My sister and I had thought the same thing at some point yesterday. We should start a joint blog, of all the funny shit we say. Because honestly? We’re comedians. Or, if you want to be all proper, comediennes. Do people even distinguish male and female comedians anymore? Or are they just all lumped together. Because if so, that’s sad. Women are getting the shaft here (insert your own joke here). That’s like now they just call them all flight attendants, not stewardesses. Like, to them, that’s offensive, which, really? WTF? Ok, maybe if you’re a guy, you don’t want to be called a stewardess, but does it really have to go so far as a person who assists you in the sky, get all uppity, like “NO, I am a flight attendant.”.
Where was I?
Ah yes, the two funny bitches. Between the two of us, we’ve got the market cornered on all of our funny childhood stories. And we were both thinking about the same story. I thought I had written about it here, at one point, but looking back through my archives, I guess I haven’t. Bonus for you, because it’s a good one.
When I was in high school, my sister, who is five years younger, was hanging out in my room. I think it was one of those rare times where we weren’t murdering each other. As we were sitting there, braiding our hair in our underwear (post pillow fight, natch), she turns to me, and says “you know? I always wanted to paint Daddy’s toenails.”
Not one to turn down a challenge, I grabbed a bottle of nail polish and said “let’s go.” As we snuck into our parents room, it was clear that it was going to be a challenge indeed, as my sister could not stop laughing. At some point, I shoved a comforter down her throat to stifle the laughter. My father, thankfully slept with his feet outside of the covers, which made my job slightly easier. I worked quickly making sure to get every toe, before my sister exploded, or died from asphyxiation.
The next morning, my father was getting ready to go play raquetball, as this was the 80′s and those awesome sweat bands were in fashion. As he walked out the door, he complained about his moccasins dyeing his feet, and then added, “you know, if I weren’t kidding, I’d think those girls painted my toenails in the middle of the night.” My mother turned over, and spotted the incriminating evidence sitting on their dresser. “Nah.” She thought. And went back to sleep.
When my father came home to show me, I laughed so hard, I fell off the bed. I tried to tell him we were out of nail polish remover, and he tried to tell me that the bank of dad was closed forever, if I didn’t produce any.