We’re in Puerto Vallarta for a week – no job, no housework, no husbands, no kids. We feel as if we’ve been set free. Having a beer the first night we discover that the labels slide off the bottles with ease. Something to do with the heat and humidity we figure.
“Hey,” says my sister. “I could collect these labels, paste them on a bar stool, and then varnish it. What do you think?” I’m a bit jealous. She’s the artsy one. I would never have thought of that, but I’ll happily help her collect labels.
Flying home, she digs out her collection from between the pages of her journal and counts them. Fifty-three. “We drank fifty-three bottles of beer in a week?”
I chuckle at the horrified look on her face and confirm the count. “But, don’t forget. Those guys at the next table gave us their labels.”
“They only gave us two. That means we drank fifty-one bottles. Oh, my God. We’ll have to sign in at the Betty Ford clinic.”
“No!” My sister sounds a bit snappish which is unlike her, but to be fair for the last week she’s heard the same question over and over.
Are you twins? An innocuous enough query and we do look alike. Personally, it didn’t bother me at all. Why the ire on her part? Well, the fact that she’s eight years younger might have something to do with it.
“Pink diamonds!” I’ve just seen a poster in the entry of the Strand Arcade in Sydney and I’m enthralled.
We find the diamond store and I inquire about prices. They’re astronomical. Does my sister discourage me? Drag me out of the store kicking and screaming? Tell me I can’t afford it? No! She helps me pick out a diamond and assures me I’m doing the right thing.
Yes, I love my pink diamond and yes, sisters are great.