Girlz in the Hood

By: Ann Brown

The first time she saw me, my sister told Mom, “take it back”. When I was seven months old, she tried to frame me for drawing the letters “m” and “n” all over the den walls in black crayon.

Our partnership is going on 58 years next spring.

There were a few rocky years in the beginning, like when Karen paid me a nickel to pull my pants down in the middle of our street, promising me that no one was looking, and then paying me my nickel from the piles of money she collected from the neighborhood kids WHO WERE LOOKING.

I might have been a wee bit dense.

In my defense, however, I made almost a dollar that summer I was four years old. And a dollar bought a  LOT of candy back then. Karen – years ahead of Heidi Fleiss – made twelve dollars. I think she bought a condo in Santa Monica or something.

But the tables began to turn when I realized that my big sister didn’t necessarily know everything. For one thing, she insisted that mommies and daddies make babies in the shower. I said they do it in bed. She said I was wrong. I said she was wrong. Mom said stop talking and go to sleep. Dad, I don’t know – Dad couldn’t handle any kind of sex talk with his daughters – he probably stuffed his mouth with dry Saltines and prayed to pass out.

The funny thing is that from the years I was about 8 to 18, I told this as an “Aha! My Big Sister Is So Stupid She Thought People Had Sex In The SHOWER!!” story. And I laughed and laughed and laughed at my stupid sister.

And then, around 18 or so, I realized that, oh. People do have sex in the shower. Joke on me.

Although I am pretty certain Karen did not know that at age 6. I mean, this is the sister who only four years or so ago admitted that she didn’t know what a hymen is.

Yeah. Go back and read THAT blog post. She thought it was like a sort of shrink-wrap covering down there. She thought her baby girl was born without one.

I had to explain it to her while her 35-year-old daughter reached for the Riesling and desperately searched for evidence of inbreeding in our family.

Other things Karen was wrong about:

1. Hmm. I got nothing.

The rest of the family thinks Karen and I are in constant cahoots with each other, or, as Robin likes to put it, “one lies and the other swears to it”, and therefore our credibility is instantly challenged when we agree with something the other has said or done. This is so fucking frustrating. And true.

Last night on the phone, we decided that maybe we are in cahoots with each other. And maybe that’s fine with us. We agreed that we show all the signs of being under each other’s spell: we can’t go more than a few hours without either talking to each other or thinking about talking to each other; when anyone else talks to us about anything, we think, “I can’t wait to tell my sister about this”; we honestly, truly, genuinely believe that any plan the two of us come up with is BRILLIANT, even the one about putting Mom on J-Dates which was not only a bust, it landed me on their Permanent Red Flagged list and now if Robin and I ever get divorced I will not be able to find my next nice Jewish mate on J-Dates and will have to rely on, like, e-harmony or some other homophobic, reactionary dating site and I’ll wind up married to, I don’t know, one of the Duggar sons and that will be the end of my wearing short shorts because all the Duggar women wear skirts, long ones, and frankly, the only thing left on my body that is worth looking at are my gams so what the fuck good are the denim midis gonna do me?

Oh. Also, Karen and I each think that the other is just the right amount of tan despite the rest of the world telling us we are deeply fucked up and we will die of melanoma.

Also, we plan to grow old together and live in a little cottage and the TV will always be set to “Sister Wives” and “The Wonderful World Of Disney”. We will live on Halloween candy and the mirth of our own personalities.

And when money gets tight, I will pull my pants down for a dollar. You know, inflation. Of both the economy and my ass.

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