you can't kill the rooster

One of my favorite authors, David Sedaris, wrote a book of short stories called Me Talk Pretty One Day. There is a chapter in that book named "You can't kill the Rooster". It is about the author's family and how this younger brother, "The Rooster" is capable of getting away with almost anything regarding their father.

Here's an excerpt where The Rooster has just shown up to Thanksgiving dinner after a bar fight.

The physical pain had passed, but it bothered Paul that his face was "all lopsided and #*+% for the $(@&** holidays." That said, he retreated to the bathroom with my sister Amy's makeup kit and returned to the table with two black eyes, the second drawn on with mascara. This seemed to please him, and he wore his matching bruises for the rest of the evening.

"Did you get a load of that fake black eye?" my father
asked. "That guy ought to do makeup for the movies. I'm telling
you, the kid's a real artist."

Now Sedaris isn't for everyone. If you have tender ears, (Rachael, I'm speaking to you) don't go there. I, however, was raised by my mother, who in turn, was raised by a sailor. I'm positive that when (or I should say if, because my mother seldom reads my blog, she's annoying in that way) she reads this post, my mom will be appalled and deny any accusations. But the truth of the matter is that we were raised using, what I like to call, descriptive, language.*

BUT. Not around my father.

Dad was raised by Vola, who winced at the word shoot.

And so, when my father wasn't around we girls carried on our conversations as normal, but when the back door slammed and my father came in from work, we all instantly grew manners. After all, a girls greatest desire is to have her Daddy pleased with her.

This is not the case with my brother. Ryan is the baby. He is our official family mascot. He has been arrested, splayed over the hood of a cop car, handcuffed and frisked. He has been kicked out of school and given demerits. He has ridden skate boards through fire and been catapulted from behind a moving vehicle. He has broken his collar bone, heel and back. He has various road burn scars that will take years to fade. He regularly shaves his head bald and wears a metal studded belt.

Ryan never minds his language around my dad. Being the family mascot and joker, he is usually the one with a great story to tell. We gather around the kitchen bar and listen intently. When the language gets a little colorful we sisters glance nervously at my father to see his reaction. The amazing thing is, there is none.

My dad, the equivalent of a staunch minister in our church, doesn't bat an eye. Our eyes dart back and forth with each new curse. Nothing.

It's all very curious to me.

And so, I've taken to calling my baby brother "The Rooster".

Long live The Rooster.

Having said all that, you must know that deep down he's a really good kid. A long time ago I sent him a card with my all time favorite quote from Oscar Wilde. It reads, " I'm not saying we should misbehave, but we ought to look as though we might."

It seems Ryan has taken this to heart.

On Sunday, he straps on a tie, shines his head and goes to church. He has never touched drugs or alcohol and rarely even eats sugar. He flosses his teeth obsessively. Being "on time"(read 5 minutes early) is his second job. In truth, the guy's a real goody goody.

Maybe our Father has learned from counseling other families in our church that a few expletives aren't worth the battle.

me, ryan, amy, heidi

As for me, well, I'm trying to watch it. Especially since our last trip to Legoland. We were at the top of roller coaster when my sweet little son yelled out "Oh my hell!". That's enough to put the kibosh on any mother's fool language.

* To be fair, I must say, that harsh swear words were never allowed. Only the more pedestrian ones like, damn, hell and shit. Oh, and funny enough, we weren't allowed to say pregnant or snot.

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For those of you wondering about my brother's martial status, please see this post.