Saturday, March 15, 2008

of american politics and the defenestration of panties

A greeting card from my sister, aka she who aspired to be a mermaid. Annotated.






The Text:
(canned hallmark copy) When I'm President, I'm gonna settle all disputes with a dance-off. // You're gonna be Vice President, so work on your moves.

(deb copy) But you know, I'll probably be impeached after only a month in office for throwing your underpants off the White House balcony [1] into the Rose Garden 500 times [2]. You'll tap Johnny Whitaker [3] for your Veep & usher in a new era where everyone is nice to everyone, they all have enough money, and cars run on grape juice [4] -- which is very, very cheap. And pollution free. [5] Plus they'll put your face on all the stamps even while you're still in office. So let's just forget the whole thing & hope Barack wins. [6]


The Annotations:
[1] The author alludes to the defenestration of panties of our childhood, in which she, the older sister, tormented me, the younger sister, by dropping my underwear through our open second-story bedroom window into the flower bed below. Repeatedly.

She did this publicly and in broad daylight, and frequently when her friends were over, to demonstrate her mastery over me. I, in my horror, would run down the stairs and out to the flowerbed to retrieve the panties, mortified that the cute boys playing hockey in the street would have witnessed the incident and known they were mine. They only knew they were mine, of course, because I was the only one rushing down to the flowerbed in horror. Had I stayed inside no one would have noticed the brief whisper of white that floated down and settled into the soil.

Almost without fail Deb would be waiting for me, on my return, with another pair of panties poised and ready to drop through the open window. She would release them as soon as she saw that I saw what was about to occur.

And so it would begin again.

[2] And again. And again. And again.

[3] Johnny Whitaker, you may remember, stared alongside Sigmund in the Saturday morning live action show Sigmund and the Sea Monsters. Deb had a thing for Johnny, and daydreamed about writing love letters to the budding young star, which she would sign "Love, Debby" with a generously flourished cursive "L".

[4] We were sometimes broke growing up, sometimes not, depending upon my parents' immediate fortunes. Broke times were powered by much grape juice because yes: it is very very cheap.

[5] Nothing if not environmentally virtuous, my sister.

[6] This would be the political part.


(The only thing more surreal than coming off two weeks on the road covering both coasts late late late on a Friday night, is coming home to something like this.

Which, of course, made my day.)

6 comments:

Anali said...

LOL! And cars run on grape juice!

Would that mean that the exhaust would smell like wine? : )

suttonhoo said...

mmm -- hot mulled wine, maybe. ;)

I, Rodius said...

Ah, older siblings. Mine like to pin me down and make me smell his armpits. Or dangle long strings of spit over my face. He's much nicer now, though.

Wow, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters. I haven't thought of that in years. The '70's were unbelievably weird. Or maybe just Sid & Marty Kroft. Or both.

anniemcq said...

This is so damn funny. I love the card so very much.

C. went to high school with Johnny Whitaker. Call me, I'll dish. I don't do gossip on the internets anymore, after my smack down by Miss Lori. 'cause fragile egos always seem to be googling their own names.

Lolabola said...

" the defenestration of panties" that should be a title of something ("the name of a band!" says every indy band friend I have)

i, rodius.....make you smell his armpits?!

annie......what? no more smack downs?

my sister used to sit on me and tickle me until I stopped breathing and then she'd stay there and make me watch "Grizzly Adams" or "Battlestar Galactica" I think she was trying to bore me to death.

heather lorin said...

Too funny. My sisters SO did not appreciate what a great older sister I was - at most I would yell at them to stay out of my room and quit touching my stuff. And,um, there were the occasional kick fights (i.e., sit on the floor and kick each other across the room - leaving minor bruises that could be attributed to soccer practice but no scratches or bald spots)... I'm sure I never started them.

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