Herman Anne
Sunday evening, I received a call from my cousin: “I just want to know why you’re writing about orgasms on my birthday.”
Well, hello to you too, little missy.
She’s probably right that I should have feted her properly (sorry, I’m really digging that word lately) on her 19th birthday, instead of writing a shock-jock kind of post about faking it. But as I pointed out – before she had a chance to do so – I’ve been a pretty lousy cousin and confidante lately. Did it make her feel any better to know that it’s not just her – that I don’t call ANYONE?
She didn’t care. She’s too busy making plans to meet Kim Jong Il at the petting zoo. But first, she had to get her eight pound hairy black weiner checked out.
Are you lost yet?
Never mind. Just laugh.
You see, Herman Anne (and that’s not her real name, just in case you’re wondering) is the only child of my mother’s youngest sister – the aunt with whom I’ve always been closest. She was born one sunny Tuesday afternoon while I was on spring break, sophomore year of high school, before answering machines were invented, so I kept calling my mother every fifteen minutes to ask if the baby had been born yet. And I didn’t even like babies.
But I loved my Herman Anne – and I still do.
I picked her up from day care in her mother’s red Camaro, carefully strapping her into a rear-facing seat in the front seat of that death trap. I introduced her to MTV (back when they played videos). We watched Cinderella for HOURS on Saturday mornings when I babysat while her mother picked up some extra nursing shifts. I picked Rice Krispies off the bottoms of her feet. I learned about the wonders of Teddy Grahams (still in existence) and Fritos Wild-n-Mild chips (long gone).
Like her mother, Herman Anne can always make me laugh. She is ridiculously clever – more so than most people who are three times her age. While she is not above toilet humor, she rarely has to resort to that. Instead, she clothes the poor and feeds the naked and speaks in the voice of her Golden Retriever, Britta (who has a Boston accent and calls herself Birta). She also draws fabulously detailed pictures of the trials and tribulations of caring for Baby Tacy (ostensibly while Baby Tacy is taking a nap).
When Tacy was three months old, Herman Anne came to stay with us for a month, taking on the persona of Nanny Birta. (Usually Birta is a Queen, so this was quite a demotion, but Birta handled it in style.) Herman Anne cared for Baby Tacy during the day while Kyle and I were at work. Both then and now, I am supremely grateful to her for her service, and I hope that the trip to the Yankees v. Mets game at Shea Stadium – where a streaker ran across the field during the game and we got hopelessly lost in the back alleys of Queens afterward – made up for the agony she endured.
When I was pregnant with CJ, Herman Anne came to stay with us for two weeks. Nanny Birta stayed at home, because Tacy was in day care by then. So Herman Anne came into the city with me each day, where I’d print maps and draw X’s on all the fabulous places she should go – most notably Dylan’s Candy Bar and the dog run at Carl Schurz Park – and she’d walk around and buy presents for everyone back home.
Because not only is Herman Anne ridiculously funny and quite adventurous, she’s kind and considerate. I honestly can’t think of another young woman who was ever so thoughtful and mature. I know that saying that makes me sound as if I’m eighty, but I don’t care. That Herman Anne is a peach, I’ll tell you.
Now Herman Anne attends the largest state university in the United States. Other than making plans with Kim Jong Il and dropping a few f-bombs here and there (at least she’ll no longer castigate me for doing the same), I think she’s doing quite well. She sounds fantastic – more relaxed and happy and HERSELF than ever before.
But I hope that she knows that if ever she needs someone – just like I needed someone now and then during college – she can call me. And I will be there – either in person or via Western Union.
Technorati Tags: Kim Jong Il, Nanny Birta, Shea Stadium, THE Ohio State University
April 11th, 2007 at 6:30 am
Now that is a true fete (by whichI mean tribute). Cool.
I’m still curious why you wrote the “shock jock” post about faking it. LOL
April 11th, 2007 at 8:01 am
Not that you’d trust Herman Anne with just any ole stranger, but if she needs anything while in the thriving metropolis of C’bus, you can count on me!
So, does she still babysit?
April 11th, 2007 at 8:51 am
I remember those books – masterpieces! Happy belated birthday, Herman!
April 11th, 2007 at 9:00 am
I think we should all just write about orgasms all of the time. That’s what I’m going to do. That’s it. Just orgasms.
April 11th, 2007 at 9:49 am
Great post and tribute to her who sounds like a real peach, indeed!
April 11th, 2007 at 10:24 am
Cousins are great. Smart, witty, trustworthy cousins? Just awesome; I have one myself. Thanks to you, I’m calling her today!
April 11th, 2007 at 12:22 pm
Awww. Happy Birthday Herman! You two sound like you have a wonderful friendship. Its even cooler that you have that despite being related. heehee.
April 11th, 2007 at 12:46 pm
Everyone needs a Herman Anne in their life.
April 11th, 2007 at 2:15 pm
Aw, now isn’t that better than some lame birthday post? She should be thrilled.
April 12th, 2007 at 12:41 am
Very sweet:) Happy birthday Herman.
April 12th, 2007 at 5:34 am
How funny – my mom’s youngest sister, who is only 7 years older than me, more like MY older sister, also has a daughter around that age who I am very close to, more like she’s my younger sister than cousin.
What a sweet tribute.
April 12th, 2007 at 6:57 am
now you have to remind me where “herman anne” comes from. i know it was a character in a book. i know it was. but i’ve been wracking my brain for the last 24 hours and i cannot for the life of me place it. help me because those letters are forming in gigantic scary visuals in my brain every time i close my eyes and aren’t likely to stop until you reveal your source…
April 20th, 2009 at 9:08 pm
[...] I laughed at the bag boy who was aghast that Oliver was wearing an Ohio State onesie (courtesy of Herman Anne): “Don’t give a damn ’bout the whole state of Michigan,” I sang, [...]