Archive | Family & Childhood RSS feed for this section

How My Sister’s Brain Works

18 Jun

A few weeks ago, I shared how MY brain works. For contrast, here’s my sister. While I don’t have her inner-monologue to accompany this, I’m pretty that sure what you see is what you get. And if you don’t have Facebook or understand targeted ads and how inane they are: this will make no sense so you might just want to skip it. Anyway… 

This sponsored ad apparently appeared on my sister’s Facebook page recently. The comment/caption at the top is from her:

When I saw it, I thought it was an astute observation: a bucket with a spigot does NOT exactly spell fun. I should’ve realized it was the first indication that she had an axe to grind with their message.

Have I mentioned that Alicia knows Photoshop? And is like a dog with a bone when something sets her off? So while the ad above is real, it prompted her to create the following spoofs, which she then posted in rapid succession:

Calling all party people, indeed. Too bad I just missed her birthday. Otherwise, I would’ve sent her a rock.

And somehow, I think she would’ve actually found it wicked sick.

Tags: , ,

Does it even matter if it’s true?

3 May

It was late. My sister was in the kitchen relaying a story to her husband about something embarrassing that had happened to her friend. It was for adult-consumption only. And then, out of the blue: a voice. “Hey – isn’t that Herbert’s mom you’re talking about?”

And standing there is her child, who – if he had a tribal name – would respond to, “Little-Pitcher-Big-Ears.” Record scratch.

So now a nine year old is equipped with a story that is attached to a real person and isn’t exactly appropriate for an elementary school audience.

This has happened to you too, right? I mean, I don’t even HAVE kids and I’ve had my words come back to haunt me, though it’s usually like when Ralphie swears as he flips all the nuts into the snow in “The Christmas Story” and everyone wants to know where he learned such an awful word. (Spoiler alert: his dad.)

In my defense, if a child correctly deploys a word that can function as EVERY one of the nine parts of speech, then I say: we should let him, regardless of age.

I digress. The point is that when my sister retold this story to me – in all its sordid details – it completely cracked me up. “Can I blog about it?” I asked.

She paused. “Can you make it anonymous? So the person doesn’t know my child knows her business?”

And that’s when the fun began.

Me: “Sure. Like, I’ll say it was about a teacher from his school?”

Her: “Except make it an art teacher because he doesn’t even HAVE art.”

Me: “And I’ll make your son a DAUGHTER.”

Her: “And make the story I was telling about her something gossipy instead of something funny.”

Me: “And I’ll make you my FRIEND instead of my sister.”

Her: “And make me the daughter’s ‘mother’ instead of her ‘mom.'”

Mom, indeed. I think we’ll go with “mum” just to really throw them off the track.

Disclaimer: All names, places, and events contained herein are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people, events or conversation is sheer coincidence. Also, I’m pretty sure there are no children named Herbert. 

Tags: , , , ,

Paved with good intentions…

5 Mar

My parents were in town this last weekend, so we walked down to the Smithsonian to see an Annie Lebowitz exhibit at the American Art Museum. On our way, we swung into Five Guys to grab a burger for lunch.

The portions are huge, so although we’d only ordered a small fry, we ended up with (what appeared to be) an entire order left over. Rather than toss the food, we packaged it neatly with some ketchup, napkins and a dish of peanuts to give to a homeless person.

Nice thought, right? Turns out, it was better in theory.

The first homeless man we passed was peering into a garbage can when we spotted him. I approached and held out the bag, saying, “Would you like some french fries?”

He didn’t make eye contact and just turned his head away from me a hawked a loogey on the sidewalk in response.

I’ll take that as a no.

The next person I approached was a disheveled looking guy pacing around a newspaper box talking to himself. I walked up and was in the process of presenting the bag to him, about to open my mouth, when I noticed he had a bluetooth in his ear and was apparently on the phone.

I quickly retracted my arm, leaving him standing there, staring at me, no doubt wondering why I’d just come and waved my Five Guys bag in his face.

Remarkably, as we neared the entrance to the museum, I still hadn’t found anyone to give the food to. I eyed the trashcan nervously and scanned the benches flanking the steps.

BINGO. An elderly woman sat there, looking a bit out of it and decidedly homeless. She was the last possibility to keep those fries from going in the trashcan. I strode up to her and – as I got closer – I realized she had a full goatee.

And yet, as we made eye contact, I had my doubts. Was she homeless? Or did she just lack a razor? Confused, I simply set the bag of french fries on the bench next to her and — not wanting to offend her if she wasn’t homeless — simply said — [ready for this?] —

“You might want to check this out.” 

Um. WHAT?! What kind of approach was that? It totally sounded creepy. Like – “Go ahead. Open this. There’s some crazy shit in here.”

She gave me a puzzled, searching look and I hustled back to my parents. “Quick! Let’s get in the museum,” I urged them.

“Why?” my mom asked. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” I told her. “But I’m worried she might not be homeless and she might throw those fries at us.”

My mom shook her head. “No way. She was definitely homeless. She didn’t have any teeth, Alison.”

And at this point, I’m pretty sure my dad – who had watched all this silently – interjected with all seriousness, “Then those peanuts might have been a bad inclusion.”

Indeed.

Next time? I’ll just buy a paper from the Street Sense vendor. At least now I know why they wear flourescent vests.

This has nothing to do with this post. Other than that it's about a peanut and it's hilarious. That's where the relevance ends.

 

Tags: , , , ,

The History of the Word.

29 Dec

"I talk funny? YOU talk funny."

When I was little (and I mean really, REALLY little), I struggled to pronounce my S’s. The less sensitive readers among you might even call that struggle a Lisp. Oh, I never had to attend speech therapy, and no one ever nicknamed me Thindy Brady, so it all turned out fine. Actually, you wouldn’t even know it had happened, were it not for my nickname: Wis.

Or potentially the fact that my blog is named PithyPants. When in fact, my pants are more often dotted with… nevermind.

That’s right. I couldn’t say my own damn name right. Instead of Alison, I was Awison. Which, cutely, got shortened to Wis (which – coincidentally? – rhymes with piss). And my sister? Alicia? Became Aweeta. And thus her nickname – Weet – was born.

To this day, we’re known to our immediate family as Weet and Wis. It’s a comfortable name and not anything I think about, until I refer to myself in a story as “Aunt Wis,” (which is how my nephews know me) and I find myself explaining the whole etymology of the name to a stranger. Sort of like this.

Ironically, the first time my eldest nephew heard someone say, “Alison” while I was home, he looked around in confusion and said, “Who?” then completely cracked up when I responded. It was the best joke he’d ever heard. He couldn’t fathom that my real name was anything other than Wis.

Why am I telling you this? Because tonight I received a thank you note from my youngest nephew, with the best opening line ever:

Now I bet you’re wishing YOU had a cool nickname like Wis. Sorry, it’s taken. It’s mine. And you know…

I’ll be back.

—

BTW – can someone tell me why that Corgie puppy on the stationery is using a pillow like a yoga bolster? 

Tags: , ,

Or as I call it: Stink Eye.

12 Dec

Last Thursday I woke up to find my left eyelid swollen and crusted shut. Ah, Conjunctivitis – or, if we’re going with your less pretentious rap name – Pink Eye. Did you really need to pay me a visit? Besides, isn’t Pink Eye a disease that only five year olds get? From not washing their hands? Ew.

This is a head-scratcher, because (as I’ve previously stated) I’m somewhat OCD. And – thanks to my friends who spoil me – I have the world’s best-smelling hand soap so I probably have a tendency to over-wash my hands, if anything. And yet: my eye? It’s decidedly pink and goopy. I think the word for it is angry.

The last time this happened, multiple people posited a hypothesis as to the cause. So this time, when I made my announcement to the land of Facebook, I tried to head that theory off at the pass: “Nothing says happy holidays like Pink Eye. And no, Alan didn’t fart on my pillow.”

My sister – whom I’ve educated on a wide array of topics, including ceviche, dutch ovens, upper-deckers, kicking kangaroos and honeybadgers – not surprisingly, popped up in my chat window later the same day. “What’s that about Alan farting on your pillow???”

It took me a minute to respond, so added a few lines of: “???????????” to demonstrate her urgency.

Alicia tends to be gullible (as evidenced by our high school track coach getting her to swallow a huge multi-vitamin, then claiming it was a dog’s heartworm pill and writhing in laughter as she freaked out, trying to make herself vomit).

[I’m not actually sure if I got all those details right, but you get the idea. It’s at least 85% accurate.]

So for a minute, perusing all the images she’s Photoshopped to include crossed eyes on my Facebook Wall, I seriously considered telling her that yes, pink eye is commonly spread through flatulence trapped in bed sheets. Followed  by calling her husband to bribe him to fart on her pillow just after she closes her eyes.

But what can I say? It’s Christmas and I have the holiday spirit, so I really couldn’t lie. So I sent her this [NSFW] link (from the movie Knocked Up) and left her to draw her own conclusions:

Tags: , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →