Guess who's back. Back again. Shindy's back. Tell a friend.

After traveling all over the world (Africa, Armania, Japan [where her name was Shindy, not Cindy] all over Europe [and I mean all over], and spending three precious years in Boulder, CO) my sister has decided to come full circle and move back to Montana. Get this, she's even living in the SAME small house that my MOM and DAD lived in when they lived in Billings as a young married couple. (As if we didn't have ENOUGH oddities in our family...we're not even going to GO there...)She too, drug her unknowing and innocent significant other with her. Thus, both my sister and I are now back in MT with our poor, poor boyfriends. (I mean honestly, what did they ever do to US?)

Great minds think alike, hence, a trip to the DIVE to celebrate this reunion. What better way to celebrate our sibling "same state status" than by going back...and by back, I mean WAY back...to our roots? Shucks, we even brought our cousins and parents along.

Yes, it was a weekend of 4-H burgers, Catholic booth french fries, Lutheran booth pie, and beer booth beer. Oh. And Firehouse. Yes. The 80's band. Don't remember them? Well, then you didn't have older siblings in the early EARLY nineties, my friend. Perhaps THIS will refresh your memory...or maybe THIS.

Ah yes, the Schultz/Wilondek clan is back together, and, just like Firehouse, our hair isn't NEAR as big as it used to be, but we can still rock. Oh, and we got rides home from the police (no worries, the were just being darn good samaritans). Just good, old fashioned Montana fun.


Bozeman Debauchery

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of attending what will undoubtedly become on annual event. And, as my friend Lauren said, this particular 24 hours of my life cannot be explained with "you had to be there" stories - I imagine that would be like describing WoodStock as a "neat concert."

Let me just put it this way: If and when (God help us) in thirty years, any of the four of us have a daughter...and if, (God forbid) they ask us what we were like when we were their age...I presume that we will look back upon this very weekend, cock our head to one side, as if searching for some reasonably modest answer, and (God willing) respond with something along the lines of "JUST LIKE YOU."

How do I know this? I disclosed all of the pictures my friend Lauren took throughout the evening to MY mother. And, although it would be innappropriate for me to post all of them here on this blog, here's what she had to say reference to what she saw:

The slideshow is proof if I ever needed it why I will never again party with my daughter and her friends.
Were you all as sick as you should have been?
And I think someone must have shared those photos with Dooce and so because of you guys, Heather Armstrong is starting a 21 day cleanse. AND she wants to become a better citizen of the EARTH.........all because of your debauchery.
I hope you are proud.

At the evening's start...here's what our bottom (and better) half looks like...

And, at the evening's close...here's what was going on up top. Not my most flattering shot. Frankly, I don't know HOW I made my face DO that.

Hard to believe they're sisters...I mean, they look NOTHING alike.

Ahhh...it's not Bozeman without a stop at the....

The well behaved women of the hour...

Jill and I pointing to a completely RANDOM person's fake ID that was taken away from her a LONG time ago. ODD, she LOOKed JUST LIKE me..but her name was AMANDA, and she was from PORTLAND, and she liked drinks called "SEX ON THE BEACH," not Argentinian Malbec.


It might be impossible to not giggle while watching this. Go on. Try it. I dare you.

Note especially, around 51 seconds and a 1:14. IT's worth it. I promise.

jump shots

That's what i prefer to call them, much to jill's chagrin, as apparently they are called jump "pictures." The play on words seems...brilliantly elementary, watson.

Either way, she's more of an expert. They normally happen AFTER multiple types of beverages are consumed. I live in a condo unit. My poor, poor lutheran neighbors. And they STILL made it to church the next morning...to pray for our ridiculous, drunken souls.

p.s. we are in our pajamas. that's a racey as it gets after you hit 27.


Upon driving in the car with my sister...

My sister and I. We're complete opposites.

Leaving town one summer a few years back, we decided to stop for a coffee before hitting the lonesome highway back to our home town of GLendive. I bellied up to the counter while my sister stood back inquisitively looking over the menu posted above.
ME: "Tall double carmel mocha please."
HER: "Skinny or whole?" asked the barista.
ME: "Whole."
HER: "Whip or no whip?"
ME: "Whip. Definitely whip," I replied.

She smiled, plugged my order into the computer and glanced up at my sister, who offered an even warmer smile as she politely listed off her order.

CINDY: "I'll take a short, 1/2 shot (I swear she said decaf) vanilla latte please."
HER: "Skinny or whole?"
CINDY: "Skinny, please."
HER: "Whip or no whip?"
CINDY: "No whip. Thanks."

I slowly turned my head, eyeing her with eyebrows that spoke, "WHY BOTHER?" She smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she said, "I know. Shut it."

SHe's short, I'm tall. She's brunette, I'm blonde (or at least, I used to be). She's smart, I'm, well, not dumb.

Despite our differences, however, we tend to agree on a few things. Upon driving in the car with my sister a few weeks ago, this discussion came up:

Cindy: "What is one supposed to call one's "significant other" once one has passed the age of, say, 26? Do you call him your 'boyfriend?'" (I'm 26, she's....older, barely.)

Me: "No. Too junior high. How about your partner?"

Cindy: "No. That could, for some, solidify that thing that they've always suspected. God knows we can't add to the confusion. Roommate?"

Me: "No. Too 'unattached' sounding. Too 'three's company'."

Cindy: How about "significant other?"

Me: "Too formal. Way too formal. How about siggy?"

Cindy: "Nope, sounds too much like a bad habit."

Me: "Good point."

Cindy: "Yes, it is. I think that's what we should call them."

Me: "Yes. Yes you're right. We shall call them our siggies, and they shall be our siggies."

Cindy: "And so it was decided."

Me: "Should we stop for coffee in Miles?"

Cindy: "Yes. I'll have you know I've graduated to drinking Americanos."

Me: "That's what I drink! With or without cream?"

Cindy: "With."

Me: "Can't win em' all."


Only in Alaska

This past weekend, I got to be an Alaskan. Again. This time, for three days, not three years. However, I think I packed more Alaskan into my three days than I could have ever hoped to do in my three years. To help commemorate my experience with the Fur Rendezvous Festival, I've compose a short poem:

Ode to Alaska

Only in Alaska can you dress up like a star,
and be accepted, nay, celebrated,
with free drinks at F Street bar.

Only in Alaska, can you see the ferris wheel,
drawing crowds in zero degree weather,
and still think, "what's the big deal?"

Only in Alaska can you see Rocky's brother,
enjoying a glass of chardonnay wine,
as much as, say, your mother.

Only in Alaska, can my friends get big brown drunk,
and dance around in his lava lava,
to the beat of the white man funk.

Only in Alaska can you see greg, whit, et al,
dress up, get drunk, win a plaque and dance,
at the miner's and trapper's ball.

You better believe it bitches. Next year I'm writing a song, so you better start thinking of some damn good inspirational moments.

Though truly, I don't think it can get any better than Frank Stallone and chardonnay.


The Bald Couple

Two thirds of the most important men in my life are about to be bald.

In the year 2008, over 15,500 American's will hear the words, "You have esophogeal cancer." Just under 14,000 of those people will die from the disease. We live our lives certain that we are born with an internal ammunition to keep killers like cancer away from ourselves and those we so dearly love. We lock our immune system up with vitamins and we prepare our bodies for battle by running and sweating, and eating brussel sprouts - not because we ever think that we've go to war with cancer, but because we know that by doing so, we will intimidate the beast enough to hide from us,and loom instead, in the shadows of others.

My dad is a shining example of just such a healthy soldier - cautious and wise in his lifestyle, his biggest crime has been tying one on every now and then, an act that I am convinced has kept him young at heart. Yet, despite his effort to scare the enemy away, he has been sent off to battle one of the cruelest cancer enemies: esophogeal cancer.

And now, I watch him sit at the table, eating dinner slowly - his chemo bag hanging gently against his hip, and I think, "How the hell did this happen? How in God's name could this be happening?" He looks at me and smiles as my big, brown, and voluntarily bald boyfriend says, "I can help you shave your head, Jim. I've had practice."

Never in my life would I have imagined that my boyfriend and my father would be together, in the bathroom, shaving their heads.

Never in my life would I have imagined tucking my father into bed in the room next to me, promising him that things will look brighter in the morning.

Never in my life would I have imagined telling my dad that he can't leave the table until his plate is clean.

I guess never's day has come.

In the year 2008, over 15,500 American's will hear the words, "You have esophogeal cancer." Just under 14,000 of those people will die from the disease.

My dad will never be one of them.
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