My brother had two friends named Chris: good Chris and bad Chris. Good Chris was a regular kid, played sports, spoke normally, ate large amounts of pizza and played video games with my brother. Bad Chris wore lederhosen. You read that right, he was a thirteen year old kid, living in Queens in the twentieth century, and he wore lederhosen. Frequently. He also mumbled a lot, looked moist, had a vacant stare, and seemed to stumble around the streets while playing roller hockey with the other kids. He was a nice enough kid, if you could get him to speak coherently, but he was a grade A goof, ergo Bad Chris. Fortunately, for me, my brother spent a lot more time with Good Chris as he got older because he was allowed out after dark and didn't bring headgear to sleepovers.
Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays. I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear. This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I. Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases. I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger. No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal. I had to finally ask who the hell he was. While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures.
Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night. He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling. This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs. I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool. They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation. The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company. When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car. THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR. What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window. Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot. Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through. Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time. They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty. The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to be carried home. My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards. We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.
While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don. On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie. There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard. Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself. I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for. My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now. Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money. My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels). On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty. This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins. Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties). I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.
This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.
Showing posts with label baby brothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby brothers. Show all posts
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Just JaCk
My brother has long been a source of joy and confusion for me. He came into my world after a long, lonely seven years as an only child; the excitement of having a sibling was almost more than I could bear and I greeted his arrival with a spring in my step and a stuffed puppy in hand. My enthusiasm bordered on hysteria and after a year pretending that he was mine and bossing my mother around about what she should be doing, I settled into a world where I was either laughing or shaking my head - sometimes both simultaneously. I suppose I could have guessed that after throwing up on the puppy he would give me a lifetime of scratching my head and blinking profusely when in his presence, but honestly there are few prepared for a life with Jack.
When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his. Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him. Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America. As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants". I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.
His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment. Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments. My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic. My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'. My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point. While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy. We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.
When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus. He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning. As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day. Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life. Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose. What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.
My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages. My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven? At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage. The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker. First, middle, last. I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name. After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat. As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said. My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one. This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to. The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before. He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back. The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred. When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well. Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.
I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed. Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.
This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch. Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work. You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth. To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar. This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.
When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his. Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him. Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America. As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants". I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.
His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment. Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments. My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic. My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'. My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point. While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy. We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.
When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus. He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning. As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day. Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life. Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose. What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.
My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages. My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven? At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage. The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker. First, middle, last. I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name. After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat. As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said. My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one. This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to. The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before. He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back. The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred. When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well. Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.
I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed. Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.
This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch. Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work. You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth. To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar. This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.
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