Song For a Future Generation

Miss Sasha is getting married in May. This means everyone in the family has lost his/her mind in his/her own special way. On Sunday, Sister #1 and I came really close to an all-out brawl that didn’t happen because while we were still screaming I got my coat and left in a hurry since she’s six months pregnant and no jury in the land would convict her of stabbing me 88 times.

Prosecutor: What was she like, your “sister”?
#1: Oh, she was my sister all right, or our parents dressed two unrelated life support systems for ponytails in matching sailor suits for ten years and no freaking reason.
Prosecutor: Are you – by any chance – holding any cutlery?
#1: A shrimp fork and a rubberized baby spoon.
Prosecutor: Your homicidal rage is ADORABLE!
Judge: Case dismissed!

Miss Sasha wanted me to watch that tearjerking pabulum “The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood” because she grew up in an atmosphere where phones were often airborne and wirecutters were an essential survival tool. Apparently this flick’s filled with familiar violence against household appliances. Whatever. Now that Sister #1 and I were at DefCon 2, several days of tense silence followed. The family was upset. This tension was felt across the land, in the fields and on innocent clearance racks. Something had to be done.

I plotted. I schemed. I considered faking my own death, like on soap operas, complete with spooky phone calls from beyond the grave.

GhostTata: Woo woo You should have listened to me woo woo…
#1: TELL YOUR STORY WALKING! EVEN IN *DEATH* YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!

I couldn’t call her. She was wrong. If I called her, she’d say, “See, I was right,” and we can’t have that. A few days passed while I strategized. I developed a war plan for the blitz: one fast conversation, and then we could move on to other earth-shattering events, like the bridal shower I do NOT want to talk about but I am the Mommy. What are you gonna do? Thursday morning, I was staring at the clock, thinking ‘#1 is about to take her oldest to school’ when the phone rang.

#1: ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS OR WHAT?

For this reason alone, you should never doubt we have the same parents. When I could finally breathe again, I put the phone back to my ear. She was still growling at an impressive volume.

#1: I CAN’T TAKE IT! ARE WE SPEAKING TO EACH OTHER OR WHAT?

We’re from Jersey. “Or what” is versatile and has many meanings in the lay vernacular; in this case it means, “Shut up and speak to me.” This struck me as so funny I had to tell her I’d planned to call later in the afternoon –

HypotheticalTata: ARE YOU DONE BEING SUCH A BITCH YET?

– and fire off loaded questions. Okay, so now it’s funny. And we can talk about that damn bridal shower.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s