As the Summer of Love was building to a climax on the other side of the country forty years ago, my twin sister Kristina and I took our first breaths.
We were born to a pair of counter-cultural lesbians . . . well, not really. The women in the picture are my cousin and aunt. Like every good Cajun family, mine produced a convent's worth of nuns in the last century. Fortunately, my parents were able to snatch us away before there was any permanent damage.
I'm the one with the open mouth, by the way. Here's we are in 2006 just before I left New Orleans to become a Californian. It's hard to believe we're twins. I take after my dad's Portuguese side of the family. Kristina takes after my mom's German side. We've got Cajun mixed in on both sides.
She's the accountant, I'm the journalist. She's the homebody, I'm the explorer. She's the suburbanite, I'm the city dweller. She's got kids, I've got a passport. She's a born-again Baptist, I'm gay.
Still, there's an undeniable bond between us. But it's not some sort of freaky psychic thing like you read about in tabloid papers -- I don't feel a pain in my foot when she stubs her toe.
I celebrated my four decades on the planet Friday night by losing $30 playing poker with some co-workers.
We had champagne and an amazing chocolate-overdose cake nearly identical to the one we had at the office a few hours earlier.
Both cakes came from Extraordinary Desserts, the San Diego shop where this happened in December.
Despite my lamentable poker losses, most of which went into the pocket of my co-workers' 13-year-old daughter, the night wasn't a total bust.
Jen gave me this sweet rookie player card for New Orleans Saints superstar Reggie Bush. With any luck, I'll be able to sell it in 25 years and fund my retirement.
Rex and I are spending the weekend exploring the Salton Sea, a freaky pool of toxic death in the desert east of San Diego. I'll report here on our findings.