from the archives:
Sistatime! called me last night and as usual couldn't help but make her way onto this bloggity blog. Talking about a charity basketball game the Arthritis Organization was putting on featuring the University of Richmond team. And we pick up:And of course:
SISTATIME!: Isn't it so nice that the poeple that run college basketball, you know, aahhh, what'stheirname -
XMASTIME: (about the say "the NCAA") the N-
SISTATIME!: the NAACP, isn't it cool they're doing this?
sigh. and on MLK eve!!!!!
Also, turns out some dude that I thought was her boyfriend got the heave-ho a few weeks ago. AAAAAAAnd we pick up:
SISTATIME!: naw, that fizzled. He's bipolar. Fucking nuts!
XMASTIME: well sure. can't have that.
SISTATIME!: oh, that's not why I dumped him.
XMASTIME: (curious eyebrow-raised "hmmm?")
SISTATIME!: but it is why I had to drag it out over two weeks and dump him slowly, so he wouldn't snap and fucking kill me.
So my sister calls me yesterday and tells me she has skin cancer. It’s nothing serious, apparently she can pop in on her lunch hour, get some bit on her shoulder removed and then get regular checkups from then on. Finding out a younger sibling has any type of cancer though is a bit of a surprise blow. And my sister has had more bad luck over the years than anyone I know; which I, being the sensitive sort that I am, brought up.And talking to her on her birthday:
“Geez Xmastime’s sister” I was shaking my head over the phone “this last 12 months, boy…you find out your douchebag husband was cheating on you, you get a divorce and now you find out you have cancer. Jesus.”
“Right?” she chortles incredulously horrified “AND I turned 30!!!!!!”
Nice to see she’s keeping things in perspective ;)
I've mentioned Sistatime!'s talent for getting off the phone quickly (a virtue to me) and she didn't let me down tonight.
XMAS: so yeah, I guess I'll let you go, you can meet up with your friends...
SISTATIME!: hey! it's my birthday!
XMAS: well, I thought -
SISTATIME!: how often do you get to talk to your sister on her birthday?!?!?
XMAS: once a year?
SISTATIME!: that's right! once a goddam year, you can talk to me on the phone!
XMAS: alright, that's cool
SISTATIME!: for chrissake, it's my birthday
XMAS: you're right
SISTATIME!: my birthday, I think you can spare 10 minutes to talk
XMAS: cool. hey listen, I was th-
SISTATIME!: my ride's here, gotta bounce, bye (click)
And:And:
Sistatime!: Have you tried calling Brothatime!!?
Xmastime: yeah, but it went straight to voicemail.
Sistatime!: I know! That means he's either dead or on a plane!!
While she loves her some Paddy Mac, Sistatime!'s policy when it comes to children has always been one of "children aren't meant to be seen, they aren't meant to be heard, and keep them the fuck away from me." But the old gal must be softening up some, because just now she was telling me how excited she is that she thinks she can handle taking her 2 year-old goddaughter to lunch for about an hour, her first time being in charge of a kid.And her advice to me with the ladies:
Xmastime: she's 2? oh, you'll be fine.
Sistatime!: right? I mean, I figure if a fucking crackhead can have babies, I can take one to fucking lunch without anything bad happening, right?
Xmastime: well, I mean-
Sistatime!: and _________ said I should take her to Chik-Fil-A cause there's a playground there and I'm all oh HELL no, I ain't hanging out with a bunch of OTHER fucking kids, you know?
She also told me that as I get older I'll have an advantage when it comes to women, thanks to my "'fro", since other dudes will be going bald. "Just hang in there long enough for everyone else to go bald." Nice! Thanks, Sistatime!Calling her when she was sick on St. Patrick's Day:
"Hey, could be worse, it could be running pneumonia."
"'Running'? HA! Not my fat ass!"
Three things happened in 1977 that would come to affect my life – the birth of my little sister (Sistatime!), my induction into the public school system via kindergarten and of course INXS being formed. I throw INXS in there so that years from now (Thursday) when my body is found after a rousing bout of auto-erotic asphyxiation, everyone will think “oh sure, now that makes sense – yet ANOTHER thing that Xmastime and the ridiculously good-looking, charismatic, outrageously successful singer from INXS have in common!” Spooky, I know. “Xmas had a secretary named Michael, and Michael had a secretary named Xmas. And they both died as they lived: their cold, lifeless hands wrapped around themselves while watching ‘I Fuck Stupid, Vol. VII’ through a plastic bag.”And, of course, fishing with Sistatime!
Sistatime! was born in April 1977, and I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. My father had brought my brother and me to the hospital the day she was born, and we found ourselves standing in front of an elevator to go visit her and my mother. BING the door opened, and on the elevator was a group of nurses surrounding a little baby. Which for all I knew was the Lindbergh baby, or a football-sized pile of skin with funny marks all over it. There was no room for us to join them, so the three of us stood there dumbly for what seemed like an hour, just trying to avoid the gaze of the mute nurses staring at us until, mercifully, the doors finally closed and the elevator moved on. That’s when my dad turned to us and said “That’s your sister, boys.”
What? You…couldn’t have mentioned this while we were actually looking at this thing? I’m thinking I’m looking at a cat that’s been shaved; you could’ve mentioned at that time “Oh by the way, this came out of your mother a few hours ago and will be living from us from now on. You will not get your hands on the phone after 1986.” Thanks pop!
The one thing I did catch was what I thought were unusual spots all over my new sister’s body. Even while knowing that a newborn baby was going to look strange, I was not prepared for the collection of splotches that greeted me on that elevator that day - certainly the most I would see in one place until I accidentally walked into the female health clinic at college (ZTA’s: shame on you!!!) In a word: yeeesh. I decided that she was afflicted with something terrible, and it was probably the Devil that had done this to her and I was gonna do what I had to do to make her normal again. I, Big Brother, was going to team up with God, the world’s greatest doubles partner, and smack the Devil down on this one. I know, I know – I’m an amazing brother!!! The three of us Wilson men went to Mass the next day – a middle of the week, midday service. Which is even creepier than normal Sunday church, what with the only person there under the age of 90 being nailed to a cross. Now, normally you couldn’t get me to speak up and say a word inside church if you tried to pay me with a pork chop slurpee, but now that I was a big brother, I knew I had a job to do and was prepared to do it. There’s a moment in every Mass where random people speak up from the…audience, I guess?...and ask everyone to pray for someone they know; e.g. “For my Aunt Doris who has a club foot and cannot do The Hustle, we pray to the Lord.” That’s the right way to do it, the “we pray to the Lord” line is the cue for everyone else to chime in and say…well, I can’t remember what the fuck you’re supposed to say, to be honest. I do know that nobody gives a shit what you actually say; we all just wait for our cue so we can get that chapter of Mass over with – your cousin Bobby with the sickle cell be damned. Actually, sickle cell here is a bad example; obviously there were no black people in my church. But whatever – the point is, I decided I was gonna step up and get all the people in the house to shoot a lil prayer up to the Big Fellah to rid my sister of those damn spots. So the moment comes, I sense a pause between “pray fors” and then step forward to speak. In actuality, I don’t think you step anywhere, but that’s how I remember of it. But guess what? We’re not IN actuality, so let it go for fuck’s sake. Anyway. It was my turn, I was ready, and I spoke up:
“Hi! My little sister’s got a bunch of stuff all over her.”
I coolly stepped back to my seat, so proud of my big brother-ness and knowing that now that I had God on my team my sister would be cured, and awaited a thunderous response from the rest of the church. Following, obviously, a lifetime of gratitude from my sister.
“I wanna watch Care Bears.”
“Yeah, well, we’re watching Adam-12.”
“I’m gonna tell Mom! I wanna watch Care Bears!”
“Really? Did your precious Care Bears arrange with God to have those ridiculous spots removed from your body?”
“I’m sorry.”
Ps – I hope it’s obvious which one of would wanna watch Care Bears, and which one wanted to watch Adam-12. Cough.
Meanwhile, back at the church, I had just delivered my big speech and…nothing. Total silence. Reverberating, even. What the fuck? I looked around at the collection of Miss Marples strewn throughout the place, all completely silent. Then I realized…DAMMIT!! I didn’t give the CUE, I didn’t say the “we pray to the Lord” bit! Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!! So after an awkward silence had passed, everybody else just carried on. I was devastated, I had fucked up the protocol and now God was gonna ignore my request. My sister would be forever afflicted with spots – and, worse, I would become known as the Freak Girl with the Spots’ Big Brother. Greeeeeeeeaaaaat. My first time ever 1) stepping up in the House of God and 2) trying to help someone whose name wasn’t “Me” and it was a total waste. Also: my only public speaking effort to date without an F-bomb. Lesson learnt, people: if you do not make the sheep go “baaaaaah,” you might as well say “fuck.”
Of course, the next day I actually got to see my sister up close and realized those weren’t spots on her body after all; what I had seen were little ducks on the blanket she was wrapped in. I guess it makes sense now…even back then, nobody just threw a newborn onto an elevator without any covering. Hey what the hell did I know? What am I, a goddam doctor? Side note: I get the feeling “what am I, a goddam doctor?” is going to make more than a few appearances throughout these memoirs. Hmm.
I don’t remember how long my mother was in the hospital after the delivery, but it was not an easy few days for the Wilson Men…in fact, I have no idea how we even survived since apparently my father had no idea where food was stored in his own house. All we heard for days was “where does your mother keep the peanut butter?” “where does your mother keep eggs?” “really? I own a kitchen?” I do remember one morning my dad tried to make us pancakes, which had I been a court reporter would be logged thusly:
7:20am: “GODDAMMIT!!!”
7:24am: “GODDAMMIT!!!”
7:30am: “GODDAMMIT!!!”
7:34am: “GODDAMMIT!!!”
Needless to say, we had hospital pancakes that day.
After a few days in the hospital of course they brought my sister home to live with us. As I’m typing that I’m laughing…like what the hell else was she going to do? “After a few days in the hospital of course my sister found herself a nice one-bedroom studio with a skylight and utilities included…”
I dunno, I guess she just laid there and cried/ate/slept like any baby. One funny thing about Sistatime! was that from the time she could crawl, she could find anything. I swear, she was like fucking bloodhound - you’d say “Sistatime! where’s my red cap?” and she’d scurry off and come back in a minute with the fucking hat. She’d be maybe 6 months old, did not know the English language, but she’d find exactly what you were looking for. Amazing. Whoever runs those Amber Alerts things should hire my sister; she’d have been kicking it at a Hardee’s with Natalee Holloway about 9 hours after being given the job. “Aruba, huh? What’s THAT like?”
Vivá la Sistatime! :)
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