Did I tell you that my beloved little brother is back in Utah and just living a measly 45 minutes away? (!) Isn't that a wonderful thing? I dearly love being a sister; last year was a decidedly wretched year with no siblings nearby to be sisterly to. What a delightful gift it is to have him here.
Last week we had dinner together and he mentioned he'd been in a little fender-bender. Well, not even a fender-bender. It was like a fender-teenylittlescratcher. A few days later I was on the phone with my dad and asked, Hey, have you talked to Jimmy lately?" After being told they'd spoken the day before I said, "Oh, so you know about the accident."
"What accident!?!" my father thundered.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!
"Oh, nothing," I lied, except I am an exceptionally bad liar and I'm sure I wasn't convincing, what with my voice being three octaves above it's normal range.
"What happened, Kim?" the old man gritted and I had no choice but to feed him a story.
"Um, no just he had an accident . . . in class . . . he, uh, . . . wet his pants."
"Oh, yeah, weird right? He's like totally embarrassed about it so don't mention it to him. Like ever."
Because, in my mind, my father would rather learn that his 21-year-old son lost bladder control during a college lecture than know that there is a half-inch long scratch on his 15-year-old Buick.
And maybe this should stand as a reminder to all my siblings: if you are keeping something from our parents you have to tell me not to say anything because, when backed into a corner, I might come up with a story that's much, much worse.