This is my sister, Julie. She’s a fabulous little thing, no?
Julie and I have the same taste in headgear,
both enjoy a good street performance,
or stage performance, we’re not picky,
we have the same remarkable fashion sense,
we will never pass up free tickets to the bug show,
we do each other’s hair,
we give each other beer,
we went to the same college,
and apparently had sex around the same time.
We are really good at laughing, really bad at beer pong, and both believe we are somehow related to John Ritter. Julie has tried and failed miserably to get me to watch Big Brother without feeling bamboozled, fueled my love for thrift store shopping, and pushed me to write a book about when I suddenly found myself living in a neighborhood where people held garage sales in their underwear on lawn chairs in their driveways. I helped her through nasty skank bosses that needed a good behind-the-back verbal ass-kicking and saying goodbye to doggies with big moles on their faces, I was actually there with her when she got pregnant, and I’ve talked her off the ledge during the unfortunate times when bad clothes happen to good people.
We’re good like that.
So when she told me the other day that she is considering a new job working with a teenage boy who apparently needs someone to follow him around school to make sure that he doesn’t get frustrated and hit someone in the neck with a log, I believe my exact words were, “shutthefuckup, not a chance in hell.” She agreed. It was crazy. And the next day she took the job anyway. But “it’s ok,” she says, “don’t worry,” she says, because he wouldn’t hit her in the neck with a log. I’m guessing his dad said the same thing until, you know, the kid hit him in the neck with a log. And this was of course after he bit his teacher’s arm so he could go run and grab a log that he could hit his dad in the neck with.
I sure am gonna miss you, sir.