Monday, December 18, 2006

• And So This is Mavis. . .

  At Christmas time 1971, I was ten years old, and in the fifth grade and my sister had just entered her teens. Our Christmas lists had evolved from dolls and carriages to the more mature wants of record albums and bell bottom jeans. My sister, being older, was allowed the bell bottoms and even dangle earrings. She even got the record on her list -- Who's Next. I remember my father snickering at the now infamous album cover of the four band members walking away from the little cement structure leaving it stained with the evidence of their presence. Neither my sister or Dad pointed it out to Mavis. 

  And while my sister practiced with the newly acquired makeup and hair curler, I sat there in the plaid pants (groan) and pigtails while my growing pains gnawed at my innards. Oh, how I wanted bell bottoms, and dangly earrings. "But how come she gets it?" I would ask, and always receive the same answer, "because she's the oldest."   It wasn't fair, as far as I was concerned. After all, Mavis got things SHE wanted for Christmas, that were cooler than what my grandmother got. If age was the barrier to cool presents, then it seemed to follow that my grandmother should be getting wicked good stuff, way better than what Mavis got, right? 

  "You just don't know how to ask," my sister advised.

  "What do you mean? Of course I know how to ask. I say 'can I' and they say 'no'. How many ways are there to ask?"

  "Ah, but you're asking for the stuff you really want. That's no way to get it."

  I was confounded, but I watched my older and wiser sister, put her Christmas list together the next year. She asked for halter tops and a fringed leather vest, and platform shoes. 

  "There's no way you're gonna get that!" I said, knowing Mavis' opinion of fringe and platforms.

  "No kidding, but I don't want them.  What I DO want is that poncho and wider bells and hip hugger jeans. Mom always says they're too racy and says no."

  "So asking for a halter will get you bells?"

  "Yup."

  I was mystified, and stuck to my strategy of asking for what I really wanted. Well come Christmas morning 1972, there was the poncho and hip huggers for my sister, and there I sat with an new batch of baby dolls. "But Di got hiphuggers!" . . . "She's older. . "

  During the next year, I set out trying to solve my problem. I still wasn't convinced that my sister had it right. But that older argument wasn't holding water anymore either.  Then came my birthday the summer of 1973, when I turned 12. I asked for a new bike, one that didn't have silly babylike flowers all over it, but a more mature looking bike. Of course, I was vetoed. 

  But while we were out shopping, something happened that I never expected. Mavis farted. Right there in the middle of the crowded bike shop. I turned and asked very loud, "mom was that YOU?" 

  She turned white, as all faces turned, and in her haste to get to the register, grabbed the tag for the bigger bike and held it up like a talisman and told me to hush.  I did. And the bike was mine.

  Ah, so that's it! It's not how old you are, it's what you got on Mavis that gets you the presents.

  I tucked that bit of knowledge away and when the time came to write my list, I wrote out what I wanted as always, and my sister made her outlandish demands.  Over shopping season, I followed Mavis, waiting for an opportunity for public humiliation. . . but she was more careful than she had been in the summer. 

  Then, when all hope had seemed to fade, my moment came. It was rather late, true, and only one day left for shopping, but it came in the unexpected combination of Whoopie Pies and Vodka.

  On December 23,  Mavis decided to get festive and do some Christmas baking. She fired up the music (Dean Martin's Let it Snow) and set about baking up a record breaking batch of whoopie pies. (Moon pies to you southerners).  As she mixed the chocolate batter, dad asked if she was in the mood for a little Christmas cocktail, since they weren't planning on going anywhere. She thought that was a fine idea and he made her a vodka and oj screwdriver.  She sipped as she baked.

  Meanwhile, my sister and I were in the living room watching TV, and playing around with a little tape recorder, looking for fun things to record. That's when we started to hear the giggles coming from the kitchen. "One Whooopeee! Weeee" followed by the plopping sound of cream hitting the little cake.

  We peeked over the wall, and there she was. Nursing her drink, while putting the filling between the cakes, then stuffing them into little plastic bags. "And there's another! Weeeeeeee" she tossed the baggy into a bowl with a pile of other mangled up little cakes.

  "Holy shit!" my sister whispered. "Mom's plastered!"

  "She can't be, it's only one drink!"

  "Uh uh, more than that, look!"

  Dad was enjoying the antics, and whenever Mavis turned away from her drink, he poured a bit more into it. 

  Soon the whoopie pies were flying! And the laughing was getting more fun. That's when I had my brilliant idea. I snapped on the tape recorder, then went into the kitchen playing "news reporter" . . .

  "Hello there," I said, playing up my part. "I'm reporting for the Daily Living Room, and wanted to ask what you thought about chocolate."

  "Ooooh You're so cute!" She gushed. "I love chocolate, and whoooopeeeeeeee, catch!"

  She tossed a baggy  over the wall partition and it landed on my sister's lap. We were stunned. Not only was Mavis plotzed but she was throwing food. Mavis, the queen of clean was tossing baggies full of whoopie pies. The counter top and cupboards were dotted with little daubs of cream and batter, and there was even cream on the ceiling!

  The next morning, she waddled into the kitchen, old cream hardened in her hair, groaning. When she got a look at the kitchen she screamed, and promptly began to blame my sister and I for the shambles. My dad cracked up, and told her the mess was her very own! She didn't believe him, she wouldn't believe him! She got down right indignant in denying it.  That's when I brought out the tape.

  Her face was priceless as she listened. At the end, she hit the stop button, then looked up at me sweetly. "You haven't uh, shared this with anyone have you?"

  I smiled, but didn't answer.

  She got up, got cleaned up, then told dad she had one more errand to run before the stores closed for Christmas Eve.

  The next day I couldn't wait to show off my new bell bottoms, dangly earrings and fringed vest.

  My sister wasn't amused with the Barbie.

   

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