I'm dog tired, and I know for a fact that my Seestor is sick as a goat. I called her today for a quick chat and to coordinate holiday plans, and she sounded like she had a pot of bubbly oatmeal in her lungs. That can't be good. Or appetizing.
So, no matter what you do here, you must go to my Seestor's blog and at least post a get well comment, if not a kudos that she is even dragging her oatmeal infested body to the computer to NaBloPoMo today.
The gimmick today is that The Ugly Sisters answer a Get To Know Us autobiographical question.
Acting as muse will be the blog To Our Children's Children which just so happens to be the title of a book by the same name by author Bob Greeen. It's a book of questions that are meant to act as a guide and memory jogger when writing your own autobiography.
Which I suppose is redundant. If you were writing someone else's autobiography, you'd be sitting in a more comfy chair, or perhaps wearing larger shoes.
Anyway, the folks on the autobiography blog not only went about answering the questions, but they were every so helpful in listing the questions, too. Now that seems a bit problematic copyright-wise, but I swear, I already bought the book a few years ago. It's...somewhere. In some box, I think. I'll look for it later.
(This was supposed to be short, yes?)
Okay...so a question from chapter three, The House Of Your Growing Up. Then I really need to get to bed or spend time with my husband. Uhhhhh....I mean.....
What was your bedroom like? Did you share it with your siblings, or did you have it to yourself? Can you remember the carpeting, the wallpaper , the pictures that hung? What did you do to make it your own? Put pictures up of your favorite stars, paint the walls a certain color?
My bedroom was on the second floor, in the front of the house, overlooking the main drag through town. My room was roughly13' x 10', and when I was about 10 years old, my father covered all four walls with pine-board panneling and stained the boards white. Having thick pine boards covering your walls makes a fabulous room-sized bulletin board, and I had every square inch covered with horse pictures, some from books and some that I had drawn. At one point, there may have been a poster of Elton John or David Cassidy. Maybe a cover from the DYNAMITE magazine with John Travolta as Vinny Barbarino.
The floor were hardwood planking with little wooden button thingies that would pop out and make my mother go nutso trying to keep track of the buttons.
My sister and I each had our own bedroom; however, I hated to sleep by my lonesome. Especially since my bedroom was right next to the attic door. Right now that attic is chock-a-block full of old magazines and books and toys and QVC boxes, but back in the '70s, both Rosemary's Baby and the girl from the Exorcist lived in that attic.
My sister couldn't honestly care less if she slept in the same room as me or if she slept alone in her own room. She had some sort of Demontor-B-Gone spray, and she never shared. However, whenever I was being particularly horrible to her (as older sisters will often be), my Seestor would take me out at the shins by declaring that she would not sleep in my room with me that night, nor would I be welcome in her room.
She would, in effect, feed me to the monsters.
And there was no bargaining with her.
For a child so blond and dimpled, she had an iron spine when it came to doling out logical consequences to her weenie older sister.
However, the following night, I would be back in her good graces, and we'd room together and jump on the brass bed and snort and laugh and pedal our footie-pajamaed feet under the acrylic blankets making static electricity sparks shoot through the darkness like miniature bottle-rockets, until we could hear the THUMP THUMP THUMP of my father stomping meaningfully up the stairs, down the hallway, and then firmly pushing open the door to reprimand us in what was his best attempt at an Angry Dad voice:
"NOW GET TO SLEEP, YOU TWO. AND HEY, THIS TIME I MEAN IT. NO MORE GOOFING OFF. NOW C'MON. GET TO BED. SCHOOL TOMORROW."
Before our dad had even opened the door, my sister and I would plop our heads into the pillows and close our eyes tight and pretend to be asleep. And we'd continue the sleep-charade while he was standing there trying to play the Bad Cop. (Which he did very badly. Our dad could be loud, but he was not very threatening. Sort of like an angry Bill Murray. Give me a break.)
For a few moments after he'd left, my sister and I would still pretend to be asleep even though both of us knew darn tootin' that other was wide awake and trying hard not to snort. We'd hear our dad thump back down the stairs, hear the French doors to the living room squeak open with a few notes of the Hawaii Five-O theme song drifting up to the second floor, and then all would be quiet in the dark bedroom.
The super-quiet of two girls holding their breath because they both knew that the next sound either of them made - the next gulp, the next sniffle, the next half-syllable - would cause the other sister to bust up laughing and shaking in uncontrollable fits, causing the brass bed to wobble and bang on the hardwood floor, causing even louder lauging and maybe even some peeing, causing a quick repeat of the THUMP THUMP THUMP up the stairs.
So we both lay there, holding our breath.
Holding our breath...
So there's a bit about my childhood bedroom.
There's more, of course, but I really need to go visit with my husband and watch some television or something. All this writing is making me think too hard all at once, and I don't want to have some sort of reaction like brain hives or something.
Join us tomorrow for the Ugly Sister Best Of Awards.
And go tell my Seestor to feel better. Demand it of her. She'll listen to you.
LATE NIGHT BONUS! Click here. You won't be sorry.