When we were little, my sister and I used to fight… a lot. I mean a whole lot. It was like Holyfield vs. Tyson in our house every afternoon. She was two years younger but faster, smarter and stronger than me. She was the dominant person in our relationship (still is) but I could be a bit of a jackass. (I would pick fights with my sister that I couldn’t possibly win and would then grab the phone and lock myself in the bathroom until my parents came home) So we fought, constantly. My hair was longer and I threw it in her face. I was only an inch taller but 50 pounds heavier and she threw that in mine. Nasty words were shouted, punches were thrown, and furniture was broken. It was ridiculous and if my two cousins (Boys – one chubby and one skinny, mean and wiry. Bet you can guess where the lines were drawn) were at our house it was twice as bad. Because of all of the drama and the constant phone calls at work, my parents enlisted the services of a neighborhood high school boy to come over and “babysit” during the day in the summer. We were too old for a sitter so maybe he was more a referee but he did his job and he did it well. We laid out by the pool, spent two weeks putting together a neighborhood production of Grease in our backyard, and I began my lifelong addiction to General Hospital (Did I mention I think he was gay?) But when he was around, we didn’t fight and we learned to get along. She and I found that if we just worked together, we could get away with a lot more shit.
In an attempt to stop our father from smoking, we poked pin holes in his cigarettes. When that didn’t work we carefully emptied out the tobacco from each one and put the unfilled cigarettes back in the pack. Around the holidays we would carefully unwrap and then rewrap all of our gifts to assure that we would be satisfied on Christmas morning and once when we found ingredients in the fridge for our least favorite meal (Ham and Cheese Soup – YUCK!) we hid them in the broken dishwasher. (My mom was so mad but that was one bullet we were willing to take!) But the act of “teamwork” that I remember most clearly is what I like to refer to as the “Unfortunate Kool-Aid Incident”.
Back in the early '80s, Kool-Aid used to have points on the back of every packet and my sister and I would collect them. These points could be traded in for Kool-Aid merchandise (i.e., Beach Blankets, Tee Shirts, Comic Books, etc…) but what we wanted most of all was a glass Kool-Aid pitcher that looked just like the “Hey Kool-Aid” guy. It was really cool (sorry, kool) and when the Kool-Aid booth came to the State Fair we knew we only had ten days to earn enough points to make our artificially flavored drink mixed dream a reality. One hitch, though, our dad made us promise that we would not throw away or waste the Kool-Aid, we had to drink it. So we drank glass after glass after… glass… pitcher… after… pitcher… after… Well, you get the idea. That last day we drank about 6 pitchers (that’s 12 quarts- 384 ounces) of orange Kool-Aid. We rooted each other on when we thought we could drink no more, pushing each other to the limit. We sloshed back and forth to the bathroom, stomachs distended with the faux orange liquid deliciousness, just waiting for our father to get off work. We must have counted those points a dozen times! We were ready… bloated but ready!
When our dad pulled up we grabbed our points and headed out to the car. Our dad asked us “Do you have enough points?” We told him we did and he pulled out of the driveway. “And you drank the Kool-Aid? You didn’t waste the Kool-Aid?” he asked starting down the street. We assured him that we drank it all. All 6 pitchers! He said came to a sharp stop at the corner and turned to look at us (probably in shock) just as we began to vomit all over his backseat. He turned the car around and took us home. We didn’t get the pitcher and we didn’t drink Kool-Aid again - for a very long time.
In an attempt to stop our father from smoking, we poked pin holes in his cigarettes. When that didn’t work we carefully emptied out the tobacco from each one and put the unfilled cigarettes back in the pack. Around the holidays we would carefully unwrap and then rewrap all of our gifts to assure that we would be satisfied on Christmas morning and once when we found ingredients in the fridge for our least favorite meal (Ham and Cheese Soup – YUCK!) we hid them in the broken dishwasher. (My mom was so mad but that was one bullet we were willing to take!) But the act of “teamwork” that I remember most clearly is what I like to refer to as the “Unfortunate Kool-Aid Incident”.
Back in the early '80s, Kool-Aid used to have points on the back of every packet and my sister and I would collect them. These points could be traded in for Kool-Aid merchandise (i.e., Beach Blankets, Tee Shirts, Comic Books, etc…) but what we wanted most of all was a glass Kool-Aid pitcher that looked just like the “Hey Kool-Aid” guy. It was really cool (sorry, kool) and when the Kool-Aid booth came to the State Fair we knew we only had ten days to earn enough points to make our artificially flavored drink mixed dream a reality. One hitch, though, our dad made us promise that we would not throw away or waste the Kool-Aid, we had to drink it. So we drank glass after glass after… glass… pitcher… after… pitcher… after… Well, you get the idea. That last day we drank about 6 pitchers (that’s 12 quarts- 384 ounces) of orange Kool-Aid. We rooted each other on when we thought we could drink no more, pushing each other to the limit. We sloshed back and forth to the bathroom, stomachs distended with the faux orange liquid deliciousness, just waiting for our father to get off work. We must have counted those points a dozen times! We were ready… bloated but ready!
When our dad pulled up we grabbed our points and headed out to the car. Our dad asked us “Do you have enough points?” We told him we did and he pulled out of the driveway. “And you drank the Kool-Aid? You didn’t waste the Kool-Aid?” he asked starting down the street. We assured him that we drank it all. All 6 pitchers! He said came to a sharp stop at the corner and turned to look at us (probably in shock) just as we began to vomit all over his backseat. He turned the car around and took us home. We didn’t get the pitcher and we didn’t drink Kool-Aid again - for a very long time.
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