How to Tell The Difference Between InkMom and MommyJ

My sister is a blogger, too. If you're not yet aware of MommyJ's blog, you're in for a treat. She's funny and smart, a great writer and a fantastic mom. Please be sure to check out her companion post. You won't get the full story unless you read us both!

MommyJ and I are exactly 4 years, 4 months and 4 days apart. I am older. And bossier (and whatever she says in her blog, I totally told her to say it).

When we were younger, people often asked if we were twins. This was a little galling, especially for me, the older sister. We used to spend inordinate amounts of time staring at our faces, smushed together in the hallway mirror, trying to find the so-called similarities. Feature by feature, it's all different.

But the overall impression is pretty much the same.

We live in the same stake -- and I live within the bounds of the very same ward our parents have attended since I was two years old. This causes confusion, especially for those who only know one or both of us in passing. One particular member of our stake presidency never fails to get it wrong, even when one of us is pregnant.

Some of you lucky ducks may have the distinct privilege of meeting both me and MommyJ if you happen to be at the Casual Blogger Conference this coming weekend. Just in case you're confused, I've provided a primer. Study up -- we expect you to get it right 100% of the time. Here's how:

 This is my humility picture. And also my reminder to pluck my eyebrows before we leave on Thursday.

1. InkMom has curly hair. MommyJ does not. This would make things easier . . . except I'm getting a blow-out (of the hair -- not diaper -- variety) on Wednesday, so I won't actually have curly hair for the conference. Bummer. It's really something to behold. (And waaaaay better now that I  have been de-mulleted.) But even straightened, it's bigger than MommyJ's straight hair.

2. InkMom's baby is older. Little Miscellany (almost 7 months) and Baby Ivy (6 weeks) will be attending the conference with us. This means that my baby will almost-crawl her way over to any beautifully painted toes she can find, squawking and screeching as she goes. Please forgive her if she somehow salivates on any part of your belongings or -- egad -- your toes. And be fairly warned -- we call her The Pterodactyl for a reason.

3. MommyJ is younger, as I've already said, but (hopefully) you can't tell by looking at us. Except MommyJ wears younger shoes. And, due to some overzealous plucking, I have lots of half inch-long wiry gray hairs sticking our all over my head.

4. InkMom looks like she hijacked a produce stand and hid a couple of melons in her shirt. MommyJ looks like she's smuggling cantaloupes in her pantalones. We're pretty sure our mom overdosed on Big Macs when she was pregnant with me and I am the unfortunate result of the presence of unregulated bovine growth hormone in the beef. (Ask her this weekend -- she'll be at the conference, too!)

5. InkMom uses big words in every day conversation, without a single thought for the vocabulary size of her audience. MommyJ sounds smart and incredibly capable (because she is) without being a pompous walking dictionary.

6. InkMom has an ego the size of Texas. Maybe bigger. MommyJ is a singularly nice person who is a delight to be around because somehow, everyone is worthy of her friendship.

So let's review, shall we? I'm the big sister in almost every sense of the word: bigger hair, bigger baby, bigger boobs, bigger vocabulary, bigger ego. Thank goodness she's the one with the bigger butt!

Lucky Day

Because I found 13 four-leaf clovers today. And a few with five leaves. In about 3 minutes. It's a gift.

I haven't written much lately, because I've had so much to write about. I've said that before. Someone else has said that recently, but I can't remember who. So I'm cleaning out my (figurative) closet RIGHT NOW and I'm just going to write one big, huge, messy, disconnected post of Blog Nothing. And then I will feel better and I'll be able to get on with my life. Here we go!

1. I also cleaned out my literal closet. My husband hates it when I do this. He says it creates a vacuum of space that needs to be filled. He's right. I'm going shopping on Friday. My sister loves it when I do this because she gets all of my cast-offs, if she wants them. And she does. Everybody wins. Except my cash stash.

2. Did you hear? I'm going shopping on Friday. With my sister. And my mom. And our beautiful babies. And then we (including sisters-in-law and Lucy) are going to play cards and drink Mexican Co'Cola until the cows come home. (When, exactly, is that? Does anyone know? Annette?) And all of the men in our family are camping. And we are all, every one of us, campers and shoppers alike, Very Much looking forward to this weekend. I have a vacuum to fill, after all.

3. I asked my sister the other day how she would describe me to a stranger who had to find me based on her description. I know, it's a weird question. She said, "I would tell them to look for the beautiful (she has to say that because people sometimes think we're twins) short girl in a red coat with a mass of curly dark hair." And I said, how can you leave out the boobs? She said, No one notices your boobs. I said, Are you on drugs? Because, well. They're ginormous. And now that I've had my last baby, I am going to give my back a blessed break and surgically alter my figure. I have looked forward to this since before I had children, and now that it's 6 months or so away from actually happening, I'm worried that my buxom-ness is an actual part of my identity. I know. Every day, the (Not) in "I'm (Not) Crazy Mommy" fades a little.

4. I just read this post by Heather of the EO. But before I read it, I listened to/watched her Thank You video here. And I was so happy to hear her voice. When I read blogs, I narrate them in my head. But if I have really heard your voice, I hear your voice . . . in your voice, instead of mine. And I loved it. I will forever read her blog with a Minnahsohtah voiceover. This is one of the many reasons I'm excited to go to the CBC in just THREE WEEKS. Finally, my little dramatic interpretations of what you've written will have an all new cast of voiceover actors.

5. Speaking of the CBC, I'm having some anxiety about it. In case you don't know, I'm speaking on a panel with my sister (MommyJ of Mommy Snark, in case you just thought I was her stalker -- although she's very stalk worthy. But don't. Please.), Kristina Pulsipher of Pulsipher Predilections, and Jessica Bern of Bern This. These girls are FUNNY. Me? Not so much. And so while I am a complete and total attention hog when it comes to things that, oh, I don't know, showcase my brilliance and help me feel super-smart, I do not shine in the comedy department. Unless you count unintentional physical comedy. I'm totally good at slipping on an invisible banana peel, or magically dropping something that I wasn't even holding. Anyway, our topic is Finding Your Voice. I'm still looking for mine, I think, but if you can think of anything you think would be interesting for us to cover, glance furtively the other way to make sure MotherBoard and MomBabe aren't looking and e-mail me some suggestions!

6. Speaking of sisters, I love mine. I decided the other day that I'm glad I only have one. If I had another sister, we would have to share. And someone would always be left out. And, let's be honest here people. It would be me. Critical? Check. Overbearing? Check. Controlling? Oh, yes. Know-it-all? I invented the term. Willing to change? Absolutely not. In other words, MommyJ is stuck with me by default. Yay for me!

7. I can't decide if my hair makes me look more like this guy (note the fine halo of snowboarder extraordinaire Shaun White's out-of-control frizzies that WILL NOT be controlled by any amount of leave-in conditioners, smoothing balms, control creams, or shaping waxes -- trust me, I know):

Or this guy (note the heavy, hanging-to-the-jowls, face-elongating, horse-ifying qualities of Maestro Bach's 17th century wig):

Although I'm not sure either one is really worthy of my hair worship.

Later, my friends. I will blog again before . . . Sunday, midnight, EST. Promise!

Here's how it really happened . . .

MommyJ and I are posting our own versions of this story concurrently. If you haven't already read her side, click here. And since this is about our childhood, MommyJ will henceforth be referred to as ChickyJ, and myself as InkChick.

When I was in the eleventh grade and ChickyJ in seventh, we got our first home computer that had a color screen and a non-dot matrix printer. It was great . . . way better than the green-on-black dinosaur we were used to using at home. I remember being so thrilled with myself because I used the computer to type up Advanced Biology assignments in various fonts. (Don't say it . . . I know what you're thinking. Did this girl actually have any friends?!? Yes, and some of them were even boys.)

We didn't have any fancy games, but we still managed to become obsessed with beating each other's high scores on the ones that came with the computer: Pinball, Solitaire, Minesweeper, and, best of all, Pyramid.

Do you know the game I'm talking about? All the cards are laid out in a pyramid shape, and you have to match up pairs that add up to thirteen until you clear the board. Not all of these games are solvable, but ChickyJ and I played it enough that we began to learn which ones were the easiest to complete and then race against each other's best times.

We would spend HOURS doing this -- hours of, I would argue, quality time because up to this point, ChickyJ and I had not exactly gotten along very well. I guess Mom didn't limit our play because at least we were doing something together, which was uncommon.

We whittled our times down second by second, one besting the other until, finally, I achieved what I believed to be the fastest time possible: 9 seconds. I was looking forward to serious bragging rights because, of course, you could record your name in the high scores, indelibly stored (not really . . . you could reset them) on the hard drive for all posterity to see. But rather than simply inputting my name, I decided instead to humiliate my sister, and I typed, "I love you, ChickyJ!" Or at least, I though that's what I keyed. What I actually typed was, "I loce you, ChickyJ!" I didn't notice the typo before ChickyJ who, quick as ever, hit "Enter", indelibly storing evidence of my imperfection instead of a record of my superiority.

Now that I remember all this, I wonder why I've kept saying "I loce you" all these years. It wasn't exactly my best moment, but it just sort of stuck.

That year of computer novelty appreciation was the beginning of the turning point in the relationship between InkChick and ChickyJ. She moved into my room, and we started having conversations that didn't start with, "I didn't say you could borrow that!" We began the VERY long journey of sisterly appreciation -- one that didn't fully come to fruition until years later when ChickyJ got married and we began to have something besides genetics in common.

That year, we started other strange traditions, like every time I would come home from a date or a rehearsal (oh, yes, the rehearsals) or whatever, I would lurk at the door to our room and, breathing through my teeth in my deepest James Earl Jones-esque voice, say, "Luuuuke . . . I am yohr fah-thuh"; and dramatic scripture reading that would have entertained all of you, I guarantee. We were only an orchestra short of a full on oratorio.

Now, ChickyJ is MommyJ and she is my very best friend. (Don't read this, CPod. Or InkySnark, who is our mother. No offense intended, but nothing beats a sister!) I cannot imagine my life without her friendship. On vacation last week, I didn't even talk to her once and I thought I might go through withdrawal.

So, here's to MommyJ, who I will, forever and ever, LOCE!