Sisters before Misters!

“We are family, I’ve got all my sisters with me” – Sister Sledge

Regular readers will know that I like to do a bit of giving out on this blog.  I’m afraid if that’s what you’re looking for this week, you’ll be disappointed, as it’s been a joyful time in our family.  Not alone did we have the wedstival last week, but this week my sister, her husband, and their two sons arrived home from Chicago, where they’ve been living for two years.  The children have grown and grown without a thought for aunts and uncles and grannies who don’t see them and now they’re nine and a half and almost six and far taller than we thought they’d be.

They arrived on Saturday morning, as a surprise for my mother.  The rest of us were expecting them.  My nephews walked into the kitchen and said “Hi Gran” as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for two children to stroll in from Chicago with no warning whatsoever.  I know it’s a common saying, that somebody can’t believe their eyes, but it was the first time I’ve actually seen it.  My Mam looked at them, rubbed her eyes, looked at them again.  She hugged them and kissed them, and cried a little.  Then their parents walked in.  My sister and her husband.  My mother loves her French son-in-law.  They both had their arms open for a hug.  I’ll gloss over the part where my mother ran past my sister and into my brother-in-law’s arms.  Teresa can be seen, on the video, roaring “four thousand miles.  For thousand miles, and she runs past me.”  The video stops soon afterwards.  Probably for the best.

We all celebrated that evening with a barbecue and drinking and talking all night and grinning at each other like idiots.  As darkness fell the small boys were put to bed.  They were exhausted and jet lagged, and needed to get used to Irish time.

They got into the bed, no lights were put on, and their mother specifically told me not to go into the room they were in, that they might take a while to nod off, because their body clocks were messed up, but they must sleep.  We were not to go near them.  I was not allowed to tell them a story.  It would be no help. 

So I sat in the garden as instructed and drank my wine and talked to my sister, overjoyed to see her again at last.

Eventually I went into the house.  As I crossed the hall I saw a movement from the corner of my eye.  It was the legs of a tall nine year old, running around his Granny’s bedroom.  What could I do?  I could hardly ignore them, could I?  Their mother thought they were lying quietly waiting for sleep to overtake them.  It was my job as their aunt to make sure all was well and that they were only running around the bedroom for fun, that they hadn’t set the place on fire or anything.  I decided to investigate.

“What are you doing, lads?  Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“He gave me a wedgie” the bigger one got his defence in first.

“So what?  He tried to give me an Extreme Wedgie!” the five year old was offended at the accusation.  The little boy had stepped into a t-shirt, his legs in the sleeves, to somehow protect himself from further attacks.   I think I might forever regret not calling a halt to everything to discuss the difference between a wedgie and an extreme wedgie.  But as I say, I’d been drinking, I just wanted to be near them, and to talk to them, and my presence of mind wasn’t with me.

I have two sisters.  One is older than me, and the other slightly younger.  Both of them are mothers, I am not.  They are busy grown up women and I’m a bit of an eejit who can’t get her act together to save up a fare to Chicago, and so we haven’t spent a day together, just the three of us, for years.

My younger sister Teresa had not brought her full makeup bag with her.  I suppose it’s hard to pack for four people, and make sure you have four passports and the house locked up and the dog being cared for by a responsible person, without having to worry about your blending brushes and liquid eyeliner as well.

On the Sunday morning, Teresa was still jet lagged and exhausted.  And hungover.  She didn’t look her usual fabulous self.  And she had to go to Dublin.  Into the car we got, my elder sister Mary and I, like a pair of faithful spaniels.  I think we were so happy to be with Teresa again that we couldn’t let her out of our sight.

We talked her into going shopping.  Poor Teresa.  Because she’s the one on holidays she’s expected to spend all her holiday money on things that Mary and I want, so that we can live vicariously through her.  We pushed and prodded her to the first beauty counter and told the woman to sell her a tinted moisturiser and a foundation.  Teresa is not a woman who can usually be pushed and prodded into doing anything, but tiredness and a hangover had made her vulnerable.

At the next counter I practically pushed my sister aside to explain to the saleswoman what our business was.  I don’t know how many readers remember the nineties, when eyebrows were considered a shameful and terrible thing. That was the decade of the smaller the eyebrow the better.

For me, plucking my eyebrows into oblivion was never an option.  They are naturally enormous.   Plucking the feckers enough is the real problem.

But Teresa insists that she’s the opposite.  That she plucked her brows so much as a young lassie that they never grew back properly and remain sparse.

Even though she was just browsing the beauty halls I took it upon myself to tell the woman that Teresa was unhappy with her brows and asked her what she proposed to do about it.  Teresa was instructed to hop up on the chair, so that we could all stand staring at her, our hands on our chins, wise looks on our faces.

Before we knew what was going on she’d been moisturised, primed, powdered, highlighted, and contoured.  I was torn between being impressed and being jealous.  You’d never know, to look at us, that Teresa and I are related.  She is tall and thin and has actual cheekbones, I am shorter, anything but thin, and would have to be dead six months before we could actually establish whether there’s bones in my face at all.  The woman’s swishing and blending and dotting brought Teresa’s cheekbones out so much that she looked like a model.

Through all the work, Mary and I stood behind the woman who was painting Teresa’s face.  We were very encouraging, and very vocal.  And sometimes, when a brand-new product we’d never heard of was pulled from this woman’s bag of tricks, we almost stood up her shoulders, craning our necks and involving ourselves far more than was appropriate. 

“What’s that called?”

“How much is it?”

“What brush are you using?”

“Would that be nice on me?”

“It’s lovely Teresa, you’ll be delighted with yourself.”

“Do it again there, so we can see what you’re at properly.”

Only after all this work had been done did the woman approach Teresa’s brows.  There was a lot more colouring and blending, but she made them gorgeous.

Teresa looked amazing.  By her own admission her jet lag and hangover had taken its toll, and she wasn’t looking her best.  By the time her face was done, she looked ten years younger than she had that morning.  I was openly jealous by now.  She decided to buy most, if not all, of the products the woman had used.  Samples were promised, and a free makeup bag.  Mary and I edged around, so that we were standing between her and Teresa, with our begging faces on. 

When it was confirmed that we too would be getting makeup bags, we decided to celebrate by buying a product or two ourselves.

When all this was done, we went upstairs, and Teresa bought clothes for her children and Mary bought household stuff for her kitchen.  They are excellent wives.  I too was being an excellent wife that day, as I did not purchase a handbag.

I have the week off work to spend with them.  There is endless joy in spending time with them, in telling stories, and small faces being turned up for goodnight kisses at bedtime.  And in my sisters and I falling naturally back into casually teasing and insulting each other, as only sisters can. And that’s why I can’t think of anything to give out about this week.  Sorry.