An Inspirational Birthday Message

10 Reasons Why I Hate My Sister

1. You always got all the boyfriends. On second thought, after unsuccessfully training two husbands, I’m not really envious of extra men in your life.

2. You got all the craft talent. But I’ve got enough hand-beaded jewelry to last me until I’m 375 years old, and you helped Ryan make a shoebox float for Carnivale that won first place in German class.

3. You got married and moved away. But you had a pack of kids that have been like sunshine on my flower garden for most of my days. (Okay, maybe flower garden is a bad analogy because all mine are dead, but you get the point.) Also, you have a daughter that gave me a glue gun. On purpose.

4. You got the rogue common sense gene in the family. As soon as I figure out why that’s important, I’m going to fire off a letter of complaint to the Management.

5. You started the tradition of taking Mr. Beason’s classes for high school English. But because you did, I already knew that half the class would fail when I walked in his door. Also I used what I learned there to ace the Advanced Placement test and exempt college freshman English.

6. You’re the sweet one. But then I had to be the funny one, and I sailed through school on the strength of humorous English compositions, and have collected a nice bit of pocket change from the same sort of thing telling about the trauma I suffered at the hands of my siblings. Also, my kids want to come live with you. Could I drop them off tomorrow morning?

7. You have grandchildren. Of course, when my kids are gone, I’ll still have two Labradors, a diva Dachshund, three cats and Captain Bill to take care of. Could I drop Bill off tomorrow morning, too?

8. You can do math in your head and I can’t. Come to think of it, I don’t really have a problem with this one.

9. You always win at monopoly. (See number 8.) But I'd rather shave my legs with a potato peeler than play Monopoly and because of unsportsmanlike conduct I've been served with a lifelong Monopoly Ban by the kids, so it goes to show that things always work out for the best.

10. You were born first. But Mama & Daddy were so tired by the time I came along, I got away with everything. And you talked mama into letting me wear hose when I was the only barelegged girl left in fifth grade. And you’ll always be older than me. Come to think of it, I don’t really mind having you around at all. (And I have a pair of pants that need hemming, and I broke my pink earrings, and I lost my new bracelet and . . .we need to have a craft night real soon!)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LORY! MY BEST FRIEND AND SECOND MOM! I LOVE YOU!

Have Gun Will Ravel

I make up for my lack of gardening skills with an amazing ability to annihilate craft projects. You would think the Author of the Universe in his unbounded wisdom would have given me the glue gun talents of a sharpshooter. This is not the case.

One sister tried to teach me to crochet. She said she never saw anybody crochet backwards.

My other sister tried to help me make a banner for Son One’s soccer team. I sewed the thing to the leg of my pants. Gold craft felt stitched into the inseam of extra-large stretchy pants in a series of festive darts and puckers is not a desirable fashion statement.

When I was in high school, my mother took pity on me (GOOD LORD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!) and finished my home economics project. Who would have thought zippers would be so hard to install? I had more trouble than a presidential candidate trying to get the thing to stay closed.

My niece has a businesses creating hand-painted jewelry that people pay actual money for. I painted the South Carolina crescent and palmetto tree on a pendant. It looked like a banana bush.

My relatives began to meet secretly to have crafting parties. I happened to visit one Friday evening, and at my knock heard muffled voices and the sound of heavy furniture being shoved in front of the door.

“Hello?!”

The blinds shifted slightly. Whispering followed.

“I know you’re in there!”

The door opened a crack. “We can’t come out. We’re quarantined.”

“I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything?”

“Could you leave a pizza by the door?”

“What sort of disease do you have that you’re quarantined but want pizza?”

Silence. Then, “Acrophobia?”

“You’re in quarantine because you’re afraid of heights?”

“Leave the pizza down low.”

“You people are making crafts in there, aren’t you? Let me in or I’m coming back armed with tacky glue and pinking shears!”

Furtive dialing.

“And no calling 9-1-1!”

I went around to the back door, entered through the kitchen and came up behind a group of my closest friends and relatives wielding cotton balls and tiny paintbrushes like they were heavy artillery.

“Can I at least water your plants?”

A mad scramble ensued leading to a tangle of arms, legs, and cotton balls. It looked like an Easter Bunny gangland rumble. A glitter haze filled the air and a paintbrush stuck through my sister's pony tail like a hairpin.

The good news is that the plants are going to be fine. But the crafting group cemented themselves into a freeform sculpture. They’ll be okay once we find an antidote for Gorilla Glue.

Meanwhile I’ve taken up scrapbooking. Has anybody got a nail gun I can borrow?

Death Row Valedictorian

Somewhere down the long corridors of death row, wedged in between hatchet murderers and the people who skulk off and leave the office copier jammed, are the real menaces to society. Here, in a dim place where nobody’s day planner goes as far as the after dinner mint, dwell the people who cheered out loud at their child’s graduation.

What cruel lifetime drama brought them to this place? Are these people who held responsible jobs, or are they the type that siphon gas from an idling SUV to save a few hundred bucks at the pump? Loners, probably, who whiled away their time buying poster board at the 7-11 store every time Junior remembered that his science project was due in first period biology the next day. Trapped in the vacuum of stop-time, they raced for morning with an indelible marker in one hand and a bottle of Elmer’s school glue in the other.

Jump forward to graduation night: caps and gowns, sashes and speeches. And a reminder: Thou Shalt Not Jump With Glee When Your Child’s Name Is Announced. Failure to comply would result in A Very Bad Thing.

At my son’s high school graduation, we held our merrymaking like we held our breath. We bit our tongues so many times they were as tender as filet mignon. But one set of parents did not contain their exuberance so well.

After spending as much on school lunches, field trips, and fundraisers as Hillary spends on pantsuits, this set of parents could not contain a whoop and a cheer when their child’s name blasted from the loudspeaker and hovered like dwindling fireworks in the evening air.

The price of that happy shout? A $257 citation for disturbing the peace and a uniformed escort out of the stadium.

From the look on their faces, I’d say it was a bargain.