I Am Bitchface

My sister gave me a nickname when we were young. Bitchface. Yep, that’s me I am bitchface. My younger sister who was always funnier, prettier, blonder and more self assured than me could always get the best of me.

It’s ok, I have always been bigger than her. When she was beating me at “The Mental Olympics”, I would just turn around and punch her, game over, I win.

The best of times were when our collective evil was beamed on others, but alas, being sisters it was more often than not, directed at each other.

There was always some sort of prank being pulled, or sometimes we were just plain mean to each other. Like the time I ditched Mass, I waited till my sister exited the church and asked her who the priest was and what the Homily (the sermon the priest gives) was about. I picked up my bulletin from the back of the church, this was my ticket stub to prove I was actually there, it was my vallidation. I drove home.

So there I sat at the dinner table, not only telling my parents the unsolicited information about the Mass, but embellishing the details. The oh-so-flowery details of how much I loved this particular priest and how wonderful his sermon was.

My dad was hanging on every word. He was nodding his head in what I was certain was absolute agreement because as I found out, he’d been at that Mass too. Oh man, I was doing good. He was really interested in what I was saying.

I couldn’t quite understand the smirk on his face, but eh, whatever, if you’re good, you’re good right?

Did I forget  to mention my sister lied to me about everything? About who the priest was and what the sermon was about?  My parents let me dig and dig and then went in for the kill. Yep, that was a fun night.

Oh and I’m bitchface? She’s lucky she lives clear across the country because remembering this makes me want to punch her.