A while ago, some bad things happened to me. These things caused a rift between me and some of my family; I felt betrayed, and they thought I was being ridiculous. Things haven’t improved very much, despite the passage of time and the lack of discussion pertaining to what I’ll call The Event.

I never said a word about any of it to my oldest brother – partially because I wanted to forget and partially because I had a feeling I knew exactly how he’d react, and I didn’t want to lose another family member.

I’m wrong a lot of the time, but I rarely consider it a relief. Today it was. I ended up randomly talking to him about The Event – he brought it up – and was surprised by how understanding he was. His perception of things was more like mine than I ever would have given him credit for.

He was supportive. He was very nearly gentle, a word I can rarely apply to him. I definitely misjudged him.

I’ve got to start giving people more credit.

Tomorrow is Heidi’s 25th birthday.

I remember turning twenty-five. I was still excited to have birthdays – not the least bit concerned with those who teased, “You’re a quarter of a century old!” Twenty-five felt great. I felt exactly the way I felt at twenty-one, or even eighteen (perhaps not something to brag about?). I thought of my goals and dreams, my hopes for the future, and didn’t worry at all that I might be running short on time. I was five years away from thirty with the attitude of twenty.

I’m not twenty-five anymore, and while I’m not sad about it I’m acutely aware that I’m twenty-eight (and a half). I’m still jazzed when my birthday rolls around – I’m too narcissistic not to be – but I also start running through my mental checklist of milestones. I’m not worried about wrinkles (much), or sagging skin, or the inevitability of my ass dropping about two inches. People get older, and no jar of miracle cream can prevent it. I intend to own my wrinkles and sagging ass, to wear them proudly. I just might have an easier time doing it if I’ve accomplished at least SOME of what I want to accomplish.

Checklists aside, I love birthdays. I love that there’s one day of the year in every person’s life that’s just theirs, a day they can feel special and appreciated and glad to be alive (hopefully). I love the cake and the ice cream, the brightly wrapped presents, I even love the expression on someone’s face when they’re faking – “No, I love it, thank you!” I especially love themed birthdays (and fully intend to have one, when I can get the cooperation of my friends & family).

Last year on Heidi’s birthday, I’m ashamed to say that I dropped the ball. Big time. She ended up sitting home by herself. I consider that unforgivable, and fully intend to make up for it this year. Starting now – feel free to wish her a very Happy Birthday!

And have a great day yourselves.

My little brother Joel graduated from high school on Sunday.

I wish I had something to give him, some great advice more valuable than money or a set of towels, but the truth is I don’t feel qualified to give advice. My own life experiences, while entertaining, often leave me feeling as though I’m not exactly role model material.

He’s planning to attend college at Montana State University-Bozeman, where I hope he gets stuck with a not-too-annoying roommate and engaging professors and courses that hold his interest. He’s a smart kid, and charming when he wants to be (but a serious pain in the ass at all other times), and I have confidence that he’ll be fine.

If I were going to offer him my lame advice (which I totally AM NOT), it would go something like this:

* Not everyone deserves the benefit of a doubt. I swear. Trust your instincts, you have them for a reason.

(Yes, my first piece of advice would be encouraging him to be a judgmental ass. Don’t even pretend to be surprised by it).

* Get a job. It will keep you in ramen noodles and out of trouble. But…

* Don’t work in food service. That grease smell will ensure you never, ever get dates (and the pimples don’t help, either).

* Don’t date any Mormons. They don’t put out and they WILL try to convert you, no matter how much they say they won’t.

* Introduction to Film (or whatever they’re calling it now). Take it. You won’t regret it.

* Don’t bother calling me for bail money. I’m broke.

That’s it. (See also: the reasons I don’t give advice, and will instead be gifting cash while smiling and not saying a word).

Wish him luck (and, for the future, hair that doesn’t resemble Justin Bieber’s QUITE so much)!

Heidi and I were talking the other night, and she shared a memory about our mother (who passed away when we were very young). Apparently when she went into labor with Joel, my younger brother, she insisted on putting on a full face of makeup before driving forty miles to the hospital.

It made me smile, first of all because that sounds exactly like her, and secondly because it’s a relief to know I come by my exaggerated sense of vanity honestly.

It also made me think about all of the things I’ll never know about her. She was my mom, and I barely knew her. Parents are different with their children than they are with other people. Sure I got to see glimpses of who she was – athletic, funny, outgoing – but her little quirks and preferences, the things that made her really unique…I don’t know what they were.

I do remember some things. She absolutely loved the holidays, any holiday. She had a fantastic laugh, and her spelling was atrocious. She voted for Bill Clinton. Every Wednesday night we all watched Unsolved Mysteries together – it was one of her favorite shows. She wore stirrup pants (care to join me in a full-body shudder?) and had a black velvet cowboy hat. She liked to dance; she loved to be phsyically active in general. She had an unhealthy addiction to Hawaiian Punch and pizza.

I knew her enough to love her, very much. And I’m smart enough now to know not to take anyone I love for granted.

I took my niece, Lara, to the park. It’s directly across the street from where I used to live when I was a kid (how lucky was I, growing up right next to a park?), and I still love going there. Besides, it was a completely gorgeous day.

We played on the slide several times, squealing in delight as we raced to the bottom. We took turns watching each other go, and once I hooked my hands over the top and launched myself through as fast as I could. She was very impressed, and asked how I did it. When I explained, a serious look came over her face. In a very adult-sounding voice she said, “I’m just Lara. I can’t do that.” To which I replied, “You’re just Lara, and you can do anything.” And gave her a kiss.

We played on the swings and I gave her an underdog. It was well worth it, since I wiped out in the mud and she giggled hysterically. Evidently the swings can’t hold a candle to Auntie Amber making an ass of herself.

Later I took her to the monkey bars, where I abandoned all dignity and showed her how to hang upside down “like a monkey.” She immediately wanted to try it, and I held her carefully while she dangled. When she wanted to try climbing up the other side, I helped her up, steadying her from behind.

And then she slipped. She lost her footing, and I didn’t catch her in time. She fell, with her little legs spread, onto the bar. Hard. For a second she looked stunned, and then she screamed.

I scooped her up and tried to comfort her, but she was pissed. Between hiccuping screams I heard, “I WANT…TO GO…HOME!”

So off we went, with my explanations about how I’d once done the same thing doing very little to console her.When I set her down in front of her mother her first words were, “I hurt my privates.”

That’s not exactly what I wanted her to take away from the experience, you know? I felt terrible. She has so few good memories, despite being so small (she’ll be three years old in June) and I was really hoping to leave her with happy thoughts.

Instead she hobbled around pouting and giving me suspicious glances, like perhaps it was my fault the monkey bars attacked her. I still feel guilty. I hope she remembers swinging, sailing back and forth through the air, instead of falling.

It’s been brought to my attention that whenever I mention Heidi on this blog, I cast her in a not-so-flattering light. I was surprised, and a little bit unhappy, to hear that. Believe me when I tell you, my sister is one of my absolute favorite people; giving each other grief is how we convey love in my family. We’re very backward that way. If someone is pointing out a really bad haircut or riding me about my love life (or usually the lack thereof) I feel more comforted than if everyone is smiling and getting along. Nevertheless, I now feel compelled to make a list of the reasons why Heidi kicks major ass (these can also be interpreted as reasons why I am insanely jealous/reasons why I sit in awe of her).

* She can make friends with almost anyone. She’s polite and inquisitive on top of being FRIGHTENINGLY perceptive. She’s the sort of warm, bubbly person that others automatically confide in. Better still, she’s unfailingly loyal. Don’t bother trying to talk trash about her family or friends within earshot; she will effectively shut you down while leaving you with the feeling you shared a pleasant exchange.

* She’s very good at her job. She works hard, and she actually cares about the results. As far as I’m concerned there is no better compliment. This attitude extends to the rest of her life. She’s energetic and she’s always willing to help. Her house is immaculate, a fact she continually denies because it’s never quite up to her standards. She expects the best from herself.

* She’s the glue that holds our family together. She arranges brunches and dinners and hosts birthday parties. Left to my own devices, I might never attend another Thanksgiving dinner (okay, I lie, we all know I’d never miss an opportunity for that much free food, but you get the point) and I know I’m not the only one who feels that way. Heidi makes the phone calls and checks to ensure schedules will mesh and nags people (especially me) into showing up. She does it because she knows that family is the most important part of life, and because she’s a little scary and everyone listens to her.

* She’s quirky, the way all good people are. She calls me at night, when she’s alone and she thinks she’s heard a prowler, and insists I stay on the line while she double-checks her locks. I tease her, but I feel useful in my role of reassuring older sister (she’s so independent I hardly ever get to feel helpful). She hoards money like Scrooge, spending little bits on family and rarely splurging on herself, though she’s comfortable enough to do so. When reading a book that doesn’t look like it will end well, she skips to the ending to see what happens. This violates my core belief system, but nevermind that now. She named her car – Bluebelle. But she prefers to drive their pickup (called Black Betty), because it “makes her feel sexy”. Don’t get me started on her obsession with Christmas, either – suffice it to say, “Jingle Bells” sounds a lot different in September.

* She’s good at everything she tries to do, because there’s no acceptable alternative. She’s nothing if not an optimist. She believes in happily-ever-after, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Santa Claus, and that miracles happen. She decides to do something and then she finds a way to do it, successfully.

Okay now I’m just grossing myself out, but you get the idea. My sister is amazing. She’s funny and beautiful and smart, and I couldn’t be happier that she’s around to keep me in good company (and borrowed clothes).

Please don’t misunderstand. I love kids – the smaller the better. I love my nieces and my nephew. I’m looking forward to the day when my younger sister & her husband decide to start trying to create their own little mini-mes, mostly because I can snuggle them and smooch them and spoil them without ACTUALLY taking any long-term responsibility for them.

First and foremost, LABOR. I think we all know where this one is heading.

Most women endure the pain of labor under the pretense that they’ll be taking home a soft, pink bundle of sweetness they can cuddle and love and brag about to their friends because OH ISN’T HE/SHE ADORABLE? And for about five minutes, he/she is.

I seem to be lacking whatever biological element makes women overlook the fact that for AT LEAST six years FOLLOWING nine months of bloat and back pain and cravings that would normally make them wrinkle their nose they won’t have a life of their own (you know, until baby X goes to Kindergarten for a few hours a day).

I can’t imagine having a baby of my own. For starters, after watching Izzy for a mere eight hours or so (beginning at the watery light of dawn) I thought of how little sleep parents get to have. I love to sleep. Except for naps. Naps bug me. Naps make me feel like I’m starting my day all over again and needing another shower to rinse off the lingering grogginess. But solid, middle of the night sleep? I can doze with the best of them. Lazy Sundays are my favorite. If I had a baby, my Sundays would be spent entertaining the baby or feeding the baby or washing the multiple outfits the baby puked on. Not so fun.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I feel like parents SHOULD devote all their time and energy to raising their kids. (I blame a lot of the problems with today’s youth on absent parents). When you have a baby, they SHOULD become your life. Your whole life.

Meanwhile, I like my life. I like sleeping in and taking spur of the moment trips (not that I do that very often – I should really take more trips) and having drinks with my friends and spending my money on lipstick and jeans instead of diapers and formula.

Maybe someday my priorities will change, but currently I can’t see myself becoming a mother. I have way too much respect for exhausted, selfless, actual mothers to count myself as a potential candidate.

I went to my sister’s place this morning, and we did the 30 Day Shred workout together. The video was actually  good – I like Jillian Michaels. I love the psycho-babble she spouts (“what you’re feeling now is fear leaving your body”). She was very motivating; I worried if I starting slacking off she’d pop through the screen and kick my ass – or maybe that has something to do with the clips I’ve seen from The Biggest Loser?

The workout was great, so great I’m going to buy the DVD for myself. The SUCK part was actually me. Despite two solid months of steady gym time, I’m still a frail girly-girl. Don’t believe me? When Heidi and I were doing the modified, girly push-ups, she glanced my way.

Extremely Athletic Sister: “You’re supposed to suck in your stomach.”
Not-So-Little Old Me: “I am.”

Now before you go thinking my sister is evil, I should add that she isn’t really. She’s supportive and helpful. She just doesn’t believe in slacking off, and I do, which is why her ass will always be smaller than mine – a difference I try not to hold against her. I do occasionally take M&M’s over to her place in the spirit of sisterhood, and having absolutely NOTHING to do with envy.

We played volleyball last week with the adult women’s league. We’re going again tonight. Now THAT is exercise I can get into. It doesn’t feel like work, even though I pour buckets of sweat and make grunting noises and bruise my knees (so much for my kneepads). It feels like great fun, especially when my team is winning.

I can hardly wait.

For most of my life, I’ve felt a deep and unshakable obligation to family. SHOCKING, yes? I mean, most people value their family life. The thing is, for most of my life my relationships with my relatives have ranged from mediocre to piss poor.

I put up with much more bullshit than I should, partly because “it’s family” and partly because I was a total shit as a kid, and a part of me feels as though I should take my lumps without a word because of that.

Well, guess what? Not anymore. I’ve been a reasonable, mostly happy adult for the last five years or so. I refuse to believe that I still deserve to be punished, however indirectly, for the many indiscretions of my youth. I deserve to be treated with respect and consideration, just like anyone else.

I’ve resolved to avoid people who are assholes, or treat me poorly. I think this is a positive step in the right direction. It’s also easier said than done. A niece of mine had a birthday recently, and because of my decision to avoid her father, I didn’t attend. She’s only four and isn’t likely to remember my absence, but I felt generally crappy about the whole thing.

Nevertheless, I intend to keep avoiding the people who give me good reason. I realize how simple this sounds, how completely basic, but it’s taken me twenty-eight years to conclude that when people hurt you – even people you love, and who claim to love you – you should take measures to avoid being hurt in the future.

This might mean that I have fewer people to talk to, but I think it also means the conversations I do have will be more rewarding.

What I spent time making with Tayla and my munchable niece Lara the other morning:

Yeah, the image kind of sucks. I don’t photoshop well.

We also made snow angels. Lara was skeptical that lying on her back and flailing about was something she would be interested in doing (I can’t imagine why – perhaps because her mother & I looked like a bunch of mental patients, laughing and rolling in the snow?) but eventually we talked her into it. She was way more excited about the snowball-throwing portion of the morning. She squealed and tried like hell to make her own ball while Te & I had a quick war – which I won, of course, having superior aim and speed. (Okay, so I got hit in the face one time, BIG DEAL).

NO, we didn’t throw snowballs at the kid – or if we did, it was just enough to make her feel included, and not hard. And despite the photograph evidence proving otherwise, she was wearing mittens for the duration.

PS: If snowmen – er, women – could come to life, that one would kick our butts for giving her a huge, lopsided carrot nose.