Sigh.

Sistatime! is in Brooklyn for the first time ever, and I just got this text from her:

"Your old hood!"

Apparently, she thinks I lived on/under a rusted-out bridge for 14 1/2 years. Hmm.
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My sister generally only called for one of two reasons: to plead with me to move back home tp Virginia, or to talk to her cat.  The moving back home part was understandable since, like any Southern lady who prided herself on never having set foot in New York City, she assumed it was a degenerate cesspool of violent crime, and was genuinely surprised whenever she’d ask if I’d been mugged (or worse) and the answer was no.  Meanwhile her car had been stolen three times and her apartment broken into twice – once as she was on the phone telling me I had to get out of New York City because of the crime.

At least those pleas were based on good intentions - the talking to her cat on the phone thing was just fucking nuts.  The only way to wrap those calls up was to break down and actually talk to the cat, which I could hear being coached on what to "say" in the background.  To finally end it I’d have to shout “well okay Maggie, could you please put Sarah on the phone?” loudly enough for Sarah to hear me, at which point she’d come back on the phone bubbling on and on about how great it must be to talk to my “niece."  Hanging up would of course be followed by me murmuring "did I just talk on the phone to a fucking cat?" over and over to...nobody.