and I had Stacie attempt to open a 46-ounce can of Hawaiian Punch with her teeth. Stacie didn’t even object, God bless her, and upon our mark clamped down on the top of the can with all of the force her mandibles could muster. After about ten seconds she turned red and began breathing heavy. We waited for that loud “THUNK” sound of air escaping the can that always accompanied the puncture of the can opener. Unfortunately, after about thirty seconds she released her deathgrip, complaining that it hurt and that the can tasted funny.
Brett and I saw that there were two quite impressive tooth-shaped dents in the top of the can. My God, we thought, this may actually work. “You can’t give up now!” we yelled. “You’re halfway there!” So again, Stacie clamped down and bit into the heavy, possibly toxic aluminum can as hard as she could. Again, after ten seconds, she had all she could take.
Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but the benefit of age and experience has taught me that biting through a 46-ounce aluminum can of fruit punch is a lot like giving birth to a baby. Some people get through it relatively quickly and painlessly, but for others it’s a long, slow, painful, arduous process. If Stacie gives birth the same way she bites through an aluminum can, I don’t envy her husband Joe having to be by her bedside. It’ll take days. Try as she might, Stacie could not get those massive incisors through the can. It was not for lack of encouragement; Brett and I vociferously cheered her on, offering nothing but solid encouragement and kind words. “BITE THROUGH THAT FUCKING CAN, YOU FUCKING WIMP” I believe we said.
In the end, Stacie was unable to get those walrus tusks of hers to puncture the can, and our experiment failed. Stacie got braces not long after and we were unable to repeat the experiment. But more were to come.
Sledding Without Snow
Stacie and I have always been avid sledders. We grew up in a very hilly area near the Berkshires and snowfall was always met with glee as school was cancelled, sleds were dug out of the shed, and we headed to the large picturesque hills near our house.
I will go into the details of our competitive sledding another time; this story concerns what happened when Stacie approached me during the summer when she was around eight or so, saying she wanted to go sledding. Again (perhaps not coincidentally) I happened to be playing with my friend Brett, and we had a flash of inspiration. We decided to take Stacie sledding. Down the stairs to our basement. In a laundry basket.
A couple of things about the stairs at our house. The good news is they were carpeted, as was the landing where the stairs bottomed out, in thick blue shag that would have made a crash landing relatively painless. The bad news is the stairs had no railing. Steer too hard to the left and you would fall into our guest bedroom and bounce off the dresser, which would probably flip you over and cause you to slam headfirst into the floor. No way you’d take that fall with less than a broken arm and a concussion. Too hard right, however, would have been even worse; there you would drop behind a wet bar with linoleum flooring. Not only would you crash at about 40 miles-per-hour, you’d probably flail your arms a bit on the way down and knock a couple of liquor bottles off the shelves, which would almost certainly land on your skull. I don’t think Evil Knievel would survive that fall, much less a skinny eight-year-old girl. But that is the price one pays for being a daredevil.
Stacie was all for this plan. Children (as I’ve learned from my own kids) have absolutely no concept of their own mortality. As far as Stacie knew, her older brother told her she was going sledding, so she was going sledding, and nothing bad happens when you’re sledding. We lined the laundry basket up at the top of the stairs. Brett held it still while I loaded Stacie in it. There were only about twelve stairs, but we knew the carpeting would make the trip fast, assuming of course she didn’t careen off the stairs altogether. We began the countdown, Brett and I looking at each other in that way that preteens do when they’re doing something they know will get them into MASSIVE trouble if they get caught, but ultimately deciding, fuck it, it’s worth it.
We didn’t just let Stacie go. If we had, I’m reasonably sure the basket would have started slow and possibly turned around, causing Stacie to fall out and probably break her neck. Instead, on three, we pushed her as hard as we possibly could. As a result, the laundry basket flew over the top three steps, causing Stacie to lean back (another reason she didn’t fall out) and start flapping like a ragdoll as the basket bounced hard two or three times before landing sideways on the soft carpet at the bottom of the stairs. At this point, seemingly in slow motion, Stacie did pop out, flying about three feet and hitting the wall at the bottom of the stairs quite hard. Brett and I stared at her lying there, half-in, half-out of what was now a noticeably damaged laundry basket, thinking about various ways one might dispose of a human carcass. Fortunately Stacie popped up laughing seconds later, instantly making basement stairs sledding the new sport in our house. We even tried taking the laundry basket outside in the winter, but it just wasn’t the same. You can’t mess with a classic.
The Bed
Stacie managed to overcome her bad teeth and facial injuries from stairs sledding to become quite a talented actress. After I'd started going to UMass, I traveled back to our hometown to watch her in her first starring role in a high school production of A Christmas Carol. The play required the strategic placing of a large bed on the stage, and Stacie, always one for going all out for the cause, volunteered the use of her bed, which was my bed until I moved to Amherst and she claimed it. It was a queen-size four-poster, surprisingly tasteful given my parents seemingly random style of decorating, and fit the role of Scrooge’s bed perfectly.
So it’s opening night. Stacie is a little nervous, mentally going over lines, checking her costume, and focusing on the upcoming performance. She is also nervous because all her friends are here to see the production, as is our entire family. I have brought my new girlfriend, Debra, the woman who would eventually become my wife. It is the first time she and Stacie have met, and Stacie is worried about making a good first impression.
So we’re making small talk about ten minutes before curtain, and the conversation comes around to the bed; how they were able to get it in the building and onto the stage. How it’s somewhat surreal to be in your own bed, yet on a stage in your high school in front of a hundred people. How it’s not in the best of shape, and may in fact collapse during the performance. Stacie is nervous about this happening.
There is a brief lull in the conversation, and during the nervous silence I say, matter-of-factly, “Hey, I had sex with (NAME REDACTED) in that bed.” Both Stacie and Debra looked at me stunned. They don’t say anything. “Yup,” I add, “deflowered her on that very same piece of furniture. That one, right over there.”
So now, in addition to being nervous about acting in front of an auditorium full of family and friends AND being worried that parts of the scenery may very well fall apart during the production, Stacie has to spend a portion of the play in a bed on which she now knows her own brother got biz-zay. As if that weren’t bad enough, (NAME REDACTED)’s sister is in the play; she’s one of Stacie’s costars. In fact, isn’t this a happy coincidence, (NAME REDACTED) is here, in the audience! I wonder if she notices what bed is up there on stage? Maybe I should ask!
Despite the severe emotional trauma I have inflicted on her, Stacie soldiered through, making every play that she was in from that day forward seem like a walk in the park, even if it involved killing zombies.
So as you see, I should not be judged on the basis of one simple, albeit brilliant birthday gift. I have taught my sister that when the road of life brings you to a staircase, you hop in your laundry basket and slide right down. I have taught her that when life gives you a can of olives, you open that fucker with your teeth and you dig right in. I have taught her that’s impossible to come up with any analogy about a bed your brother had sex in that is not completely disturbing. And that is the most valuable gift of all.
2 comments:
You have indeed taught me so much about life...About how while some siblings have clearly established boundaries as to what's appropriate and what's not, those are the same siblings that end up on Springer because they're sleeping with each other's spouses. Or each other.
BTW--I'm up for putting your son and daughter in a laundry basket and passing on the fine art of house sledding when you all are up for the holidays.
You also neglected to mention the fact that you are partially responsible for my monkey obsession. You bought me purple-and-green striped monkey socks for my birthday one year and an electric green-and-pink orangutan for Christmas another year. I might add: "Whoops! There goes my monkey!"
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