Dramatic Sigh

I only have 25 more minutes of work to waste, so this is gonna be a quickie. Heh, quickie. First item on the agenda is that I would allow this macaroni and cheese that I’m eating to impregnate me with delicious, cheesy children. Just needed to put that out there.

Second item on the agenda: I’ve lost 3lbs but I appear to have gained about 10. I’m not sure where it’s going to/coming from, but my appearance and my actual weight do not match up. Also, I’m hungry pretty much all the time, which is weird because I normally never want to eat when it’s hot. This is the first summer where I’ve been like, “OH MY GOD CARBS AND CARBS AND CARBS AND CARBS! MUST HAVE MORE CARBS!” I have some sort of pasta-based disease that causes me to eat things I definitely should not (see item one) and then 30 minutes later, eat more of them. Last night? I ate half a loaf of garlic bread. And then spaghetti. I went to an outdoor music festival this weekend and it was 90 degrees. For some reason my friend and I decided we should eat Cheescake Factory, of all things, beforehand. And then we died of death. Jillian Michaels, where ARE you?

Speaking of things that do not involve my fat ass except as a spectator, the music festival was awesome. I never knew it existed because I sort of suck at life, but Westword’s Music Showcase is so on my summer calendar from now on. We only managed to see 3 bands, but they were good ones (and probably the only 3 of the bajillion acts that I had heard of – totally unintentional). If you’re bored, check out Tickle Me Pink, Air Dubai, and The Pirate Signal. I actually saw Air Dubai live a few months ago and thought they were great then. Those kids are gooood. I forgot it was obscenely hot and that I was a big puddle of sweat and rocked my face off.

Item four: I still love the Renaissance Festival. I also still wish some people had heard of a bra, but that’s just me. No, seriously, it really was just me. I was the only one wearing one. It’s not a pajama party, ladies. It’s a public place and you’re gonna hurt someone with those things. It’s always the women who look like they stuck 2 massive, unbaked loaves of bread in their shirts too – all floppy and pasty and jiggly. And if you’re offended by that, buy a mirror because you’re probably that woman. Congratulations, you’re making me not want this very historically accurate empanada that I’m eating.

Last thing. I saw the hot homeless guy again. He’s still hot. That’s not the update. Turns out, he plays the harp, which is a really random instrument for a homeless guy to play. He seemed slightly less crazy today too, and actually made non-creepy eye contact. Maybe he realized he should be my boyfriend and he’s trying to sane it up. Next he’ll get a job and a shower. Or, more likely, he’ll continue carting a harp around in his wagon and wearing a ripped sheet on his head. Either way. I swear to god, though, I’m getting a picture next time, even if I have to backtrack and hide behind a bush. Who is he to judge my crazy behavior? Exactly.

No I don’t, even though I definitely fit in a 32D all of a sudden, but I refuse to have 14 hooks on my bras so 34C it is. Is it weird that I keep checking out my own rack lately? That’s weird, right? Yesterday I was like, “If I stand up straight, I almost can’t see my feet!” Of course, my feet are a size 5 1/2, so an A cup would hide those babies, but still. Also? I had a smallish breakdown when I went bra shopping in Vegas because the Ds fit and I was like, “I thought Ds were supposed to be BIG, and I’m totally NOT so what is HAPPENING in this fitting room?!” And then my friend Zach was like, “Calm down, you crazy, crazy bitch.” Except he said the crazy bitch part silently.

Oh, right, hi. Yes, I peace out for like, a million years and then come back manically blogging about my boobs and I don’t know why. I think I put too much sugar in my coffee or too much coffee in my coffee or maybe I’m just so tired that I’ve come full circle to being SUPER FUCKING AWAKE OH MY GOD. I can’t stop my fiiiiingers. Please someone kidnap my keyboard or me or Justin Bieber. Do something.

PEE BREAK!!

I feel better. Oh, right, Vegas recap. Here goes. I drank 2 drinks the entire weekend, was in bed asleep by midnight every night, and went to one bar. Also, I met some very nice people and almost died of scavenger hunt. Exciting, right? My friend Zach came to visit last weekend and we totally did the exact same thing, but with more Wii. I am basically the biggest rockstar you know.

Side note, if anyone comes to Denver, you should totally stay at The Curtis. Zach stayed there and we were both a little bit in love with it. The have a lemonade stand in the lobby on Fridays that benefits their charity of the month, and for any donation you want to make, you can get lemonade, spiked lemonade, or beer. Also, they were like, foisting cookies on us, which was awesome. They had a cartoon hanging above the toilet that said, “My boyfriend ran off with my best friend. Man, I’m going to miss her,” so that completely won me over.

In conclusion, my caffeine just ran out. So, um, bye?

So, it’s day…2, I guess, of Bloggers in Sin City, and I’m sitting in bed awake. At 6:45am. I can’t blame the time change, since Colorado’s only an hour ahead and my ass is never awake at 7:45 if I don’t have to be. I’m exhausted, but the beds at the Imperial Palace are like rocks, and I’m tooooo old for this shit. I literally woke up 7 or 8 times in the 6 hours I slept because everything hurt so bad and I had to try to find a more comfortable position. So yeah, I’m annoyed. I know, I know, this is what I get for trying to be cheap and save a hundred bucks, and trust me, I am SO regretting that decision. Just so we’re clear, the beds are not the only issue with this place.

1. They put us in a smoking room, which has resulted in me having a headache since check in.  Is there really no way for a hotel to get it the hell together and determine that they actually HAVE nonsmoking rooms available BEFORE I make a reservation? Oh it’s 2010 and we still can’t do that? Huh. They’re supposed to be switching us later today, and you better believe there will be an unholy shitfit if they don’t.

2. The beds are awful. Sorry, I’m still just cranky about that.

3. Every outlet in the room is so loose that anything we plug in falls out. They have a random extension cord just hanging out behind the table that works, but it appears to be covered in juice, or semen, or something because it’s all sticky. That was a pleasant surprise.

4. The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way. Thank god I’m staying with Mandy, which makes that slightly less of an issue, but I don’t think I”m asking for much when I ask that the doors…work?

That’s all we’ve found so far, but we’ve only been here for about 9 hours. And I know, this is a classic case of White People Problems, but I also don’t think I’m asking too much when I want a hotel where I can sleep and charge my phone and poop without my roommate having to hear it. I don’t give a shit that the furniture is tragically outdated or the carpet has seen better days. Pretty doesn’t concern me. Functional does, and this is not it. And the thing is, I paid the same nightly rate at a Marriott a few months ago, and our room was awesome, so it IS possible. So, Imperial Palace, I want my money and my sleepytime back.

Yeah, you read that right. Hot and homeless in the same sentence. See, there’s this really attractive homeless (I think) guy who hangs around my office all the time. And he’s not hot for a hobo, he’s hot for a normal person, which is weird and confusing because every time I see him, I can’t help but check him out. And then, because he either has some sort of mental illness or pretends to to keep people away, he gives me the evil eye. So anyway, instead of writing about how I’m OMG SO EXCITED FOR VEGAS I CAN’T STAND IT AND THIS IS TOTALLY GONNA BE ME AND MANDY TOMORROW EXCEPT WE’LL BE IN AN AIRPORT, AND ALSO WE’LL MOST LIKELY BOTH BE HUMAN, I’m going to write about homeless guy.  I mean, I already am, but like…more. More of this. Aren’t you glad?

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Dear HHG,

Could you try not to be all hot and tanned (which I know is from living outside and all and you can’t actually help that), but also crazy? I don’t know if you’re actually schizo or just faking it, but when you yelled BOO! in that woman’s face, it was, frankly, a little scary. Mostly to her, since I was still about 30 feet away, but you get my point. Maybe. Also? The radio flyer full of miscellaneous crap is a great alternative to the traditional shopping cart. I admire your creativity. However, bringing the wagon into the bagel place makes people nervous. Plus you’re blocking the line, which means I’m stuck with the creepy old guy who is not homeless but still totally creepy and likes to talk to me. Thanks for that. Maybe you could be a little less selfish next time.

Anyway, I think you should just work on the crazy and get a job so it would be socially acceptable for us to make out. But probably take a shower first. I’m assuming that wandering around Denver all day isn’t the cleanest activity. Oh, and if you’re secretly a grad student who’s doing a sociological experiment or something, definitely call me. But still shower first. And lose the wagon.

Love,

The girl you give the stink eye to all the time

Seriously. Ban it. KILL IT WITH FIRE! Or at least require a license to use it*, at least for everyone but Courtni, who gets a free pass on this. It seems like lately, everyone wants to blame “haters” for everything. “They don’t like me because they’re just haters.” “Those haters are just jealous of how awesome my life is.” And so on. Everyone has heard it; celebrities won’t shutup about it, and frenemies seem to think it’s the only possible reason someone wouldn’t like them.

**NEWSFLASH**

Sometimes, when someone hates you? It’s justified. For example, I personally love the super perky baristas at the Starbucks in my lobby, but I totally get why my mom hates them. Neither of us are morning people, but the perkiness makes me a little perkier, whereas it just reminds my mom that she’s awake and it’s not pleasant. I get it. She’s not being a hater, she just legitimately doesn’t like it. But see, my mom doesn’t run around hating everyone. She just hates when people are AWAKE in the morning. She even hates me when I try to talk to her; I’ve gotten more dirty looks and crabby “Shut UP”s than I can tell you. That’s fine. Sometimes I talk to her just to piss her off.

I hate people who think they’re entitled to things. Homeless people make me super sad and I wish I could fix all their problems, but the second they start thinking they’re entitled to my money? Um, no hobo, get out of my face. I almost threw down when a guy on the corner outright demanded that I give him money for his “medication.” When I said no, he informed me that I “better watch out for the rain, because when it comes, I’m gonna drown.” Um, right. If I drown, it’ll be in the ocean that I’m visiting with ALL MY MONEY THAT YOU CAN’T HAVE. Same situation with people who expect gifts for the most minor of events. If it’s not your birthday, your wedding, or Christmas, you have zero cause to expect presents; actually, even expecting them for those occasions isn’t ok. I buy people gifts because I want to, and I love giving someone something for no reason, but if you shove a wish list in my face, you can suck it. It’s rude and completely socially inept to pressure people into buying you shit. Veruca Salt anyone?

The thing is, the concept of “haters” implies people who have no reason to dislike someone. People who are like, “I just don’t like so-and-so because I don’t,” are haters. People who say, “This person does this specific thing and it gets under my skin so I’d rather NOT see their face,” are not. And a whoooole lot of the time, people with specific reasons are totally right. If a room clears out as soon as you show up, maybe reexamine your own behavior before you automatically assume it’s just haters. Not everyone has to like you, true. But don’t assume that no one has any reason not to, because assuming that makes you, well, kind of an asshole.

P.S. I totally KNOW people don’t like me. I know that, in a couple of cases, it’s justified and that’s fine with me. This isn’t kindergarten, and I’m a big girl. But seriously Mandy? Stop talking shit about me, bitch. I’ll cut you.**

*I suggest we have licenses for many things. Using the word hater, having children, being in my presence, etc. Any other suggestions?
**This is totally a joke. I love Mandy more than like, 99% of people who have ever existed.

It’s been awhile, so if you need a reminder, here’s part 1 and part 2.

When I last left off, my sister had returned to her old high school for her senior year. Per my ever so subtle foreshadowing, this was a bad idea. Like, really bad. Even after a year away, and sobriety, my sister wasn’t any more popular with many of the girls at her school. Unlike me, though, when someone makes fun of my sister, she’s more likely to make that person cry and/or punch them in the face than to get upset herself. She can be extremely mean, and she’s quick about it. A lot of her senior year was spent fighting in one way or another, which wasn’t great for her school work. She was suspended for a couple of (for her) minor problems and was about to be expelled again, so she dropped out in April, a month before graduation. She took her GED and scored in the 99th percentile on every area, which makes it even more depressing that she couldn’t graduate. My sister’s a goddamn genius.

After high school, she moved in with one of her best friends from her alternative high school. Don’t get me wrong, I like this girl, but she had problems on top of problems. Her dad died when she was young and left her a large trust fund, and her stepdad started getting her high and sexually abusing her when she was probably 11 or 12. She was clean at the time, but a lot of her friends weren’t, and one day my sister decided that meth sounded like fun. Or something. I can’t even claim to understand the thought process there. Meth is the filthiest, most disgusting drug I can imagine, and seeing an addict up close is not pretty.

The next year, we barely saw my sister, and when we did, it was…well, gross. She was always thin, but she dropped to about 85lbs. Her skin was gray, it was clear she never slept, and she said her teeth were getting loose. She never had the sores that a lot of meth addicts get, so it took us awhile to figure out exactly what she was doing; she claimed she was clean, but it was pretty obvious she was lying. My cousin worked for the local police department at the time, and he found out that the drug taskforce was watching the apartment my sister lived in. I think that finally scared her, and one day she called and said, “Mom, I want to come home.” She changed her phone number and didn’t tell any of her old friends where she was. And she ATE. I think she went through more ice cream in the next year than she had in her previous 18 years. (And then she got chubby, which was hilarious.)

She started dating a smart, motivated guy who ::gasp:: graduated from college and got a real job, which we think motivated her to go to cosmetology school. It was like his success made her want to be successful too, and she was. If there’s one thing my sister is good with, it’s hair. Unfortunately, they broke up after about 3 years, and she started dating her current boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, we get along great, but he also sells drugs. And I know my sister helps. My parents don’t know everything I know, but enough to be concerned when my sister recently lost 20lbs, started sleeping constantly, and having low energy. Oh, and being a total cuntrag when she WAS around. wWe thought she was using again, even though she insisted she wasn’t (yeah, we’d heard that one before).

My sister finally went to the doctor a few weeks ago, and was diagnosed with diabetes and hypothyroidism. She was told she will be insulin dependent within a year, and started taking medication. The big, fat HOWEVER is that the doctor she went to is apparently a fucking idiot, because she called to make a follow up appointment and the receptionist said, “Oh, yeah, he got the rest of your tests back and said you’re not diabetic so stop taking that medicine.” He didn’t call her, didn’t come to the phone to explain, nothing. My mom is a nurse and I thought she was going to commit murder, but instead she made her an appointment with a specialist, because her symptoms are real, and her sugar and thyroid levels are out of control. We still don’t know what it is, so we’re sort of waiting in limbo to figure out what’s really wrong. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it because, when my sister and I got each other’s names tattooed on our backs, we promised we’d add wings if anything ever happened to the other. I’m not getting fucking wings, so she has to be ok. The end.

(Coincidentally, today is also my sister’s 24th birthday, so I’m going to make a diabetic friendly cake (just in case) and thank god I still have a sister, even if she CAN be a total bitchface and make me want to smother her with a pillow.)

That’s the new rule around these parts. NO LICKING MY NECK. Bluh. Especially especially especially if I don’t know you, but probably not even if I do because I am not a fan of spit all over the place and then I just want a beach towel to wipe myself off. Do not do it. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. It’s very sad that I have to actually say that this is a rule, but APPARENTLY some people don’t get that. Like last…Saturday? Friday? Whenever. Doesn’t matter. I was talking to Rachel about how douchey some men can be (not all of you, don’t get your man-ties in a bunch), and my back muscles started getting tighter and tighter thinking about last Fraturday. Therefore: blog.

SO. The night started out just fine, with a few of us meeting a friend for his birthday. He had a couple of male friends with him, and we were all having a good time, when this girl started talking to one of the guys. She was…huge. Not fat huge, although she was rather overweight. Just enormous, at least 5 or 6 inches taller than him and she sort of looked like one of those people who would Hulk Smash if she didn’t get her way. When she turned around, he asked if one of us girls would help him out. The next time she started talking to him, I stuck my arm through his and politely introduced myself. She got the hint and left,  and I told him he had to do the same for me, since I was certainly not trying to get any numbers. He agreed and for awhile, the plan worked well.

Except.

This particular guy got skeevier and ickier the drunker he got. My friend warned me that he was a douche, but I figured since I had made it clear that I wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone, it would be ok. And it was fine (and helpful since some of the creepiest guys ever hit on me and were turned away by his presence), until he tried to kiss me at last call. I turned my head and said, “Nooo, no thank you. I think it’s time you closed your tab.” I led him to the bar, where he promptly stood behind me with both arms on the bar, and pressed his junk all up against my ass. He actually had the guts to say, “I think you like it a little bit.” I managed to hold my gag reflex in check and mouthed “HELP ME!” to the bartender. The bartender is an asshole, though, and apparently remembered the time last year that I got hammered and threw a penny (or 12) at him to get his attention*, so he took his sweeeet time. Bastard. Meanwhile, Sleazebag McPervertson is trying to lick my neck.

Class, what did we discuss about neck licking?
(Don’t do it!)
Very good! Gold stars for everyone!

So there I am, pelvis thrust forward to avoid his advances in that area, head turned at an awkward angle to avoid that mess, and desperation on my face, and finally the bartender put on his nice pants and came to close the tab. In the meantime, Grossface has picked up a half full beer that someone left on the bar, and drank it. In horror, I asked if he had really just done what I thought he did, and he said, “Yeah, and I’m about to finish this other one too.” OH MY FUCKING GOD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I wrestled the other beer out of his hand and gave it to the bartender, whereupon Knobgobbler yelled, “Yeaaah! Taking beer away from me, that’s a good way to get a tip!” I almost lost my shit right there. Instead of beating him to death with a barstool, I (relatively) calmly handed him his id and card, turned him around, and ordered him to find the rest of the group. Meanwhile, I added a tip to his tab, and signed it. Illegal? Probably. Ok, definitely. The only possible solution? Pretty much. Fucking jerk. The bartender said he waited to come over because he “thought we were making a connection.” Oh hardy har.

On  the way out, he tried to get my attention, and I quite literally ran across the street. And then I went home and took a shower and scrubbed all my skin off. And made angry snorting noises. And barfed. That last one is a lie.

The lesson is that I should have let Hulk Smash girl have him. I am never being nice to someone again. Ever ever ever.

*Side note: Do not do this. Even if it’s a year later, your hair is grown out, and you don’t think they’ll remember you as that fucking jackass who threw shit? They totally will.

Oh look at me being the worst blogger ever (like this is news to anyone). There have been some new, and potentially scary, developments that just happen to involve my sister and I haven’t had a chance to write jack shit. I don’t want to say too much about that until we have news because I’m worrying about vague possibilities at this point. For now, I’ll just continue on past scary shit involving my sister because there’s a lot of that. She’ll give me a heart attack someday, I swear.

Ok. So. As previously discussed, my sister and I are freaking dorks. I’m worse though. In fact, a large percentage of my friends for the first 15 or so years of my life were friends she made and I knew through her. I’m socially awkwaaaard! As a result, we spent a lot of time together, until she started high school. See, my sister is freaky smart, but school really isn’t her thing. She isn’t a fan of being told what to do and had fairly contentious relationships with a lot of her teachers. She also started drinking around that time. I blame myself for that in a lot of ways, because when I was 14 or 15, I started drinking, so of course my little sister did too. I didn’t expect her to have such an addictive personality, though, and it became a problem for her very quickly.

When my sister was 15, she brought a water bottle full of vodka to school, and drank it in her math class. Let me be very clear – she brought STRAIGHT VODKA to school and drank the ENTIRE bottle. At 7am. She also weighed roughly 90lbs, and the amount of alcohol in her system caused her to pass out. Her friends managed to get her to the bathroom so she could throw up (thank god) and tried to convince her teacher that she just had the flu. Fortunately, her teacher wasn’t a moron and called an ambulance. They pumped her stomach, and her BAC was still .25ish. If she hadn’t thrown up when she did, she very likely would have died. We thought it would be a wakeup call, but it turned out not so much.

Around the same time as the drinking suspension, my sister and I were caught stealing. That’s hands down one of the worst days of my life, and definitely one of the most embarrassing moments. We were both given deferred judgment. I took my theft class, wrote my essay, paid the fines, and never, ever did it again. My sister, on the other hand, got caught stealing diet pills at Safeway the day after Christmas, just weeks after the deferred judgment was finalized. If you take enough of them, you get a decent buzz, I guess. I don’t really know. One of our friends was with her (and was definitely involved) but my sister took the rap and had to do community service at the local VFW, which she spent smoking pot and convincing the veterans to buy her cigarettes.

That spring, my sister went to a friend’s house for lunch, and they drank a beer, I guess. Another student happened to find out, and considering that she hated my sister*, she went straight to the principal. Since it was her second offense, she was expelled from school, and at her court date, the judge ordered her to join AA.

I was finishing my senior year of high school at this point, and while I drove her to her meetings and UAs, I was sort of…disconnected, I guess. I was worried about the very real possibility that I wouldn’t get in to the college of my choice, as well as spending roughly 10-12 hours a day at school between classes, cheerleading, and “improve my college application” clubs, and I don’t remember a whole lot about it. However, I remember that my sister was sober and had completely embraced AA. She started attending an alternative high school and was doing really well. She made new friends, and was generally a more pleasant person to be around.

Aaand then she decided to go back to her old school for senior year, and around the same time decided AA was a cult.

*Actually, a lot of people hated her. Mostly girls. My sister is beautiful, self-confident, and generally a fun person to be around, so of course all the guys wanted to be her friend. Pretty girl with lots of male friends=public enemy number 1 for teenage girls. I never had that problem, strangely enough…

Ok, I know I promised to continue/finish the Gloria and Janey saga, but I’ve been busy with actual work and stuff, and it’s Rockies opening day and I have beer to drink and baseball to watch. Also, my non-boyfriend-whatever-he-is posted what was originally an email to his dad on his facebook page, and I thought it was super awesome and way more meaningful that anything I’ve ever written on here and so he said I could steal it. Even if you don’t play golf (ahem, me) or find it particularly interesting (me again), I think we can all take something from this.

This Game of Golf

So today I went to Golf Galaxy, and bought some golf balls..Got a pretty good deal I bought 36 Titleist ProV1’s for 34 bucks…Not a bad deal at all, but while I was there I started wandering around looking at clubs, and started thinking about how I got into the game of golf…Do you remember what my first set of clubs were?, They were Nancy Lopez Wilson’s…I don’t know if we even still have them laying around, but I really started thinking about when I got the clubs, and how stoked I was to play. I do believe that this is the only game that I ever got into on my own. None of my friends got me into golf, and I hadn’t really been around the sport until I got those clubs. I wasn’t playing golf because of my friends, or because everyone else was. I played golf because I wanted to..The very first round of 18 holes I played was with Doug Lawson, Andrew Hodge, and myself, at The Links in Highlands Ranch.

I shot a 103 that day, my very first time out on a course, I was 11.

So I have been a student of the game of golf now for 15 years, as of this golf season. I have learned more about myself on the golf course than anywhere else in life on my own. I’ve over come fear, and failure. Look beyond what had happened to me in the past, and look to my future. As if when I’m standing on the tee box, it’s my next step in life, and the cup is my ultimate goal… Sometimes it takes a little bit longer than others, but the out come is always the same, but the ball in the cup, and move on; or achieve what I’m going for and look back on what I had done and move on. Learning the lessons of what I had done, and what I need to do next time.

This game of golf is more to me than a game. Yes each time I go play I want to have fun, and enjoy it. But golf has always had that special place in my heart to be more than just a game. It’s been there to be my escape. The one place I can go to see my life, and the world around me through clear eyes. As I’m walking away from the tee box, down the fairway (or in the rough), I have 200 plus yards to think. Think about how to approach my next “shot”. Whether it’s on the course or in life, I have those steps down the stretch to see all that’s around me. My sanctity, and sanity all can be found on those acres and acres of lush fairways, and greens.

This game of golf has been the only sport, that I’ve taught myself how to play. I’ve gotten feedback, and help from those around me. And looked at each course only one way. Completely fearless. Intimidation has show itself from time to time, but I’ve never once been afraid to step up on that tee box, dig my feet into the sand, or crouch down to read the green. I’ve been victim to a course from time to time, and I’ve even had times where the course has fallen victim to me. But I’ve always had respect for the game. I’ve learned how to pick myself up when I was down, and I’ve learned to be humble when I’m on top, and to keep pushing forward when I think all is lost.

This is something I started doing without even realizing it until today, that every time I finish a round of golf; no matter if it’s 9 hole or 18 holes, as I walk away from that final putt, I take off my hat. I take off my hat just as the pros would to show respect to the others in the group, and I look back at that last tee box. As if I were going to say thank you. Thank you for the round and the lessons I’m walking away with today. I may not realize them all right now, but when I least expect it I’ll remember being out here, and thinking of whatever it may have been. Thank you for giving me confidence when I least expected it, and thank you for keeping me grounded before it was too late. Lessons I couldn’t have learned from watching anyone, or heeding anyone’s advice, but lessons I had learned by going through them.

So in retrospect, this is a thank you letter to the game of golf, and to each and every tee box I have stepped on. With this season coming to an end, I guess I’ll say it as I would on the 18th, Thank you. This season has been one for the books, and I’ll be back again next season.

I’m not sure how many parts this will have, but definitely at least two. It’s a long story, and kind of a circuitous way to talk about what’s been going on with my sister and I lately, which is…well, not great. But we’ll get to that later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Thursday. Can you stand the suspense?!?! Yes? Fine, whatever. On with the show.

My sister and I were always…weird. Weird would be a good way to say it. We’re not quite two years apart, and people always used to ask if we were twins, even when we were little and I was a lot bigger than her and even though we don’t think we look that much alike. We’re also very different, but we have times when we’re so in sync that we could be twins. When other girls our age were playing, I don’t know, My Little Pony or something, we were watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and kicking the crap out of each other in the living room. We had the action figures, the flannel sheets, the tent, the character-shaped pillows, everything. Even when Power Rangers started, we hated the show but saw it as a good excuse to karate kick our friends. The other girls demanded to be the Pink Ranger because, duh, she was the prettiest. My sister and I wouldn’t lower ourselves to fight over that – we just wanted to throw down.

When we were probably 7 and 9, we got matching flight attendant Barbies. We promptly lost one of their uniforms, and Crazy Annie was born. See, unlike normal children, we couldn’t just put another outfit on her and continue to play. Oh no. We built a Lego insane asylum and the naked Barbie was put in a room because she had issues with nudity. Specifically, Crazy Annie refused to wear clothes in public. Her sister (the still clothed flight attendant Barbie) took on the role of a high powered executive who loved Annie and wanted to take her on a trip to France, but couldn’t unless Crazy Annie would agree to wear clothes. I don’t recall exactly, but I’m pretty sure Annie stayed in the asylum. What kind of kids even know what an asylum is, let alone build one? Us. Told you we were weird.

Somewhere around 8 and 10, Gloria and Janey were born. Gloria and Janey were our alter-egos who were, um, drunks. I have no idea how or why this game came about, but we took great pleasure in staggering around the house, slurring and falling up the stairs. Somehow, we began calling each other Gloria and Janey, although who was who varied depending on the day. My mother, understandably, was not a fan of this game. I’m guessing it reminded her of too many of her relatives (hi Grandma!) We found the whole thing hilarious. It kept us entertained for at least a year, and I believe there were a couple of times when Gloria and Janey resurfaced in high school, except we were actually drunk then. No one else ever knew what we were talking about. That happened a lot.

My sister has always been the outgoing, funny, happy one. I was shy, quiet (until I got to know you, and then good luck shutting me up), and full of self-doubt. The best example of our differences might be the time we took IQ tests to get into a charter elementary school. We were 6 and 8, and we were both asked how oxygen gets back in the air. I went on a long diatribe about photosynthesis until the examiner finally told me she got it. My sister’s answer to the same question? “Open a window.” I tell her that answer is the reason I scored a whole 2 points higher on the test, but I’ve always secretly been jealous. She’s creative, where I’m analytical. She’s interesting, while I write a 700 word blog about nothing much so far. However, I think it’s those qualities that make me less susceptible to some of the problems my sister has had (is having?) so maybe I’m a little bit grateful that I’m super lame.

Anyway, this is already stupidly long, so I’ll save the rest of the story for tomorrow.