Sentimentality - Jo and Mads
There are few people in this world who can really make me laugh. I’m not saying when I laugh at your jokes, I’m not amused. I probably am. But I mean the deep, guttural laugh that comes from the bottom of my stomach and rumbles up through my chest, exploding out of my mouth, my smile not only hurting my cheeks but lengthening the corners of my mouth so as to press up against the bottom of my eyes, gushing out tears that delightfully distort my vision as I double over, every bit of me trembling with blissful release.
My sisters have always been able to do this.
Madeline has what I call “PCPD”, or “Pop-Culture Personality Disorder”. Sometimes it’s hard to discern where the movie and television quotes end and she begins. You might be in the middle of a conversation with her, it could be entirely serious or completely silly, but in any case you can count on her to spew a random quote from something, usually in an outrageous voice, and then maniacally laugh her demented head off. Sometimes her quote will actually fit into the conversation, but she will inevitably belt out that laugh, eyes bugged, and you’ll know a screw is loose in her head somewhere. But the thing is she’s actually a shy person. She only behaves in this way around family and her closest friends. There’s a security in knowing that. Something about her bending her index finger into a hook, squinting one eye, and deepening her voice to exclaim “Meeooooooow!” for the sake of her “Pirate Cat” impression is comforting; she trusts you, even in her dementia.
Joanna, on the other hand, is more subtle in her hilarity. She has an uncanny ability to keep her face straight in even the most hysterical situations. She might let rip a ghastly fart and then gawk at you, dead pan, and say, “My god. Did you just crap a skunk??” Or she’ll knock on your bedroom door and whether you grant her entry or not, she’ll come in. She’ll stare at you in complete seriousness and utter something like, “The rooster flies at dawn”, bug her eyes in sincerest urgency, and then back out of your room slowly, keeping eye contact with you until she finally flings her body dramatically from sight, maybe even shout with finality, “You have been warned!” You could be in a bad mood, something melodramatic and angst-ridden plaguing you, looking to her to comfort your wounded, self-pitied nonsense. And she’ll give you that stare, eyes dead, eyebrows flat, and say “This story doesn’t involve me and it doesn’t involve puppies. Do I look like I care?” And something about it sets you off, gets you laughing, makes you forget your nothing troubles.
When I lived in the house down 211 and I’d shut myself up in my room in my oh-so troubled seclusion, Jo and Mads rarely let me get away with it. I’d be slumped on my bed, eyes glazed as I tried to immerse myself in whatever happened to be on my television, and I’d hear a small fwip as a note was shoved under my door. I’d have to get up, which was a huge step in and of itself. And upon reading the note, a smile would almost always crack my surly demeanor… though I’d never confess it to them. “You stink!! Seriously, we can smell you from out here!” “The Wells-Fargo wagon is a’COMIN’ down the street, oh please let it be for ME!” “Dear Liz, those pants make your butt look big. Sincerely, Jo.” “Pirate Cat says MREOOOW!” Any number of completely ludicrous notes were slipped under my door in an attempt to get me to come out. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. But it always, always made me smile. And when it did work, when I’d emerge from my room like a 5-year old who realized that the bully at school who took her crayons really didn’t matter and hiding in her room wasn’t going to solve anything, they’d inevitably wrench that deep laugh out of me as if the only thing that mattered at all was our silly insanity that we alone could appreciate.
I realize now, as these shared moments with them become fewer and farther between, that instances like that, people like that, really are all that matters in life. That in gloomy moments of personal strife I just need a note slipped under my door that may, to the untrained eye, tell me I smell funny, but to me obviously says that someone cares and that I’m not by myself in the world despite whatever I may think.
My sisters have always been able to do this.
Madeline has what I call “PCPD”, or “Pop-Culture Personality Disorder”. Sometimes it’s hard to discern where the movie and television quotes end and she begins. You might be in the middle of a conversation with her, it could be entirely serious or completely silly, but in any case you can count on her to spew a random quote from something, usually in an outrageous voice, and then maniacally laugh her demented head off. Sometimes her quote will actually fit into the conversation, but she will inevitably belt out that laugh, eyes bugged, and you’ll know a screw is loose in her head somewhere. But the thing is she’s actually a shy person. She only behaves in this way around family and her closest friends. There’s a security in knowing that. Something about her bending her index finger into a hook, squinting one eye, and deepening her voice to exclaim “Meeooooooow!” for the sake of her “Pirate Cat” impression is comforting; she trusts you, even in her dementia.
Joanna, on the other hand, is more subtle in her hilarity. She has an uncanny ability to keep her face straight in even the most hysterical situations. She might let rip a ghastly fart and then gawk at you, dead pan, and say, “My god. Did you just crap a skunk??” Or she’ll knock on your bedroom door and whether you grant her entry or not, she’ll come in. She’ll stare at you in complete seriousness and utter something like, “The rooster flies at dawn”, bug her eyes in sincerest urgency, and then back out of your room slowly, keeping eye contact with you until she finally flings her body dramatically from sight, maybe even shout with finality, “You have been warned!” You could be in a bad mood, something melodramatic and angst-ridden plaguing you, looking to her to comfort your wounded, self-pitied nonsense. And she’ll give you that stare, eyes dead, eyebrows flat, and say “This story doesn’t involve me and it doesn’t involve puppies. Do I look like I care?” And something about it sets you off, gets you laughing, makes you forget your nothing troubles.
When I lived in the house down 211 and I’d shut myself up in my room in my oh-so troubled seclusion, Jo and Mads rarely let me get away with it. I’d be slumped on my bed, eyes glazed as I tried to immerse myself in whatever happened to be on my television, and I’d hear a small fwip as a note was shoved under my door. I’d have to get up, which was a huge step in and of itself. And upon reading the note, a smile would almost always crack my surly demeanor… though I’d never confess it to them. “You stink!! Seriously, we can smell you from out here!” “The Wells-Fargo wagon is a’COMIN’ down the street, oh please let it be for ME!” “Dear Liz, those pants make your butt look big. Sincerely, Jo.” “Pirate Cat says MREOOOW!” Any number of completely ludicrous notes were slipped under my door in an attempt to get me to come out. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. But it always, always made me smile. And when it did work, when I’d emerge from my room like a 5-year old who realized that the bully at school who took her crayons really didn’t matter and hiding in her room wasn’t going to solve anything, they’d inevitably wrench that deep laugh out of me as if the only thing that mattered at all was our silly insanity that we alone could appreciate.
I realize now, as these shared moments with them become fewer and farther between, that instances like that, people like that, really are all that matters in life. That in gloomy moments of personal strife I just need a note slipped under my door that may, to the untrained eye, tell me I smell funny, but to me obviously says that someone cares and that I’m not by myself in the world despite whatever I may think.