The Fantabulous Life of Miss Mary Anne

Uncle Bob was what used to be called “a confirmed bachelor.” That’s what Grandma always said. Of course, she didn’t call him Uncle Bob, she called him “The Senator.” You could hear the capital T on The.

I think that’s why Uncle Bob liked us. He was Uncle Bob and that’s how we saw him. We did not spend all of our time trying to think of how being related to the ranking member on the Really Powerful, yet Utterly Boring Senate committee could help us. We were more concerned if he had any candy in his candy bowls.

As such, when Uncle Bob died, he gave Claire his house. His 3-story, plus basement apartment Dupont brick row house. Holy Fucking Christ, it’s a sweet house. I think he was really proud of Claire for being out when he spent his entire life in the closet.

So, Claire has a sweet house and lets me live in it. She claims she needs the extra income to cover the property taxes, but I think that’s bull. Like I’m complaining though. On my salary (which isn’t bad), I would be able to maybe afford a decent one-bedroom apartment in this area.

Anyway, Claire works out of her basement. She designs and makes dresses. For drag queens (do you think someone with man-shoulders and no hips can buy something fabulous off the rack? No, no they can’t.) She also has a line of normal street-wear for transexuals. (Can’t easily buy off the rack.) She sets her own hours, only works with people she likes, and is making a small fortune. Seriously. Who knew there were so many drag queens in DC? Ok, I know half of the client base comes down from New York, but whatever.

Claire has my back, always. She’s my older sister and I’ve known that ever since she beat up Nigel Teenypecker in second grade for pushing me into a mud puddle during recess.

She’s also an insane morning person, which is nice for me, because when I stumble my lazy ass out of bed and manage to get dressed and make it down all those stairs, there is coffee already waiting for me. And sometimes a bagel. Yummy, yummy, bagel. If it’s the weekend, the girl has mimosa already made.

Today was the best though. I was madly trying to find nylons without a run in them, and of course my hair was being totally insane, and then I dripped toothpaste spittle all over my sweater and had to change again (luckily, my self-imposed work uniform consists of a neutral colored pencil skirt and sweater, so I just had to change the sweater, not the entire outfit) and on and on and on and on. You wake up, you know how mornings are, right?

Anyway, so I stumble downstairs, totally late, cursing the traffic report (Snooty Country Day is in a certain part of town with no metro station because the NIMBY residents don’t want the “element” such a thing would attract–luckily, I have a rarity in DC jobs–parking.) And, of course, IT’S RAINING.

So I’m running out the door, and Claire’s standing there, handing me my coffee, my keys, the latest issue of the Horn Book (why did I even have that at home?!) a toasted bagel AND my umbrella. It was like living in a 50s sitcom. Except, she was still in her pajamas, and at the end of the night, I’ll bring her the cocktail–I’ve developed the ability to walk out the front door, down the steps, and into the basement door with two full martini glasses.

Then, drinking my coffee (it turns out the girl went and made me a freaking latte! I must have been swearing rather loudly when getting ready) and driving into work, I remembered why I love DC in the Spring. It’s cherry blossom time, and the delicate pink against a gray sky and the wet brown brick of the houses was beautiful.

There’s nothing better than a sister.