In response to the photo that I posted of my recently polished nails,
I got the following LSM (Little Sister Message):
“LOVE. I want to copy. Though I won’t because, if history repeats itself as they say it does, you’ll throw the polish at my head. You were such a nice sisty.”
Yes, this is how we talk to each other.
Yes, I threw a bottle of nail polish at her head.
In my defense, that little incident earned me my one and only “grounding” experience.
No, I couldn’t be cool enough to get grounded for being caught at a party (my parents knew about the parties I went to. They were cool like that.) or for being caught with a boy (my parents knew all of the boys I dated. They were so cool that the boys always wanted to hang out with my parents.) My one, major high-school punishment occurred when I threw a bottle of red nail polish at my sister’s head,
and,
with my killer aim,
it hit the sharp edge of my four-poster bed,
shattered,
and landed on my pale, blue rug with a splat.
It looked like a crime scene.
A very glamorous crime scene, at that.
And, the funny thing is, I didn’t get punished for throwing a potentially dangerous object at my sister;
I got punished for making a mess and staining my rug.
What can I say?
We’re talking about my parents, here. You should know that my mom used to let us earn back our privileges. Basically, if we were punished, and then didn’t do anything else wrong for, oh, about 2 hours, we had successfully earned our rights back.
I know. Bad cop.
And though that stained, blue rug is long gone,
the memory of the nail polish nailing that almost-was
is as fresh in my little sister’s head
as the manicure on my nails.
What a wuss.
What, sis?
You’re mad that I called you a wuss?
Fine, go tell on me.
So what if I get in trouble.
I’ll earn my privileges back by dessert time,
anyway.