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.

*******************************

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

luck of the scottish

My little brother has lived a life of bad luck. Since birth he has always been a sort of Charlie Brown type kid. He was the one who received the deck of cards at the family Christmas party only to find that the entire deck was made up of jokers. He stood limply holding his cards and watched the other children open cap guns and remote control cars. This scenario was repeated year after year with various crappy gifts. In kindergarten, after an episode of throwing a chair across the classroom, he was diagnosed with ADD. After much thought, my parents decided to medicate him which started a decade of drug induced mild nausea. When he was nine, his beloved parakeet, aptly named Toronto, crawled under the dryer and died. Bad luck is a way of life with him.

Everything came to a head when adolescent stupidity collided with his knack for misfortune. There were several run-ins with local police. Handcuffs were involved and on several occasions, his face was pressed onto the cold hood of a cop car while he was patted down.

So it only stands to reason that I would be with him when I got my first ever speeding ticket. I've gone twenty-two years with no tickets, but as soon as I drive around with my charmed brother, some cop decides to pull me over. Evidently I was going 57 in a 35 zone. And there was the small matter of my expired proof of insurance and past due registration. I didn't take it too hard. After all, I had eluded the authorities for two decades.

So, here's a little tip for ya. When the officer writes your court date on your ticket, you may want to take it seriously. Apparently, this is an actual legal court hearing that you must attend and they don't take a spin class as an excuse. I actually totally spaced my court date and didn't even remember until a few days later.

Thom and I went to traffic court so I could clear up my little, now getting bigger, legal matters. We took a number. We waited next to the chain smoker who wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands without a cigarette to occupy them. We waited for 30 minutes.

I was informed by the contrite little man behind the counter that my fee would be $1,400. At that point, I had to do some major clenching for fear that I would loose my bowels right there in traffic court. After some meager attempts at flirting and leaning on my forearms to create cleavage (desperate times call for. . .) I haughtily handed over a check and said to Thom, loud enough for Mr. Traffic to hear, "Let's get out of this nasty place."

All this took place over a week ago, but I'm just now able to talk about it without a hateful, smarting sensation rushing through my body. Next week we go to Hawaii with my brother. The motto on our family crest translates to "Forget Not". Believe me, I won't be forgetting. I plan to give him a wide berth while we are on the island. I can just see me losing a digit to the beak of an octopus, choking on a lump of poi or more likely, getting arrested for trespassing.

If you are thinking of buying some Secondsister jewelry, now would be a good time. My bank account is a little depleted if you know what I mean.

coulda, shoulda, didn't

Tamarack Mosaic
Originally uploaded by secondsister

I really should have stayed home and cranked out some jewelry orders today. I could have planted more hollyhocks behind the rose and cut back the ground cover. I really should have gotten some wash done. But I didn't. What the hell.

Ode to Laundry

Oh laundry, how I hate you.

I hate your stale smell.

I hate the way you crawl, seething up the wall.

I hate the way you lurk in dark corners and behind doors, waiting always waiting.

I hate the way the very sight of you makes me feel.

You take away my peace.

You rob me of my contentment.

Someday, I will conquer. I will tame you like the wild beast that you are.

Someday.