Wednesday, August 26, 2009

I smile because she's my sister. I laugh because there's nothing she can do about it.

So, to continue the tradition I started like 3 weeks ago, and also because she has actually refused - refused - to let me do a speech at her party (even though we both know it would be nothing short of, um, INCREDIBLE), here is my summary of the life and times of one Catherine Trew, in honour of her birthday.
...Which is today.

As much as she’d like to deny it, Catherine Trew is my sister. Yeah, she likes to joke about the possibility that there was an accidental mix-up with me and her real sister at the hospital the day I was born, but my parents are pretty adamant that we’re related.


Well, you never know. If any tall, sporty, dark haired 19-year-olds who love sailing and never embarrass themselves in public turn up at our doorstep, we’ll know she was right.


Catherine’s full name is Catherine Elizabeth Trew. The first. She doesn’t get called that much, though. Mostly, she just gets called Catherine. Or Cat, by her friends. Or Cathy, by people who hate her. She also has a fairly sizable collection of ridiculous nicknames, most of them invented by me and/or my friends. They include (but are not limited to): Cathè, Chate, Cat Baloo, C-dog, Wee-Bag, Poo-Bag, Fart-Bag, Dick-Bag and Button. There was also a brief period where I refused to address her as anything other than ‘Bob Swarley’, but that’s a story for another day.

Catherine has lots of hobbies. Well, at least I think she does. I’m not entirely sure what they are, on account of her rule that I stay at least five feet away from her when we’re in public together.

Only kidding – its ten feet, not five.

One of Catherine’s favourite hobbies is sitting in her bedroom with her laptop and ignoring the rest of us. She also enjoys reading The Guinness Book of Records, tennis, and buying me lunch. Oh, and starting arguments. Catherine loves to argue with people, especially me. Which works out well, because I love arguing with her. Especially about stupid stuff, like:

  • Whether or not I can be her Maid of Honour
  • Which world war Gallipoli was in
  • If ears are made of bone or cartilage
  • Which one of us is the favourite daughter
  • Whether or not coffins have handles on the sides
  • Who the best James Bond actor is
  • If walking can be considered exercise or not
  • Whether or not I’m an idiot
  • Whether or not she’s an idiot
  • Who is hotter: Wentworth Miller or Michael Vartan

See? Completely stupid. Especially that last one, as everyone knows Wentworth Miller is superior to all other males on the planet.

Catherine always insists she’s winning the argument because she’s older, and therefore has more knowledge of the world. Of course this is ridiculous, since we all know the older you are, the closer you are to being senile and really having no clue about anything. So it’s pretty safe to assume that when Catherine and I are having an argument, I will win.

Sometimes I think Catherine might just be my favourite person in the world. Like when she pays for my coffee or drives me to netball. Other times, she’s just some dork who lives in the room next to me. Like when she tries to convince me to ring up telethons and donate money under the alias ‘Alotta Vagina’.

Yeah, she really did that. She can be kind of a dag when she wants to be – I guess that’s where I got it from.

For someone who can be kind of totally lame sometimes, my sister has some pretty legendary friends. Honourable mentions go out to Daniel ‘Milky Nips’ Watterson, Ali Chapman, Cecil Searle and The Alex’s (both Kerr and Brambley). If you’re one of the friends I didn’t just name, don’t feel bad – it just means you aren’t cool enough.

As far as members of the Trew family go, Catherine is fairly normal. Like, she doesn’t get attacked by exploding mailboxes and trip over random dogs on the footpath, the way some of us do. But when she gives in and temporarily allows my insanity to rub off on her, we have some pretty good times. We once made a four-tiered chocolate and vanilla mint MnM covered easter cake. We convinced our then-5-year-old neighbour to drink a combination of crushed flowers, hose water and lemonade. We invented ‘beaking’ and ‘full bushel’, concepts a little too r-rated to explain here, given that our parents will probably read this.

She taught me how to ride a bike, and plait my hair. I taught her how to paint her toenails without smudging them, and which energy drinks give you the biggest buzz.

I introduced her to The Twilight Series – She introduced me to Prison Break. I convinced her to pee on our lawn once. Well, the term ‘convinced’ might be a bit strong; she pretty much did it on her own. Her excuse was that we were locked out of the house and she hadn’t been to the toilet all day. Whatever! I think really, she just wanted to see what it would be like.

For two people who supposedly came from the same womb, Catherine and I are pretty different.

She likes blue; I like yellow. She’s a freak at geography; I don’t know how to read a street directory. She never wears high heels; I have 11 pairs. She likes sport. Oh, I like it too. I guess the difference there is that she’s actually good at sport, where as I can barely get through a 40 minute game of netball without tripping over the ball/myself/someone else. But yeah. Catherine likes sport.

Mostly sailing. Boy does she love sailing. It’s like she can’t get enough of it. Why doesn’t she just marry her boat and have swarms of human/yacht hybrid children already? I’m pretty sure she would if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t actually have her own boat at the moment. Plus it might be illegal. I’m not sure. She tried to teach me to sail once, only failing when I developed an irrational fear of 60-foot-long prehistoric sharks in the Lane Cove River, and refused to get into the boat.

That said, we’re similar in some ways. Like two peas in a terrible, terrible pod. We both like mint flavoured ice-cream and watch way too much TV. Our favourite song is Midnight Train by Journey. We love Home and Away and hate Neighbours. We have the same eyes. We would have the same nose, if mine was a little less crooked. And no offence Mum, but we both hate it when you make dinner in the crock pot.

Sometimes I think Catherine and I should have our own reality show. Imagine if we did – half the things that come out of her mouth would end up printed on t-shirts, I’m sure of it. I think it’s because half the things that come out of her mouth are insults directed at me, and for some reason, they always sound really funny:

“I wish you were more like an iPhone”

“You are so dumb it makes me angry”

“Hey Jacki – you’re adopted!”

I like being Catherine Trew’s sister.

I like that she never wears high heels and can’t hold grudges and that her scream sounds like Homer Simpson’s. I like that we have our own special language – nobody understands it when we say things like ‘foot five’, ‘BLTnChee’ or ‘steaksauce!!’, but it makes sense to us. I like that she let me name her car. I like her even though she refuses to listen to Michael Jackson or Nirvana, even though she lives to tease me, even though she hates it when I say ‘I love you!’

Yeah, I like her anyway. How can I not? She’s the Batman to my Robin. The Joey Tribbiani to my Chandler Bing. The Ben Affleck to my Matt Damon. The Lincoln Burrows to my Michael Scofield. Why are we always men? Whatever, not important.

Happy birthday Catherine. I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

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