The Sister Daughters of Damascus

The sister daughters of Damascus sure were styling, no mistaking it. We were styling so hard that “styling” actually had a “g” on the end.

I’ve been sorting and scanning old photos. I’ve probably already talked about this four-billion-hour project in this blog, but apparently I can’t be bothered to check. Lucky you.

Anyhow, I’m giving hundreds of photos to my sisters, and when our friend Lynda saw them she said, “Look, it’s the Sister Wives!”

“Burn those pictures,” my sister Heather said.

“Let’s throw them out,” my sister Michele said helpfully, scooping up pics by the handful.

Hey now. Everybody take a deep breath. Put the pictures down. Don’t hate on the family history. We were the Sister Daughters of Damascus (I’m talking about the Damascus in Maryland — the one with slightly fewer insurgents and uprisings than the one in Syria). Setting fire to the pictures won’t change that.

Anyway, dude, we were styling. There’s no mistaking it. We were styling so hard that styling actually had a “g” on the end. I wore that navy blue dress with red flowers to work, to formal functions, and out on the town. That’s a triple-duty dress, y’all. You only wish you had a dress that versatile.

And that same navy blue dress with red flowers? Well, I safety pinned it along both sides because it was so ill-fitting. This careful pinning transformed the dress into the masterpiece you see here. That’s called tailoring, people. (“Is your dress held together by pins,” a Pentagon coworker once asked me. Um …) Michele and Heather wore dresses that tied in the back, but not me. Not with my mad mending skills.

We were totally pimping the prairie look. (Again, “pimping” with a “g.”) The Sister Wives got nothing on the Sister Daughters of Damascus.