Home

There are five massive screen doors in the open living area of what has been our off-and-on home here in Maine.  On a clear morning, the warm glow from the maple trees on the lakefront and the ethereal, bright rays of dawn pour into this glass room in yellow and green shards, beginning at the earliest hour and somehow continuing to channel prisms of light deep into the evening.  Even when I am right here, asleep on the very couch I sit perched upon now, I dream of this room. 

In reality, this cabin is made up of about one third glass, with the remainder composed of v-match, vertical pine panels with a slightly tinted polyurethane finish.  It is bright and open and is life-giving in the way of an enormous, tight hug.  On my first night back here in early June, what must have been hundreds of insect wings beat frantically against the dark expanse of wire window screen and the resulting sound was that of a pounding torrent of rain, rather than the quiet presence of the still, cool evening breeze that moved into and through the room where I sat. 

Home. 

I dare say it is the single most comforting thing on earth.  It is as soothing as a lullaby, as essential to our souls as oxygen to the lungs, and as impossible to pin down as an easterly wind.

I’m realizing more and more that home isn’t a specific place, a particular building, or even an individual set of circumstances.  Home is like a rhythm that only your soul will recognize, like a melody that you hear with your ears, and only upon its hearing can you identify it as the song which has always existed somewhere inside of you.   From the very first note, you feel your footsteps fall into place with the beat, as if the music was born at the very same instant that you were.

This past Saturday night, after putting Milo to bed, I found myself, as usual, doing a late night exercise circuit:  walk; squat; pick up a wooden car; repeat.  When I had finished, I stood in our open living room, did a small, but very stylish wiggle, and declared myself the LUCKIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.  You see, on this particular day, one of my very favorite friends, Jenn, entered into her new big wedded adventure, and it all took place in my seasonal backyard.  It was a day full of frenzy and running from place to place like a sugar-pumped six-year-old in a room full of puppies, and yet, also a day of incredible beauty and peace and – you guessed it, my favorite buzzword – community.  It was community at its best: purposeful and hilarious and exceedingly life-giving.  Saturday was also, as Craig said multiple times throughout the weekend, a terribly frighteningly day to be a spore-producing plant, but since we only eat ferns in the spring, and I only occasionally make my bed in the moss, it was nothing other than an enchanting day sandwiched between two very magical ones, filled with greenery from the forest, and I cannot imagine anything on this natural earth more perfect than that.

Due to our relational overlap with dear Jenn and her husband, Jacob, it was also an opportunity to welcome a number of friends back to camp.  I think of this group of people as something like our own personal traveling circus, like the band getting back together.  Every individual falls into place amongst the rest, and we each become a unique part of what feels to be one single working body. 

In this community of people, I hear my melody.  They sing my song.  They beat out my rhythm, and my feet follow suit.  But they aren’t the only ones.  This isn’t the only place.  The expression of home has a wild, wandering voice.

During my first trip to the red rocks of the dry southwest, I heard it.  Hidden amidst the mossy pines nearest the southern shore of Heald Pond, I sense it.  In the tiny embrace of my son, I recognize it.  In the gaze of my fellow adventurer, my husband, I am enraptured by it.

As much as this particular room, with its bright warmth and its air thick with joy and memory, would beckon me to label it the ultimate definition of home, I cannot.  I am afraid that if I give in to the notion that home is one certain atmosphere or one specific structure, I will lose something precious.  I will have surrendered myself to the unnecessary reality of loss, to the weight of grief at a house sold or an empty nest, or as I know it, a little cabin in the woods seen from the rear-view mirror.  I will attempt to turn my ear, rather, to listen at each fork in the road, because the sound may come drifting as a working collection of feelings and faces experienced in blueberry pancakes, or mist on the river, or the giddy chortle and short-bitten fingernails of my sister.  I will listen for it in the daunting truth that for each of us, our best and most dear friendship may still be yet to come.  I will seek to embrace its elusiveness, it’s mystery and it’s unpredictable nature.

Our move-back date occurs next week, and I know that I won’t be ready for it until it’s happened.  Or rather, until I’m back in New Hampshire, and have gotten a large enough quantity of hugs to remind me that it is a place that is also good, that it is also mine, and that it is also home. 

The expression of home is as impossible to pin down as an easterly wind.  

This room is not the only room. 

My sound of Home:

Artist: Sleeping At Last
Album: Atlas: Space II – EP

Making Wilbur Proud

Up to this point, I don't think I've ever used this blog to give a shameless plug for any one thing.

Well, maybe ice cream cones.

I just realized that I have 6 pages of search results on this blog for "ice cream".  SIX PAGES.

Or whitewater kayaking.

Or my sister.

Or my sister and ice cream.

So - scratch that - I guess I have made my fair share of endorsements.  Today, though, I'd like to give a plug for some music you may or may not want to check out. Right now, it's free (yes, FREE) on Noisetrade, a magical land of musical discovery (with, I admit, some very misfit toys scattered throughout).  Noisetrade could be a whole other plug on its own.

Artist: Bison.  Album: Quill.

What's weird is that just the other day, my sister told me to check out an album titled The Goat Rodeo Sessions.  Then I found Bison's record.  I'm not sure what is going on with the livestock theme, but at least both sets are good.  In addition, there aren't actually any farm animals involved in the production of said music.  That I know of.

Bison's debut is, in my opinion, a great album, and is worth a run-through, particularly the title track, Quill.  If you turn up the volume, sit back and soak it in, your heart will want to take off and soar like a balloon filling with helium at the party store.  I promise - you'll need a ribbon around your wrist just to keep it from escaping through the car window.  Bison is like the love-child of Mumford & Sons, Fleet Foxes and David Garrett.

If that's possible.

Keep in mind, though, that this is all coming from a girl that lives in the forest, wears penguin pajamas, and can only play the rubber band guitar she made in kindergarten.  I'm what you call out-of-touch, so if you give this a listen and find that I'm living three years in the musical past, keep it to yourself.

I like my ice cream served with a healthy dollop of blissful ignorance.

It's an acquired taste.

Way, Way Too Much Of A Good Thing

Sun, sand, turquoise tropical waters, 24-hour pizza and ice cream… it sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?  It is.  Especially when you’re traveling with your older sister and your mom, two people who have the ability to singlehandedly make any ordinary occasion, to say the very least, extraordinary.

To celebrate my sister’s milestone birthday this year, we arranged to take her on a cruise to the Bahamas.  Renee has, until now, never had the joy of steaming along on a floating Las Vegas resort, so it was particularly exciting to watch her eyes absorb all of the neon lights, read the gluttonous menus and revel in the slothful lifestyle of our little adventure at sea.

You can probably recall from previous posts my extreme affection for soft-serve ice cream, but what you don’t know is that it runs in the family.  We are also a clan of chronic snackers, on which I’m blaming the extra 3 or so ”souvenier” pounds I’ve returned home with.  Everyone knows that you can nosh your way through a cruise, but hardly anyone really gives you the pathetic details of their sorry, over-indulgent foray into gastrointestinal chaos.  The following is a single day’s account of where my 3 pounds might have come from.  I promise you’ll find yourself speculating how far I am rounding down the wreckage.  I’ll never tell, but if you see me in person, you'll probably be able to without my help.

9AM - room-service breakfast, taken in stateroom: smoked salmon, fruit, bread products, coffee, yogurt, mimosas

10AM - breakfast #2: coffee, fruit, bacon

11AM – ice cream break, coffee

12:30PM – lunch: jerk chicken, curried vegetable salad, calamari fritters, beef in puff pastry, pizza, fruit, ice cream….

After reaching her max, my sister seems appalled at the fact that I, friends, am a bottomless pit.  It's a talent, really.

2PM – ice cream break #2

4PM – ice cream break #3

5PM – visit to the sushi bar (cultivating my very own maki roll, located just above my belt line)

7PM – dinner (2 starters, 1 entrée (or two, if you’re Renee), and as many as 7 desserts before Welly, our waiter, begins jogging in place as he prepares to log roll each of us out into the foyer.  Apparently, we’re not the only ones regretting that last scoop of bread pudding.

Get your own dessert table.

9PM – the last, is-it-even-possible ice cream break of the night.  Probably.

Add a couple of drinks in there, and you’ve got something like 8 million calories.  Or 4 pant sizes, which explains why I can’t even fit into my stretchy pants.

 

So there you have it, folks.  I have more stories to tell and other pictures to share, but right now it’s after 2PM, and I need to go find a soft serve machine somewhere.  What can I say?  Some habits die hard, if they die at all.  

Let Me Count The Ways

Today is DoesThisParkaMakeMyButtLookBig's 100th post!  It's a good thing you aren't here to see my happy dance, because despite the scientific advances of the 21st century, you still can't erase something like that from your memory, even if you desperately want to.  It's better this way.

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At this particular time of year, there are some things that I miss about our old neighborhood.  

I miss scampering through the local corn maze with my sister, cackling loudly as we race through the crisp fall air and trick small, rosy-faced children into marching down dead ends. I yearn for my kitchen, with its sharp knives, miraculous dishwasher and double sink.  Here, when I load the sink with dirty dishes and greasy pans, I don’t have a second bowl to fill my coffeepot in, and rearranging the mountains of glass and knives is like a kitchen version of running the gauntlet  – one of these days, I am going to reach in, flail about, and emerge not with ten fingers, but with two fists of what appears to be ground meat.  I long for the vegetable stand a mile up the road, with its locally-made ginger and eggnog ice creams and perfectly inspired cherry tomatoes that almost never lasted the 3-minute drive home.  I crave a yoga class, a match with my volleyball team, my washer and dryer, and the company of my parents.   I even sort of miss the way the local McDonald’s employees recognized my face as I drove through for yet another vanilla ice cream cone.  I’d try not to frequent the same franchise more than once per day, but there were times when I cared less about my reputation and more for my craving.  They probably had a nickname for me, and rightfully so.  

But despite the wonder of NPR, wireless internet, and comprehensive fitness centers, there are also a few things that I don’t miss.  For example, I don’t miss traffic.  For you friends who doubt the existence of traffic in the neighborhood, boy do I have news for you.  I can identify between 40 and 50% of the vehicles driven in our current town.  The other half is made up of either Canadians or logging trucks.  The last time I had to stop behind a car was about a week ago.  It was on the 3-mile dirt road to camp, and was because we all knew each other and were stopping to have a chat. 

Traffic.

I also don’t miss shopping.  C and I have developed a very brief retail half-life, which seems ironic since before the move, I worked in that industry.  Perhaps it was always this way, but I suspect that making our direct purchases almost exclusively at convenience and grocery stores for the last nine months has exacerbated our impatience.  The only exception I make to the above statement is that I have retained an insatiable love for shopping with my sister, which categorically falls somewhere between Halloween-costume hunting and raiding a candy store, and is perhaps better known as the eternal quest for the most revolting frock.

Lastly, among the things that I have gladly left behind me are traffic circles.  If you believe in such a place, I am convinced that these, friends, are what Limbo is made of: circle after badly engineered circle of misery and anguish and panic.  I dread them.  There is a special, particularly abysmal roundabout near our old house that was recently re-designed, which means that they decided after a dozen years or more to abruptly change the traffic pattern.  I completely agree with the decision, because the vehicle interactions were backwards and inside out for years (inside out, I tell you!), but this is exactly the problem with traffic circles: there seems to be no universal way of constructing them.  Another loop I know of has two lanes – two lanes­ – something that simply cannot produce a safe or predictable traffic pattern.  I am certain that a preschooler somewhere took red crayon and drew a set of fiery concentric circles, then crammed the paper into her city planner/mommy’s briefcase, only for it to slide out onto the office floor and get pushed through approval and funding by some recently-promoted department intern.  It's particularly infuriating considering that the circles were probably drawn to be a giant apple, or maybe Buzz Lightyear.  Bottom line: a two-lane roundabout is ridiculous. 

Just try to get out of this inside circle without reaching for your Paxil.  Kiss your sanity goodbye. 

Mercifully, I haven’t driven in a circle in months, hardly ever see a stoplight, and buy my gifts online.  This softens the blow of not being able to watch my sister kill a bag of 75%-off Halloween candy or nosh on my mom’s salsa while listening to Simon & Garfunkel with Dad at the dining room table.  It’s is a good thing, because life without the joy of those two events has the potential to really bring me down. 

But no traffic circle Limbo?  This just might be worth it.  

Give It To Me Straight

Join me as I take a few minutes to step back from the world and reflect.   This is for my own benefit, but it just might be good for you too.  You see, as my sister and I were jib-jabbing back and forth the other day, we got to talking about how absurdly reluctant we tend to be to acknowledge (seemingly) unbecoming self-truths.  For example, I’m a little doughy right now.  I don’t think I’m fat, or that I'm really that unhealthy, or even a horrible person for liking fried cheese and ice cream in bulk, but I do believe I’ve reached that fleshy point in my 2011 experience, which sadly, usually happens on an annual basis in the winter.  Only this time, I have to wear a bathing suit four weeks from now for a trip with my mom and sister.  I have dimples, and they’re not just on my face.  Enough said?

I think that we women are particularly adept at avoiding prickly little realities, but you guys can let me know if men feel this way too.  It stings to recognize that probably I should trim my nose hairs, or I really am sinfully late for everything.  Perhaps like me, you’ve beaten around this bush by employing phrases like the following:

• I wake up late because I’m naturally a night owl, and 8 hours is doctor-recommended, isn't it?
• I chew with my mouth open because of my jaw problem (I’ve heard that a million times).
• Thick ankles are hereditary on my dad’s side. 
• I have to pee exceedingly often, and I can’t figure out why.  I think my kidneys, neglecting their proper duties, are off hosting speed-dating events or running bounce-house birthdays, and one day they’ll be as trashed as a Foxwoods suite after a bachelorette party, only way more important.  I’ll need an ambulance and dialysis for-like-ever.  Or a catheter.  Ugh. 

Well then, what’s a girl [or guy] to do?  Friends, let’s start a revolution.  Let’s just call it like it is:

• I stay up hours too late watching Iron Chef and Seinfeld reruns.  That’s why I don’t get up early – because I live like a child.
• I chew with my mouth open because of my jaw problem (ok, I believe you).
• I HAVE CHUNKY ANKLES.  No one knows why, and these pegs don’t seem to be going anywhere, so I’m sensitive about it.  Lay off.
• I need to stop shamelessly drinking 8 cups of coffee.   At breakfast.

source

I want to remind us that there’s no need to be a martyr to that dark widow’s peak you were born with or that annoying habit of counting the light fixtures when you enter a room.  Just show your cards – “I have a serious widow’s peak, and no one will die over it”, or, “I call it 'my OCD', but really I'm dipping my toe into the Crazy River”.  No one is going to post your news on a billboard.  They aren’t going to start texting your friends:  She’s a doughy mess!!  Tape this pic to your mirror and you’ll start eating salad, like now.

           

At least I don’t think they’ll do this. 

So what I’m saying is, let’s call a spade a spade.  Ladies, let’s get a little bit more secure and develop a slightly tougher skin.  It's not worth it when I unintentionally shoot juice through the Michael Strahan-sized gap between my two front teeth and then blubber out of the room when someone lets a fart slip because they’re giggling so hard.  It just isn't.

He really is one of my heroes.  The man's a Fox football analyst, for crying out loud.  His gap is probably insured.  

And what’s so wrong with cankles or gaps or sleeping in?  The earth will continue to revolve, the hungry will still need feeding, our friends will still love us (and periodically laugh when a stalk of celery gets completely wedged in our front teeth), and we will be better off for letting these things - which in the scope of life, truly are small – slide off our backs, so that we can tackle the true joy and work of life. 

And when you have second thoughts on whether thigh dimples are funny, just check out the cheeks on a 6 month old.  Be sure you get the o.k. from their parents first. Otherwise, you didn't hear it from me.

No Really, It's Up To You

The two girls of our family have developed a reputation among friends of being decision-averse. Don’t worry if you're mentally nodding - we’re not offended.  You’d think that with strong and capable parents, experience living far from home to build independence, a solid education and quite good friends, we would have had ample opportunity to habitually form and express confident (or at least competent) personal preferences.  Psychologically, this has come to be known as making a decision, but despite how supportive and able our parents might be, we don’t really do that.  Not normally, anyway.

We’re two apples from the same tree, but at times I’m amazed at how contrary our natures are, how opposite we’ve become.  I'd compare my sister to a Granny Smith – strong flavor, good for all sorts of things (you can dry them; they’re perfect for pie; I’ve even seen industrial art pieces made with Granny’s), plus they hold up well over time.  This is my big sister – strong and comfortable in herself, super-wicked-enviously fabulous at almost everything, plus she’s gorgeous (which I believe I’ve mentioned before, but really, these things can’t be overstated).  She’s going to age well. 

I’m a Macintosh - a little tart, good to snack on when you need a pick-me-up, and gets nasty bruises immediately upon leaving the tree.  I think these are also the most-dropped apple.  I have an awkward sense of humor and am maybe a little cynical, always available to offer little quips and poised to get the ice cream to soothe your woes, and I am not going to age well.  It’s already happening – I really do bruise easily, plus my neck-skin is starting to loosen like a turkey-gobbler.

Anyhow, we’ve determined so far that she and I are apples, and that we’re different.  Great.  But the point of this whole blurb is that no matter how different we are, over time we’ve somehow both grown deficient in one thing: making decisions.  In my first draft of this post, I went on a little rabbit-trail on how we are indeed capable of asserting ourselves in the face of life’s big choices, but that seemed so … assertive.  So I backspaced it all out. 

Where should we go to dinner?  Umm…I don’t know.

What do you want for your birthday?   You know, I really don’t need anything… 

Should we take a walk, or just sit here for twenty minutes talking about whether we should take a walk?  Well, I don’t really care - what would you like to do? (classic turn-the-tables move)

These snip-its have been practically sucked out of our normal conversation, which is where the maddening indecision seems to grow exponentially, as we avoid choice by verbally throwing it back and forth like a football covered in vomit that neither of us want to touch.

All said though, we can make decisions.  Usually I get the ball rolling, only because as I’ve aged, I’ve also developed a habit of losing my temper, so I just shout out foods or movie titles:  Sushi!! Transformers!!  Rice crispy treats!!  How to Train Your Dragon!!  Then, we disagree once or twice, and eventually, by process of elimination, a decision is made.  Typically, we go eat sushi and then she chooses a far more thought-provoking film.  Whatever.  

So if you struggle with selection, don’t give up.  Just figure out the big things and let the little ones filter themselves out.  Nature has a way of deciding for you anyway, like drops of rain carving through granite.  But really, do what you want - I'm no expert.

Blow Out Them Candles, Girl

• She shared her toys with me.
• She and I wore matching outfits at each Christmas service, thanks to Grandma V.
• She helped me build innumerable forts in the living room, with space for all of our animals (which was no easy task).
• She wore stretchy pants with me during the 80's, and taught me how to tie a knot in the bottom of my oversized t-shirt, a la Saved By The Bell.
• She traded candy with me at Easter and Halloween, so that she could have all the Sugar Daddies.
• As a child she took my punishment 99.9% of the time (I don't know that I've ever adequately thanked you).
• She chased me into a cedar tree, then threw acorns at me during the Harvest Party of 1996, accompanied by dozens of our classmates (I do still hate you a little for that). 

(A quick glimpse into how popular I was in middle school.)

• She shared her high school experience with an annoying younger tag-along. 
• She shared her college experience with an annoying younger tag-along.
• She taught me how to study harder, work more diligently, and be more faithful to my friends (I think that I, in turn, taught her how to neglect her work and stay up late making cookies).
• To this day, she is a refuge and confidant for those who are struggling or in pain; quick to listen and slow to speak.
• She is a breathtaking example of service and dedication to work or peers.
• She is strong, but humble.
• She manages to out-do, out-give, out-think, out-laugh and out-smile anyone I know.  

And she does all this while being the most gorgeous woman alive.

The world needs more people like you, R.  But I only need one. 

Happy Birthday, big sister.  You make my world a better place.

Sister Insufficiency

Sister, I’ve been missing you this week. 

C and I are surrounded by valuable friends and breathtaking scenery, but I still can’t shake the feeling that something very essential to daily wonderment is not in order.  Email banter just isn’t enough. 

My relational diet is lacking in Vitamin S. 

I know this because no one laughs at my jokes anymore, and you at least give me a pity laugh.

There are some seriously misguided seagulls flying over our town, which makes me want to go to the beach, but I don’t want to go to the beach with anyone if it isn’t you.  No one else can wallow in the sand like you and me.

I find myself chuckling and snorting alone amongst the cat calendars at WalMart.

Restaurant sweet potato fries don’t taste as good as the frozen ones we bake in your oven.

C gives me this look when I start to eat our dinner while it’s still cooking.  You know how it goes - swiping a scoop of marinara sauce, poking at some carmelized mushrooms, slurping ciopinno broth.  He should recognize it as an obvious bloodline characteristic. Luckily for him, these days this isn’t a problem.  The other night I had peanut butter for dinner.  Scoop away, M.  Scoop away.

Suffering through workout videos in my tiny living room pales in comparison to getting heat stroke together in Bikram yoga.  As I slam awkwardly into our table, couch, and twin bed at 10 PM, my thoughts often wander to those good, humid afternoon sessions.

I can’t have a tacky fashion show with C at TJ Maxx.  C in a floral jumpsuit just wouldn’t do it.  Or would it?

And finally:

I haven’t had a vanilla soft serve ice cream cone since we moved. 

Things are not right.  

I know that you are so very busy, and that I am as well, but I would love to find a way for you and I to be in the same place for a day.  We can meet in the middle somewhere, or I’ll drive the whole way.  I will do practically anything to see you, even if it means renting the seaplane from the locals.

I just need me some you.  Please.

She Works Hard For the Money

My sister and I have not always been close.  These days, we are happiest when we’re making dinner together or trying on go-go boots at the local T.J.Maxx.  We have been disruptive members of our co-ed volleyball team for the past few years, snickering and dancing when we’re down by ten points, and we both have a shameless addiction to coffee and sushi, which we usually entertain in tandem.  She’s like the yang to my yin, the soy sauce to my unagi. 

Of the many experiences that took us from physically maiming one another to real friendship was a summer we spent working together during our college years.  We both interviewed at a public interest group that was responsible for canvassing neighborhoods on behalf of organizations like the Sierra Club, plus a few other national and local non-profits.  Because these employers set up shop in May and shut down in September, have 10-12 hour workdays, and involve miles of walking every day, they don’t turn anyone away.  They just wait for you to quit.  

We were in.  We spent the summer months, clipboards in hand, walking the streets of our towns and cities, getting screen doors slammed in our faces and obscenities screamed at us as we scrambled down the driveway. In reality, it wasn’t all like that.  I met a man who had a squirrel for a pet, and a woman who showed me what were the most beautiful herb gardens I have every seen, even to this day.  That was when I tasted chocolate mint for the first time, and was also given fresh lavender cuttings that I tucked into my pocket, only to pull them out when I needed an emotional pick-me-up, which was often.  Dogs became an important part of life that summer as well.  I can still remember one yellow single-story cape guarded by three bloodthirsty Rottweiler’s, clearly hungry for the taste of a 19 year-old brunette.  I skipped that house.  But I also had the chance to get slimed by a happy pair of St. Bernard’s, and met a Great Dane who could look me in the eye.

I made plenty of mistakes that summer, too.  There were plenty of days when I didn’t meet quota, got completely sunburned, or wore the wrong shoes.  I also made some generally unwise choices.  Remember, we had thrown the whole “don’t talk to strangers” policy to the wind, so when someone says, “Come see the bar I just built in my basement”, it doesn't sound so bad.  I took opened drinks and glasses of lemonade from far too many people, but thankfully none were spiked. 

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Rule #3: Unicorns don't talk to strangers.  Well, this unicorn does.

Spending entire days outside also presented a urinary dilemma.  My strategy was to hunt out the coolest house on the block and canvass it, with the sole intention of asking to use their restroom.  But this wasn’t always successful.  It can be hard to find any real forest in suburbia, and when the Hoover Dam is cracking, a rhododendron bush starts looking like a pretty good potty stop.  In one memorable case, it was almost pick-up (9pm), and things were reaching critical mass, so I ran off into the woods opposite the entry to a cul-de-sac.  The woods weren’t very dense, but all critical thought had halted 90 seconds earlier, and I wasn't concerned.  So there I am, squatting in a sparse forest, about 100 feet from the mouth of a road, and it’s not dark yet.  All of a sudden two headlights appear, and I realize that a car is exiting the cul-de-sac, has its low beams centered on me, and my pants are around my ankles.  I was scared stiff, hoping they would mistake me for a misshapen tree or a wild beast, and not a vagrant or thief hiding in the woods.  I was starting to hear a police siren and could almost feel the cuffs go on, when the car turned and drove off.  It felt like an eternity.  

After a summer bonding over experiences like these, and an amazing trip to the Delaware Water Gap for Independence Day (think campfires and social justice sing-a-longs), my sister and I became closer than ever.  And though our experiences now are not quite as concentrated or bizarre, we still try to keep it real.  Like, by having a Peep diorama contest on Easter, for example.

Here's to keeping it real.

The Other Sister

Please enjoy this blog entry from my sister, the older sibling in our strange-but-true family.  I'm sure it will become obvious which one of us was the good child.  

I'll expect your full support later.

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I miss M.  Some of you who knew us back in the day may find this shocking.  We weren’t always close or similar - at all.  Every time our Dad informed us that we were “friends” we’d look at him like he was stealing milk from newborn kittens.  How could you?!

Can’t Live With ‘Em

Let me start with a little background for those who haven’t known M and I for our respective 27 and 29 (gasp) years.  Yes, I gave you our ages, and yes, we’re ok with it.  Well, M is anyway.  I think. 

M, are you ok with it?

(Who cares?  She isn’t months from her next milestone.)

The two of us have a roller coaster of a past.  I was stubborn, driven, and hyperactive, with little to no imagination, and loved nothing more than playing in the woods and getting A’s.  M was the artistic, pensive type who cared about everyone and everything (spiders and mosquitoes - yes), and was shockingly adept at pushing my buttons.  Have you ever tried to study while someone was singing in the shower using a nails-on-the-chalkboard, barely audible voice because Mom told her to quiet down and stop bothering you?  Ever rearranged your shared bedroom only to find that someone changed it back as soon as you were gone?  Ever had your sibling thank you for going away to college because the house is civil now that you’re not there?  Developed a gypsy moth caterpillar phobia because your sister kept them in jars everywhere and named them all Lisa?! 

At different points in my childhood I tried, allegedly, to kill my sister.  Can you blame me?  I tried to beat her with a xylophone (“sharing”), poison her with a couple bottles of cough syrup (playing doctor isn’t totally safe, admit it), let her fall off the foundation of the garage while doing gymnastics (4, schmore), break her shins, and generally put her in a continual state of emotional turmoil as I tried to cause constant environmental change despite her incessant protest and horror.  Somehow, we managed to make it to adulthood without killing each another.

Can’t Live Without ‘Em.

After college, M married C, and they moved around the Northeast for a few years.  Then she moved within 15 minutes of me.  Exciting?  I think so.  Granted, 15 minutes really translates into half an hour because you have to spot M at least 15 minutes under perfect conditions.  C generally shakes his head in disbelief whenever the two of us are together.  I’m pretty sure he wants to run screaming like a little girl into the woods on occasion or, more likely, on all occasions.  And really, can you blame him?  Have you ever watched the PSA from eons ago about getting your period?  Don’t do it.  (Now you’re curious?  Really – DON'T do it - we won't even give you the link).  Or spend hours taking pictures of yourselves with a webcam, using every special effect and composing ridiculous captions?  All we need is each other for constant entertainment.  

No, we don't do kids' parties.

M’s blog reads like our email dialogues, so enjoy this peek into our world.  We are most inspired as a pair, so watch out – one of these days we may team-write a post.  And yes, you should be a little nervous.  With our combined efforts, we’ll convince the world that in cases like ours, one child is definitely enough.