Sisters From Multiple Misters

VAL: My sister Lori and I are more like twins than sisters. We share a wicked sense of humour, and a strong second chin. The eldest by three years, I was the leader, making Lori the minion to my queen bee. I decided whether Barbie resided in her camper or dream home, and if Ken got a Hummer. Lori was the perfect playmate, agreeable and accommodating. Just her and I, equal partners on a level playing field.

LORI: Equal? I always had to be Skipper or GI Joe. The doll relegated to me had a “haircut” and collapsed arches. Ever the Libra, the scales constantly tipped in Val’s favour. She dictated the rules, and I was thrilled to be chosen. From comic books to Easy Bake Ovens, we were tighter than Zsa Zsa and Eva Gabor. But puberty is a jealous mistress. When the hormones kicked in, the gloves came off. My idol and I turned into Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.

VAL: Coming of age in the bitchin’ 80’s, girls just wanted to have fun. New to Cowtown, 21-year-old me set out to build a new sisterhood. Armed with big hair and bigger balls, we turned hip hoppin’ Electric Avenue into our playground. Kindred spirits were born in bathroom lineups, over shots at the bar, and commiserating heartache on the dance floor.

LORI: A few years later, I burned rubber out of small-town Saskatchewan to squat with Val in the bright lights of the big city. I knew sibling hierarchy was restored when my mattress was flung into a remote corner of her cement basement. Dankness did not deter these plastic genital-less wonders. It was time for Barbie and Skipper to ride again!

With a revolving door of roommates, we learned cohabitating with females isn’t all kumbaya. Estrogen overload is the nip that fuels catfights. In time, we’d maxed out on living with our own kind, so it was time to test another species. This spurred us to look for love in all the wrong places, and BOOM, we got husbands!

Motherhood instilled its own set of challenges. The sisterhood took a backseat to sleep deprivation, spit up blankets, and baby shit under our nails. With part-time jobs and full-time toddlers, we were all in the same boat, but our life preservers had drifted to separate suburbs.

With a lot of new house and no old money, we found our people on playdates, school councils, and community sports. Many were here for a good time, not a long time, but a seasonal squad beats the hell out of isolation. These benchwarmers made field trips bearable, and were always game to play. Wine prevailed over Gatorade in the grownup cooler.

The moment your oldest can keep your youngest alive for a few hours, your interests boomerang back to you. Yoga and fitness classes became the new Electric Avenue. By this chapter, we’d solidified our Samantha, Charlotte, Miranda and Carrie’s. Dressed in our fancy denim, cosmo’s in hand, we’d justify impulse buys and bemoan our husbands…Sex and the City style.

Unlike Mom’s era of silent talkers, our generation of cosmetically enhanced loose lips commiserate over the indignity of periods, childbirth, aging, aches, the pause, and shitting yourself (you’ve probably done this once by now). A good belly laugh and a soft pelvic floor allow you to christen your friends by peeing on or around them. When it comes to rolls, moles, and holes, there’s no level of disgust that can’t be discussed.

Our early infatuation with Betty and Veronica comics introduced us to the power and complexity of girlfriends. Despite their differences, these BFF’s were ‘drawn’ together. If girlfriends are a measure of hard currency, then call me Richie Rich. You’d find our comic book characters popping corks with Ms. Grundy, Big Ethel, and the gals at the Riverdale Pub. The speech bubbles would be filled with happy faces, hearts, and #$%&*!!

Girlfriends orbit your atmosphere like stars in the solar system. Some love you to the moon and back, some morph into icy black holes, others need to get outer your space. The beauty of aging is you finally have time to cultivate your friend field. Throughout the years, we’ve weeded out wackos, deadheaded drama queens, and composted crazies. After culling the herd, the only mares left in our stable are thoroughbreds.

We currently find ourselves in the deepest relationships of our lives. These are the long-haul girls, our soul sisters, a living breathing diary. Classified secrets are divulged in an airtight cone of silence. Contrary to men who are hardwired to solve problems with duct tape, Febreeze, and WD-40, women listen with empathy…and snacks.

When Lori’s husband passed away, our smorgasbord of sisters mobilized immediately. Within hours, the sisterhood enveloped us in a cocoon of support, nourishing our bellies and souls. A week after Scott’s passing, eight women gathered around a square table with fabulous fascinators perched on our heads, giggling uncontrollably at the absurdity of the moment. After two years of hospitals, hope, and heartache, this was exactly what the doctor ordered.

We collect women, but not in a windowless white van kind of way. Meaningful connections are our jam. We lift ‘em up, dust ’em off and make ‘em laugh when life isn’t funny. Cheers to all the dames, dolls, fillies, broads, floozies, homegirls, divas, hockey hoes, milfs, yummy mommies, yogis, and badasses who have graced our lives.

We’re playing the odds that most of our husbands won’t make the 4th quarter. Our end game is to live in a “home” with our Sisters. Separate yards but on the same field. All are welcome in the locker room, but you must play cards and swear like a motherfucker. We’ll be serving wine from a bag…IV style. Lori will be mindlessly pushing Val’s wheelchair while the queen bee shouts out directions. Cut to Barbie and Skipper rolling off into the sunset!

The End

Originally published in the HER VOICE “Sisterhood” Anthology