When Little Sisters Rebel

My eldest sister Amy, doesn't like to be mentioned on NWTLO, unless it's in a complimentary way. In fact, every time the two of us get into a catfight, her last response is always, "And I don't expect to read any of this on your blog!" As if she actually expects me to concede to her wishes.

"Writer's prerogative," I say, using my best bratty little sister about to stick her tongue out tone. "Don't irritate the person with the pen." Or keyboard, I think smugly to myself.

So Amy called last night, just as I was finishing my rounds.

Door locked ... Check. Christmas lights off ... Check. Heat turned down ... Check. Answer ringing phone ...

I paused, trying to consider the benefits of answering, tallying up my choices.

It could be someone annoying ... Too late for a telemarketer ... Mom's probably sleeping by now. Dad wouldn't call. Haven't spoken to Brenda in weeks. Jodi's at the SU game and then going out with friends. Audrey's on the road home from Maryland ... Shit.

"Hello." I said, grabbing the phone just before the fourth ring would have triggered the machine.

"Where you been all day? I've been trying to call you."

"Out."

"You've got to check your email."

"Why?"

"Cause I sent you something."

"Is this another one of those forward things?" I asked, my voice going up an octave. "Did you cut and paste? Does no one listen when I tell them not to send me forwards? They're not funny. They're annoying. And yes ... There is a difference."

"Shut up for a second. It's not a forward. It's just something I got ya."

"Let me guess ... You've found the man of my dreams on some singles website again? I thought I told you I wasn't interested."

"Come on," she pleaded. "Give it a chance. It could work out this time."

"Like it's worked out ALL those times before? No ... I don't think so. I'd like to enjoy my Christmas this year."

"You don't know what you're missing."

"Oh yes I do," I countered. "I'm missing out on disappointment, heartache and rejection. Thanks but no thanks. I can depress myself well enough on my own."

"I just want you to be happy this Christmas."

"I am happy. Tra la la la laaaa la la la laaaa ... And a partridge in a pear tree. See ... Happy."

"Fine," she said, sounding equally frustrated as I was feeling. "I just thought you might actually want to go out on a date before this year is over. But if you want to be a spinster, who am I to stop you?"

"Maybe I want to be a spinster. Did you consider that? Why is everyone so concerned with whether I'm dating, seeing or simply pining after some guy. Maybe I'm happy with just the way I am. Maybe I like being able to call the shots all the time and not have to worry about what someone else will think or say. Maybe men are just more problems then they're worth. Maybe ..."

She interrupted. "Fine. I'll butt out. It's all on you. But don't come crying to me, when you're 80, living all alone in a run down house and the neighborhood kids walk on the other side of the street just to avoid you."

"Fine." I answered.

"Fine," She replied.

"Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

"Goodnight."

"Ciao."