32 things i love about my brother

Today my brother Billy turns 32 and my youngest niecelet, baby Grace, is 3. Though Grace's arrival was all too early, I love that her unexpected debut made them birthday buddies. I'm sure mathematically it should be little wonder when people you love share birthdays. Still, I like to think there's more to it than simple chance and probability.

When I first considered crafting this entry, I worried this list would be a tough one. Growing up, my relationship with Billy was more adversarial than affectionate. Even now, I tend to refer to him as my "other brother" simply because my youngest brother (Kevin) is so clearly my other half. Billy's birth made me the middle child - my psychological destiny - where Kevin's birth just made me a little less lonely. Billy's birth was most unsettling not because I was no longer the baby, but because I came to understand that I wasn't a boy. As he grew, I could see just how eagerly my dad had longed for this, his number one son.

Billy, because of his gender it seemed, got away with murder. His every wish was (and in many ways still is) Dad's command. I remember I first realized how much influence he had when Billy got our dad to voluntarily enter a mall (the then-new Plaza Bonita) to purchase whatever it was that Billy so needed (I think it was a baseball). Not a big deal, you might think. But this was our dad, the man once described so eloquently by my uncle as "tighter than a donkey's asshole facing uphill against the wind." And so, in the language of our family, money equals love and, in my young mind, every dollar my dad spent humoring Billy was a dollar less he loved me. Twisted, I know, but no less true.

Although my husband disagrees, I feel I've gotten over much of my first-born-penis envy. I see now that we were all over indulged, ungrateful brats and I no longer begrudge my brother for being more successfully spoiled. In fact, I now appreciate his persistence and the guile behind his tactics. Billy's dedication to his goals, though somewhat demented, was not so much a character flaw as a personal strength. I've also come to realize that my mom was right and Billy, in all his antics, really was just seeking attention and approval. While he could get whatever he wanted from our dad, Billy could never get what he wanted from his sisters. Our exclusion of him was so complete that we once made up our own board game (called "Money," funny enough) and labeled it "for ages 7 and up" (as Billy was still 6). Boys can be violent and dirty, but girls can be downright cruel.

And so imagine my delight when I found it easy to express my admiration for the boy my brother was and the man he has become. Here are 32 reasons I love my brother:

1. He made my nieces, Savannah and Madisyn, and he loves them wholly, even though they aren't boys.
   
2. He had the good fortune to marry a good woman and the good sense to feel nervous about it. I love that they eloped on New Year's 2000, making it nearly impossible to forget their anniversary.
   
3. He's super coordinated. He can ride a unicycle and juggle and, with practice, he can even ride a unicycle while juggling.
   
4. He embraced all the 80's fads, especially break dancing.
5. He once won a trophy for weight lifting. He still has ginormous forearms and I hope someday to convince him to dress as Popeye for Halloween.
   
6. He's not horribly sentimental. He doesn't hold on to relics from past relationships.
   
7. When he was learning to talk he had difficulty expressing himself and I was his sole translator. I still remember him struggling to form the "J" in my name with his incredibly unhelpful tongue. It always came out, "ya.. ya.. ya, yenni."
   
8. He runs his own business. In fact, he's always been an entrepreneur. He used to buy candy in Mexico and resell it in school.
   
9. He dreams big - too big, sometimes. He wants to add a parapet and a multi-story parking structure to his house.
   
10. He's artistic. He wants to weld a sea creature sculpture and place it surreptitiously in the bay by his home.
    
11. He's fearless. He used to dive into our swimming pool from the roof of our house. I shudder to think of the things he would try when he was away from home.
    
12. He's got quick reflexes. What helped him master video games in his youth allowed him to successfully remove his girls from a runaway truck before it crashed into a tree.
    
13. He's always been popular. I have few social graces and I'd like to think this flaw is genetic. Clearly I am wrong.
    
14. He once cut his finger tip nearly off and he waited politely outside while I fetched Mom so that he wouldn't bleed on the hardwoods.
    
15. The last time we fought he was almost 13 and I defeated him after unexpectedly punching him in the face. I love that he remembers it wrong and thinks he won.
16. He slipped off to Tijuana the morning he was supposed to meet with a military recruiter.
    
17. School was never easy for Billy and, after failing English, he found himself one class shy of graduating high school. I love that he took the class over, got a B all by himself, and earned his diploma.
    
18. He was into skateboarding and he forgave me for being upset that he bought the same board (a "hippie stick") as a friend of mine.
    
19. Much as I died of embarrassment when he'd pee in the street in front of my friends, I love that he's teaching his girls it's okay to go outside if you want to.
    
20. He didn't poop the whole time he was at 6th grade camp. That's like a week. I don't know if I'm more impressed our disgusted.
    
21. Once, on one of a million boring road trips we took together as children, he startled two unsuspecting passersby by shooting his cap gun out the crack of the van window.
    
22. He makes cool bird houses out of old license plates.
23. He's pretty honest - he'll tell you anything.
    
24. He's willing to help out. He installed a much needed water heater at Eloise's house.
    
25. He takes his trash to dump himself instead of paying to have it hauled away weekly. I thought this was because he was being cheap, but it's not. If he takes his trash to the curb weekly, you see, he has to think of it 104 times a year. If he takes it to the dump say monthly, he only has to think about it a dozen times each year. Gross, I know. And tellingly eccentric. What I love even more is that my sister also has to make trips to the dump (she uses more cat litter than the law allows). Better still, they both loaded their trucks the day before Thanksgiving only to discover, independently, that the dump was closed for the holiday. I chuckle when I imagine them hauling around household garbage and cat shit for the entire holiday weekend.
    
26. When he was young, my sister and I convinced him he was a boy-girl so he would let us put barrettes in his hair. I distinctly remember explaining, "there's boys and there's girls and then there are boy-girls..."
    
27. He's gullible. Not once, but twice, he has purchased bogus stereo equipment while waiting in line in a drive thru.
28. My sister and I, while babysitting him, once inflicted him with rug burn while dragging him upstairs to wash his mouth out with liquid soap to punish him for cussing. (Why liquid soap? Again, girls can be cruel. Why not bring the soap to him? I guess we were caught up in the moment...) I love that he not only forgives us but he counts this memory, along with the one where we insisted he strip and show us his first alleged pubic hair, among his favorites.
    
29. He once bought movie tickets for the entire family at Christmas time. I'm fairly certain we never used them and I remember my mom scolded him for not buying them through the military where they would have been cheaper. I personally was touched that he had gotten us anything at all. In fact, I'd venture to say that that unused movie ticket was the best Christmas present I've ever gotten.
    
30. He's good at chess. We don't play chess in our family so I have no idea where he even learned it.
    
31. He loves eggs. It's disgusting how many he can eat. Yet he doesn't like cake. Who doesn't like cake?
    
32. He built an entire house (without a permit, on my parents' easement) because he felt like it. For whatever reason, we call it the Devil's Whore House.
    

I still worry about Billy. I'm no longer concerned that I'll find him running around naked and peeing in front of my friends. Instead I worry that his dreams are bigger than reality. I can't imagine, being a princess and a parasite, what it really means to be self-employed and responsible for the health and well-being of three other people. It must be exhausting, overwhelming. I'm confident, though, that Billy's got the drive and the determination to get what he needs, even if he can't have everything he wants.

Happy Birthday, Brother.

about last night

Last night I was asked what kind of vegetarian I am. I had to tell the truth. The truth is I'm not a very good one.

Ordinarily I cheat only once or twice a year, celebrating my birthday and my anniversary with a juicy filet mignon. I just can't bring myself to order a plate of pasta at a steak house - which is invariably where my husband and I end up. Besides, my nearly anemic blood cells savor every morsel. I try to give them the iron they need through a daily vitamin, but apparently it's not enough to own the vitamins. You actually have to ingest them to extract their benefits.

This year, however, I feel I've crossed the line. I'm not exactly a full fledged carnivore but a vegetarian I am not. I am more a vegevore or a carnitarian. And, yes, I know the scientifically correct term is "omnivore" but that implies I eat everything and there are, believe me, plenty of things I do not eat, such as:

1. haggis (duh)

2. dog food (ok, maybe once, but it was more a dog treat than actual dog food and I'm pretty sure I didn't swallow it... [insert inappropriate eating-but-not-swallowing joke-that-I-can-no-longer-tell-now-that-my-parents-know-how-to-access-my-blog here...])

3. boogers (especially not since that poor boy who rode my bus in elementary school tragically acquired the nickname "snot box"...)

4. snails (snails are probably not tasty anyway, but I feel I owe them since I was tricked at the age of three to slaughter them, my loyal snail friends, after my mother insisted they "like salt". In case you don't believe me, I have provided actual photographic evidence of this event. I have no explanation for the suspiciously squished looking snails in the foreground, but as you can see I did offer each of them a jolly ride in my dump truck before death. And the empty case of Boone's Farm, well, that explains a lot, doesn't it?)



At any rate, this year I've had more than my fair share of celebrations. Apparently now any old barbecue ranks right up there with birthdays and anniversaries. I mean, really, every day is somebody's birthday, right?

But my beef with myself goes well beyond the beef in myself. After all, last night's delicious meal of murder was shared with the very same friend with whom I recently consumed the dreaded liquid death. He reported it was nearly a half gallon of vodka we put away that night. I'm not sure if I'm more disgusted, disappointed, or appalled? (Though my inner adolescent is just the teensiest bit proud...)

In so many ways, I'm really looking forward to the fresh new year ahead. I know new year's resolutions are generally not worth the internet they're written on, (and my new year will begin in Anaheim on my sister's terms) but I feel like I may be ready to let go of the yummy little flesh filets and the sour self pickling. If not forever, at least for good.

37 things i love about my sister

Today my only sister turns 37. Since I was unable to torture her by posting her Suzie Africa picture (which is not in my possession), I've decided to share with you this gem taken two blissfully ignorant years earlier - the year we both first joined the Girl Scouts. Notice the very groovy necklaces we made of felt, ribbon, and those puffy little balls of fiber that are so ubiquitous in arts and crafts. They were actually clever little purses, useful for carrying our dues to meetings, and the balls of fluff are arranged to resemble an owl. In the background is the swing set of the weird next door neighbor (who, for whatever reason, we called the "witch girl") where I would later tear open my thigh after catching it on a protruding screw while sliding down the slide spread eagle. My sister helped me keep the blood off my favorite yellow short shorts and told me my insides looked like pizza without the cheese on it. I came home from the hospital with a scar in the shape of a J, a prescription for antibiotics that were flavored quite convincingly like bubble gum, and an even greater conviction that there was something evil and supernatural about the girl next door. And although we have a reason to be dressed alike here in our Brownie uniforms, our mother frequently dressed us as twins. In fact, this is the very year she sent us to school in matching jumpers she'd sewn herself. This is the year we both came home with wet pants, trapped inside the jumpers whose only exit was a zipper up the back.

So to honor my sister who has been there for me through wet pants, stitches, and so much more, here are 37 reasons I love my sister:

1. She always made sure I got on the right bus in elementary school
2. She loves animals, even when it’s inconvenient or expensive
3. She’s smart, smarter than she thinks
4. She’s only addicted to Diet Coke
5. I love her eyebrows. She hates all of her hair, but I think it contrasts just right against her pale skin making her look like Snow White
6. She’s fiercely loyal
7. When she was two years old, she snuck out of the house to ask a neighbor for a cookie
8. She always tells me the truth, even when it is ugly
9. She trusts me
10. I trust her
11. She wouldn’t stick her arm up a cow’s butt, not cuz it was gross but cuz it was unnecessarily invasive
12. She always let me borrow her clothes, even when she didn’t know it
13. She was my first drinking buddy
14. She’s braver than she thinks
15. She made baby Grace
16. She made me stronger by forcing me to make phone calls for her
17. In elementary school she once dated the son of the assistant coach of the Washington Redskins
18. She’s not afraid to travel
19. She had the courage to leave her marriage instead of living a lie
20. She gives me free veterinary advice
21. She remembers birthdays and she always sends great gifts
22. She forgives me
23. She’s artsy without being fartsy
24. She helped me pick my wedding dress
25. She’s funny, though not always on purpose
26. She takes lots of pictures
27. She’s always on my side
28. She rescued Fabe, saving him from more abuse as a caged blood donor, even though she got in trouble with the police
29. Andrew Cunanon signed her yearbook
30. She suggested we wear bathing suits when our creepy boy babysitter insisted we take an unscheduled bath
31. She sometimes buys ill fitting shoes because she refuses to try on more than 3 pairs
32. She can do a back dive
33. She’s left handed
34. During conversations with her siblings, she always refers to our parents as “my parents”
35. She’s got a great laugh
36. She organized a mini extreme home makeover for an old lady who sorely needed it
37. She doesn’t rub it in that I am currently “the fat one”

Happy Birthday, Sis.

P.S. Today was also a good day for Margaret, who was freed from death's waiting room, returning home to be cared for by my Dad's sister, Mary. And I was wrong (and right) about the gender of my freshest second cuzen - Matthew Thomas Sharer was a boy.

jenni africa

I was an adult when I learned that my cuzens, upon receiving school photos from my third grade year, dubbed me "Jenni Africa." As an adult I find this label hilarious and creative, and just a bit politically incorrect. As a third grader, there was nothing funny about this photo.

Clearly I was not exactly an attractive kid - my teeth pushed out by my constant thumb sucking, my sense of style sorely lacking even for the seventies, freckles dusted generously across my pale skin making me appear permanently dirty. And lord knows my hair, if you could even classify my stringy threads as hair, did not need any help appearing pathetic. Ah, but it was, after all, the seventies and my mom had an itching to try out those new fangled home perms. Lilt was the brand name. Wilt would have been more accurate.

I don't blame Lilt and I no longer blame my mom. It was an honest mistake, failing to properly align my hair before placing it into the rollers and forcing into submission with the stinging chemicals that smelled of sour apples. And when she realized how horribly wrong her little experiment had gone, my mother immediately washed my hair - something you'd avoid doing for a couple of days if you wanted to preserve the effects of your new style. But clearly there was no saving me. My sister, "Suzie Africa," suffered a similar fate, though her heartier hair was (in my opinion, not hers) measurably less fried. While the difference seemed so significant to me, I know she was equally scarred.

I am now grateful this happened the day before picture day. Without the photo evidence, this story is only slightly funny, easily exaggerated. With the photo, it is a timeless cautionary tale, a reminder that certain projects are never "do it yourself." Some professionals are worth paying for - plumbers, electricians, auto mechanics, doctors, lawyers, hair stylists.