Here’s Why I Did It

My sister at the "Oh, Dear Lord, You Are OLD!" party I threw for her. You're welcome for the prunes, sis. Hope they get the job done.

You will have to excuse me this morning. I took my sister to the midnight showing of “Breaking Dawn” for her birthday. I got about three hours of sleep, and now I’m so tired that I can’t remember if the name “Edward” contains one “q” or two. Spell check doesn’t seem to like either variation, so it must not be working.

I’m not the kind of gal who would buy a ticket for a midnight showing for a Twilight movie. Truly. Because I am a grownup with three children. And it wasn’t Harry Potter. But I bought those tickets. Because my sister wanted to go. The woman who has not left her house after dark since I can remember. She’s kind of the anti-vampire, really. But the moment I reminded her that the movie was coming out soon, she said “We could go at midnight!” with a kind of manic glee usually reserved for a two-for-one sale on toilet paper. So I bough the tickets. Because I was a little afraid not to.

So here I sit, part vampire, myself. I cringe from the rising sun, have pale skin, dead eyes, and no blood running through my veins. It’s all coffee. But I am glad I did. Because I owed her. For all the things she had to put up with over the years. Taking one for the team for:


 The times I called her “fat face.” As though it were her name. It is not. Her birth certificate clearly states “Dear Little Dawn.” Or something like that.

The time I neglected to mention that she had chocolate ice cream all around her mouth. While she was talking to her former teachers. And trying to act cool. In the mall. At that marvelously awkward age of 13. She has never been able to eat ice cream in public since. Even with a spoon.

The times I may have forgotten to relay a phone message to my sister from the guy she had a crush on.  I’m sure that’s not a big deal. She didn’t even know they liked her in return, so she wasn’t missing anything, right?

The time(s) my puppy pooped in front of her bedroom door. I probably didn’t see it. Before she stepped in it. I swear.

All the undergarments of hers my dog stole and drug out into the yard. By the street. That were left out there for the neighbors to see. And guys who came to pick her up. Whoops. My bad.

The time I may or may not have forgotten to mention that she had tucked the back of her skirt into her panty-hose. As she was preparing to walk down the center aisle of our very large church to get to the choir loft. Where she had to sing. At the age of 14. Sorry, sis. I thought you knew.

All the times I may have insinuated that her make-up made her look like a transsexual circus clown. To my transsexual friends, I apologize. I was young and didn’t know how insulting that comparison might be. For you. And for circus clowns. She outgrew that stage, probably because of me. You’re welcome, world.

All the times I’ve called her “old.”  She is not old. Just much, much older than I am. And sometimes needs reminding.

That over-the-hill surprise party I threw for her last year. To remind her that she is old. Because that’s what sisters do. At least, sisters who know there is minimal chance of reciprocation.

So dear sister, if you are reading this, I apologize. I do not, in fact, hate you, although that phrase may have slipped out a time or two. Million. I would risk my life for you. Which I did last night. Those people were crazy. Happy Birthday, sis!