Baby sis signed up for the crop. Curt angry hair. Blasting with the boy scout doo. The coif that signals the Missouri male to heed the "not interested in cock anymore" plumage. She did donate the locks to chemo kids. Nearly had dishwater blonde hair down to her tailbone. Actully, I think this is the third time she has let others harvest her folicles for charitable endeavors.

Wrinkles. Bottom eyelids all crinkly. I know I've cracked a few crow's feet out the sides. Squinting most of your natural life will do that. Little sis has the rice patties under the orbs going on. Wonder what caused it, besides aging. She is younger than me, by only a year and a half granted, but she ain't all that codgery yet.

Called the jobby job the night before, midclean, to anounce that I was not coming in for just the half shift. No shift. Nyet shiftofsky. Completed an impressive amount of apartment polish.

Not ten minutes into walking past the guardian goblins that protect my portal, Sis and Hubby were prodding for grub. I ask if they absolutely have hearts set on the much talked about beforehand, anxiously rubbing their hands together, making plans from west of the Mississippi, 2nd Avenue Deli. Fuck it, not about to apologise for this one coming up here. The food is the bomb diggity, but that place is far too much of an interloper magnet in cramped quarters for my comfort. Too many fucking tourists. I will always do whatever I can to avoid contributing to a tourism effort. So, fuck 2nd Avenue Deli with a pastrami on rye.

Steered the crew to the shores of Veselka.

Hubby had never been there. Back in the NYU spanky era, I was eating at Veselka three or four times a week. Affectionately priced Ukranian cuisine in a humble setting. Again, like anything in the Gotham universe, the only thing you can depend on is constant change. Veselka changed. Improved and expanded. Applied some rouge to the pallid walls. Cranked the cost engine. Food has wonderfully remained mouthgasmic.

Borscht. Brew of vigor. Replenisher of slavic minerals leeched from my skeleton. Borscht is a healing love stew for me. Some may be curling their lips right now. That's a shame for those with curled lips.

Herd the fed ones back to the crib. Throw the remote at them and present them with the couch. Pair of food comas to be monitored for a few hours.

Decide to take them bowling before dinner. Bowlmor Lanes. The cocktail waitresses are honey fine, bartenders too. Usually necessary to willow bend. Ease and creak your boughs, to share the wood platform with social tankards. Hubby got downright huffy about our nextdoor bowling neighbor's lane decorum. No right of way respected to his liking.

Dude, be metro. Chill.

I made a joke about Hubby being a "pin primadonna" to Sis. She giggled and slugged my shoulder. She drained a couple Fuzzy Navels. Again, sarcastic jokes had to be unleashed. I started doing my Cheech Marin, "fuzzy pussy", imitation. The previously mentioned lane sinners thought it was funny.

Again the baby bird beaks were shaking open, demanding sustenance. Casual stroll back to First Avenue and possibly my favorite Italian eatery, Three Of Cups. Admonishments from Sis about how dinner was on them, and I wouldn't be grabbing checks like at Veselka. No argument.

Drained a few glasses of Pinot Grigio, my favorite white. Drooling over descriptions of bass and monk fish. Sparked a decent conversation on my changing eating habits. Back during brat days, I wouldn't eat fish. Shellfish sure. The scaly stuff, no fucking way. Also wouldn't touch raw tomatos. As far as I was concerned, tomatos were in a fetal stage of development till they matured under flame. Didn't quite like grapefruit or brussel sprouts either, but I swallowed em in toleration. Just decided about six years ago that too many foods existed that I wasn't allowed to eat because of allergies or just pure bad effects on my bod. Wouldn't limit myself due to some childhood palate predjudice. Started eating fish and raw tomatos after that. Grapefruit and brussel sprouts too. Now I love em all.

Poured the dynamic duo into my hideaway bed. Explained lock proceedures and bathroom configuration specs. Doused the light and hit the sheets.

Snuck around the couch bed in the morning, trying not to wake them up. No extended fond farewell. Brother man gotta go to work. They dropped the keys off in the lobby later that afternoon. Swatted em both on the tush and wished them luck with travel northwards. On their way to a bat mitzvah weekend shindig Upstate for Hubby's cousin's kid. Desperately thankful I hadn't ameliorated myself abundantly to the inlaws. Fuck, they know another family oddity when they see one. Complete bonus for being a freak. Don't get invited to hellish crapfests like bar mitzvah's from relations connected by marriage.

Schwazah-zoooom!