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Twisted, Sister

Aug 272009

Here’s a strange one.

I have this recurring dream in which my sister and I have been kidnapped by bad men. We are put in two different white cells, separated by a thin wall.

One of the kidnappers enters my cell and says that in thirty seconds I will hear an alarm. Then he points to a single red button on the wall across the room. He says “After the alarm sounds, the first sister who pushes her button will be killed. The other will be released. You may not move until the alarm sounds.”

He explains that my sister has just been given the exact same information.

Then the man leaves. A minute later, the alarm sounds…and I shoot up and run faster than I ever have, leaping towards the button, slamming against it, then sinking to the floor, panting… and waiting to die.

Isn’t that WEIRD?

But here’s what I think is even weirder:

I ALWAYS GET TO THE BUTTON FIRST. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

And I can’t help but consider that my sister’s legs are SIX INCHES longer than mine, and so are her arms.

So I think it might be time to ask…

WHAT IN THE SAM HILL ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE, SISTER??? A CROSSWORD?

Jeesh.

Just Soaking

Aug 232009

My sweet husband helps with the dishes each night. Actually, he helps with starting the dishes, but he has trouble finishing, which, as Seinfeld suggested …is really the most important part of doing the dishes…the finishing.

Every evening, I notice that I am alone at the sink and that Craig and the kids have sneaked out back to the trampoline. Last night I followed them and called out sweetly, “Honey? Did you notice that there are still piles of dishes in the sink?” And like always, he said:

They’re just soaking, babe. It’s part of doing the dishes. It makes it easier to get them clean.

As you can see, sometimes Craig uses my lack of knowledge about basic household duties to get out of things. This isn’t right, people. But it’s pretty clever.

I have resolved to steal his move.

When my husband arrives home tonight, he will find me reading a book on the couch, having abandoned the children in the bathtub.

When he panics, and asks me for an explanation, I will say the following…calmly and sweetly.

They’re just soaking, babe. It’s part of bath time. It makes it easier to get them clean.

Still Got It

Aug 232009

The other night when Craig got home from work, I went to the bookstore to blow off some steam. Not a bar called The Bookstore…the actual book store. Borders. I know, somebody stop me.

Anyway…I’m sitting in the café with my latte and a pile of classic novels that I plan to start reading just as soon as I get caught up on the Gosselins…when I notice this guy across the cafe staring at me.

Here was my first thought:

OH MY GOSH maybe he recognizes me from the blog!!! Maybe I am ACTUALLY FAMOUS but I am just so humble and grounded that I don’t evenknow it. But then I remembered that the only two men who read my blog are my dad and my neighbor Pablo, and this guy didn’t look like either of them.

So my next thought was this:

YEP. I STILL GOT IT. LOOK AT THIS GUY. HE CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF ME.

And then, while I was mentally rehearsing how to relay this story to Craig, thus proving my desirability beyond a shadow of a doubt, the guy stood up and started walking toward me.

Oh, no. Oooooooh noooooooo. I am secretly terrified of boys.

“Excuse me ma’am? Ma’am? I’m sorry to interrupt you.”

“Umm…that’s okay.”

“I just thought you might want to know. When you went to get your drink I couldn’t help but notice that you have stickers all over your back. There’s like twenty of them back there.”

Thank you, Tish. Thank you very much.

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Twisted, Sister

Just Soaking

Still Got It

2009 var d=new Date(); yr=d.getFullYear(); if (yr!=2010) document.write("- "+yr); Glennon Doyle Melton. All Rights Reserved. Republication or redistribution of content, text or image, in part or in whole is strictly prohibited without prior written consent from the author.

2009 Glennon Doyle Melton. All Rights Reserved.
Republication or redistribution of content, text or image, in part or in whole is strictly prohibited without prior written consent from the author.