So I'm Ferris Bueller's sister. The poor girl had a point

I just spent the loveliest weekend with a British girl named...

Um...er…eerr...

Give me a second, it’ll come back to me.

My brother Ted invited her to the U.S. for the week because he was feeling a little blue about the finality of his Christmas dump fest. He and the woman became friends years ago during his pre-college stint in Europe—which, incidentally, my parents funded, along with a welcome-home Nissan Pathfinder, rent expenses and tuition for golf school.

Know what my parents funded for me? One-third the cost of a piece of shit, rusty Subaru, circa 1972. One-third! It couldn't make it up hills!

Wait, where was I? Ah yes. Catherine. The British chick’s name was Catherine.

Ted invited her to the good ole US of A so he could get to know her better (i.e., see if he wanted to have sex with her). Why he couldn’t have met someone at a bar and come to a similar conclusion is beyond me. Then again, I'm the kind of person who settled for a Subaru with a hatchback that didn't close all the way. Of course I'd think parochially.

(Bitter? Me?)

By day four, Ted decided that no, he didn’t want to schtoop Catherine. According to him, she talked too much, and interpersonal relations were like “humping a cardboard box.” So sweet. He also decided that he didn't feel like taking her on the whirlwind tour of New England he’d promised, so he brought her to our house.

Because nothing screams “I’ve seen America” like boarding with a tired married couple, a train-on-the-brain toddler and two obese cats in Mulletville.

Poor, poor girl.

Amazingly, she made the best of it. While my brother slept



she oohed and ahhed over Junior’s Thomas the Train collection (she’s British, she loves that stupid train), watched every trash TV show she could find (Kendra, Housewives of Orange County and Jersey Shore) and asked if she could take a “proper” shower (which I learned involves washing your hair).

She also ate like a horse. In two days we ordered pizza and Chinese three times and made multiple runs to Krispy Kreme. She couldn’t get enough donuts. She ate six in one sitting. An hour later, she was torn about being too full to try the six assorted donuts left in the box, so she took a bite of each one.

The crazy part is that it all went to her boobs. All weekend she wore a tight black t-shirt with pink hearts on each breast; by the time she left, the hearts were the size of footballs. Chuck was like a giddy school girl. Even I couldn’t stop staring.

And Junior? Junior was in love.

Within five minutes of meeting her, he'd invited her up to his bedroom to see his Thomas the Train bed. By Sunday, she’d seen it 12 times and he was calling her his “big girl friend.”

I was a little sad when she left. Could she be our British nanny? Could she forgive us for the fop that is my brother? I mean, what the hell, Ted? You bring your British fling to our house, and we’d all bonk her. Can't you take one for the team?

I can’t keep going on like this. When do I get to ride in a Nissan Pathfinder?

But I'm prettier than the toilet!

When a friend of mine raved about "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" I had a nice hearty laugh. First, John Gray “Ph.D.” looks androgynous and sickly—the very antithesis of someone enjoying couplehood success. Second, I likened the book to the kind of fodder you’d find in Cosmo. You know, an article that promises a better relationship if only you, the woman, would greet your man at the door with a can of Ready Whip and your hottest friend…

You know what, though? The book is right on the money. How else to explain the great divide between the sexes than planetary dissimilitude?
Clearly we’re not speaking the same language. Clearly, Dr. Gray’s wisdom has been shuffled off the shelves and replaced with something less important, like “Beer Funneling for Dummies."

Case in point, Tuesday’s discord.

As I mentioned, Charles came home early from his Viking quest—but with organ issues. Despite the obvious pain on his face and the fact that he was hunched over, I wanted a giant bear hug from my husband and a genuine, “Oh honey, can you ever forgive me for going away?”

When I greeted him at the door I got neither. He raced past me and peed for about 45 minutes, all the while screaming in agony, then collapsed on the floor. He gave the porcelain bowl more face time.

Understandably, I was annoyed. He could hug the toilet, why couldn’t he hug me?

Bickering ensued, quite unnecessarily. I wanted a hug; he wanted one, too, but neither of us would do it first (this is what happens when two stubborn, first born children marry and one is overtired and the other has medical issues).

After giving the incident more thought and thumbing through Dr. Gray’s book, I’ve come up with the “what should have happened” scenario. Rest assured, I’ve been completely unbiased and fair.

#1 HE
Charles should have lifted himself off the bathroom floor and hugged me, even if said hug was merely an excuse to lean on me for support and whimper on my shoulder. I mean come on, if a haggard woman says she wants a hug, for fuck’s sake hug her. Do not—I repeat do not— say, “If you want a hug, all you have to do is hug me first.” That’s akin to a Pizza Hut telling a hungry person, “If you want pizza all you have to do is get in your car and drive to the restaurant.” There’s a reason someone invented delivery men. You have what we want. Just give it to us.

#2 SHE
Charles should have lifted himself off the bathroom floor and hugged me, even if said hug was merely an excuse to lean on me for support and whimper on my shoulder. After that I should have retrieved the heating pad for his side instead of throwing it down the stairs.

See how easy it is?