Never underestimate the insidious power of a four-year-old to wring the most heinous profanities out of you, against your very will.
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Posts Tagged ‘relatives’
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My older sister, remarking upon the fickle finger of reindeer fame, was somewhere in her early teens when this took place. I’m not sure if she was just showing off with a fancy new vocabulary word, or just seizing another low-hanging opportunity to grumble bitterly about something. Probably a little bit of both. (I had to ask my mom what “fickle” meant.)
My father and me, when I was eleven years old. A rare conversation in which no bellowing, belt buckles, or “bing slam bang” occurred.
My pathetic attempt to learn the “Hail Mary” in French at the age of six led to my lifelong irritation with people who say “coo da gra.” It’s coup de grâce, people.
I was thirteen. You were drunk. Again. And yet, somehow, I was the black sheep of the family, even then.
My father would actually stop in his tracks and watch with a baleful eye whenever he noticed me pouring a glass of Coke for myself. If I succeeded in handling the 2-liter bottle without incident, he would walk on disgruntled, muttering at the lost opportunity to launch a tirade. Some dads might’ve just poured the soda FOR their kids, but that’s just crazy talk.
P.S. “Bing-slam-bang” was indeed something I was frequently accused of.
I’ll be in the third row wearing the sky-blue leisure suit with matching shoes, and I will keep waving until you acknowledge me.
God forbid you should feel good about yourself for a minute.