Twisted Sister

My sister had the short end of the stick growing up. She and I get along wonderfully now that we're all grown up, but back then it really wasn't fair for her. She was the youngest of three, had an angry tantrum-like personality, and was accident prone. The good thing about all those attributes is that there are numerous stories to relate to my beloved readers.

Like the time her hair caught on fire. It was a lovely Hannukah night, probably one of the later days since there were so many candles lit on the menorah. We were all excited, getting ready to open presents and eat latkes and other Jewish stuff. Suddenly, there was a scream and a burst of light. My sisters hair had taken to the flame like Whitney Houston to a crack pipe. It must have been put out quickly since there were no fire trucks or ER visits, but those seconds of smelly burnt hair were enough for years of laughter at her expense.

Then there was the time her head got rolled up in the car window. My dad was driving his Ford Focus with his three kids being their usual rambunctious selves. My sister had her head out the window like a playful puppy, hair blowing in the window and giggling. Suddenly, unbeknownst to the doglike child, the window started rolling up. She didn't notice until it was too late. Then the screaming started, followed by my brother and me laughing hysterically.

"Dad!!!! Dad!!!! Stop roling up the window! Stop! It hurts!" she screamed, struggling to pull her head back in.

"What are you talking about?" Dad asked. He wasn't rolling up the window.

"Roll it down!! Ow!! Ow!!!" she wailed.

Then Dad figured it out.

"Take your hand off the window button. "

She was rolling her window up herself. Between the screams and fear, it took her a few seconds to register what he was saying, so my brother and I got at least fifteen more seconds of unrelenting joy.

One day we were all out riding bikes with Dad. We were calling each other names and riding along under the summer sun. Then my brother and I zeroed in on the easy target, little sister. After we exhausted insults like "poo brain," "booger eater," and "dork face" one of us decided to make up a word and see how it worked. I wish I could remember the actual word, but since I don't I will make one up. The taunts began.

"Hey zorktron, why don't you pedal faster!"

"Hey zorktron, you smell like a butt!"

"What ya doin, zorktron?"

"Shutup!" she squeeled.

"Ok, zorktron, I'll shut up," I said.

"I'm not a zorktron," she said, starting to cry.

"Oh yes you are, zorktron," my brother retorted.

"Oh yeah?" she said.

"ZORK-TRON! ZORK-TRON! ZOR-TRON!" we chanted in a deafening sibling roar.

In a forceful effort to prove to us she was not a zorktron, my sister launched into a pedal pumping attack. With gaining speed, she crashed her white and purple training wheel clad bicycle into my back wheel. Then she fell over, getting a few scrapes. Way to go, Zorktron.

There are so many stories from childhood revolving around my sister that I may have to start a bi-monthly series. We'll have to see.





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