I find the story of my blond sister getting stopped WITH my radar detector rather amusing. She however, does not agree with my belief that number of times over the funny story equals even funnier fodder.

I pointed out that she had many and embarassing story on me. She did not agree. When asked WHAT exactly these embarassing stories were, I drew a sudden blank. So she the suggested she could tell the story of tattooing my butt.

I informed her if she could bring herself to tell it. Be my guest.

The story harkens back to the days of sister torture. They would make me drink glasses of lemon juice under the threat of beating me in the head if I did not. Maybe the threat was pulling my hair, I can't exactly remember. But I distinctly remember cowering in the corner behind the rocking chair, chugging bottled lemon juice, much to their delight and glee. (That was for the benefit of those who thinks my sisters are nice, kind people who would not hurt anyone.) They also told on me when I kissed boys in Sunday School. (TATTLE TAILS!)

The paticular story that Joy wanted to share, even though sharing the make-out stories of me as a three year old proves far more embarassing, was the time they concoted the bright idea to use the return address stamp to brand my tender pink buttocks. Kicking and screaming, arms and legs flailing, they pinned me down. With shrieks of glee my tender rosy little butt cheeks were unveiled for the world to see. The huge, big, ugly world of Laura and Joy. And then, my pure little Porkchop flanks branded with: For Deposit Only of Georgetown House


I sobbed pitifully. They laughed unmercifully. As you can tell, I was scarred for life.

The next time my mother scrubbed me in the tub, she was horrified. Pure little flanks! Now marred! And somehow, it was ALL MY FAULT. As if I would brand my own buttocks.




So there you have it. Joy and Laura's debut as my tormenters. And to think she was going to tell it to embarass me.