The Other Brother

This anonymous guy is asking for it. For those wondering about the wit behind the snarky comments, it’s my pesky oldest brother Rusty.

Now, normally I don’t hold a lot of beef with this brother, since he’s, like, sooo much older than me (dude is almost forty folks, he’s barely hanging on). We didn’t attend schools at the same time, I didn’t have teachers comparing me to him like they did with my direct predecessors, and by the time I decided to come out of my room and head out on my own adventures, he had been off on his own for a while. But I think despite our age difference we have always held a similar belief that we are the two normies flanking the unruly middle sibs and therefore must stand together by necessity.

I’d wager that a lot of our equanimity comes from an early intervention on Mom’s part. Before my self-imposed exile to the Land of My Room, I had the tendency to chatter. Frequently. And loudly. Whether or not anyone was listening. Perhaps as the youngest in a rowdy crew, I was hoping for the off chance that someone would stop their own whirlwind and hear me. Rusty heard me all right, and decided to complain to mom that, “she never shuts up!” Mom, ever the peacekeeper, asked him to try to stop and actually listen to what I was saying. So he listened, and decided I had something worthwhile to say, although somewhere along the line I suspect he stopped, probably when I became wiser and he became a conservative.

Rusty was often the ringleader of our gang when it came to fun times. Playing big rig convoy in the Buick [call signs: Rubber Duck, Desert Rose, Pigpen, Buzz Bee] “Ten Four good buddy, come on back!”; being a rock band – in concert and on the road naturally [Russ on drums, Ang on air organ, Tony and myself rocking the badminton guitars] I’m not making this up. We have this on film people.

I remember always being a bit envious about Rusty’s grand adventures. Rusty gets to stay with Grandma and Grandpa! I want to stay with Grandma and Grandpa! Rusty gets to work on the farm! I want to work on the farm! Rusty got a caterpillar tractor! I want a butterfly tractor! (funny story, I’ll share later) Rusty gets to go to college! I want to go to college!

When we visited Rusty during his stint at UC Davis, I was in awe. This is a dooorrrmmm!!! Wow! Look, there’s a guy singing into his fan, how cool! Rusty calls his friend Messy! How funny!

His friends probably thought I was a lovable doofus. Like a puppy with big paws. Aww, how cute! Look how clumsy! Okay, go away now, bye bye!

When I left home for college, and then to settle in the Northwest, I admit that I didn’t much stay in direct contact with anyone from home for several years. After all, the whole purpose of leaving was to figure out my own identity away from the herd. Mom was always the conduit. But somewhere along the line I think Russ and I decided that we did have some interesting things to say to each other and that we shared a similar outlook and sense of humor.

I recall one of the first times I felt like Rusty was talking to me less as a little sister and more as an adult sibling. We were standing in front of a store somewhere for some reason (I never promised specifics) and he was telling me about Denise and how he thought she was pretty special. I realized that he was sharing something big with me and probably said something extremely profound like, “yea, she’s cool.” And indeed she is cool.

Like that other brother of mine, Rusty has a remarkable ability to goad me into losing my cool on certain topics du jour. I won’t mention them here, but you can guess what they are. So while I do keep a wary guard up when he’s around and feeling feisty, I can usually get him to shake his head along with me in an “ain’t it the truth” sort of way at the antics of our parents, or those two madcap kids in the middle.

And while I can't confirm if Mom put him up to this or not, I have noticed that since her diagnosis I've been hearing from Rusty more often (and not just when Denise hands him the phone) just to chat and see what's going on. I know that he's listening once again, and I appreciate it. The miles never feel more great than when we're all waiting for updates or wondering what the hell dad is up to now.

Rusty and Denise have two girls, Liz and Sarah. The girls are fabulous with Colin, especially Liz. She’s always had a lot of patience with him and I always see his eyes light up when he sees her or looks at her pictures around the house. Sarah lets Colin tag along and I think when Colin gets a bit older and cagier, he will be a willing Clyde to her Bonnie in playroom hijinks.
Now, for this misguided belief Rusty holds about being Mom’s favorite. I just don’t know where that comes from. Poor guy. I think he needs some grand notion to hold on to. You need to remember that Rusty was the original experiment in the Lucchesi kid lab. The parentals just tried out various techniques on him and hoped for the best. But by the time I came around they knew what they were doing, and therefore I was a much superior child. Or so Mom tells me, but I don’t like to brag.

According to birth-order theorists, the oldest child tends to be conservative and power-oriented, while the youngest is often highly motivated to top older siblings in their accomplishments. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Wacky Wieking Weekending

For those who think we deny The Boy sugar- I give
you chocolate fondue proof. Hope you are enjoying your Memorial Day. Remember to send out thanks to those in the present and past who are serving our country on your behalf.

I’m ready for some good news.

The last week or so I’ve been getting news that is just not good. Young mothers with cancer, sick babies and babies that need to be convinced that the world isn’t quite ready for them.

I like to consider myself an optimist. Consciously or not, I try to find something good or positive in everything. But Cancer? In a young mother especially? (not to mention my own been around the block mom who is still very much needed) Not a one. Not a single. One. Good. thing can be associated with that horrendous word. And sick babies? Nope, nothing there either. And babies too eager to enter the world? Nada.

I always feel a bit awkward replying to people asking for prayers. I wish there was another way to say, “sending you good, positive thoughts,” which never sounds as good-intentioned as prayers, although they absolutely are just as strong and purposeful. I guess I could just say, “I’m praying for you/your friend/your child.” But I feel kind of false doing that since I’m not directing the mojo to any specific religious figure.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of Yoga for me is that before and after you practice, you sit quietly for a moment and generate positive energy for anything and anyone that needs it, including yourself. Always, always, always, my first thought is for my mom. And then I add in anyone who I’ve heard needs a little extra care. I’ve noticed that the more I open my heart to pump out good vibes, the more capacity I have to give it.

So maybe that’s it. That’s one good thing that can come out of these horribly sad situations. I can open my heart to hope and heal, in order to create more hope and healing. And I think that’s a wonderful thing.

Resisting the urge

Do you ever get that urge to spill your guts about something going on in your life? Even when you know you shouldn’t?

But your brain is like “Agghhh! Must share!” And your gut is like “No no no, you’ll jinx us.” And then your anxiety center kicks in and goes “Holy shit. This is big time major stuff. Stomach knots would be fun right about now.” And the logic part of your brain says, “You know, people reading this are going to think you’re pregnant.” (I’m not) And your emotional side is just sitting in the corner not sure whether to cry, puke or jump up and down. And your reasonable side is like “just wait a few more days, you’ll be able to say whatever you want then.” And your loyalty side is like “you’re a shit for wanting to do what you’re about to do.” And your other logic side gets attitude and is all, “dude, you know you need to do this, stay focused.” And your addicted side says, “Let’s go get a latte, it will calm us down. How about some chips too?” And then your two year old raids the pantry so that trumps everything else.

Stay tuned…

Let’s talk about traffic.

I’ve lived in Oregon for what, eight years? And I still don’t get it. Oregon drivers are either unfailingly polite, “Your turn!” “No, no, please go ahead!” “No, I insist, you go!” (meanwhile I’m banging my head on the steering wheel saying GOOO JUST SOMEONE GOOOO!)

Or they are rude as hell with no idea about the basics. “Um, par-done sir, but see this big semi in front of me? It’s in my way too. Getting all up on my ass and honking isn’t going to make him move faster.”

And let’s not talk about the fact that here in one of the most raintastic spots in the country, people can’t remember how to competently drive in the rain after any dry spell of more than, oh, 24 hours.

I’ve decided that if I got to choose a superpower (no, really, this is a relevant tangent, stick with me.) I would have to eschew the obvious (flying, invisibility, ability to make husband listen in a single bound…) and go with the power to bestow intelligence. And the first place I would start would be in traffic - with these following, oh so simple pearls of wisdom dropped ever so much like daisy petals among the aggravating and ignorant.

Merging: It is YOUR job to maneuver yourself into the flow of traffic. Not the other way around. I will gladly give you the go-ahead handwave to let you in, but if you can’t figure out I made a space for you after ten seconds, then you have lost your chance and I’ll close the gap.

Speed Limit: Okay, so technically this is the limit on how fast you can go on any given stretch of blacktop. But limit is so….limiting. Let’s consider this a speed minimum. You need to go at LEAST this fast to avoid a brain aneurysm in the person behind you. And when I pass you and give you the oh so effective, “what the eff is your problem?” glare, don’t pretend like you don’t know what you did. You know. You know all right. (and this has absolutely no correlation with why my son’s favorite car game is yelling ‘GOOOO!! GOOOOO!!” anytime we slow down.)

Lanes: I’m awfully possessive of my territory, and when I’m in my car, in my lane, especially when Colin’s riding shotgun, that’s MY territory. So keep your big ass out of it. I know that pesky wheel is distracting you from your latte and texting and cellphone, but let’s try a little harder to not be a swerving buttholio. Okay?

Signals: Use them.

Honking: Just don’t.

Tailgating: You cannot tailgate me. I will brake check you and go five miles an hour just to piss you off. I’ll also laugh openly at you when you give me the oh so effective, “what the eff is your problem?” glare when you pass me. I can, however, tailgate you if you fail to go the speed minimum and there is no traffic in front of you.

But only then. I promise.

Mother's Day

I wonder when Mother’s Day will become a day I want to spend WITH my kid rather than hiding upstairs wallowing in the contents of my craft closet (my chosen activity for the day)?

Oh, no worries. We had some fun family time enjoying a tasty breakfast at the Heathman Hotel. Colin and Rob presented me with a generous gift certificate to a spa (this in addition to the most beautifultastic flowers that arrived the other day).

I’ve said it recently, but I’ll say it again. I love my little guy and today I thanked him for making me a mom. Good timing too, a minute later he screamed “MIIINEEEE,” dumped over the vase on the table and water cascaded across the fine white table linen. Check, please!! Ah, the joys.

I feel the miles today. I know the rest of the family is gathered with mom at my parent's house, sitting around the pool, talking, laughing, ragging on each other, eating steak. But at least I’m secure in the knowledge that as the favored child, my visit in a few weeks (favorite grandchild in tow) will eclipse whatever the other kids presented mom with today. What? Isn’t one-upping your siblings the game of the day at your house on Mother’s Day?

Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mom’s out there! *MWAH*

Twinkle twinkle with a side o' gibberish

Here we present the Bumble in his singing glory. He must take after his dad and Oma -cause momma can't sing a lick. I'm not sure what happened at the end. Must be channeling his inner demons.

Here's why it's not a good idea to show a toddler a video of himself before you're done getting the shots you want. These little megalomaniacs can't get enough of themselves!

The Plague

We recently had visited upon us a great and gross Plague.

The Plague descended on our little bumble as he slept in the night and we awoke to...

this.

I'm not sure if this picture really does justice to The Plague (which apparently was viral rather than some dab nasty parasite picked up from a shopping cart or the floor of the rec center where the boy likes to lounge).

The Plague didn't bother Colin at all and lasted just a few days rather than the possible 4-6 weeks that the doctor gave as WCS (worst case scenario). I do have to admit, the maternal urge to hug and kiss my sick child was just a bit squemed out by the thought of contagion.

Notes to self:

When your boy asks you to “cuddle wif me” and watch the mousie movie (ratatouille), you won’t regret not starting dinner earlier.

When a kiss from mom “right dere” is the only thing to sooth a “bonkie head,” forget that you told him fifty times not to climb on that.

When your family hugs and kissy ritual makes him giggle, remember to do it more often.

If your toddler hauls a bag of rice upstairs to ask you for “yummy ice,” it might be a good idea to follow his trail and find where else he’s been carrying, and distributing, contents of said bag.

Happy Cinco d' Mayo! We actually have sun today, ariba!