On claiming furniture for a future date.

My mom is down in the O.C. (don't call it that) this weekend for my grandma's 83rd birthday. And also to meet her new dad: my grandma's tying the knot this fall with husband #3. It's like having Liz Taylor as your grandma. Or J. Lo.

Also in town for this occasion are my mom's three sisters. Altogether, this is one big bunch of crazy, in the way that only your own genetics can be. I imagine it's a lot of talking around certain topics; spending time with the blushing bride-to-be while slowly realizing that there are no such things as 83-year-old brides, only older 18-year-old brides; and secretly taping your name onto the back of furniture you'd like to see become yours when the time comes (my mom's been doing this for years, but sometimes she just quietly palms little things here and there; it's a victimless crime). A fight breaks out whenever one of these taped names is discovered, and I'd be willing to bet that more than one piece of furniture has serepitiously had the name on back changed.

My mom was not exactly looking forward to this weekend. What is it about sisters that incites such a mixture of dread and potential hilarity? I have two of my own, of course, so I have my suspicions. These are the people I used to have to sleep in between in the king-size bed at my San Diego grandparents' house, and they would literally fight over me--waking the whole house--and then roll over and take the pillows with them. I was left in the middle without a pillow (my brother, being the only boy, was always stuck on the couch in the living room).

The problem with and blessing of sisters is that they know you too well. They know the soft parts that hurt, they know how to pinch those spots just so, they know how to protect them from other people. There's a lot of power there. And not always used for good and not evil. It's a dynamic that never goes away, I think. In fact, I'm fairly positive there is furniture at my parents' house that already has a name taped to the back.