all my friends are talking about leaving, about leaving

To Mrs. P

My sister is moving to a tropical island paradise where she will languish in a life of untold drudgery and tears until she returns home years later, a warped and twisted ghost of the lovely woman she used to be. Or that's one version.

Also, my sister is moving. She is packing right now. I am not helping, but sometimes I say things like, "You don't need a pillow, just roll up a sweatshirt." And I'm reminded again how we're different people. I, in my mind (repeat: in my mind), aspire to a monk-like simplicity full of physical discomfort, one pair of dirty jeans and "putting up with stuff." L. is not the opposite of this. I.e. unbridled consumerism tempered by nothing but the availability of money -- she's not like that at all. But she does give me that Look (kind of like the Tone we're always complaining my dad takes with us during serious discussions. He denies this. Likely, L. denies the Look). That Look says to me that I'm trying to get attention by being Noble and I should stop because it's Annoying. Probably she's right.

Now we're eating PEZ candies from a Thor PEZ dispenser. I have caught one flung at my head. Now Sara has arrived in her (I will call it) sexy sexy blue dress. She has allowed me to call it this.

I'm on vacation this week, which means I squashed two week's worth of work into last week to justify not working today through Friday. Except that's a lie, because I worked today. So far though it's the best Monday I can remember. I'm trying to plan a wilderness camping trip and (in my mind, again) I plan to leave for it tomorrow. I also plan to drag at least one brother kicking and screaming along with me... mostly for protection against wildlife that might otherwise be tempted to chomp on my soft neck and flay the flesh from my bones. I need to present a more threatening front.

Here's how I figure it. Two grown people: threat level is a screaming red with a hint of orange. Safety level: pristine. One grown woman alone: dull gray, like the color of my pickled intestines on a bear's mantelpiece next his other kill trophies. Safety level: shot to hell. Or, if you prefer, heck.