Sisterly Love

The good thing is that my sisters (I have three--one older; two younger) and I are best of friends. We love getting together, talking on the phone, texting..whatever! Our children are best friends (all 16), so who would've thought that so many years ago we hated each other with passion.
Seriously...hated.
For one thing, I used to carve my little sister's name in all the furniture with a knife out of the kitchen. I figured when my parents go to ask, "Who did this?" they will barely get all the words out before they realize it was my sister! Who else would carve her own name into the furniture? Automatic bust. Hehehe.
Another example: One sister tried to pay a stoner chick in high school to beat me up. Sad thing is that I hung out with the goths, stoners, punks..so the girl was probably my friend. If only Kelly had enough cash for that one, we may not be so close today. How embarrassing for me.
My other sister only remembers me from childhood as one having made her my personal servant. I always deny that while I have her grab me a drink from the fridge (bad timing every time!) My older sister was Satan's little helper and the wicked witch rolled up into one person. She used to tease me because I was flat-chested and, let's face it, butt ugly. My how things have changed! Now she's my closest friend. My brother? He has his own story to tell.

Again with the history?

OK...another story that should remain in the recesses of my mind, yet here it is being laid out before you like a buffet in Vegas. This time, I am the devil. I'm not saying I was the worst sister ever, but I was among good company if you really must know. All of us were mean to each other, so I got a zing in every now and then and am PROUD of it! I actually teamed up with my older sister for this, which was unheard of back then. Now we are a daring duo, two peas in a pod, but back then, it was a death wish for me to even look at her. My sister, just fifteen months younger than I, (yeah...I was "the baby" for a very short time, another HMPH! to add, hehe) was and still is a deep sleeper. But, my older sis and I dared ask, HOW deep is that sleep? Little sister, I will call Kelly (see pic, center) since it is part of her name, would literally crash at 3 PM, much like half her children do now, which is good old-fashion karma. Picture it, later into the evening, once Char and I have been put to bed in the same room with Kelly, and the two of us are bored and wide awake. Nothing we do wakes this child. Two pairs of eyes lock and share the same terrible thought. Char grabs a block and sticks it down the back of Kelly's underwear. Kelly rolls over and doesn't even flinch, block and all. Again, two pairs of eyes lock. Another block is added to the underwear. Another roll and still no response from the living dead. Two eyes now with raised brows. Hmmm. This time, I grab a big, fat rock and put it down the back of her underwear. Amazingly, Kelly rolls in agitation, but does not stir from sleep. Bwahahaha! This continues, as sick as we were, for a little while, until we cannot find anything small enough to fit but large enough to wake her. Not much later, my father bursts into the room in his tightie-whities to find out who is making all the noise. The whole family had gone to sleep and were now waking because of the racket. My dad, bless his heart, was half asleep but blazing mad about being out of bed when he had work at 4 am. Char and I were taken back in fear and without even thinking we both pointed at Kelly. He didn't notice she was in a coma because he didn't call us on our fib and come after us. We dove for our beds just in case he noticed she was not part of our late night shananigans. Dad never noticed; instead, he reached for Kelly's legs, flipped her on her stomach, and paddled her behind with his hand. I suppose I don't have to say, but I will--that woke her up.

Here we go back in time....

Pantsing was a pasttime in junior high--during a time when sexual harassment was only a myth. Looking back I could've been a recipient of some serious compensatory cash, but that's not the kind of person I am (blah blah). Instead, I just pants back. When I say pants, I mean the pants, literally, especially during P.E. It was me and this one kid named Steve Jones, black guy...really smart...funny, super nice...but he was my pantsing buddy. We took turns going at each other, like tag but with pants. Those gym shorts just slipped like my tongue when I'm in an awkward social situation. No one got hurt, no one ever paid much attention even. It was just a little yank, some drawers, then a pull back up and all was well. Until the final blow (the verbage is at a loss now, there's no helping all the words), on the soccer field.
Picture it, 1987 on a spring day (because it was PE not real soccer, okay soccer freaks?), we were all out on the field, boys and girls. I was a few yards in front of the goalie, Jason Mueller, who was pretty cute, but never was an interest of mine. The game was on the other end of the field, so my team must have been doing pretty well, like I cared. I hung back, not even watching the game. I must've been thinking about something because I was so oblivious to EVERYTHING. Steve Jones, what an opportunist, was not in la-la land. No, friends, he was calculating. Right now, he must be making big dollars somewhere taking advantage of poor, vulnerable people who are looking the other way. I'm standing on the field when suddenly I feel my shorts go down my legs. They don't go down as in "oops, slip" grap 'em and back up. They went D O W N my legs. But that wasn't the worst part. Steve, still the reigning king of pantsing, had grabbed my underwear (that's what they were when I was in 8th...no one wore thongs, that was weird). The breeze was free to roam in the parts that don't get a lot of fresh air. My bare bottom was free for Jason to check out. I grabbed the clothing (multiple) back up and heard the laughter getting louder. Five black girls were standing to the side. One of them screamed, "She got hair!" Very mature, what...you don't have hair? How old are we? In eighth grade, everything is embarrassing, so you can imagine how that one did me in. At least my butt was cute back then. Now if he had done that yesterday?...Sexual harassment suit for "all he got," that's all I can say. (my head is doing the 'attitude' bob as I write that.) Now that is history I'm proud to share with my posterity.