Welcome, and remember the other night when I said I was going to blog something sweet and delicate, to counteract the unrefined subjects of late? Well, tonight is the night. It's my sister's birthday, and she is a VERY sweet and delicate item. In just a sec I'm going to tell you some fun things about her, but first I have a special surprise.

I have a MARVELOUS friend, don't you just completely cherish your marvelous friends? Aren't they just SOOOO delicious? Her name is CDW. She is the one who is lazy, but is NOT. Listen to me, not her. But right now you HAVE to listen to what she emailed me. When I was talking about the hot pink sticky gooey ball DTD won, then wasted no time plastering it on the ceiling, remember that?, well, that triggered for CDW her very own personal sticky, slimy ceiling story. It tickles me pink, or should that be red??, to share this with you.

KEM Dearest,
I so know what you were talking about with the sticky, slimy things that leave marks. One of Lauren's friends from her freshman year in high school had a "sticky red rat" that he would swing by the tail and then let go...it stuck to my dining room ceiling and then slowly unstuck and splat on the floor...leaving behind an ugly red scar on my ceiling and floor. He quickly cleaned up the floor...but the ceiling... if I hadn't loved BG so much...I would have killed him. That place stayed red for a long time until I eventually covered it up with white paint...maybe a year later. :)

LOVE,
CDW

Well, it is very gratifying indeed to know that I am not the only victim of slime. It just slays me that the red rat ended up on the ceiling, too. What a COMFORT to know that dealing with sticky things and the like is not peculiar to me alone. I mean, sometimes I do say, Woe is me and nobody else. In fact, this is one point of my blog, to blend our humanity together, to soothe, to make us all feel that we are not isolated and pitiful, a single sufferer in a sea of favored human beings who could never possibly have a rat land on their ceiling. While I write MY stories, they're really YOUR stories, too, it's all about LIFE. You just may not have time to write/blog your stories (although think about it, it's fun!), so you can read mine instead, if you want to, and go, PRECISELY!, just like CDW did. You can plug in different names and unique twists, and we're all on the same ceiling, aren't we? THANKS, CDW! And this proves that CDW is not lazy, but I am. Her ceiling had the red spot for merely one year, while mine remained pink for no less than seven years. Case closed.

Laura Linn is my sister. I, Kathy Linn, am her sister (whoa, that was BRILLIANT!). See how both our middle names are Linn? Wasn't my mother clever? Or something? It is a family name and long live it. Whoa, that didn't sound quite right, either, but I've been blogging my brains out and I'm too pooped to revisit anything tonight. Possibly my mother gave both of us Linn because it's not an uncommon practice for parents to name 'em the same? I'm asking, 'cause I really don't know. OR, since Laura's due date was on my birthday we were twins of sorts and sharing a middle name would be . . . precious? (not my favorite word, I use it entirely sparingly, but it fits here). OR maybe my mother's imagination had dried up, as might be expected of exhausted expectant (KEM suffers brain fade) mothers, and it was a recycle of Linn or squat? OR . . . maybe I should ask her?? DUH! FYI, since my family data is so critical to your life, my brother's middle name was another family name, Lloyd. Lloyd, Linn & Linn. Sounds like a law firm.

Okay, so my sister is extra special. Truly. She is wonderful and nice and all that, but I shall tell you some unique, interesting things that reveal her personality from when we were the little Linn twins, two years and 13 days removed (she was a late baby). As a young child she had a penchant for licking bicycle tires. You'd find her in the garage licking away, happy as a clam. YUM-EE! Wonder what was lacking in her diet that road rubber evidently supplied. I know what was not lacking in her diet. Butter and Cream of Wheat. Those were her staples. You could also find her in the garage with a stick of butter in hand, happily licking away as though it were an ice cream cone. (I think the garage was her cozy spot, where no one would see her indulging in her delights, plus the bikes were parked there). Licking was a great pastime, yes, she was engaged most agreeably. She didn't like her vegetables and subsisted on Cream of Wheat. My mother read a book to her, The Little Rabbit That Would Not Eat, millions of times, to no avail. The Little Rabbit in the story, Nappity-Nip, would not eat his hateful vegetables either and gradually became so pale, weak and sickly that he could no longer play outside with his cousins and had to just lie limp and listless on the bed and nap all day while the others had all the fun without him. Laura felt badly for the Little Rabbit -- and continued right on with her exclusive Cream of Wheat menu. My brother used to kid her, You eat so much Cream of Wheat that your hair is Cream of Wheat. You look like Cream of Wheat. You ARE Cream of Wheat. Like she cared. The Little Rabbit learned to eat his vegetables, even like them, and became strong and healthy and could go outside once more and play with all the other little rabbits again. He was such a happy Little Nip then. Laura loved the story, she just didn't waste time applying it to her own little self. No need. She was a perfectly sturdy little girl, let the Little Rabbit be the silly one to eat his nasty vegetables.

We grew up in a circa 1925 neighborhood. All the blocks had dirt alleys. People used to find Laura diligently digging away in the alley. Why are you digging?, they'd want to know. She'd look up and blankly answer, I'm looking for the Devil. (WHAT ELSE? Honestly, if adults don't ask the darndest things.) And then she'd turn her face to the earth and resolutely shove the spade in and flip another spoonful of St. Petersburg's sandy soil. She was fascinated by the Devil. Once she studied a neighbor man, a jolly, good-hearted family man. I can see her cute little Cream of Wheat wheels spinning, working up the nerve to ask him something she HAD to know. At last, intensely, Are you the Devil? Maybe the Devil was already amongst us, and she was digging in vain? The neighbor said her sincerity did wonders for his self-esteem. Don't you just have to appreciate a little girl who digs for the Devil?

My mother liked to dress Laura and me up in dainty little smocked dresses and patent leather shoes and fix our hair with ribbons and bows (I like to say we were born in the tail end of the good old days). Once we were invited to an elegant tea in the grand old Vinoy Hotel, a spectacular St. Petersburg landmark. We wore gloves and everything and were instructed to conduct ourselves in a ladylike fashion. Laura wanted to know, How does a lady pick her nose with gloves on? Good question . . . and so much for high society.

She was generous. Compassionate, too. She felt sorry for poor old Peter, the yard man across the street. His eyes were always yellow and bloodshot, but he was a kind soul. Something about Peter must have grabbed Laura's sensitive heart, maybe she believed he was sick, tired and weary, like Nip, because he was always either raking in slooooow motion or leaning on the rake staring off into a far away place, usually the latter. One day she walked across the street and handed him her ten dollars. He took it, too. Wanted to turn his eyes a deeper shade of yellow, I'm afraid.

Laura has always had an amazingly pleasant, laidback disposition, it must have been her diet. See, I never licked bicycle tires, and that's what's wrong with me. People have always loved Laura immensely, she's a people magnet. She is a darling, caring person in every way, and I have benefited deeply from her kindness. I am so fortunate to have such a sister.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAURA, I LOVE YOU,
KEM