Ah, the Salad Days

My sister calls me last night:

“I need three ideas for Christmas. Go.”

I tell her some stuff, and then I ask her what she would like.

“I need clothes—all I have are maternity pants, ugh. I like Old Navy, Herberger’s, Penny’s--”

“--Dress Barn.” I cut in.

“Shut up. No, what’s that store in the mall in Dickinson?”

“Oh, um, Christopher and Banks! I can get you a sweatshirt with a kitten and American flag embroidered on it. Maybe a blazer?”

Then she mentions she needs some new lotions and body sprays from Bath and Body. “None of that grass scent you like so much,” she tells me.

We are twins, but we are different. In just about every way two people can be different. Except that we both have that same (I want to say horse laugh, but I don’t think that’s quite it—maybe a laugh like a guineau hens sounds?) laugh.

“Randy,” I tell her, “I refuse to buy you some country apple lotion scent. Good Lord. You’ve really got to stop this.” “No,” she says, “I like Pearberry.” I stop her right there. “I may as well get you some Vanilla Fields,” I say.

“Then I’ll get you some Exclamation.” When we were kids, we would just douse ourselves in Malibu Musk, Jovan Musk, Tribe, and Exclamation. The cheapest, most obnoxious scents that 11 year olds couldn’t get enough of.

I imagine our mom, on a daily basis, thought, What in the hell is wrong with you two?

I told Randy, “I bet the trailer house smelled like frickin’ Jovan Musk for three years.”