We were in Wyoming a last weeks ago, and I was picking up a sandwich for the two of us at Subway. We usually get a footlong and share it, and I was making the order while Pet went to pick up some bottled water. Even though we’re remarkable similar in our food choices, this sandwich (tuna) required many specifics. Cheese on my side, none on hers, and sure, I’ll try the mustard. Our Sandwich Picasso remarks “So, she’s the picky sister.”
This is a common thing. We’re confused for sisters, twins, cousins, and worse yet, mother and daughter, at least twice a week. Usually someone asks us “Are you two sisters?” but it’s rare for someone to actually state that we’re sisters. And really, we don’t look like we should be related. Similar, yes, but not related.
There was a guy once, in Denver, who decided he’d needle us a bit. He started out by telling us the following joke:
Why do women make bad drivers?
Because when you give them a load, it takes them 9 months to deliver.
I hate that joke. I didn’t laugh, and he realized that neither Pet nor I were amused, so his laughter trailed off. To cover the awkward silence, he asks “Are you two sisters?”
In a Joe Dirt sort of way, sure, we are.