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- I clicked on your sister-city program and imagined my life. You, working, earning your $80,000 a year, me, working, earning not $80,000 a year because I'm a woman. We, in your ultra-white hometown with our fancy perfect house. I would go to Japan in the summer - oh how wonderful, we'd tell the neighbors, your colleagues, my friends at the country club. We, you and I, wouldn't speak of it at home. You would be glad to get me out of the house, perhaps freeing up some time and opportunity for your dalliances. Me, I'd shop for Christmas presents. Perhaps I'd bring home a kimono! Oh wouldn't that be wonderful for a dinner party where I tell everyone about my trip! At night I sit in the hottub and get shitfaced on wine while you sit on your leather chair in your den watching CNN and drinking scotch. This is a far cry from our younger days when - remember that night at my house? - we couldn't stop talking and laughing, despite all the kissing going on. In addition to all the kissing there was so much talking and laughing I worried we were annoying the neighborhood. Whatever happened to our CD collections? We merged them and is that when it fell apart? I don't even remember where I put all of those old albums. These days if we listen to anything it's soft jazz or classical, but no Beethoven, please no. We've decided not to have kids... the mess, who needs it? So Christmases are peaceful and quiet, especially after we pass out. The glitzy parties are "wonderful, wonderful!" we tell our friends while we bitterly and sarcastically complain to each other every night getting ready. In fact, it seems, the only talking we ever do is complaining like this. Well, at least we have that.
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