She Loves Me After All

My little sister, Jamie, was born the day before my third birthday. My mom has a picture of me at the hospital, beaming from ear to ear, and she says the reason I look so thrilled is because I believed Jamie was my birthday present.

My parents divorced when I was five, so for most of our childhood, it was just Mom, Jamie, and me. Mom and I had a very close relationship, almost more like best friends, while Jamie was like our baby. My poor sister, having to grow up with two mothers. And one of them (c'est moi) wasn't very nice to her.

Take our favorite pasttime, playing Barbies. I guess it's pretty obvious what we enjoyed spending our allowance on: we had several Barbie dolls, and TONS of Barbie clothes and accessories, but only two Ken dolls. The "old" dark-haired Ken, though at one time was more handsome, had become a naked amputee, while the "new" blond Ken had nothing but a pair of swimming trunks in which to wear. Every time we played, I'd be a good big sister and let Jamie use the better blond Ken, you know, the one with arms and legs. However, and this is where you can just maybe kinda see how having the knowledge as a child that your father was a womanizer can mess you up, her Barbie could only be married to the good Ken if my Barbie could steal him away from her. My Barbie was always the mean, manipulative, slutty, husband-stealing bitch. I was a Desparate Housewife at the ripe old age of 10. Yeah, you think I had some issues? Sweet little Jamie would always let her mean big sister have her way, though, even when it was just plain wrong. And, sweet little Jamie got her revenge eventually. I just happen to recall a certain Barbie doll belonging to yours truly who got into the hands of an angry little sister who chopped all her hair off Sinead O'Connor style and scraped the tips of her plastic boobies off on the sidewalk. Boy, you sure did show me, Jamie Elizabeth.

And then there was the fighting, good grief did we fight. Jamie played the part of little sister perfectly, picking, picking, picking, picking, until I would explode into a terrible rage. After I calmed down, she'd be in her room crying, and I'd go in and apologize and plead with her not to tell Mom. And she wouldn't. Of course, being the mean manipulative bitch I was, the minute she'd lay a hand on me, I'd waste not one second before running to Mom.

It wasn't all bad, though. We were both afraid of the dark and afraid of sleeping alone at night, so we'd often camp out in each other's bedrooms, one sleeping in the twin bed, the other in a sleeping bag. Or, on school nights, with our rooms next door, one of us would knock on the wall to let the other know she was still awake, and then if the other was awake, she'd knock back, just as a way to reassure one another we weren't alone. And despite the evilness with which I'd conduct my Barbie playing, we would have her entire tiny bedroom (we always played in her room, for some reason) decked out as one ginormous Barbie castle and we'd play for hours upon hours upon hours. And boy, did we master Mario Bros. 3 together on the Nintendo!

If one thing can be said about Jamie, it's that she definitely has a forgiving heart. After everything I've done to her, and believe me that wasn't even the tip of the iceburg, my little sister yesterday asked me to be her matron of honor at her wedding. Part of me feels overwhelmed that my baby sister, my lifelong birthday present, who is freaking getting MARRIED, wants her big sister by her side during this huge step in her life. Then there's the mean, manipulative bitch part of me who is pissed that I'm going to have to give a toast at the big event. Gosh, Jamie, don't you know public speaking is like, one of my biggest fears? Seriously, it's right up there with the fear of needles!

Really, though, I am honored. And I am scared. I don't know what the hell I'm going to say. It'll probably be some sort of rambling nonsense similar to this post. I do know what I'm giving to Jamie after the toast, though...