Enough Is Enough

I'm pretty stoked that the media is supporting me; it seldom happens, you know. When this tiff began, I hadn't counted on finding so many people – or kindred spirits – who share my love of making paper airplanes (and then launching them at H).

And it's been satisfying. Still...


Sometimes, isn't one-upmanship what it's all about?

M hopes that it won't come down to using her voodoo doll. She'd rather save it.

(Slightly disproportionate to the real H)

Under Siege

The response to my recent confrontation with M has been enormous. I have heard from numerous readers (a.k.a. Mom, Philip and Finnegan the guinea pigs) who do not hesitate to attack my character. They say I took things way too personally and that I was kind of a "Bratilla the Hun." The local media document my every move, taking my picture and begging for interviews as to why I am so lame and M is such a witty thing. Curse you, M! I must think more about this. In the meantime, I give you an example of the circus my life has become, and I am off to be sure my blinds are closed.

The Confrontation, Part 2

TREMBLE before the indignation of a younger sister!

WITNESS a passive-aggressive squabble!

SMIRK at the ridiculousness!

H, your comic is a testament to your self-absorption.

It was my trip, not YOURS. And a guilt trip is hardly what I had in mind, kiddo*. I wanted to go West and live, dammit! I wanted to climb every mountain, to shop and demand that you feed and entertain me! These are pleasures that too few people have experienced. And if I visit in a couple of months instead of a couple of weeks, won’t that be something to look forward to? I think it is.

It's good that you're defying our DNA and confronting me – in comic form, no less. [Please wear a cape for the next installment.] I suppose I should be glad that you can express yourself in our blog, lest your anger inappropriately come out after a beer or two (or five).

H spoke from the heart, and I heard her. I almost regret giving her my sunglasses after she lost hers.

*I am such the older sister.

The Confrontation, Part 1

Okay, so M and I are having a problem.

Not the kind where I'm all like, "Say, M, may I please borrow your earrings?" and she's all like, "No, Bitch." This is more serious.

I recently moved from a more eastern Canadian province to seek my fortune in the West. The Pet Shop Boys, Jim Morrison, and even our beloved chanteuse Quebecoise Mitsou all condoned my decision in various songs.

Now, because I am on the shy side, and well, go outside only under the cover of night, I confess that I am a bit lonely. To ease my mind, M was supposed to come visit. Oh, the plans I made! The things we would see! (I was gonna take her to Glo Bowl for Pete's sake!) But alas, M cancelled, indefinitely. Seems she is "short of funds." I thought family was priceless, but whatev.

Because I have never been good at talking about my troubles, facing people, or making eye contact, I turn to our blog as a much-needed communication tool. M, this is from the heart.

Go Green, or Go "Doing the Least I Can Do"

As H mentioned, I have a house. It's little but cute, nestled on a nice street with nice families. It takes a lot of work, but it's a labour of love. (Mostly.) My neighbours are good, and I've taken their questions and comments as to why a single woman would want to live on a family-oriented street as genuine interest in me and not nosy prying. Someone even sent the Welcome Wagon to my door, and I was given handfuls of coupons and free mints, even though I really only wanted the basket. (I didn't get it.)

But with such streets comes the "king" of the neighbourhood, the nice guy who can always tell you how to do something just a little bit better than the way you're doing it . He's friendly and sociable. He's given me helpful, if unsolicited tips on everything from mowing my lawn to putting out my recyclables to shovelling my driveway and sidewalks. And in all seriousness, I think he's a good person.

Now that I'm starting my second summer in my little house, he's become a bit of an inside joke between my sister and I, for one reason: his insistence that I spray my lawn to rid it of dandelions and other offensive weeds. He can't understand why I'd prefer to weed my lawn manually and at last count, he's said this to me five times: "You know, there's a spray for that."

At first, I laughed and agreed, but told him I liked the exercise. The second time, I told him I didn't want to keep spraying and watering my lawn. The third time, I told him that it was too much work to get the spray and post the little sign, warning people of pesticide use, that goes with it. The fourth time, I told him I liked my way better, smiling all the time. That was last summer.

Last week, he said it to me again! The same line! I told him I didn't believe in poisoning our environment, reasoning that he can't argue with my love for the earth. (Not exactly true, I just don't care enough about my lawn to bother.) My hope is that he gives up after five, and he moves on to telling me what I can do to fix my retaining wall.

It's all been good for a chuckle, as H makes me do when she says those magic words. For today, I'm happy it's cold and windy, so I can stay inside my house.

This happy, yellow weed reminds M of sunshine.

Bus F&%#

Something that M and I definitely have in common is that we are way into public transit. Neither of us has ever owned a car, nor will either of us get one in the near or distant future. (What, is she actually bragging about this? you’re probably thinking.)

I’m not bragging. The simple truth is that we are frickin’ losers without cars. The proverbial high school kids who can’t get laid because no cheerleader wants a dude who drives a Schwinn 10-speed.

As children and teens, we caught the bus to school at 7:30 every morning. When our friends were driving, we were smelling kids’ farts, taking a circuitous route that wasted hours each day, and getting nearly felt-up by Shane Duquette, the perverted teenage neighbour. But in adversity we found strength, and I wonder if that isn’t why we are so close today.

Some would think that a woman like M – a professional homeowner who dwells somewhere outside of the realm of convenience in her city – is crazy for not owning a vehicle. But I say she isn’t. (Nor do I include myself in her league, as I’m a nearly homeless amateur. But I am a woman.) I say we deserve our few measly beads of self-righteousness: smaller environmental footprint, better organizational skills, and a true sense of oneness with the rest of the hoi palloi. Plus, we never, ever have to be the designate drivers. I’ll take the bus and a beer over sober responsibility any damn day. Cheers, M!



H was so busy writing this, she missed the bus again.

Aw. You could call it "love", but where's the sport in that?

Applause for my younger sister's post! She is behind this blog, inspired by hours of phone calls and visits, where we teased and shared and marvelled at our sames and differences.

H is quite right. My relationship with my sisters is profound and unique, at once easy and challenging. We've had our share of childhood issues, but that's not important. (Or is it? I guess we'll find out. And she was being a dickbreath. Honest.) One of my best accomplishments in life is knowing that my connections with my sisters have grown and solidified over the years, and like fine wine or cheese, we'll keep getting better. People marvel at our closeness. We are emotionally bonded for life, no matter what, and she'll always be there for me. Hopefully with money.

But dear H, the comment about my grade 8 graduation *ahem* dress did not go unnoticed. (I was young! Foolish! I couldn't pull off the flowered number that you wore.) Expect swift and just retribution if pictures are posted.

And I thank her for kindly pointing out our age difference.

Or, You Could Call It "Love"

I wonder if the title of our blog is a bit misleading? Sure, it suggests the fact that we’re sisters (check) and that sometimes, we like to razz each other until one and/or both of us cries (check), but it doesn’t say everything.

There is so much more to being sisters than sharing one or more parents and exchanging bitchy remarks, even if it doesn’t always feels that way. (One time, when I was seven and M was nine, she called me “dick breath” during singalong at summer day camp. I can’t say it didn’t hurt.) Along with the shackles of DNA and torment comes, ironically, a certain freedom. I am free to be a jerkbag and I know that M will still speak to me, albeit after a long period of silence. I can proudly show off my talent for nostril wiggling, and she’ll think it’s kinda cool. And she, in turn, can punch me in the arm (M has wicked-quick reflexes) and know that although I may bruise physically, I’ll still feel the same way about her (except slightly more frightened).

This is the dichotomy of sisterhood: friends and foes, laughter and tears, good and bad. And when, once in a while, Ugly rears its head, I know that we can talk about it – but I’ll definitely save that for the post about M’s grade eight graduation dress.



H doesn't actually look like this. But if she did, M would love her anyway.