Jennie Smash

My sister is home. Meg, or Mrs. Piddlington, as I call her, for no reason that anyone can figure out, is three-and-a-half years younger than I am and about ten years more mature. Oh no, you say, surely not. You are merely young at heart. Effusive. Exuberant. Many other words beginning with “e” and meaning “fun.”

But I assure you, it’s true. I am about twelve years old at heart. And being around my little sister makes me worse. For some reason, whenever we hang out, I start acting like one of those retarded brothers played by Casey Affleck and Scott Caan in “Ocean’s Eleven.” (Also, “Twelve.”)

My favorite thing to do right now is to wait until Mrs. P says something, for example, “Your pants are falling down,” and then say, “YOUR pants are falling down,” whether or not it’s true.

Here are a few more examples of this sort of thing in action:

“It’s cold out.”

“YOU’RE cold out.”

“Let go get chocolate beer.”

“YOU’RE a chocolate beer.”

“You’re annoying me.”

“YOU’RE annoying you.”

And so on.

The best example of this so far happened today when Meg and I were watching one of those forensic detective crime shows on cable at my Mom’s house. (My poor Mom. It’s like she’s running a hotel this week.) Anyway, this particular show was about a hobo who killed people in the trainyards where he was doing his hoboing. At one point, the announcer said, “Behind a trash barrel, they found the corpse of a 39-year-old drifter.” And I said to Mrs. P, “YOU’re the corpse of a 39-year-old drifter.” And she said, “Okay, STOP.”