Old Dogs
My sister is one of the coolest people in the universe. She rocks. She is a
rockstar. There is absolutely no question that my sister is, and will always be,
my best friend.
But I did not always feel this way about my sister. Oh, no. In fact, when she was
born, I was none too crazy about (1) her, or (2) having any type of sibling at all
that was not a dog. So there were Issues.
At first, she was very cute and small, and I was five, and I just wanted to hold
her and rock her like a little mommy. But my sister did not LIKE being held.
Ever. She wiggled. She screamed. She was three weeks old and was already
all, “Look, I think I’m done here, so if y’all don’t mind, I’m just gonna go ahead
and get my own place. Yeah. And you can keep this walker shit. I’ll just take a
cab.”
The baby wouldn’t act like other babies. She wouldn’t cuddle, she wouldn't
coo. She was, essentially, good for absolutely NOTHING to her five-year-old
sister. Being me. And I hated her. A lot.
So...I repeatedly tried to kill the baby. No, I really did. I tried to kill the baby.
Oh, stop looking at me like that. It’s not like I took a knife to her throat (well.
One time I tried to saw off the top of her head using a playskool saw, but that
was more “science experiment” than “murder attempt.”). But when my
grandmother told me that I needed to cover my mouth when I sneezed because
tiny germs in my spit might end up in the baby’s mouth, and this might make the
baby sick...well, I took this advice to heart. And when my parents stood in the
doorway, feeling all warm and cozy as they watched their angelic, five-year-old
daughter gazing down at the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in her crib, and
they imagined they saw the first blossoms of sisterhood...blossoming, I guess...
this was actually not the case. No.
I was spitting on the baby.
Yep. Spitting on the baby, trying to aim the spit INTO the baby’s mouth, to
maximize the number of germs that might enter the baby’s bloodstream, thereby
rendering the baby sick, and ultimately, DEAD.
This was the plan. But it did not work.
The baby lived. And the baby got bigger, and the baby got faster. The baby
never crawled. The baby went directly from lying prone on the floor to running
all the hell around the house. Y’all, she did. Not. Crawl. One day she just
stood up and took off. This was a problem.
It was a problem, because she developed “run” before she developed “depth
perception.” So she didn’t understand things like (1) stairs, (2) walls, or (3)
sliding glass doors. Which offered me many opportunities to kill the baby. Did
you know, for example, that if you stand outside a sliding glass door, holding
baby’s favorite toy, and then motion to baby to come over, she will run, face
first, INTO the sliding glass door? You didn’t know that? Well, now you do.
Babies are dumb.
But nevertheless, the baby continued to survive. The baby, it turns out, was
tough. Now she’s grown up mean and strong (to quote one of my own favorite
songs. Do you know who sings that line, only a little different? Do you? One of
the bestest bands in the universe, that is who. If you email me the correct band,
I will probably love you. But there is no prize involved. Oh, and also, y’all: If
you’re reading my site, please feel free to send an email telling me what you
think. I mean, as long as you like it and you will be saying nice things. If
someone is forcing you to read my site by strapping you into a Clockwork
Orange-style chair, and you kind of hate it but you can’t look away because
your eyes are being held open by toothpicks, then please don’t email me. I
really don’t need to hear about that.)
Oh. I was writing? Hold on...let’s just see what...the topic...
Okay. ANYWAY. The baby = not dead. Despite my best attempts. And myself
at five = evil. Now we are back on track.
As the baby grew up, she became devious. She realized that she was very,
very cute. And she realized that she could manipulate us through this
cuteness. She learned how to write. And, like any good Southern girl, she also
learned how to covet.
One object of her affections was something called “The Putting Partner.” Now, I
know nothing about golf except for the phrase “Mulligan” and some dirty jokes
about washing your balls, but this did not stop my crazy grandmother from
sending me, for my eleventh birthday, a Putting Partner. (A Putting Partner is a
skinny strip of green astroturf with a little cup to putt in. So you can have a golf
experience in the comfort of your home or office. Exactly what every eleven-
year-old girl yearns for.)
So my grandmother sent me this, and I had no use for it. But my six-year-old
sister wanted it. She WANTED IT. And, even though I didn’t, I refused to give it
to her. I was mean like that. I was convinced I would one day need it. Or that I
could sell it. It was all about the bling for me. So my sister was not allowed to
touch the Putting Partner, and I placed it on the highest shelf in my closet.
But she was devious. She wrote me a letter, which she COPIED and GAVE TO
MY PARENTS. Like you would treat a legal document. The letter said,
Dear [self], You are the greatest sister. You are the greatest sister to me.
Your hair is the most beautiful thing. Here is a dollar for you. I love you.
I love you like the winds and the sea. Love, your sister.
P.S. Can I have the Putting Partner now.
This was the exact letter. She enclosed a one dollar bill. And then, ever so
casually, she tacks on the request for the Putting Partner at the end. Like it
was an afterthought. Like, “Oh, as long as I’m writing this letter to my sister,
extolling her many virtues, I should probably ask her for that Putting Partner that
I want more than breath.” So I get this letter, delivered spy-style under the door
to my room, and immediately, I’m all, “Hell, no! You can’t have my Putting
Partner! I can see through your trickery! That shit is MINE!”
But my sneaky ass sister, who had, you remember, GIVEN A COPY of this letter
TO MY PARENTS, simply went to them and explained that I still refused to part
willingly with the Putting Partner. And of course, my parents were horrified (and
rightly so, actually) that I would DENY a gift to this PRECIOUS CHILD, who
LOVED her big sister like the WINDS and the SEA, and who GAVE HER a
DOLLAR, and OF COURSE she could have this useless piece of plastic that
was gathering dust on the top shelf of the closet, and was I INSANE or just
EVIL?
Evil, actually. I was evil. (See paragraphs 1-11). But this experience
established that my sister was devious. She ended up with the damn Putting
Partner; I ended up in trouble. And my parents made me give the dollar back.
For her, it was win, win, win all the way home.
And she devised devious methods of revenge for my attempts at murdering
her. Like when she was twelve and I was seventeen. And she...blossomed.
And yet she still weighed, like, sixty pounds. Tits on Sticks, we call her (this is
still true today, so this is still what we call her today. That is what kind of family
we are. Supportive.) But anyway. The girl was selfish with the DNA. She took
all the boob genes in our family. Unfair.
And at seventeen, it is NOT COOL when your twelve-year old sister has bigger
boobs than you. Not cool at all. And was she nice about it? No. Y’all, she
rubbed that shit in my face every chance she got. She would give me her old
bras, the ones she had grown out of. And she’d be all, “La la la, these don’t fit
anymore, maybe you can wear them?” And I couldn’t. They were too big for
me. And she knew it. Mean.
Now, my sister and I are grown-up. She is smart and gorgeous and still shaped
like a swimsuit model. She lives in Boston with her very lucky man, devin (who
has been BITCHING because I have not mentioned him on this site. So here is
his mention: devin, devin, devin. Hey devin – happy now? Oh, and y’all, please
take note of the fact that I am spelling his name with a lower-case “d,” as he has
specifically requested, because apparently he has caught a violent case of e.e.
cummings. But I digress.)
My sister and I have finally realized that we are a lot alike, except for boob size.
We realize that we could learn a lot from each other. I have taught her to be
evil. She has taught me to be devious. Together, we are especially evil and
devious. And we crack ourselves up.
So in the end, I’m glad I didn’t manage to kill the baby. But Little Miss Tits on
Sticks? She owes me a dollar.
Kill the
Baby.
My sister dressed up like Eve for Halloween.
Apparently, Eve wore pigtails. Who knew?
Please note that Eve is maybe getting
arrested by the cop from the Village People.