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Archive for the ‘sister’ Category


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Some people never grow up and I’m glad I’m one of them. My top 10 list of things I said during Christmas.

10. I don’t know who brought the whoopee cushion, but yes, I did use it.

9. You are not allowed to use my <deodorant, shampoo, eye shadow, moisturizer> without asking because you forgot yours or it smells SO good.

8. My sweater will not be the same after your chest has been in it.

7. Yes, I brought heated sheets and no, they are not for us to share.

6. To my “vegan” sister: We all know you’re a vegan. However, lobster is an animal and it does so count. I don’t care what you read. And I still think serving you the turkey neck was funny and so do our brothers.

5. Leaving my door unlocked was not an invitation for you all to take over my bed and drink my chocolate wine. And I’m the only one who gets to drink out of the bottle.

4. Reading my journal is not an attempt to bring us closer. It was not lying open on the bed. It was hidden in the chest of drawers.

3. I don’t think waving the turkey carcass, butt first in my face brought back nostalgic memories from our childhood.

2. I don’t know who put the ice packs in your beds. To one of my brothers: Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Good one.

1. Sorry the kittens shredded the toilet paper, again. I have a 20 pack hidden in my trunk.

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swimmin boy fish kid

I was with my sister and nephew on a beach in Spain. It wasn’t a nudist beach, but apparently sometimes stuff just happens.

My nephew had just come to tell me, “Jesus walked on that water. I vomited in it.” Though geographically challenged, he was still cute.

On the blanket next to us, a guy and girl somewhere between 18 and stupid decided to have an all out wrestling match tongue included. I decided we should probably leave before my nephew caught on.

But my timing was a little off, because he was suddenly filled with righteous indignation saying, “You’re not allowed to fight with girls. They’re not as tough as us.”

As heads began turning, I grabbed his hand and started towards his mom and the car.

But my nephew wasn’t done yet. He loudly spewed some of his mother, saying, “You’re in  trouble. Wait until your father gets home.” Not quite finished, he yelled over his shoulder. “Give her her shirt back. You are in so much trouble young man.”

When I found my sister, his mother my parting words were – “Here that’s your.” Before I left her with my nephew.

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When I was a kid, I had an idea that all worlds were a combination of science and magic. My idea was that magical teams were dispatched to worlds where the magic was out of balance. Only family members could combine and magnify each other’s magic, so these SWAT teams would be composed of people from the same family.

I waited for a mystical vortex to open and a stranger to explain, “You are in the wrong world we need to take you to the magical realm where you belong.” However, much to my great disappointment, it never happened so I still reside in this world almost devoid of magical energy. This is based on the same idea when the Liza and her sisters got their first assignment.

The tapestry shimmered before Liza, a brilliant orange and red with a shimmer of royal blue. It was taking the shape of an egg, more accurately an egg-shaped box. Five more stitches to go.

Her fingers moved slowly, pulling at the threads of magick around her. Liza tore through the tangle of fibers she had gathered, pulling a bright crimson thread. She eased it free, careful not to snap it.

Magick appeared differently to different people. To her it was threads to be woven into a tapestry. She was a spell weaver after all.

She began to weave.

One. Two. Three. Almost there.

She would use the magick to gather spare matter and transform it into another form.

A box lined with crystaline.  Jerl needed one to keep his newly acquired dragon egg. Her younger cousin was an animage. His powers were uncanny. In fact, their abilities were all unusually powerful.

Four, one more stitch.

Some said it was in their blood. She thought most people said that out of sympathy, knowing their family history. She had always thought it was the shared trauma of the Midsummer’s day. None of them had escaped unscathed. A few of them wore their scars on the outside. All on the inside, more easily hidden, but perhaps more troubling.

Five and the knot.

The door slammed against the wall. Aelese rushed in, waving a parchment above her head.

“It’s here.” She gulped, gasping for air as she collided with a chair.

The carefully woven tapestry, hours of work, collapsed into a pile of sparks slowly extinguishing like the last coals in the ashes of a dying fire.

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Baby Kitty, that is not where you're face should be.

Baby Kitty, that is not where your face should be.

 

“Charles is having an affair,” Margo blurted out.

She glanced away, staring out the window as if she had just told me she bought a handbag that cost more than my mortgage. There was no point asking. Margo never said anything unless she was sure.

I glanced around the restaurant at the other ladies lunching. A lady at the next table was picking through a salad – no dressing, no cheese, no chicken, no onions. Onions were carbs she’d said. Her friend, just as thin, had plowed her way through a shrimp cocktail, egg rolls, and was now working her way through nachos. I noticed she went to the ladies’ room between each dish.

I love food too much to be anorexic and not enough to be bulimic, I thought, cutting into my lasagna, with cheese, meat, sauce, and extra bread.

The restaurant was filled with bored ladies politely tearing each other and their husband’s down. I was a fresh water fish in salt water. Margo wasn’t like these women. She met Charles in college, worked as hard as he did to make his career. Strip away the Prada and Gucci and she was just a girl from a farm in Texas somewhere no one had ever heard of.

“I’ve started my garden.” Margo was back.

“Forget the garden. What are you doing to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you contacted an attorney?”

“An attorney? God no. Do you think he has?”

“You’d know if he had.”

“People are like shoes, you know. You remember when I was in college. I was a strappy pair of heels. I was cute and sassy. Men were attracted to me. I could have my pick. Then Charles and I got married. We settled down. I became what he needed me to be sensible, intelligent, hardworking – yoga shoes. You think a doctor would appreciate a good pair of nurses’ shoes. But no, he takes up with a pair of trampy stelletto’s.

“Men are like that, they’d rather have a pair of vinyl shoes with a little extra silicone in the toes.” I was trying to stick with the shoe metaphor, but failed.

“What?”

Margo looked at me, brows wrinkled, frowning. She smiled, then laughed. Not fake laughter like that from the tables all around us, but real laughter.

Her blond curls tossed as she laughed. She was still cute, maybe not as sassy. I hope the old Margo was still in there.

“You can take the house.” I was trying to steer Margo towards reality.

“The house?”

“You can take the house in the country and Charles can take the apartment in the city.”

“No, I don’t want the house. I mean, I want the house. I don’t want a divorce.”

“But he’s cheating on you. You have to get a divorce. Everyone whose spouse cheats gets a divorce.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want a divorce.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have to play by their rules. I can make up my own.”

Perhaps the old Margo was in there somewhere.

Don’t forget Mother’s Day

Don’t miss out on the Deals of the Day

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people windy picnic

Every morning my obnoxious alarm goes off. Blinded by daylight, I slap it a couple of times and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open refrigerator door, drink milk straight from the carton, and grab a hard boiled egg.

I love cold hard boiled eggs so I make them on Sunday afternoon and put them in a container ready for the week. It adds to my mindless routine. I love mindless in the morning.

But one day it was different. Saturday morning, my siblings decided to get together. Early. Really early. They know I don’t do early, especially not on Saturday. Early Saturday in Deidra time means I’ll be 2 hours late. Whatever time you set.

To help me with this, they decided to meet at my house and for my convenience, they let themselves in. They’re really thoughtful that way.

An issue arose during the early morning gathering which has forced me to issue the following warning.

To the person who replaced my boiled egg with a frozen egg,

I’m narrowing the suspect pool. The noose is tightening. Feel my breath on the back of your neck as I close in. In the words of the immortal wicked witch of Oz.

“I will get you and your little dog too.”

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car rain

 

Excerpt from Meet Me By The Gate:

July 7

Item # 30 – Painting of Mom and Dad

Allie,

I’ve painted a portrait of Mom and Dad. I want you to have it. Perhaps if you can hang where you can see it every day you’ll never find yourself unable to remember what they looked like.

Love,

Jo

***

I woke up last night, crying. I dreamt I was in heaven. It was bright and shiny. Everyone was happy, just as you’d expect. But I was surrounded by strangers, alone. I couldn’t find my parents. It’s been over twenty years since I last saw them, spoke to them, hugged them, since I became no one’s daughter. I wondered through the crowd, looking in every face. But I couldn’t remember what they looked like. I couldn’t find them. I woke up sobbing.

What kind of person can’t remember their parents’ faces? The people who spent most of their lives taking care of me and I can’t remember them.

I lay in the dark, trying to remember. Dad had dark wavy hair, a large nose I think, but I could only see bits and pieces, like a puzzle you’ve lost most of the pieces to. I tried to concentrate on his face, but it’s just a vague blur.

REMEMBER HIM, concentrate. Remember his face the last time you saw him, at his funeral.

Brown suit, one button, small lapel, white shirt, but I can’t get above his collar. Just when his face starts to become clear, it slips away again. I can’t see him. Why didn’t I commit him to memory? Surely I realized it was the last time I’d see him.

What about Mom? The last time I saw her, she was sick in bed with cancer. I didn’t want to remember her like that. I thought of the picture I have of her, with that red hair and green eyes, surely I can remember.  I concentrate on the picture – blue background, white blouse, red hair waving done over her shoulders. I could almost see her face. Her eyes, I couldn’t get hold of her eyes. I had her nose and the shape of her face, but it was just individual pieces. I couldn’t assemble them. I couldn’t see her.

How will I find my parents in heaven when I can’t remember them? Will they remember me? How long before my son forgets me? I’m afraid I won’t find my parents in heaven. I’m afraid in the dark. I am afraid.

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I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. It starts colorful and bright, euphoric and exciting.

I’m carrying my baby so beautiful no one can take their eyes from her. Her face shines up at me from my arms as I walk through the store, showing her everything and she taking it all in.

A knowing look from a familiar face catches my eye. The world is illusion, replaced by reality. The bundle of joy in my arms turns to a wad of filthy rags. There is no baby and there never has been.

The world turns grey and dark, sharp and hard. I feel their eyes on me, like pawing hands pulling me apart seeing everything I really am. Most look on horrified or disgusted, a few pity me. I want to disappear, to cease to exist. But I don’t. I’m on display, my crazy rantings are on display.

Hands are gently pushing me towards the doors.

My sister come rescuer whispers, “Everything will be okay.”

I feel reality so sharp, my body is bleeding from cuts no one can see. I’m covered and cannot move without wanting to cry out. But I don’t, the pain of humiliation is too great. I keep silent.

I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. I don’t know where it came from. I tell myself I’ve never had delusions. At least I don’t think I have.

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