I am still giggling to myself about something bad I did while I was in Toronto a few weeks ago… but first, a bit of background story:
My sister hates Robin Williams. I mean, practically loathes him. Always has. She doesn’t find his manic antics the least bit humorous or entertaining. She might sit through a rerun or two of Mork & Mindy, but that’s pretty much where she draws the line. She simply hates the man. I have always found this to be curiously funny, since we grew up together and we tend to like a lot of the same stuff, but I suppose you just like what you like.
About five or six years ago, when my sister’s birthday came rolling around, and my father inquired as to what she might like, she gave him a list of DVDs she’d be interested in owning, as she was beginning to compile a library of classics. I should mention here that my father is a gift-buying-challenged man, but can do rather well if you tell him you need any kind of electronic item from, say, Canadian Tire, or he can purchase wisely from the Chapters/Indigo stores, (since his favorite, Coles, is all but gone now) but that’s about it. Don’t ask for clothes or anything fancy like that. It’s okay though – we’ve adjusted to his ways from long ago now, but it often pays to be precise with dad.
Nikola gave him a list of about a dozen movies that included titles such as Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Roman Holiday and West Side Story. The idea was in hopes that he might get maybe two or three of these listed items, and call it a birthday. Easy enough, it would seem.
Dad is adamant that she requested this movie. She is looking at him, wondering if he is stroking out in front of our very eyes.
My husband and I were in Toronto for the festivities, and were present when my father dropped by my sister’s place to hand her a large manilla office envelope with her booty inside. (Dad can often be gift-wrapping-challenged too – in the past, he has cleverly tricked us into wrapping our own gifts for birthdays or Christmas – but that’s just dad. We love him just the same.) I wondered which from the list he’d chosen/found to give her.
She tore open the yellow envelope, and reached inside, instantly delighted by the DVDs she pulled out, one after the other. Roman Holiday… yay! Breakfast at Tiffany’s… score!! Her wide grin began to fade when she pulled out one of the others… it was Mrs. Doubtfire - the movie I think my sister hates more than any other, ever made. Naturally, I start collapsing into a huge fit of hysterical giggles. I am pointing and laughing at her. My poor father has no idea why this is funny.
She’s trying her best to be gracious, of course – she ain’t so badly mannered (usually) but I can tell from the look on her face, she’s thinking What kind of fresh fuckery is this?, but she actually says something like, “Um, thanks so much, dad… um… but why this one, exactly?”
He looked at her with a curious face. “You wanted that one, didn’t you?”
“Um, no.” She says flatly. I am KILLING myself with laughter.
“Yes, mon! You said you wanted that one…” Our parents are Jamaican. Add your own accent.
“Uh, really… no.” Dad is adamant that she requested this movie. She is looking at him, wondering if he is stroking out in front of our very eyes. I was so delighted by this exchange, I had to leave the room so I wouldn’t piddle on the floor. Of ALL the movies in the world… and if he was to EVER go off-book and choose something… it was all just too much for me. I broke into giggles for hours afterward, but she didn’t think it was so funny. I was dying of laughter. I mean, c’mon now. That. Is. Funny.
She would exact her revenge on me soon enough though.
We returned to Montreal from our time away, road-weary and stumbling into the house, just eager to get to bed already. I started to unpack my bags, looking for my pajamas and stuff, and while unzipping the last pocket on my oversized duffle, what do you think I found amongst all my crap? Oh yes. Mrs. Doubtfire. My sister had snuck it in there somehow. Oh, that bitch…
And so began the game in which we’ve been “trading” this stupid movie between us for the last several years. The next time my sister visited us, I tucked it deep into her luggage before she could notice it was there. The next time she came, I went to bed the night she left, and my head went clunk against something hard in my pillow case. Oh, that bitch…
Does she have it this time? Has she stashed it somewhere yet? WHERE could it be?!
I’ve left it in the vegetable crisper in her fridge. She’s zipped it inside my dog’s bed cushion. I brilliantly chucked it into the trunk of her car before she drove away once, only to find my brilliance spoiled, when my husband, who’d returned home from work, entering from the backdoor as usual, arrived with the DVD in his hands. Not… in the… trunk? WHY do you have that?!
He said, “I think your sister left this on the window ledge in the back.” Oh, that bitch…
I don’t know how many times we’ve passed it back and forth this way, but the disc is in way-bad shape now. I found it in the washing machine after washing a load once… completely destroyed. But the point is not to actually watch it. We never have. (We’ve seen the movie on TV, of course, but we’ve never watched this version we’re playing with, on an actual machine. Clearly, it’s too late now.)
I left it in one of her expansive closets when I was with her last. I guess it’s out of the bag now. Or out of the closet, if you wish.
The most devilish part of this fun is not knowing whether or not the keeper actually has the DVD on her person when we visit. Does she have it this time? Has she stashed it somewhere yet? WHERE could it be?! And once one of us leaves the other, the one at home turns her place upside down, trying to locate the offending item. Sometimes it hasn’t been stashed anywhere – not this time… and then your whole house becomes a disaster zone for days while you’re looking for it. That’s the deliciously horrible fun of it all. We don’t speak about it – we just do it.
I’m pretty sure she’s found it by now, as I’ve been home for two weeks now. It’s kind of unfair anyway, since her place is smaller than mine, with less nooks and crannies in which to hide the goods, but man, do I ever love this stupid game. I love the challenge of finding a good hiding spot. It’s like hide-and-go-seek, only long-distance. You can never be certain when you’ll be “it.”
I love my sister. She is probably hating me so much right now. She is totally “it”.
G.G.
