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I’ve got this amazing sister.  She’s of the calibre that if you knew her, you’d be jealous of me.  I’ve got another, too, but we’re not going there today because if you knew about HER and the attendant sisterly glories, you’d have no choice but to hate me for the strength of your feverish jealousy.  Today is the first sister’s birthday and so it is she I limit myself to describing.

She is the cleanest person I’ve ever known.  When I’m at her house, I let myself sink deep into the couch cushions because I know that they, despite the fact that they are made of upholstery, house perhaps not even a single dust mote.  You know you can relax there, in her home, because yucky things don’t lurk in between couch cushions to threaten to snag on to your leg.  It is clean there, and I know this for lots of reasons.  Recently this hygenically exemplary person had a baby.  This baby didn’t come easily and so a caesarian was resorted to.  I wanted to help my poor, scarred-up but joy-filled sister and so while I visited her, I made it my plan to seek out dust in every way I knew how.  I hunted and I skimmed all surfaces, aggressively, with my antibacterial cloth.  But most of my hunt was disappointingly fruitless.  I found a very few dust stashes, even though she had just been through major surgery and had before that, spent her days being sickly, sickly, endlessly pregnant.  Even her baseboards were pristine.  When I first discovered this oddity, my head sagged a bit in shame and I couldn’t help but think of my own dusty ones filling my infantless,  toddlerless home.  But then I comforted myself quickly with the dignity-saving realization that one shouldn’t compare oneself to others.  Only the buoyancy coming from a false superiority  or a false discouragement can come of that, right?

My sister is sunny.  And uber organized.  Since she vacated the notoriously mood affecting teen years, she’s never once spoken to me in anger or anything resembling it.  She pinpoints that elusive line in dressing which unites comfort and style.  Her taste is second to none and if you saw her kitchen you’d probably hate her just a little.  It’s the nicest non-magazine layout one I’ve ever seen.  One image to leave you with on that topic:  massive turquoise island topped with a thick slab of rough wood.  I’m not even going to get started on what her light fixtures in this fairytale room look like.  Mere kitchen mortals like you and I can’t be expected to stay envy-free in the face of those.

She is a great laugher.  You’ll know what I mean if you’ve met one.  They are the people you hear every now and then, clear, unselfconscious laughs ringing out in public and before you know you’ve done so, you find that you’ve already begun to smile in a union of happiness, though you don’t know (or necessarily care to know) the source of her laughter.  You can’t help but like her when you hear her whole-self-laugh.  She’s not a partial-self laugher.

You know that cliche that says you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family?  I would choose my sister every time.  I would love for you to meet her so you can smile with me at her wonderful laugh.