One of my sisters asked me this morning why I hadn’t posted anything on this here blog in over a week. Which in internet years is like seven centuries.
The simple answer? I’m totally boring. And I still need to post-process my recent photos of the dog. Also, all of my current craft projects are for people who read this. And the dog ate my homework. And by “homework,” I mean motivation. And I mean “ate” in the figurative sense that I enjoy taking the dog for walks but they’re not really all that interesting. Except for the time that it looked like we were following this homeless guy, but really we were just taking the same route. And then he looked at me like I was crazy, which was kindof a low-point of my life. Being under-crazied by a homeless person who was drunk at nine in the morning. So, I suppose that walking the dog can be interesting when crazy, drunk homeless people are involved.
Anyways, I figured that my penance for blog neglect should be to tell an embarrassing story. And to show that I’m really and truly sorry, the embarrassing story will actually be about me!
In honor of my sister Allison asking me to be her Maid of Honor, I figured that the story should be about her as well. Thanks for bestowing a great honor on my, Allison. I shall repay it by telling stupid stories about us in public. Why wait for my toast?
Random aside: Am I alone in having to google my own blog because I can’t remember if I told a particular story on it or not? No? That’s what I was hoping.
Random aside to the random aside: I totally told that story already. Boo urns.
So, because I can’t talk about my sister’s cockroach, I’ll have to tell you about the time I hit my sister in the face with an ice scraper.
Actually, that’s pretty much it. I once hit my sister in the face with an ice scraper. I was probably about six*, which would have made her four. Old enough to be left in the car alone for a few minutes. Mischievous enough that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.
(Let’s be honest here, we’re still mischievous enough that we probably shouldn’t be left in the car alone together).
We’re hanging out, waiting for my Dad to get back. And I’m bored, very bored. Desperately bored. Relentlessly bored. So, I look around to see what is available for me to play with. And there isn’t really anything but one of those ice scrapers that we use up here in the Northeast when we get up in the morning and there are two inches of ice coating our windshields. I didn’t have any ice to scrape, so I did the next best thing.
I wacked my sister in the face with it.
I have no idea what I was hoping to accomplish with my actions, but I can tell you what I did manage to accomplish:
Quite a bit of blood. Lots and lots of tears (mostly hers, but some mine). And a very, very pissed off Father.
Mission Accomplished.
In the George W. Bush sense of the phrase.
And then, twenty-two years later, she asked me to be her Maid of Honor.
Who says we humans don’t have an amazing capacity for forgiveness?
Maybe she’ll give me an ice scraper as my bridal party gift at the rehearsal dinner.
* Actually, I kindof have no idea how old we were. My sister says that she was eight, which would have made me ten. Which makes me sound like much more of a jerk, so I’m sticking with four and six. Although, let’s be honest, it was probably a lot closer to eight and ten. I could ask my Dad how old we were, but I have no desire to send him an email saying “Hey, you remember that time I made my sister bleed massive amounts of her own blood out of her head? Yeah, how old was I?”
I will spray paint it gold!
And cover it in tulle? And little pearls? It doesn’t pass bridal muster if it’s not covered in tulle and pearls.
I once kicked my brother in the head with a skate blade. It was completely on accident, and there were more tears on my part than on his. Lots of tears, in fear of that very, very pissed off Father part…
I’m glad I’m not the only one! We joke about it now, but I still feel horrible.
Joe once threw a compass at me. Not the kind that shows you north, south, east and west. One that you use in geometry with a sharp, pointy end. I don’t think that he was really aiming to hit me with it, but intended to hit the chair in which I was sitting. In which case, I’m glad his aim was true.
He also once tied me to a large evergreen tree that was swarming with a cloud of thousands of small insects.
I think most older siblings do something mean to their younger sibs at some point, Hope. Chalk it up to you being too young to exercise good impulse control or judgment. You didn’t really mean to hurt her.