Thursday, February 1, 2007

The Bickersons

My Aunt Jean used to call my family "The Bickersons" because my sister and I were always at each other and my parents were either mediating or bickering about something else. That isn't to say we didn't have an excellent childhood or that Mom and Dad didn't get along -- my sister and I are buddies and my parents just celebrated their 40th anniversary.

As long as it doesn't veer into resentment or violence, there's nothing wrong with bickering. I'm a big believer in it. It keeps things fresh, it lets people know you know them well enough to push their buttons, and as long as things get resolved and there's no major ongoing problem that makes you hate the other person, it can be a healthy way to exorcise/exercise your agression.

For example: I was asking J what I should write about last night, and to get a prompt reaction, I stuck my finger in her armpit. This led to a poking match, then an elbowing match. Sometimes - and J does this to me also - I'll provoke her just because I'm bored. This probably doesn't qualify as bickering, but I'll let you know how this theory holds up over time.


amanda said...

I was going to tell this story to Jennny and Sara when I saw them in person but it seems perfect now, after your latest entry.
One night, Jeff and I were in bed, wrestling (or wraslin' as some would have us believe) and he looked at me and said "I love you, baby." Which is all fine and good except I thought he said , "I love you Bagel." I of course said, "What did you say?" And he said "I love you, baby." And I tried to tell him what I thought he said but I kept laughing and I couldn't get it out. Instead I kept spurting ' I thought you said... Baaaggheurd...." This (OF COURSE) reminded me of the time that Sara and I were on the train in D.C. on our way to Rochester to see Mike, and we hadn't slept in 18 or 24 or 36 hours, anyways, it was a long time for us, and we were on the train with perhaps the promise of lying down for the first time in a long time right before us and we were loud and delerious and happy to be almost lying down, if only the smucking train would MOVE. We were talking loudly, (or I was, if type fits type) certainly cursing and I looked over to my right and ahead of us and I saw soemthing that stopped me cold. "Sara...", I tried to say, "Sara, it's a pahhh....It's a pahhhh..." (Intersperse laughter and serious hysterical delusions at this point.) "It's a Prrriahh... It's a Pahhhh..." I am not exagerating, I am not inflating, and although I am given to hyperbole it is the real deal here people, I tried FOR TEN MINUTES to tell Sara, simply, plainly, that it was A PRIEST in front of us, until I finally, (In my head,now) SCREAMED "IT'S A PRIEST!!!" and we broke up, with the priest looking back at us like we were vermin, but laughing, giddy, 17- year old vermin on the first trip of their whole lives, kind of vermin.
The stories that come from not understanding, they're kind of like the friends you make when you're too young to know, the best and the worst and the ones you remember. The ones that make priest turn around, the ones that you can tell ten,twelve years later and still makeyou laugh telling them to nobody
Funny how one gets form Bagel to Priest, huh?

Sara J. Allen said...

Oh, is harboring resentment bad? Oops.