Growing up, I had a complicated relationship with my sister.
Maybe we fit easy to fill stereotypes. She was the popular cheerleader type, who was bad at school. I was the book-worm, nerd-girl who wasn't so popular. I was in the college-prep classes, she was in jazz emsemble and a cheerleader.
Pretty easy to make clear lines. However, we are 14 months apart and fairly close. Close enough to just hate each others guts. So back in the day when I read a book or saw a movie about sisters with deep rifts I felt like it was talking to me, saying something important. Something important enough to cry for hours.
Back then I felt second best in her presence. She had flocks of followers. If there was a guy all my friends had crushes on, she was dating him. I was known as H-star's sister, not as myself. She was in every musical, every show, every stupid everyfucking thing. On the other hand I never even did homework and got straight A's. She had to work hours for even C's. There was a year we were in the same math class (and not just in the same level, the same CLASS and hour and everything). Since I did so well in math I tended to tutor her, but I doubt it was much fun. I really can't imagine how that must have been for her.
In truth I don't really even know how to deal with her to this day. We are still extremely close and get along almost like twins. On the other hand, we are polar opposites in almost every other fashion: religion, politics, family planning, etc. At least now we don't worry about who has the better position or job.
Why did this come up? I saw the movie In Her Shoes tonight and even though the circumstances have about zero to do with how my sister and I interact, it touched something in me. Sisters are bonded, it doesn't seem to be anything you could ever get around. The more you try to pretend it isn't true, the more obvious it is that you are lying.
I am 35 and there isn't anyone alive who can understand exactly where I am coming from as much as my sister (and dude, she was there for the whole 35 years of it, so who wouldn't?). In some ways I owe her so many apologies for how I used to act. I was SO. FRICKIN'. JEALOUS. What a complete asshole I must have been. For someone who was all about studying, practising and getting everything exactly right, I couldn't stand seeing someone blow it all off and still have everyone singing her praises.
Maybe I have learned that it isn't necessarily the 4 hours you put into preparation, but the years of experience you draw on to deliver the wowing, while following it up with sincere hard work on the back end.
I love my sister. I hate my sister. I love my sister so much I can't even breathe. Don't even say a bad word to me about my sister, or we will have words. Don't even breathe it.
You want to know what I am writing? Lists of things I should be writing about.
I think I have a new category: kerewin crazy. Because I am. Just too embarrassed to let you all know, until now. I might even write more except that insomnia has come to roost and my brain isn't even functioning.
Back when I was a kid and had insomnia I would entertain myself for hours with counting. Adding up numbers on the digital clock, or playing number games in my head or just counting. I used to obsessively count steps (in my head). Steps on the stairs, steps to the door, steps all day. I had to find a way to break myself because I couldn't seem to stop. I finally had to start spouting the alphabet (in my head) or some other such nonsense long enough for my brain to lose track of just how many steps I just took. I did that enough to where I trained myself not to count.*
Now if I could train myself to sleep. I think I will go practice right now. In fact, I am looking forward to it, because my head hurts so much that I know it will be a supreme pleasure just to let that pain go as I drift off.**
* I just noticed that I opened this at 22:22:22 on August 22, which leads me to explain that I was also nuts over things like dates and times where the numbers were all the same, increased in order (12:34) or decreased in order. I looked forward to 12:34 and 56 seconds on the 7th Month, 8th Day, of '90 for instance. I apparently am so over my obsession that someone had to tell me when it was 05/05/05, and 06/06/06.
** Har, Har, an hour and a half later I have come to the realization (AGAIN) that just desire to sleep doesn't necessarily translate into actual sleep.
When I find something on the internet I think is funny, I try to find everything else that person wrote and read it. Immediately, if possible.
A couple of months ago some friends got me to start watching Hell's Kitchen. The season finale was last week but I missed most of it due to work, only catching the end. Since I knew who won I didn't necessarily want to watch the rest of the two hours. So I went looking on the internet and found this.
Then I spent all my free time in the next two days reading everything from this season and then following it up with the previous season. I am now working my way through all the recaps on the site. I spent several hours last night trying to keep my laughter down so as not to wake up my husband. My stomach hurts even now. I might never emerge from the site. That or I will find myself with several new television addictions.
Suddenly I looked down from my typewriter and I saw HUNDREDS of pages of my written work! Tied in ribbons, ready to go to the publisher. I looked a little further and sure, the font was Georgia size 14, which is kinda large for a book, but hey bitches, you write a book in a few hours.
Then my sister was there and she wanted me to watch her kids while her nanny took a nap. H-star suddenly turned into Maria Bello who was my sister's boss, and my sister was her nanny and we all went to a fine dining restaurant and took off our sandals and let the kids throw their food everywhere.
Then I woke up. Suppose my subconcious is trying to tell me something?
I really wanted to thank everyone who left a comment on my previous post about going on vacation. However, I sorta accidently forgot to hit "publish" on said post. Oops.
So I went on vacation. It started out with a little volunteer action at IPNC and then moved into some camping downtime along the Washington and Oregon coasts. It ended with 3 days of family reunion in Manzanita. Quick recap = Drive, wine, wine, wine, work, work, wine, work, wine, wine, wine, drive home, unpack, wash, pack, make list for camping stuff, spend hours arguing over list with husband (he thinks you should just toss two sleeping bags in the car and go), shopping for food, driving, ferry, camping, ocean, driving, camping, ocean, family reunion, cooking, eating, eating, eating, drinking, bocce, eating, drinking, sleeping, driving home without air conditioning.
The craziest thing happened today. We had to tank up in Manzanita and wash the dirty windshield of said a/c-less vehicle. Since the Hub was driving, he got to pay and wash. I was reading a Summer Rental Book (hello, the renters just leave them there, you don't have to feel guilty for taking them) and heard this yelling from a beater sedan that was parked perpendicular to the gas station. Some Dumas in a large white SUV pulled up and parked illegally, parallel. Then she backed up, right into the other car. Driver of the sedan saw the SUV coming and started yelling. I looked up in time to see the dark sedan rock, evidence that the SUV hit it. SUV pulls forward a little and parks. A blond girl barely in her early twenties gets out and shuts her cell phone. The older lady in the sedan gets out, obviously frazzled. They exchange words. The young girl seems to be blissfully unaware that she just hit someone with her car.
In fact, she looks as if she is about to argue that the dark sedan hit her. They point, have more words, then the young girl gets in her SUV and tears out of the parking lot. Since they have to drive right past us, I get a full view of the license plate. I write it down and get out of our Vanagon and head over. I ask the lady who was hit if the other person just drove away without giving her information. Turns out she basically left the scene of the crime. The older lady said there wasn't any visual damage to her car, just some dust wiped off, but her arm was sticking out the window when the SUV backed up and she squeezed it between the cars. At that point the girl said, "Well you don't have any damage, it doesn't matter," and left! So I gave the older lady the license plate number and wrote down some contact information for her. A very old lady is in the passenger seat and seems very grateful. A third girl who was in the back got out and we told the driver that she should call the police.
I go back to our car and get in. Because he missed it, I recap everything for the Hub. Strangely enough, right then a police car pulls out from some side street and starts to drive almost right past us. Kevo gets out and flags him down sends him over to the ladies at the sedan. I walk over just to see if he needs any more information from me. Turns out I was the only one who saw what direction the SUV went, and the description of the driver. Police guy gets my address in addition to name and phone number, I hear him radio to someone about watching the highway going North towards Cannon Beach.
I get in the car ready for our trip back to Seattle and for the next few minutes the Hub and I go over what happened again and again. How horrible it was, how the driver of the SUV seemed like some sort of righteous silver spoon. How we hope that the information we gave helps in any way. How unlikely it seems that it will. The strangest part is that it was a very minor accident. All the young girl had to do was act a bit sorry, give up her contact information and maybe see if the other lady needed any medical attention. No cop would even bother with such a silly accident. It probably wouldn't ever go on any driving record.
Fifteen or so minutes later we are approaching Cannon Beach and see a cop with flashing lights on the side of the road, just ahead of him a white roof of a large SUV. "Could it be?" we asked ourselves. As we drove by we saw the 123 XYZ plate that matched what I wrote down, a very pissed young girl in the driver seat, and a cop searching the car.
I feel like we won one for the little guy today. Turns out in Oregon leaving the scene of the crime can be considered a Class C Felony.