The Sister Collective

Most days, I am not a pink puffy heart kind of a person. Not that I wouldn't like to be; it's just not me.

But my sister, Ali? With her unnatural affinity for refined sugar and all things Hello Kitty, she is the very definition of pink puffy hearts.

But there are other things we share. Like an obsession with George Michael (most favoritest: Wham! Rap). And avocadoes. And jeans from, I kid you not, The Buckle. And any food containing soy sauce, sesame oil, ginger, and green onions. "Cooks Illustrated" magazine. Fiestaware. Turtleneck sweaters. Anything from Aveda. Cribbage. Twizzlers. Southern Comfort Old-Fashioneds (God, they're good). Knitting. Football. Cheap flip-flops.

We dress identically without planning it. Our children confuse us for each other. We lie to our husbands about how much time we talk to each other on the phone. We dream about living next door to each other. (Only because we don't think our husbands would consent to actually sharing a house.)

I could go on, but I don't want to overwhelm anyone with our coolness.

For her, I abandoned my husband and children for four entire days (okay, that kind of needed to happen). For her, I flew to The Great White North. In January. For her, I am freezing my arse off this week.

I totally pink puffy heart my sister.