Monday, September 19, 2005
My brother and sister are transitioning through puberty. They are eleven and twelve, respectively. My sister is a die-hard flirty boy-crazy girl and my brother was caught with my ex-stepfather's best FHM magazine.
In their recent visit, I got to witness the madness of Coming of Age.
Driving home from the lovely state of California, I put in my new Ying Yang Twins CD, making sure I bypass all the sexually gratuitous songs. When the song with Mike Jones comes on, my sister immediately starts shouting, "Skeet skeet skeet!"
My brother chimes in, "Skeet skeet skeet!"
Soon they are skeet skeeting their way through the song in the backseat and I am looking at my father, who is driving, with a look of total and abject horror on my face.
"Do you know what that means?" I whisper/yell into his ear, as we are in a windowless softcover Jeep Wrangler.
He shakes his head with an air of benevolent amusement.
"It's what black guys say for the word come!"
I whip around and give them my Serious Grown-Up look. "Don't you ever say that again. Ever again."
Amidst their cries of, "What does it mean? Tell me!" and "Why not?" I impart the gravity of never saying skeet again. And they never did.
I was on the phone with a friend while babysitting my siblings.
"I think they have seen a porn," she says.
"I don't think so . . . " I say speculatively. "Lemme ask them."
"Hey. Kids. Have you ever seen a porn?"
My brother answers with an immediate and outraged, "Noooooo!" And my sister, a little hesitant, says yes.
My friend is laughing in the earpiece of my phone. "I told you so!"
My sister eyes me guardedly. "Who are you talking to?"
I'm sitting down loungedly in a chair. "It's my friend, Roanna . . . Not! It's Mom!"
There's a flush rising up into her face and she's trying hard not to get hysterical. "What!?!" she yells. I watch her squirm in violent shameful ecstasy before I tell her the truth.
"It wasn't Mom, I was just joking."
We were driving my brother to the airport. With my sister we had made the mistake of arriving too early because we assumed the traffic would be horrible. We were stopped in the parking lot of a grocery store and were waiting for almost half an hour before we could leave.
"Here, I burned a CD," my brother says, passing through one of my blank CDs I gave my sister. I had stored all my CDs on my father's computer and they had perused, enjoyed, and burned my music during their stay.
I put it in and skipped tracks until I find one that I liked. My father is reading the track playlist my brother wrote out while we sit listening to the music. My brother is yelling at me to play a certain track and I, as usual, was ignoring him.
My father indicates to me to look at a certain track on my brother's written playlist. He pointed, with his pen, one song in particular. I started laughing hysterically.
He had written POD - School of Hard Kocks.
My father crossed out my brother's notation and wrote his own, but correctly, amid my peals of laughter.