Sisters!

I’m disgusted with politics. I can’t help but think regardless of where you land on the political spectrum, you are disgusted, too. I want to be a responsible well-informed citizen, but I have to stop paying attention for a while and reconnect with the joy of life.

For starters, I am going to visit my sister, Cheryl, for a long weekend. She lives in California but way north, not quite a six-hour drive. It’s a pretty drive, as long as there are no fires. Dale likes to visit as well, but she is single, and it’s more like a girl’s weekend when I go alone. We can be the odd Pekar girls, we can even watch musicals, and we don’t have to witness Dale passing judgment with his eyebrows. The eyebrows speak!

We have fun activities planned. Probably hanging out in our jammies doing movie marathon. We’ll also eat at a grungy Chinese restaurant that makes the most amazing Orange Peel Beef. There’s some sort of street fest we may attend. I’m bringing all variety of clothes. It’s always in the 60s up there, and I get cold easily, so I will be bundled up. Cheryl will probably be in short sleeves!

I’m excited we’ll be seeing a live musical production of Young Frankenstein, one of my favorite movies of all time. I can almost recite the entire script. Maybe that could be my talent for some sort of post-menopausal pageant. We always did Halloween up big in our family, which was actually pretty scary without the costumes.

It’s funny how two sisters can be so different. We did the 23 and Me genetic test, fully expecting a shocking result that we aren’t actually sisters, but we are. She was good in math, and I was good in English. I’m athletic and can barely sew on a button. She’s the queen of crafts, sewing and quilting.

Every surface of her house is embellished. In honor of my visit, she is combining her fall and Halloween decorating scheme, so I can feel the full impact.

Cheryl takes after my mom’s side of the family in terms of health and body shape. She represents the diabetic apples, while I take after my father’s side – the cancerous pears. We’ve both had odd medical maladies, and neither one of us has children. We joke the gene pool stops here.

Like many sisters, we have had our share of challenges. She was a rather pious girl, while I was a foul-mouthed brat. I said something particularly awful to her once. I used a word that got Samantha Bee in trouble, and I was only 12 or so. She went off to her room crying, and emerged all red-faced and puffy to say, “Donna, I hope God can forgive you, because I can’t.”

Cheryl and I have both chilled out as we’ve gotten older and burned off the sharp edges. We’ve learned to appreciate our differences as well as our shared heritage, as now proven by DNA. And we are always there for each other when the shit hits the fan.

The last time I saw her I went to help as she recovered at home from major surgery. I’m not much of a nurturer, but she was desperate. I’m sure she would agree it’s a low point in your life when you have to count on me for care giving.

That visit included projectile vomiting, which I had to clean up. I mean, that’s what I was there for. She found it hilarious that I immediately went to the drugstore to purchase latex gloves and a face mask. She’s still getting mileage out of that story.

But seriously – it was bad. I still can’t eat Butternut Squash Soup.

Here we are after all this. I’m 63, and she’s 65. Sisters! My mother always said all she ever wanted was for us two girls to get along. It has been touch and go over the years, but now I believe my mother would be pleased.