"Are you on myspace?"

I don't want a myspace account.

No, no, no! I am horrendous at replying to emails, I rarely update this blog, and I can't even figure out how to upload a picture to my profile. I am not in a band, promoting a movie, a reality TV star, a teenage girl, or a middle aged pervert. While I understand that it is a convenient place to advertise that I might have friends, that kind of validation is not necessary in my world.

Way back in the day, I was forced onto friendster. Again, why? It is a lumbering dinosaur of a site with no redeeming value. I have a friend there that does nothing but add more and more pictures. To this day, she is still beating that dead horse. While I am amused at her photoshop skills, enough already. I don't know anyone who has made a new friend, acquaintance, or love connection. In fact, I know more people who have met by way of craigslist.

At this point, to get a myspace account would be weak. I have no need for being bleeding edge, nor do I care about what's the what, but I refuse to buy a ticket for the 2:45 bandwagon. I would rather climb into my wayback machine and jump back to 2003. That way, I could hit myspace when there was a modicum of hipster appeal. Oh, wait. I can't. No matter. Now that it is owned by Rupert Murdoch, it is way past over.

Just like I will remain one of those few that have never seen Titanic, I will be that girl without a myspace account.

I can only hope that my loved ones will understand, and support my decision.

feminist ha-ha

Usually, I don't watch Jay Leno. I think that his jokes are designed for trucked-in tourists who've been standing in the sun too long, and I find it appalling that he still makes cat-fight noises directed at any of his female guests who express a strong opinion about anything.

It was by chance that his show was on in the background when Jay introduced his next guest, Annika Sorenstam. I watch as much golf as I do Jay Leno, so I wasn't expecting the chuckles. Color me surprised.

Sorenstam was speaking about playing golf with her buddy Tiger Woods. She said that they would get very competitive, and would make bets on the game. When asked if she would ever win, she went on to say, "Sometimes, but I only get seven-tenth of what he gets."

That is what we call a zinger. Unfortunately, Jay's audience didn't get the funny.

Shame.

love from adjacent

Busy, busy, busy.

Those are the words to the week that preface a wedding. There were menu cards, bridesmaids, florists, photographers, party favors, moving, and so many more of those last minute things even the most organized gal must endure before the blessed event. As the only sister to an archetypical bride-to-be, I wore a big target across my back and said to myself, "just take it."

Just take it. The short statements. Just take it. The pointed glares. Just take it. The frustration at Tropical Storm Ernesto.

Yarg. The marginal utility of my mantra was rapidly diminishing. I have seen it before, and experienced the backlash from an angry bride towards a maid possessing even a hint of defiance. So like the dutiful handmaiden, I smiled happily, swallowed my comments and pride, and contented myself to quiet muttering, private sighs, furtive eye-rolls, and whispered phone conversations to my best friend. I held my tongue when necessary, gave hugs when beseeched, and walked away when baited. And the wedding came.

An early morning filled with hair related trauma and in-law related drama had left my sister in a nauseated condition. By the time she arrived at the changing room, she was in a state. There was only one solution. Room service, a sentry at the door, and a bit of music from a very mellow playlist.

For the first time in a long time, it was just the two of us. Quiet, reflexive, and content. Finally at peace with all of the preparations, knowing that whatever happened would be out of her hands, my sister and I savored that short, private moment. There were no parents, no bridesmaids, no new family. All of the stress of the past week fell away. We poured each other some juice. We talked about nonsense, gossiped about the in-laws, and laughed a little. It was good.

Sisters are funny that way. When sisters fight, or argue, or just can't handle being around each other, they could talk the issue to death, discuss feelings, emotions, and hurt, and just drive home all of the disquiet in their hearts with the express goal of emotional manipulation. Or they could pour each other a glass of juice and let it go away forever.

We ate our scrambled eggs, and giggled excitedly about the fantastic day ahead. We talked about her new husband-to-be the workings of his gentlemanly, though slightly punch-drunk, demeanor. We could have talked for hours. Alas, our reverie was broken by the flood of maids, mothers, florists, planners, and photographers. Reality floodied back in full force. And so, my sister climbed into her dress, took a deep breath, and walked happily to her future.

It was a beautiful ceremony. It was full of all of the love and tears that one could only dream. The torrential downpour that dashed hopes of a garden wedding did little to dampen the mood. Rather, it created an atmosphere that could only be brought to life by a Bronte, or maybe a bad fanfic writer.

Honestly, I have never been in a room filled with so much love. The love of, for, and between this couple was radiating through the entire room. The officiate cried, and distant family wept in gladness. With all this, my sister and new brother-in-law would begin their new family

For the first time in my life, I was filled with a complete and selfless happiness. Wow.

Love from close up

I love it when my family comes to town, and it isn't because they take me out to fantastic dinners, buy food for my anorexic refrigerator, and keep my closet filled with new coats. Well that might be part of it.

It is mostly because they have seen me at my best and worst, and are still there. I bring my parents pride, and they give me love. I give them grief, and they give me patience. I give them anxiety, and they give me support. I give them disappointment, and they give me hope. And then there is my sister.

Had we not been related, there is a good chance we would never have been friends. We are the opposite in every way. Sometimes, we disagree just because. My parents call us the sun and the moon. But then again, there are those many times where the two happily share the same sky, bringing delight to those who might witness the spectacle. As different as we might be, she is my favorite person in the world.

They were all in town this week. It was only for a few days, but it has been fantastic. They are ridiculous, fun, lazy, hungry, silly, and never bored. We spend quantity time in each others company, and are more than satisfied. They root through my cupboards like they own the place, and I couldn't be happier. The only thing they seem to be apprehensive about is driving my car.

But then again, I really love my car.

Anonymous confession number 1

When I was very little, my parents fought. They would scream and yell and slam doors. My mom would get in the car and drive off, while my father would find a way to keep the anger alive. I was scared, and I was sad. I would hide away in a dark corner of the house until I fell asleep. Somehow, I always ended up in my bed.

I needed to find a way to feel happy. There weren't a lot of option for a seven year old, but I found a way. I stole money from their wallets. A dollar here, a few quarters there. I took this money and bought something sweet from the Good Humor man.

I don't like ice cream anymore. That, and I am lactose intolerant.

here's to the good old days.

There are always decisions to make.

I just do not understand why they should have to be mine. I don't have any of the answers, and I can't tell you what to do. Try something. See if it works. If it doesn't, try something else.

I don't know how to make this situation better. I don't know if it can be better. You want to try, then try. Don't sit and cry that things are not how they used to be, then do nothing. If it bothers you so much, change it.

It's true, I can't stand looking at you right now. Maybe it is because you are completely on pins and needles around me. Maybe it's because you look at me like I am made of cotton candy and it is about to rain. Everything I do or say makes you nervous. How is that fair to me? If I am not mistaken, I believe that I was the one that was wronged. Why should I have to be the bitch in this scenario?

I would say give me time, but that would be forever. I would say give me space, but I don't think we could survive that. I would say that it is over, but that would break my heart.

I am not sure what to do. Can you fix this?