Brown-Eyed Curly-Top

The middle child is having her birthday today.

Maybe you've heard about it. As Joe Biden said about this historic moment in the history of the world, "it's a big fuckin' deal."

Really, it is.

She's 33, but her life reads like an episode of "Teen Mom." If "Teen Mom" were a book.

My sister is unlike anybody else I know, and she's certainly desperately unlike anybody I would ever choose to deliberately associate with. She's the most self-centered person I know, and that's saying a lot, because I majored in theatre as an undergraduate and, consequently, I know a lot of people who are convinced with absolute certainty that their decision to get out of bed in the morning or drop a meadow-muffin is a potent, powerful and positive message to the rest of the world.

My sister is more self-absorbed than any theatre major ever could be. And I doubt very much that she would be offended at my saying that, because it would mean that she's first at something-- best at something, and even if being first and best at being selfish is her reward, she'd wear that bright red ribbon proudly.

When her son was born about half-a-year ago, she could not possibly understand why people like my parents were more interested in the baby than they were in her. She grew instantly jealous of the attention that her beautiful, sweet son received-- like a petty older sibling might. Dissatisfied though she may be with my parent's wandering attentions and affections, she's still content to bring her son to them at least twice a week (and often for overnight stays) to be babysat, as well as heavy bags of her laundry, along with her husband's and her son's for my mother to do.

Did I mention that she's turning 33 today?

My sister is beautiful, and always was, and maybe that's part of the problem. She's been able to pretty her way out of traffic tickets and punishments and bad grades, her big chocolate and volumes of cascading dark brown curls just melting troubles and consequences away like a fresh spring rain clears the world of a lingering heavy snowdrift. My mother used to call her "Brown-Eyed Curly-Top." Some of the things that she's called my mother in the heat of battle, well, even I'm too embarrassed to reprint here.

But, then again, maybe I'm just an aging mama's boy who's jealous of his badass older sister.

Maybe.

My sister is unlike anybody I know, and that's for sure. I struggle in my relationship with her, like lots of siblings do, I suppose. I go through periods where I judge her, and spite her, and ignore her, and attack her, and support her, too. I try, but it never lasts long. An unreasonable demand or a self-aggrandizing comment, a cutting remark or an obnoxious text will plunge me back where I don't want to be but all too often find myself-- that place where I sit and brood and wonder just who the fuck she thinks she is anyway.

"Why is my sister the way she is?" I asked my wife as we were just about to descend into a haze of sleep last night.

"Why is my brother the way he is?" she replied.

"Well," I said, burrowing deeper under the covers, "I know your mom just blames your dad for him, but I don't think that's fair entirely. And I don't think it would be fair to just blame my dad for my sister. There's always more to it than overindulgence..."

Our pre-bedtime conversations aren't always this lucid. Most of the time they're totally incoherent and sometimes slightly disturbing.

We didn't come to any conclusions last night, and the conversation was not picked up this morning, as we struggled to find some Passover-friendly alternative to cereal for breakfast and make sure Molly made it outside without peeing all over the green rug in the living room, but I'm still thinking about it, obviously. And still hurting over it-- all of it.

Most of all, over the fact that I sat down determined to write a happy birthday blog about my sister, and this is what came out.

My Car Accident

Yes, I deliberately chose such a jarring title to get you to read my post. A right little bitch, aren't I?

But, I really did have a car accident. It was very stupid and unglamorous, as are most things I do.

It happened at 9:20am yesterday, as I was pulling out of a Dunkin' Donuts drive-through. That's how unglamorous this shit was. It wasn't even Starbucks, and I was too disgusted with life afterwards to even eat the shitty bagel sandwich I got. I did, though, drink the coffee-- out of chemical necessity. But I didn't enjoy it.

I was attempting to make a left turn when my car made contact (that's what people say when they're reluctant to admit culpability-- I "made contact"-- remember that when [God forbid] it's your turn) with a red Infiniti G-35 Coupe. Although I don't really remember exactly, I'm pretty sure I uttered the phrase, "Oh, shit" in the instant before we hit which, according to the National Transportation Safety Board aviation accident investigation is the most common utterance made by pilots on the Cockpit Voice Recorder the instant before, well, they die.

Fortunately, my obscenity wasn't recorded for posterity, and, fortunately, I didn't die.

Fortunately, the other driver didn't die either. Being a highly-trained EMT (only one of those statements is true) I immediately got out of the car (violating the first rule of car accident protocol) to see if the other driver was okay. She was. She was tall and blonde and skinny, but I'm married and this wasn't a date. We pulled our cars out of rush hour traffic, exchanged insurance information (quoth she, "What am I supposed to write down? I don't even know.") So I helped her out. I also took pictures of the damage to both cars, and even emailed the pictures of her car to her from my phone.

Aren't I a good boy?

We were both amicable to each other and regretful that the incident happened, and the suburban police officer who responded to my call was also amicable. However, he informed us that this was a city matter, because of the way our cars were facing (isn't beauracracy beautiful?). He also stated that having a police officer present wasn't necessary in this state and that we shouldn't bother waiting for a Philly officer, as it would "take an hour, if they show up at all," which was comforting. The driver of the other vehicle and I agreed that it wasn't worth it to wait around in the pouring, freezing rain, and so we left to go report everything to our respective insurance agencies.

I smacked up her car pretty good, I'll say that. My car's bumper kind of looks like it got mouth-fucked with a cheese-grater.

The insurance agent who handled my claim over the phone was an Irish gentleman, and his accent reminded me of the last time I had spoken to an Irish person on the phone. It was back in 1996 and my computer had crashed (apparently, Irish people and crashes enter my life at the same time) and the IBM call-center routed my call to a call processing center in Dublin. My plea for assistance was answered by a woman named Nieve, whose voice was like a symphony to my vulgar, American ears. I briefly considered playing with myself while she read out the reboot instructions to me over the phone in her delectable little lilt, but I was far too distressed about the computer to get it up.

I mean, maybe I could have. We'll never know.

After two-and-a-half hours on the phone with Nieve, and the computer successfully restored (my father still uses this very machine to access his work emails from home, which he checks via his dial-up modem using, yes, Prodigy.net) Nieve congratulated me on my persistence and suggested that I "go 'round the pub and get a pint."

Though I was only sixteen at the time, I wanted one bad, but only if she were on the barstool next to me.

I probably could have used one today, too, but I still don't drink.

The coffee, however, helped and, as I guzzled it down after I arrived at work this morning, I mused about how my body's need for this soothing, sweet liquid was the catalyst for the accident in the first place, and about how I had the accident not fifteen seconds after the Indian man in the bright orange shirt said, "Have a good day, my brother" to me.

My brother: it was not to be.