The stories I’m talking about aren’t the ones we Banditas slave over, trying to decide if “blue” or “cerulean” is the best adjective to describe a heroine’s eyes. The ones where we stare at the computer screen and think “Come on, story, I know you’re there.” The ones that we hope you will one buy from the bookstore.
Nope, today I’m talking about the stories family and friends tell on you. The ones that are told over and over much to your chagrin or occasionally to your amusement and frequently to your embarassment
Now, you have to know that I was a very good child.
{Snickering? Which Bandita is snickering?}
No, really I was. Platinum blonde hair, cerulean blue eyes. See? I was the perfect angel. (Those are too wings on the back!)
Ok. So I wasn’t.
First “Joanie” story told by my mother and capitalized on by my brother.
It seems when my parents brought home their new little bundle of joy aka “The Baby”, 18 month old Joanie didn’t know what to make of it. Who was this squalling kid? Was he staying? Is he looking at MY toys?
Now at 18 months, you’re not usually too verbal but evidently, even at that early age I understood the concept of “Actions speak louder than words.” While my Mom’s back was turned, I proceeded to push this intruder in his carriage into a back room.
Nope, today I’m talking about the stories family and friends tell on you. The ones that are told over and over much to your chagrin or occasionally to your amusement and frequently to your embarassment
Now, you have to know that I was a very good child.
{Snickering? Which Bandita is snickering?}
No, really I was. Platinum blonde hair, cerulean blue eyes. See? I was the perfect angel. (Those are too wings on the back!)
Ok. So I wasn’t.
First “Joanie” story told by my mother and capitalized on by my brother.
It seems when my parents brought home their new little bundle of joy aka “The Baby”, 18 month old Joanie didn’t know what to make of it. Who was this squalling kid? Was he staying? Is he looking at MY toys?
Now at 18 months, you’re not usually too verbal but evidently, even at that early age I understood the concept of “Actions speak louder than words.” While my Mom’s back was turned, I proceeded to push this intruder in his carriage into a back room.
Look at my stuffed pink elephant, will ya!
Bro loves to try to make me feel guilty to this day but the sin was compensated for several times over when we were kids. The Christmas that the original Jungle Book movie came out? HE got a cute stuffed Balou bear. Me? I got a stuffed vulture. HE got the nifty red fire engine pedal car while Joanie was the recipient of the sedate brown sedan.
Humph!
Years later he got even. He nabbed my baby doll carriage and filled it with caterpillers. GOBS of caterpillers! Wanted to take them for a ride up and down the driveway.
Humph!
Then there was the tale of my adventures as a 2 year old. My Mom came into the kitchen to find me climbing on the kitchen table. She reacted, telling me to get down immediately. Which I did.
Then I took off running out the front door, Mom hot on my heels. The whole way I was yelling “Don’t hit me anymore!” She said “I hadn’t laid a hand on you but when I finally caught you (in the field across the street) I took care of that!” I must have been part Billy goat because I recall another table climbing incident only this time I fell off and smacked my head on the concrete floor of our basement. I clearly remember driving to the ER (ahem, they didn’t HAVE 911 then) of our Catholic hospital where I thought it odd that a nun was x-raying me.
So what about you? What stories do your family and friends delight in torturing you with? What was the oddest toy you got as a child? Did you torture your siblings?
(To the left is a snapshot of one of the rare moments my Mom could catch me, LOL.)Source URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/09/stories-that-they-tell.html
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