Hippo Birdie, Two Ewes

Happy birthday, to my sister, Charlotte! Today is a milestone birthday for her. A big one. I won't say which, just that it's a biggie. And you'd never believe it to see her.

I go through this little ritual when it is someone's birthday. I venture to the card store to pick out a card. Not just any card store. They have to have a wide variety of humorous cards. Something for everyone's taste in humor. Naughty. Slapstick. Highbrow. Three Stooges.

I will invest hours if necessary finding the perfect card and no two people ever get the same one. How could they? To me, the card that strikes the birthday girl or boy's funny bone is like a fingerprint. Uniquely theirs.

But to do this I need to go through a little review. Their life flashing before my eyes. Only in a good way. And edited to contain only the scenes we both share.

With Charlotte that is daunting. Since she is my (very slightly) older sister, (you'd never know it) I have known her my whole life. Literally. That is a lot of reviewing. And what, pray tell, is the prevalent feature of Charlotte's personality? Who is she to me?

The Big Sister? - Teaching me to read at the age of 4 so my Kindergarten teachers thought I was a genius. Dressing me for my first date with Eddie Wildman when I didn't have a single article of date attire in my whole closet. Getting caught on film snickering at me as I left for Prom in her dress, with a date I could not stand, in the pouring rain.

The Religious One? - Telling me not to swing my Miraculous Medal like a lasso for fear I'd make the Blessed Virgin Mary dizzy. Making me get up and talk to the cat at midnight on Christmas Eve because the PBS special "The Night the Animals Talked" said that he would. (He was so aloof he would not have wasted his ability to talk on us, I am quite sure.)

The Gullible One? - The Big Sister who fell for it when her twerpy little sister claimed to have seen the Tooth Fairy. (Hil did the same thing to Pat - said she had long blond hair and a spray on tan.) Or the one who believed, long after our black Cockapoo had "gone to live on a farm" that my mother's mink hat was the dog when I walked in with it in my arms shrieking "Look! It's Mitzie!"

Or the Advisor? - The one who deftly explained this filthy term or that rude gesture when I was baffled and asked her. Or steered me toward the Potsies and away from the Fonzies with her voice of experience. Or told me that I'd have the most fun in High School if I joined the Drill Team - never knowing that I'd meet Scott in the very first day of Band Camp. And yes, I did have The Most Fun.

Or the Hapless One? - The one who went to get a fancy schmancy hair cut that went all wrong, and would not get out of the car when she and my mother arrived home, and preferred to sit in the car with a Saks 5th Avenue bag over her head nearly to the point of suffocation. Or the one who raced out the door to catch the school bus one December day only to whack her head on the Tiffany-style lamp that would normally be suspended above the dining table, but was an easy target with the table pushed aside to make room for the Christmas tree. I still remember the sound of impact, and the way my mother taped the darn thing back together. Yes, taped. Or the one who broke her nose participating in that brutal contact sport we know as swimming. (Ooops. No, that was me.)

Or maybe the Saint - The one who met me at the bank at some inconvenient hour to hand over a pile of money so I could hire a divorce lawyer, and hold my hand while I opened an account and catalogued my jewelry and Important Papers for placement into a Safe Deposit Box when Lars cleared out our joint account on pay day and threatened to take all of my jewelry and sell it. Or the one who watched my baby while my other baby had surgery. Or gave me all kinds of impossibly small-sized clothes to wear when I took on the form of an 8-year-old during my Marital Discord Diet. Or reminded me that I am good, and strong and smart and worthwhile when Lars very nearly convinced me otherwise.

Or the Comedienne - The one I laugh to the point of pissing my pants with over just about anything. The one who doesn't mind if I swear like a sailor or make an irreverent comment or let fly with a catty remark. Meows along with me like a champ. Rolls her eyes with me when The Family begins its routine circus act. Calls me laughing to the point of tears to ask if I am watching Glee. Sends me completely inappropriate YouTubes that make me howl. Laughs at what I say to other motorists in traffic during our Rush Hour chats. Will sit with me and watch favorite TV scenes over and over again on Hulu with a bottle of wine. Offers to save me a seat in Hell.

The truth is, she is all of these things. All rolled into one, every persona at her fingertips. She is magical and amazing and I am grateful for her. Selfishly and for my children. I have heard that there are few people that are more influential in a child's life than their mother's sister. My children hit the jackpot. There is no Fairy Godmother with better pixie dust or a more powerful magic wand. Or prettier fairy wings or bedazzling attire.

Happy Birthday, Charlotte. I hope it is filled with cupcakes and cocktails and fabulous surprises. There are few people more deserving than you.