Skulls mocking abandoned telephone book
Shortly after I posted yesterday my sister called, not because she read it, but because we have that psychic sister connection. For real. I once called my sister in the middle of the night after waking from a horrible nightmare in which I was searching for her, but she was gone. The dream was so vivid, that even though it was the wee hours of the morning, I had to check on her. When she answered the phone, the first thing I said was “Are you okay?”
She answered that she was having a nightmare about being lost.
Weird, right? Anyway, I mentioned yesterday’s post to her, since I assumed that was what prompted her call. She had no idea what I was talking about, but after hearing about the sister series, she informed me I was not allowed to embarrass her on the internet.
Well, sissy, I would never do that (I assume she was referring to incidents from the past decade or so, most of which involve copious amounts of alcohol. Obviously those are the best tales, but in order to not embarrass my little sis, I’ll keep them to myself. Plus, I certainly come out looking like a moron in most of them, so silence is to my benefit too).
When Monkey Girl and I were kids we hated each other. Yeah, sure we loved each other because we were sisters, and we had tons of cute sisterly moments. But more often than not we were at war. My mother used to get so frustrated, because she couldn’t understand why her daughters fought like heathens (which she called us on a daily basis, “stop acting like heathens!’). Now, before I go, let me say that whatever I may have done to my sister as a kid, no one else was allowed to pick on her. No one. We could have been tearing each other to pieces, but if some neighborhood kid looked at Monkey Girl the wrong way, instantly I was protective.
To be fair, when she was really little, I totally took advantage. Like when were learned about Carl Linnaeus and taxonomic ranks, and I came home from school and told her everyone really had seven names, but that she wouldn’t find out hers until kindergarten. She begged and begged, and so I made up a bunch of gibberish, and then told her to memorize it all. When she proudly went in to tell our mom her ‘scientific name’, I laughed my butt off, and my mom told me to be nice to my sister. And I am nice, because that story makes me look like a geeky nerd. Taxonomy, who tells taxonomy stories? Geez…
Actually, I have a few stories spawned from science class that involved my little sister. It’s probably sheer luck I didn’t accidentally kill her, because I convinced her to eat all sorts of things.
I know what you’re thinking. I was the mean older sister. Well let me tell you something, she was a little stinker. And she knew how to work the baby of the family thing like nobody’s business. She also knew how to play me for a fool. One time she accidentally
was pushed fell from the swing set in our backyard. I felt bad, especially since she was sprawled on the ground crying (which my mother would eventually hear), so I ran inside to get a towel so she could wipe the blood off her face (it wasn’t that bad people, stop judging). Being the loving sister I was, I wiped it off for her, and asked if she was okay. Her response was that she couldn’t see. And she couldn’t, because I had the towel on her face. But I thought she meant she really couldn’t see. Holy crap, I blinded my little sister! Monkey girl caught on to my mistake right away, and she milked it. Finally I had no choice but to run to my mother in a panic to tell her what happened. I knew that if you severed a finger, it should go on ice as soon as possible so that a doctor could sew it back on, so I figured that surely they could do something for my sister’s eyeballs, especially since they were still in the sockets. Needless to say, her eyes were fine, and I got in serious trouble. And she probably got a cookie, or something.
And she still is one, a twerp, that is. During our conversation yesterday I pointed out her birthday is right around the corner. She said it wasn’t, because she refused to turn 30. Uh-huh, poor
bratty baby, it must be hard.
Tomorrow, Monkey Girl and I learn about the power of denial.