that's awasum

Mrs. Poopface
03.26.05 + 5:24 p.m.

I can’t tell you what it’s like to have a sister. Since I’ve always had one, it would be like trying to describe what it’s like to have a nose.

Here we are:

That’s my older sister Kara on the left. Taken on this vacation.

Kara and I have always been close, but not inseparable. We trust each other implicitly, but neither of us is automatically the other’s first choice of confidante. But, so far, we haven’t managed to surprise each other, because we know each other so well and so naturally. In early childhood we were easy playmates, if you don’t count the fact that I must have made her batshit, tagging along after her because I wanted so bad for her to like me. God, that must have been annoying.

We had a pattern: Kara beat me up, Kara got in trouble, I felt guilty about somehow being involved with Kara getting in trouble, even if it was because she had fly-kicked me in the stomach. I was a big pussy when I was little.

Kara and I have always run in different circles. She did dance and sporty things, I drew and did drama things. By the time we were in high school, the sisters Bean had become notorious brains, whose mom was a notoriously hard-assed substitute teacher. We ran in different crowds, she becoming a full-fledged band nerd, I diving into the life of the traveling theatre geek. She listened to Arrowsmith all the time, and I think I was sixteen before I bought a CD without the names “Stephen Sondheim” or “Bernadette Peters” in the liner notes. We were both dorks, but in different ways, so there was never any competition.

Incidentally, Arrowsmith is still her favorite band, and she’s always recommending that I check out the latest Puddle of Mud album, which makes me wonder if she’s ever actually met me. I still love her, though.

In contrast, I try to impose my snobby music tastes on her by sending her mixes riddled with Tom Waits and the Magnetic Fields, even though it’s totally not her bag. But she listens to them.

I’ll tell anyone who will listen that she’s a lawyer, and I call her “Poopface Esq.” She says I’m the funniest person she’s ever met, but it should be noted that she often confuses loudness with comedy. She’s the best gift-giver I’ve ever met in my life. We brag about each other all the time. I’m lucky to have her.

Enough exposition.

So, last night, around five-thirty, my phone rings. It’s Kara.

“Hey, poopface,” I say.
“Guess what I got?” she says.
“Um. I don’t know.”
“I got an engagement ring.”
“YYEEAAAHHHH!!! OH, MY GOD! RRAAARRGH!!”
“WHAAAAAHHHH!!!!”
“Congratulations!”
“THANKS! Well, actually, the ring got lost in shipping, and is somewhere in Detroit. So I’m actually wearing an engagement ring pop.”
“That’s so awesome! What flavor?”
“Cherry, ironically.”
“Even more ironic is the fact that you’ll probably wear white at the wedding.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m gonna be your maid of honor, right?”
“Of course, dumbass.”
“YAY! This bachelorette party is gonna be fun. KARA, YOUR WEDDING IS GOING TO BE SO MUCH FUN!”
“I hope so.”
“Kara, you’re like, a big grown-up lady, now.”
“Yeah, no shit, huh?”

She told me about the proposal, which was very sweet, involved a lot of conspiracy on the parts of our parents and her friends, and included a poem, and a bouquet of roses the same color as the ring pop. She also emailed me some pictures of the bridesmaids’ dresses she’s thinking about. They’re beautiful and classy, because my sister has some kickass, simple taste, despises frills, and hates pink so much that she wouldn’t go near Pepto Bismol even if an ulcer was eroding her intestines.

She’s been dating her fiancée, Matt, for about five years, and he’s been considered a part of the family for a while already. He’s a brilliant, sweet, solid guy a few months younger than I, and he reminds me so much of our dad it’s almost gross. She gave the phone to Matt, who wanted to talk to me. More exclamation marks ensued, but mostly on my part, because the only situations in which Matt talks in exclamation marks involve football.

“Hey.”
“You’re gonna be my brother!”
“I know!”
“I get to make fun of you a lot more now. I’m not the youngest anymore, so I can beat you up, too.”
“Heheheheheh.”
“We have to think of lots of ways to embarrass Kara at her bachelorette party.”
“Oh, I’ll be in touch.”

This is so cool on so many levels, and it’s really too bad that Diaryland is such a ghost town on the weekends, because I want everyone to know, even if you don’t care.

I might be most excited about the prospect of calling my sister “Poopface” during my sentimental wedding toast. It will happen.

My mom’s going to be pissed. Kara will laugh.

~ Last Five Entries ~

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