My sister's big guns

My oldest sister, the light-eyed blonde of the family, has legs up to her neck. She's the only one of us to ever have abs (or boobs, really), and she can make you beg for mercy in a matter of seconds, regardless of your gender. That's the power of her honed-to-perfection one-handed, joint-crushing finger-squeeze.

Hate her with me: She's a tall, slender mother-of-one enjoying the simple life in a beautiful home on an unspoiled lake in Nova Scotia with her handsome husband and lovable 14-year-old son, with whom she makes regular trips to Mexico.

When I call from my modest apartment in Montreal to tell her I'll be squatting a slice of her waterfront property soon, she laughs at me. Either she doesn't know I'm serious, or she knows she can run me off with the threat of her one-handed, joint-crushing finger-squeeze. Or, her gun. Oh yeah. Her gun.

Mrs. Leggy-Blonde-Scrapbooking-Tupperware-Momma is a dead shot. She fly-fishes, hunts wildfowl and deer (and did so while pregnant), and once pulled her own tooth because it was more convenient than driving to Halifax for emergency dental surgery. "Besides," she said, "it was the weekend and they would've overcharged". Not only does my sister know how to save a buck, she swings an axe with grace, can pluck a duck, and does Mensa puzzles for fun. If you beat her at Boggle, she'll whip up some shortbread as your reward.

Are you a well-read survivalist thinking my sister might be the perfect woman? Well, let me confirm that for you: she also brews her own beer.

There you have it. Nature clearly trumps nurture. Perhaps the only thing we share in common (aside from our love of Mexico and wanting to live on her property) is our sense of humour, which is the only reason I think I can get away with writing about her here (Hi Ninner!). That, and the fact that I still totally look up to her.