I shared a sweet photo with my sister on Facebook because I know she likes cats:
And this was her response:
Tag Archives: Alicia
How My Sister’s Brain Works
18 JunA few weeks ago, I shared how MY brain works. For contrast, here’s my sister. While I don’t have her inner-monologue to accompany this, I’m pretty that sure what you see is what you get. And if you don’t have Facebook or understand targeted ads and how inane they are: this will make no sense so you might just want to skip it. Anyway…
This sponsored ad apparently appeared on my sister’s Facebook page recently. The comment/caption at the top is from her:
When I saw it, I thought it was an astute observation: a bucket with a spigot does NOT exactly spell fun. I should’ve realized it was the first indication that she had an axe to grind with their message.
Have I mentioned that Alicia knows Photoshop? And is like a dog with a bone when something sets her off? So while the ad above is real, it prompted her to create the following spoofs, which she then posted in rapid succession:
Calling all party people, indeed. Too bad I just missed her birthday. Otherwise, I would’ve sent her a rock.
And somehow, I think she would’ve actually found it wicked sick.
The Legend of Baggy Pants.
30 May
I’ll admit: I’ve never been a Fashionista. I come by it honestly.
When Jordache jeans (with their distinctive script label) were popular in the 80s, my mom found a batch of fabric labels that used the same font to spell, “Who Gives A Shit” and stitched them on her own pants. (Or actually, maybe my dad did that – since he’s the one who taught me to sew.)
The highlight of my middle school fashion was a t-shirt featuring a jogger running past a gas station with the caption, “Passing Gas.”
And as a young professional sporting what I thought was a very chic, all-brown suit, I had my confidence shaken when one of the guys on my team (now a good friend) casually remarked that he knew it was going to be a bad day for everyone when I showed up wearing, “The Turd Suit.”
Correct. Apparently all of my fashion influences come from Uranus.
So it should come as no surprise that I still rarely nail my wardrobe. This is fresh on my mind because every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror today, I would shake my head and think, “The Legend of Bagger Vance.” Or jump and think someone had let a man from the 1920’s into the bathroom.
If you’re not familiar with Bagger Vance, I’m talking about a golf movie set way back in the early 20th century. The people in it dressed like this:
Knickers and Cardigans. What’s not to love?
Yes. Something about my outfit – knickers and an Izod shirt – looked like I should be talking tee times with a bag slung over my shoulder. So I posted something to that effect on Facebook.
And almost immediately, people wanted photos. Partly because they’re bored with their jobs, but also because everyone loves witnessing a fashion disaster. And also because my friends are kind of assholes. In a good way.
I asked one of my co-workers to snap my photo. Since Los Angeles is super-fashionable, I thought I’d start by seeking out the harshest criticism first, so I sent the photo to my friend Sharon, who works in our LA office. But she politely pointed out that golfers do not wear high heels, that my pants were capris not knickers, and that I didn’t have a golf cap on, so I needed to stop beating myself up.
I felt good for a few minutes, glowing from her endorsement of my fashion, until I trekked to the bathroom. And almost screamed to find a man in there. Then realized it was me. And then I realized that the photo I sent Sharon was deceptive: it was dimly lit and framed by an office, so it might be hard to make the Bagger Vance connection.
About this time I remembered that my sister (who loves Photoshop) was stationed Up North (which means north of Ann Arbor, Michigan) for the week, probably relaxing since she left her kids at home bored out of her mind. So I sent her the photo and asked her if she could feel the Bagger Vance vibe I was rockin’.
This is what she sent back:
I am pretty sure I might have just started a fashion revolution. FORE!
Or as I call it: Stink Eye.
12 DecLast Thursday I woke up to find my left eyelid swollen and crusted shut. Ah, Conjunctivitis – or, if we’re going with your less pretentious rap name – Pink Eye. Did you really need to pay me a visit? Besides, isn’t Pink Eye a disease that only five year olds get? From not washing their hands? Ew.
This is a head-scratcher, because (as I’ve previously stated) I’m somewhat OCD. And – thanks to my friends who spoil me – I have the world’s best-smelling hand soap so I probably have a tendency to over-wash my hands, if anything. And yet: my eye? It’s decidedly pink and goopy. I think the word for it is angry.
The last time this happened, multiple people posited a hypothesis as to the cause. So this time, when I made my announcement to the land of Facebook, I tried to head that theory off at the pass: “Nothing says happy holidays like Pink Eye. And no, Alan didn’t fart on my pillow.”
My sister – whom I’ve educated on a wide array of topics, including ceviche, dutch ovens, upper-deckers, kicking kangaroos and honeybadgers – not surprisingly, popped up in my chat window later the same day. “What’s that about Alan farting on your pillow???”
It took me a minute to respond, so added a few lines of: “???????????” to demonstrate her urgency.
Alicia tends to be gullible (as evidenced by our high school track coach getting her to swallow a huge multi-vitamin, then claiming it was a dog’s heartworm pill and writhing in laughter as she freaked out, trying to make herself vomit).
[I’m not actually sure if I got all those details right, but you get the idea. It’s at least 85% accurate.]
So for a minute, perusing all the images she’s Photoshopped to include crossed eyes on my Facebook Wall, I seriously considered telling her that yes, pink eye is commonly spread through flatulence trapped in bed sheets. Followed by calling her husband to bribe him to fart on her pillow just after she closes her eyes.
But what can I say? It’s Christmas and I have the holiday spirit, so I really couldn’t lie. So I sent her this [NSFW] link (from the movie Knocked Up) and left her to draw her own conclusions:
She has (Photoshop) skillz to pay the billz.
6 DecAnyone has been reading PithyPants for a while is familiar with my sister. She has few boundaries and a twisted sense of humor. She’s the reason I had to categorize all my work friends in Facebook and block my Wall so they couldn’t read what she posted. Because – while funny – she’s can also be a bit of an HR disaster.
Ironically, in person she’s very sweet and polite. But online? She’s a menace. Especially because she knows Photoshop.
One of her recent amusements has been to take photos from my Facebook account and Photoshop them to subtly insinuate that I’m either a) pregnant or b) have a baby. It started in the wake of my visit to Michigan in August, when I had my arms crossed in a family photo so she stuck a baby in them.
Knowing that I don’t have a single maternal bone in my body and would rather hold a kitten, this tickled her.
Since then, she’s become increasingly subtle. Here are a few examples:
Baby Bump and Cankles, brought to you by Photoshop. And Alicia.
Stop staring at me like that. You'll make my baby cry.
It's hard to even sneak a bite with this second mouth to feed!
This last week, she shifted approaches. I received a SuperStar award at my company and a number of colleagues posted messages on my Facebook Wall alluding to my SuperStar status. My sister, being both pesky and curious about it, set about congratulating me in a way that only a sibling can:
"Congratulations, SuperStar!"
Oh, I look like I won an award all right. And like I’ve left my helmet just outside the frame.
pithypants 
