Life in the Corn Minion Number Four: Uliejay.

Name: Uliejay Otortipay.
Location: Banguh, Maine. (Ayuh, again.)
Occupation: Prostitute. Oh, uh, I meant, my sister.
Little Known Fact about Uliejay: She sucked her thumb until she was sixteen. And peed the bed. And cried during thunderstorms.

It was bitter cold (hell, do I even have to preface any description of Maine like that?) when my sister and I went to Mount Desert Island and her Whore of Satan capital, Bar Harbor, for some shopping and frigid beach combin'. I was on Wintah Break, and getting out to the coast was just what I needed after semester's worth of corn-living. It was a blindingly sunny day, the roads were clear of the twenty-five feet of snow, and the tide was blissfully out, all the better for scavenging. Found me two sand dollars, even. All would have gone to plan except for one thing:

We'd eaten shrimp fettucini alfredo for lunch.

We finished our misdeeds in Bah Habah and headed back towards the mainland. As we neared the landward side of the island, Uliejay became ashen. I asked her what her damage was, and she hissed at me; I took this to mean that she was fine. Just as we neared the bridges that cross the sound onto the continental US, Julie began to drive erratically.

"We need to find a bathroom", she hissed under her breath.

My blood went cold. Had it been summer, this would not have been a problem; in the winter, in that part of Maine, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is open. Gas stations close. Boarded-up restaurants bear merry little placards saying "See you in May!"

Can you hold it?, I asked. You know, till we get to Brewer and the "all year 'round" Maine?

She looked at me like I'd asked her to blow-torch a puppy. Magically, we both thought at the same time: hey! Maybe the Acadia National Park pit-stop will be open! The Trenton Bridge one!

As we pulled into the parking lot, my sister's situation had gone from "grim" to "Three Mile Island." She ran up to the door of the wee little crappers.

Locked.

Without hesitation, she lunged into the nearby woods, pushing phenomenal drifts of snow before her. I called to her, but in her madness she heard me not. There was crashing around in the brush, and then she disappeared. Then, silence. The seagulls stopped shrieking. The waves stopped crashing. The wind moved not through the pines.

Five minutes later, a tinny voice.

"Paper towwwwwwwels."

Apparently, Uliejay, who'd been a Girl Scout, was prepared at all times for the worst and had a roll of paper towels in her trunk. The trick, then, was thus: how could I get it to her and not see her cho-chah?

Well, long story short, it ended... well, it ended. I made her bury her mess "like the animals do" and I drove her home, ashy and mortified. Hell, she'd probably gone a long way to forgetting it'd ever happened. Now, dozens of people will read this and know that, two years ago, on a frosty winter's afternoon in Eastern Maine, my sister took a steaming dump on National Park property like a wild animal.

As the years have gone by and every sentence between us hasn't ended in "douchebag" or worse, I've realized that my sister is also my friend. We laugh like there's no tomorrow. And, when she doesn't resent me being home, we have a good time. As she prepares to become a teacher, I think with a smile:

God help those poor bass'ad children.

Kisses, Uliejay!

I remain, as ever,

Dom