Sleep is for SISSIES!

If my family was a starch, they certainly wouldn't be labeled, “Couch Potatoes.”  Rather, we are more like instant rice (who has the time or patience for it to cook? We have stuff to do and Pronto.) Time is of the essence meets Energizer Bunnies on steroids.  That’s us in a nutshell.

Sleep?  What’s that?  Sleep is for sissies.  As my father used to say, “We’ll sleep when we’re dead.”

He took vacationing to a whole new level.  He’d be too excited to sleep during a trip and would take a shower and begin his morning routine about 4:30, letting the family sleep in until, if we were lucky, 6 am or so.

He’d run out and get a newspaper, scope out the nearest breakfast joint and return and look at an exhausted family hiding under the blankets, hoping he’d take pity on us and let us sleep until at least seven. 

But no.  Not in the cards. He’d rip open the hotel’s blackout curtains and in his usual chipper morning voice say, “What are you going to do?  Sleep the day away?”

Heavens!  Sleeping until 4:30 was still the middle of the night in my estimation.

My family is full of life…or full of something.  I’m a night owl.  I can stay up until the roosters cock-a-doodle-do…but as soon as my head hits the pillow…give a girl a little break.  Some of us need our beauty sleep and as Bobby always asked, more like taunted,  How many ugly pills did you take today?  So for reasons like this, I NEED MY SLEEP!!! And for comments like his,  I wanted to kill him and ultimately give him the stink eye.  At this rate I’m certain I’ll need Botox for all the glaring he causes me to give him.

My family always has activities planned around the clock: sight-seeing, excursions to Tubac, Nogales, Phoenix, Gaslight Theatre, concerts, art galleries, parks and picnics, never skipping a beat or a meal mind you.  Talk about charge the enemy!

We don’t stop until we drop and even then some members of the clan (who shall remain nameless) don’t take pity on my now 90 year old mother and after a long day of running around we always return to mom’s house for more meals and snacks on the hour, movies on the TV or the latest rave:  Scopa, an Italian card game.

Scopa ~ An Italian Card Game

Now the problem with Scopa is that no one in my family knows how to keep score which to most people would seem pointless. Why would we even play the game when we don’t know who the winner is?  Maybe that’s a good thing.  It keeps the family peace.  We play with a vengeance, like we know what we’re doing. 

Asso, Bastoni, Spade, Coppe ~ Scopa Cards

Bobby, The Noogie-Man keeps saying, “Hey!  What’s with that?” wrinkling his forehead as though he is being tortured by the Nazi’s, pretending he had bad cards and then scoops all the cards off the table. Not Niiiice!

Donna, Cavallo, Re, Bastoni , Settebello, Spade ~ Scopa Cards

I throw my hands up in disgust, when he says one more time:  “What’s with that?”  And he takes a photograph of me. Can you believe that?  It's not easy being his sister!  I’m dying  to give him a Noogie but settle with the stink eye.

Family get-togethers always bring out the children in us.  We resort to being little kids, vying for mom’s attention, while we tease and torture each other. Her approving smile radiates the room and round two begins.

What can I say?  It’s the Peter Pan syndrome.  We don’t want to grow up.  And we have a helluva role model:  My mother, the fabulous ever so young and playful:  Helen(e) with an E.  I just hope I have her genes: designer, rhinestones and all!

Heidi Goldman's fabulous mother ~ Helene Goldman