The Tattletale!

If my brothers could have gotten grades for teasing, they would have been straight A students.  In fact, they were so abnormally brilliant, they should have been on the Honor Roll, making the Dean’s list for at least a decade.   

And me?  I would have gotten an A for single-handedly tattling an infinite amount.  And an A+!*  for being the loudest crier in the house.  I was out-numbered two against one. My two brothers buried me at Jones’ Beach because they said, “I was their little treasure!”  What a line of bologna!   But as their little sister, I fell for it.

The holy terrors cut off Barbie's head 

and if that wasn’t enough mischief for two little boys, they ruined all my Barbie coloring books by drawing green squiggles under her perky nose on every single page.  Not exactly glamorous for the diva of dolls, although funny in retrospect.

So, really…can you blame me for tattling? 

As I grew up, the teasing changed a bit.  I remember the time I was madly in love with all the boys in second grade.  When I came home from school, I took black magic marker, pink card board paper and wrote:

I taped the four words to my wall and then went around the corner to the candy store and had a slice of cheese pizza and a cherry Coke.  My brother’s walked in and asked for a sip of my Coke and a little itty bitty bite of pizza.  In one fell swoop, both were gone and so were the boys.

By the time I returned home, I was hungry, thirsty- no Pizza, no Coke- and really mad at them.  I went to my bedroom for peace and quiet. Seeing the wall, I screamed, “Mommmyyyyy!”  

Someone removed one word, making me admit that I was nuts. I’m not exactly accusing Bobby or Dickie, since I did not witness the defiling of my well intentioned sentence...but YOU do the math.

Now I ask you…how much more could a girl take?

And so I yelled. A lot. And loud.

Enter Dad.  To the rescue.  

“Bobby,” his voice boomed, “did you do this?”

Bobby’s lip quivered.

My father ripped his belt out from the loops so quickly we could hear the leather snapping. 

“No, Daddy!  Not the strap!”   Now Bobby was crying.

“The strap!”

My eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Into your room!  I’m going to punish you for teasing your sister!”

“No Daddy!  Nooooooooooooooo!”

My father marched him into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

I heard the belt snap over and over again.

I fell to the floor like a rag doll, sobbing hysterically.  “I promise not to tattle anymore, Daddy.  Please don’t hurt Bobby!  Pleaseeeeeee Daddy!  Stoppppppp!”

I heard Bobby being beaten to a pulp.

Again, my brother screamed, “No, Daddy!  Noooooo!  I promise to be good!”

 “Too late, young man!  You’ve teased your sister too much!  Now I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. 

And with that, I heard the belt smack again and again and again, making a horrible, crackling sound.

Bobby cried out after each strike.

I begged for mercy, feeling guilt and remorse for tattling.  It didn’t matter.  The pounding Daddy gave Bobby continued for what seemed like hours.  I was sure Bobby was dead. 

Finally the door opened.  I was afraid to look up. But I did, wiping away a truck load of tears.

When Bobby finally came out of the room, his head was hanging.

Dad shook his finger at Bobby, “Now say you’re sorry to your sister.”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his behind.

I grabbed Bobby and held him tight. I cried my eyes out, telling him how sorry I was for tattling.

Before you call CPS, Here’s the Rest of the Story:

Years later, I discovered that both my father and Bobby tricked me. 

It seems that while Bobby was allegedly being beaten by my father, screaming and hollering for mercy, my dad in actuality was beating the dresser in the bedroom, pretending he was hitting my brother.

My dad was the kindest, most gentle father in the world.  I should have known he would never hit my brother.  Again I was the butt of their joke.  And to this day, the boys continue to blast me with noogies, reminding me again that They Got Me Good!

That’s okay because what they don’t know is that now I’m tattling about them on my blog for the entire world to see.

Paybacks are hell!  But, oh, so much fun!  Now look who has the last laugh!  Gotta love the Internet!

Smack in the Kissa!

It’s no secret the day I was born, my brothers ran away from home.  I had no idea I had that effect on men…albeit young men.  Eventually, my brothers moved back home and as the months went by, they realized I wasn’t that bad. True having a puppy would have been better, but for second choice I wasn’t a terrible alternative, even if I was a girl.

Bobby and Heidi

Dickie and Heidi

Sometimes it was fun for the boys to play with me.  

Dickie and Heidi with baseball trading cards.

Most of the time it was fun to just poke me. I was their human play toy. Not quite as cool as G.I. Joe…but, at least they could get a reaction out of me which was their goal…unlike G.I. Joe who always remained cool, calm and collected. Talk about a stoic face...almost like my face~yeah, right.

Now, take a good look at my brothers:   Aren’t they absolutely, positively the most darling boys you have ever seen? Don't they look harmless? Adorable? Non threatening?  WRONG!  Oh, how appearances are deceiving!

Bobby-Kindergarten Graduate and Dickie

This picture was taken five years before I was even a twinkle in my parent’s eye. That's when they were presumed innocent.  Then I was born.

Who knew Bobby, the cutie pie wearing a kindergarten graduation cap, could turn out to be:  Evil Knievel? 

  

Or Dickie with the angelic face... 

He became goodie-two shoes when he watched Bobby getting into all kinds of trouble…but there was mischief lurking behind those baby brown eyes...and I would find out soon enough.

Let's fast forward five years or so…

On one particular winter night, something magical happened.  It snowed all night long until the early hour of the morning.  It was quiet. Peaceful. The schools were closed. Stores were closed.  Long Island was a winter wonderland.

The snow had drifted all the way to the top of the roof of the house. We were buried in up to the chimney.  Quite the adventure for kids with great imaginations. Poor dad had to figure out a way to get at least one door to open.

And so he did, much to my brother’s delight.  They played outdoors in the snow for hours, creating what would turn out to be a morning of human torture for me, their little sister, innocent and gullible.  I wasn’t exactly a formidable adversary, but fun to torment none-the-less.

Both boys were busy in the backyard building an enormous wall out of snow.  It was much more like an ice fortress and perfectly sculptured.

Dickie-Head Engineer

When they finished, they made snow balls and carefully placed each one on top of the wall.  They called my name and enticed me to come outside to see what they built.  

At five, I believed in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny-even though I was Jewish. I couldn’t wait to play with my big brothers, but they had other things in mind…like target practice!  Picture me as the red dot in an archery target.  Get the picture?

They looked at me.  I looked back with innocent eyes until the first perfectly formed snowball was thrown at me and hit me smack in the kissa.

I was their target practice, like when you throw the ball at the moving ducks at a carnival and have to knock them down. I knew I was in trouble. Talk about a dead duck!  Too young to know what was going on or to duck, they convinced me to come closer and look at the fort.

Ah, the innocence of youth. As I walked further into the backyard, my little body was caught in a snow drift up to my chest.  Running away was out of the question.  I couldn’t move forward or backward.  I was literally stuck in the snow.  And that was their goal.  Diabolical, don't you think?

Then I saw the gleam in Bobby’s eyes.  Oh no!

The snowballs that lined their perfectly engineered snow fort, made it easy to discharge ten snow globes in a row at top speed. The boys took turns bombarding me with snowballs one after another: Bam! Bam! Bam! What fun they had.

As they continued to blast me with snowballs, I screamed in a high pitched voice that could crack crystal glasses a mile away.  Remember the commercial of Ella Fitzgerald singing for Memorex?  She hit the highest note humanly possible and shattered glass.  Let’s just say my bellowing probably sent the neighborhood dogs running wildly in all directions. Talk about a voice that traveled faster than the speed of light, breaking the sound barrier.  That was pretty much how I reacted when my brother’s ganged up on me.

My father, the diplomat, who was as boyish as my brothers (and devilish, too) came running outside, trying to hide a smile and gave the boys the best scowl he possibly could muster with upturned lips.  Some unspoken punishment!

Super-Dad to the rescue!  He lifted me above his head with my arms dangling this way and that and brought me safely into the warm house.

My father, dressed in a ski parka, may not have worn a Super-Hero cape that snowy morning, but he would always be my Super-Hero.  Until the day I tattled one too many times…