Yep, just below the skin. Today, for absolutely no good reason whatsoever, I burst into tears at work. A little back story...
When I was fifteen, my parents had my little sister. There are no kids in between us, just my older brother and sister, so I was the baby for fifteen years of my life. I wasn't fond of the idea of having a little sibling, because teenagers are (among many things) the most selfish creatures on the planet. Most of them figure that out later and quickly mature into the realization that there are other things the universe centers on besides themselves. At any rate, doing the math, when I went off to college, Savannah was only three years old. This is also known as the cutest stage of childhood. As much as I never would have admitted it at the time, she was adorable and I missed her while I was away.
So, when I would come back and visit, it was a big deal. I didn't get home as often as I wanted to, but, when I did, one of our favorite things was to put music on in our basement, and I'd throw her into my arms and dance around like crazy, twirling her and fake-dropping her only to grab her at the last second and lift her back into my arms. And the whole time we'd be belting out Rod Stewart songs along with our CDs.
Today, while I was alone in the kitchen at work washing dishes, no customers or co-workers anywhere near, "Maggie May" came on the radio, and while I was singing along, smiling, I burst into tears.
My sister is eighteen years old.
I wasn't sobbing because that makes me particularly ancient, although that thought does cross my mind from time to time. I was sobbing in part because I don't have much time for her these days, and in part because she doesn't have much time for me. Between a husband and kids and several jobs, a boyfriend and job searches... it's just rough to get together these days. We have one of those relationships, though, that transcends such things. We catch up on the phone or email, and when we do get together, it's as if there's no huge age gap between us. We counsel one another, laugh and cry together, complain and rant, shop, eat, and laugh some more. It will help greatly when she has a driver's license... *HINT* It's funny how I think of my 18-year-old son as a kid, but my 18-year-old sister is ... well, my sister! :)
I finally made the Chinese food tonight that I'd been planning to make earlier in the week. I had all the ingredients, and was very much anticipating it. Five minutes before it was finished, I went to get the eggs from the refrigerator to fry up and put into the fried rice. No eggs. My loving 16-year-old son hard-boiled the rest of the eggs. All of the rest of them. Seven of them. No one in this house ever does anything with the eggs. And then, randomly on the day that I fully expect to use the eggs that have been in the fridge for two weeks without fail... no eggs. I made him go to the neighbor's house with a dollar to offer to buy a couple from them, but they weren't home either. I took this to mean that my cashew chicken fried rice was not meant to have eggs in it tonight. I was greatly displeased. My tummy is still a bit unsatisfied. But that could be because I am greatly displeased that there is no chocolate in this house, either. Who does the shopping around here, anyway!?
My meeting was canceled today, so I had some unexpected free time. I went to Concord Mall and did a little Christmas shopping. There's a little used book store where the Waldenbooks used to be, and his prices are fantastic! Check it out if you're in the area.
The husky continues to bound in the snow for long intervals of time, and wants to be outside at all times. The min-pin continues to gaze longingly at the Christmas tree in hopes that we'll allow him to use it as his own personal indoor toilet. I dread spring each year, because the little dog won't jump off the deck to do his business when there is snow. He thinks that three steps outside the door, directly on the deck and preferably up against the house, is the perfect place if we must put him out. And another thing: I have GOT to figure out what sort of drug dealers the previous owners were, because the big dog will not stop licking the floor in the living room. It's like someone dropped some awesome powder in there, and after three years of living here, she still hasn't licked it all up. She's obsessed.
I'm sufficiently tired of writing at the moment, and I would like to search the house one last time for chocolate and then go to bed, disgruntled, and read for awhile.