~ The Stink Eye! ~

The day I was born, my brothers ran away from home.  

Bobby was ten and Dickie was six.  They wanted a puppy.  Instead they got me.  Armed with two salami sandwiches, miniature green army men and packs of baseball cards containing a stick of pink bubble gum tucked under their arms, my grandmother watched them move into the playhouse in the backyard. The boys were determined to live out the rest of their years with a lawnmower, ladder and clipping shears decorating their new camp.

If you think being the youngest and only girl was easy, guess again. I didn’t stand a chance.  I was a human pin cushion~ I was picked on, tickled to death, and the recipient of the dreaded Noogies and Indian burns that were inflicted upon me whenever my parents left me alone with the two holy terrors.

Blind faith and trust in my big brothers always got me into trouble.  You’d think I’d learn, but no matter what the boys did, I always believed their version of the truth. 

Like the time we went to Jones Beach. 

Back in those days, no one used sunscreen.  The product hadn’t been invented.  Coppertone was the covering of choice.  It was reckless not to come home with lobster skin that peeled for days. The moms would wear one piece bathing suits with built-in pointy bras and don a “schmattah-like” scarf on their over-bleached blonde hair.

The expedition in the car went something like this:

In the back seat, I was sandwiched between my big brothers, like  Bologna on white. Bobby was on my left and Dickie on my right. Bobby would glance at Dickie.  That knowing naughty look.  Of course I was only three and didn’t notice anything other than my Barbie.  Bobby would tap my right shoulder to get Dickie, who was sitting on my right, in trouble. 

I’d look at Dickie.  “Quit it!”

“I didn’t do it. Bobby did!”

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Then Dickie would tap my left shoulder and blame poor Bobby for teasing me.

“Stop ittttttttt!” I whined.

“Boys, leave your sister alone,” my mother would say with the voice.

It worked for a nanosecond. 

Round two went something like this:

Bobby:   "Hey Doozie, how many ugly pills did you take today?"

Me:        "I didn’t take any," I insisted.

Bobby:    "Then, why are you soooooooooo ugly?"

My eyes would well with tears. Just as I was about to tattle and scream, “Mommyyyyy!”  Bobby would give me the Stink Eye.

I knew I better not tell or he’d give me a noogie I’d never forget.

This was too much fun for a thirteen year old.  Next, he enlisted the help of Dickie.

Basically Dickie was Mr.Goodie-two-shoes.  Primarily because he watched Bobby get into all kinds of trouble and he learned very quickly what not to do. I think he lived vicariously through our big brother but 

Dickie was smart enough to avoid getting caught. On the rare occasion that he did, the six-year old turned lawyer could reason, plead and explain himself silly to my parents who had to be amused by his charms and erudite explanations.

Bobby had no self-control.  He just couldn’t contain himself.  Teasing me was his mission.  One can’t change fate.  So, he continued tormenting me by spelling my first name slowly to catch my attention:  “H…e….i…d…i…”

I looked up.  He was talking, rather spelling, about me. This much I knew and I also knew this couldn’t be good.  The boys were planning and plotting against me, but I barely knew my alphabet.  How could I figure out what they were spelling?  I didn’t stand a chance.

Bobby saw how tormented I was and knew the flood gates were about to open.  There it was again:  The Stink Eye!

I bit my lip, trying so hard not to tattle.

Dickie continued spelling much to my dismay.  “H..e..i..d..i.. is  a… g…i…r…l."

That’s all I could take!  “Mommyyyyyy!  The boys are spelling about me!”

Bobby gave me a noogie to my upper arm before my mother turned around.

The teasing would continue until I burst into tears.  Then my dad would chime in, “If you don’t stop it, I’m going to pull the car over right now!”

If he was especially annoyed, or at least pretending to be, he’d pull off to the side of the road and add, “If you boys don’t stop teasing your sister this minute, I’m turning the car around.”

We were quiet for another ten minutes until we asked in unison, “Are we almost thereeeeeeeeee?”

My poor parents.  I don’t know how they survived parenthood. Or the thirty minute drive to Jones Beach most Sundays.

By the time we got there, we were starving.  There is something about being cooped up in a vehicle, teasing and tattling, that works up an appetite.

My mother would take out a spread to choke a pig.  Prepared food covered with wax paper, paper plates, cups and plastic forks were strategically placed on a big beach blanket protected by netted covers. Remember?  We always had all kinds of goodies, including ham sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise, a large can of Charles Chips (New Yorkers are smiling), super delicious homemade potato salad, mom’s doctored-up Lipton’s ice tea with cooked lemons and a truck-load of sugar that could easily rot the teeth of everyone in the US, and hardboiled eggs which somehow were always covered with beach sand.  Probably my brothers doing.

On one particular beach outing, Barbie and I were minding our business when suddenly Bobby called my name.  I was thrilled.  My big brother wanted to play with me.  How great was that!

The boys were digging all the way to China or at least that’s what they told me.  I didn’t really know where China was, but I figured it must be pretty far away because the hole was rather deep.

“Hey, Doozie,” Dickie called out.  “Can you help us?”

Me help my big brothers?  Didn’t I feel important.

“Stand in the hole so we can see how deep it is.  That way we know how much more digging we have to do.  Ya know, China’s pretty far away.”

The next thing I knew I was buried alive, sand up to my chin.  The boys were howling with laughter.

The funny thing about childhood memories is how the victim remembers all the details and perpetrators~nada!  To this day, both brothers swear they never buried me in the sand at Jones Beach. 

But I have proof.  There’s a picture of me up to my ears in sand.  My dad always took pictures at odd moments.  Like the time I had mono or had four impacted wisdom teeth pulled and my face was the size of a Buick.  So, of course, Dad took a picture of me buried. That’s okay, I got even when he was killing a spider in his underwear on his hands and knees and Click!  I got him backside up!

Here’s the problem:  I have been searching for the Jones Beach photo for years in my mother’s house. She has a box of pictures dating back to at least 500 BC.  The boys have visited her numerous times and on one particular visit I saw Bobby rummaging through the box.

Interesting how the proof is suddenly missing now that I want to blog about that adventure. Could the timing be better?  I know Bobby confiscated that photograph. If it takes a lifetime, I will hunt it down and post it at a later date and give Bobby the Stink Eye for pilfering the evidence.

But until then, all I can say is that living with my brothers was no day at the beach.