Directions from NY to the Czech Republic

My Little Sister moved to Prague.  I'm not gonna lie to you, it hurts.  She will, I am certain, understand when she reads this that I am not after sympathy here, nor am I trying to guilt her.  But we lost our older sister fifteen years ago to a teenage drunk driver in Toledo, Ohio in the dead of fucking February around one o'clock in the morning. 

You hang on tight after an uppercut like that.

You bandage your chin.

You have your jaw reset.

You recover.

And the people dear to you become dearer.

The phrase "Life is Short" drops into your well of understanding like a plane on an ocean.

My Little Sister is not "Little."  She is a full-fledged adult woman.  She always has been.  While I was desperate to grow up and sling car keys around my index finger wearing tight jeans and high heels, Little was in a different league.  Four years younger than me, she watched with Wide Round Browns and absorbed, criticized, and stored the behavior, the business, and the bullshit of her older sisters that was worth her time and that which wasn't.

Our Big Sister was a cheerleader three out of four years in high school, an accomplishment which I felt sure I would copy.  Alas, "I have not the skill."  I failed twice before, as a Junior, standing tall, and pushing out my brand new C cups, I announced, "I'm not trying out this year.  I have better things to do."  (Though for years I mourned the pleated mini-skirt and V-neck sweater.)

Little, on the other hand, was a stiff-armed, hurkey-jumping Natural, and Big was going to love watching her make the squad.  But Little refused, having absorbed and sorted this particular pastime into the Bullshit Category over the "Shit-Worth-My-Time" Category.  She bought a leather jacket, combat boots, and set off to be the star of Art class, several plays, and then-- boom!:  An uppercut to the face that no one deserves, but especially not a 100 pound sixteen-year-old.  I'd have taken the blow for her, but I was lying on the floor bleeding and unconscious myself.  So were our parents.

And still, all four of us would have taken 25 hits more.  A piece.  To prevent the kind of hit that cannot be survived.

But I don't have to tell you this.  You'd do the same.

As I was saying...

My Little Sister moved to Prague.  That's her pictured below.

She is making Art, mostly, learning the language and the Lay of the Land.  I couldn't be prouder.  We, the non-cheerleaders.  I delight in her every adventure, gobbling up her blog like birthday cake, and I try not to think about the actual miles of ocean between us.

Have you ever Googled Directions from NY to the Czech Republic?  Don't bother; it won't let you.

Have you ever Googled Directions from NY to Japan?  Do it.  Then scroll down to instruction #31.

No matter East or West, it's the Notion of the Ocean that gets me.

Miles I can endure.

Land.  Desert.  If there's a road, I can drive it.

But miles of Ocean?

Eesh.

I'm going to visit soon.  Spring or summer, I expect.  She'll show me around.  We'll giggle like kids.  And I'll watch with Big Round Browns.  Absorbing...

Wednesday, January 26, 2011.  "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" is playing during the Happy Hour at Ivory Lounge where the M/F bartender team is really good-looking and really trendy.  I suspected that this place might not be my kind of joint, and judging by the neon beam that intermittently flashes across my page and the painting that faces me from across the bar of a woman bearing her right breast,  I WAS RIGHT.  The furniture is a collection of white leather couchie/cubie things.  (Um, Sarasota?  What's going on here?) But the house cabernet which was advertised as $4 was sold to me for $3 by Hottie Mctoddie behind the bar, whose name, I learned is Cody. . .  of course it is.  There is a free buffet of food on Wednesdays which I didn't think I could stomach.  I did, however, reluctantly digest at least three conversation-starters from senior citizen men, and by the third one, I cracked a smile.  I even chuckled.  (But listen, Seniors, you need some new material.)  They were mostly curious about what I was writing.  Here's what they had to say:

• "Is that a Letter for me?"  ("No, sir, I don't even know you.)
• "Were you naughty in school and that's your punishment?" ("I was naughty sir, but that's not what this is about.")
• "What are you writing over there, honey?  Is that a book?"  ("More like an essay.  I'd need a lot more wine to make a book.")