Selma and Pattie

For those of you who know me, you inevitably have run into, or heard of, my two younger sisters. This is especially true if you have kids the same age as ours, since we three seem to be in the same birthday party loop. At these parties (and at every get-together they've attended since they were teenagers), it seems that there is always a scene where these two sisters have an almost tangible bond between them, something like twins would have, which is manifested by--well, cackling is a negative and inaccurate way to put it. It's definitely dramatic laughter and it's usually a joke that only they understand. Just like twins.

My two younger sisters also have that typical sisterly bond with me (and my older sister); I can count on them for creative, enlightening opinions on anything from the mundane to the sublime. I can actually count on that from my older sister, as well (and my sister-in-law). But, despite feeling included in their lives, there is that exclusiveness to their jokes that reminds me, of, well, twins. And the dramatizing part of my mind always leads me to compare them (and my relationship to them) to Selma and Patty Bouvier, the twin sisters of Marge Simpson.

Which, of course, leaves me as Marge.

I'm actually not all that familiar with Selma and Pattie's characters. But I do know that, like the twins, my sisters have forceful personalities, ghastly, creative senses of humor, and a certain amount of chutzpah that makes for some really odd situations. Here are some examples:

When they were teenagers, we lived across from a ritzy golf course. The house across the street from us was owned by an up-and-coming couple that the decade would have deemed "yuppies". They would have parties on their lawn and my sisters, fed up with the pretentiousness of it all, decided to make it look like they were spying from their bedroom window that overlooked the house. "Make it look" is the operative term, because what they did was hold up beer bottles to the window so that it looked like binoculars were focused on the partygoers. How weird is that? Not to spy, but to make people think that someone was spying on them. That was the prank.

They were also notorious just for being themselves. Some of their victims were friends of my younger (and their older) brother. These were "cool" guys who got absolutely no respect from Selma and Pattie. One of these friends would walk around shirtless, reminding everyone in that decade of the up-and-coming actor, Brad Pitt. Selma and Pattie would laugh at him. Openly. And genuinely. Another one of these guys, now a full grown man, had dinner at my house not too long ago, and virtually paled when my sisters entered the room. He smiled a dry-mouthed smile at them and was pretty quiet the whole night. I think he actually said, "not you two" when he saw them.

I think Selma and Pattie (if I'm correct) scared Homer and made Marge appear kind of weak, but nonetheless on par with them. That's how I feel with my sisters when they're in their "mode": grown men can be brought to their knees and I just stand by and, if only metaphorically, do that disapproving Marge Simpson groan (<-click there).

My Own Greek Chorus

So lately I've been feeling like I have a Greek chorus in my head. This is partly because I just saw (again) "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", one of my favorite movies. But it's also because I really do have something like that in my head; the movie just articulated it as such. It consists of people I know who have strong opinions about some aspect of life. Because I'm either insecure, impressionable, or both, when I do something which they might opine about, I, against my will, imagine what they might say. They're like my own little Greek chorus in my head, booing and cheering for me, shaking their heads, wagging their fingers, and, every once in a while, throwing me a bone by nodding approvingly.

One prominent member of this chorus is--you guessed it--my mom. No mystery here, and if I didn't have a whole chorus of people other than her, I would think I was normal. However, my mom has very strong opinions--very strong opinions--so maybe she's the one who allowed all of the other people to enter. So, for instance, if I watch tv (which I don't very often, in deference to my own will, I'd like to think, but also to this prominent chorus member in my head), I feel as though I've started on the slippery slope to debauchery, laziness and just pure evil. Or if I say that my kids don't go to preschool, I sense the nod of approval from a woman who is singlehandedly trying to rid the planet not only of daycare, but of full-day kindergarten as well (oddly, this unpredictable chorus member is completely against homeschooling).

Another member of this chorus is my sister, who has very strong opinions about, well, everything. She especially zeroes in on shopping and housekeeping. And, actually, she is a renowned chorus member: other people obviously have her in their heads as well. One sister has admitted as much. And, for example, last week, when I bought $300 worth of full-price clothes, my mom (who had been babysitting the sleeping children in the car while I shopped) saw the measly amount of clothes I got for all of that money, looked at them for a minute and said, "don't tell ---". I actually did tell her--as sort of a defiant confession-- and when she said, "oh, who cares" (meaning that sometimes you just have to go full-price), I practically floated out of her house. I'd been dispensed from bargain hunting.

I also have a friend who is something of a fashion maven. Whenever I am in a shoe store, I (unwittingly) imagine her disapproving face as I struggle to make a decision. Anyone with any fashion sense just knows what to buy.

Some of these characters come and go. One of my friends is really nice and whenever I see her she occupies a niche in my head for a few days, shaking her own head whenever I do something petty and small towards others.

Or when I am suffering from the disorganization that is my life, the chorus member that is my husband wags his finger and says, "you need a system".

And I have a friend who, at least to me, appears to feed her children very conscientiously and very well. I sense her stare as I drive up to yet another window for another fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants fast food burrito.

There are definitely worse things than a Greek chorus that you don't need to treat with Lithium. But I do wonder why it is I'm so susceptible to peer pressure that I actually carry it around with me.

Making the Familiar Unfamiliar

Sometimes if I just stop and look at myself, I cannot believe what I am doing. Or wearing. For example, this morning I found myself wearing a towel on my head, and another wrapped around me, vacuuming a kitchen floor covered in spices. I stopped mid-vac and realized how ridiculous I looked. But, as they say...context, context, context. Only minutes before, I was taking my 3 minute morning shower, hoping that while I did so the children wouldn't be tearing the house--or each other--apart (I always imagine someone telling the tale of what my children did to make the news headlines and then shaking their head saying, "the mother was in the shower..."). I stepped out of shower and heard (yes heard) that deafening silence that tells you that the children are up to no good. None at all. So, I threw a towel on and ran down to the source of the silence, which was my children staring at a kitchen floor covered with the spices they had dumped on it. (Of course they chose the colorful ones, like turmeric and paprika, that show up in every seam in the floor). The vacuum was sitting 2 feet away and so I thought, "why not?", which is how I found myself vacuuming the kitchen floor in a towel this morning.

I know I'm not alone here. My sister, for example,  found herself standing in her backyard yelling, "put your pants on, Marmalute". Context: the toddler son of a Russian neighbor had disrobed in her back yard.

       
And a few days ago I answered the door for a friend and his son while wearing this headband and a black sundress:

Context: my 3 year old daughter had been fixing my hair when I was on the computer and, of course, I didn't notice--or sense, I guess--what she did. He didn't notice either.

Bertrand Russell described philosophy, in so many words, as making the familiar unfamiliar. Raising these kids can be so--well, overwhelming is the wrong word, but something along those lines---absorbing? that I don't see the hilarity of it all until I stop and look at things objectively, i.e., make the familiar unfamiliar. Then I think it's worth writing about.

The Sages of our Society

            Yesterday I decided that it was the day for a big weekly (or, in my case, sometimes, biweekly) grocery shopping. This, of necessity, is an early morning excursion: all of us are at peak energy level, me from my morning coffee and the kids from their nights' sleep. So, off we went, and things actually went pretty smoothly: the baby slept in the moby and the other two were given edible bribes at strategic intervals. And, because it was mid-morning, the store was full of what might be, demographically speaking, my favorite group of people: the elderly.
       
           I love old(er?) people. Here is a perfect example of why: after an hourlong grocery shopping trip yesterday, I was standing behind a woman who must have been about 80. Because I couldn't reach the grocery dividing bar--and my two year old boy was literally scaling the cart--I asked her to hand it to me, despite that she was obviously suffering from Parkinson's (or some other tremor-causing disease). She said, "of course, dear. We're all in this together". Words of wisdom--that I think she really meant-- in such a mundane setting. Impressive. And it happens all the time. Older women always stop me and tell me to enjoy my little ones, because it goes way too quickly. (Okay,Kenny Chesney also hit on that theme, but I bet he learned it from his grandmother).
       
          So, in yesterday's Wall Street Journal, there was an article,  "Want my advice? Um, not really", which described how generation Yers (and Xers) have no need (or desire) for the advice of their elders. Apparently, given changes in perspective, technology, and work ethic, their advice is just not that useful anymore. The first example that was given involved a girl who wanted to have a destination wedding. Her mom said no, it was rude, "too inconvenient for guests...(and) too selfish". The girl ignored her and held it anyway; her response to her mom's comment was, "the older people totally mean well, but they're giving advice based on things in the past, when times were different".  
       
           I'm actually embarrassed for her. I mean, the idea that manners (or virtue) are grounded in selflessness is as old as, well, I don't know. It's safe to say the ancient Greeks. If at a loss, you can actually figure out what the right thing to do is, etiquette-wise, by choosing the less selfish route. So, frankly, it's silly to think that the last 30 years have produced such an unusual series of events that the basic principles of etiquette have been changed. And a difference in perspective is actually what distinguishes--in a good way--the elderly from the rest of us. They (or most of them) know what's important (honestly, I think that's mostly why everyone at daily mass is over 60. My husband, on the other hand, says they have more to pray for).
         
          You can probably guess the rest of my rant, so I won't bore you here. But, right now, I'm glad to be on a daily track that involves running into the sages of our society.