My baby brother turns 30 today.  For his birthday, I’m giving him a blog post.  I’m sure he’d be thrilled if he actually read my blog, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.  Well, I know he did once because he left a comment (on Facebook, not here *eye roll*), telling me about a typo, but that was way back in May. (The Test, if you’re interested.)  To be fair, I never talk about my brother.  Well, except that one time, when I wrote this:

I even miss my brother, the spoiled brat who never had to do any housework, who is too smart for his own good, and who, without fail, has a smart-alec remark for everything. (My Old Kentucky Home)

Is it any wonder he doesn’t read my blog?  Anyway, like any good big sister would do, I’m taking the opportunity to throw him under the bus again tell you the great things about my brother.

First, he’s wicked smart.  Seriously smart.  And, yes, he knows it.  I mean, come on, he uses the word MENSA in his email address.  Which is a nice segue into the next fact.

He’s kind of a snot.  But it’s not his fault because he was also spoiled as a child. His only job was to cut the grass and we had a riding lawnmower.  Like I said before, he has a snarky comment for everything and, I must admit, it is usually hilarious.  He reminds me of Seth Meyers, whom I happen to adore.

He’s a raging liberal.   I honestly don’t know how this happened.  Like I said, he’s smart, so where’s the disconnect?  I had hope for him until I saw the Michelle Obama magnet on his refrigerator.  What is that?  I will say that he knows how to argue politics and keep his sense of humor.  He’s not offended when I call him Comrade. Not. One. Little. Bit.  That is awesome.

He can eat whatever he wants and not gain weight. Genetics are cruel, people.  I can think about a Snicker’s bar and BAM! an extra roll of fat appears around my midsection.  This man can eat and eat and eat and not even a blip on the scale.  Why didn’t I get his metabolism?  Why?  Why? Why?

So It’s the Laughter We Will Remember

Now would be a good time to share my favorite memories of my brother.

We were on vacation with our parents a few years ago.  We were staying in a lovely cabin with an extremely clean sliding glass door leading out to the patio.  The couch, where I was sitting, happened to be in front of this crystal clear glass door.  My brother, beer in hand, was on the porch, grilling, I believe. (He’s an excellent cook, by the way.) My brother decided to come inside.  He turned and walked directly into that sparkling clear window.  SMACK!  Forehead hit the door and beer ran down it in sheets.  And I had the best seat in the house.  I giggle every time I think of it.  I’m giggling now.  It was GREAT.

Now, maybe that’s mean.  But, hello?  He EATS whatever he wants and DOES NOT gain weight.  He’s SMARTER THAN ME.  He DIDN’T have to DO DISHES.  MICHELLE OBAMA REFRIGERATOR MAGNET!!!!

My brother and I are as different as night and day but we “get” each other.

When my house burned down, he called me.  That was such an important call.  He let me make the inappropriate jokes I needed to make to cope and he laughed at them.  I knew he would.  I knew he was the only one, other than my husband, who would understand these horrible attempts at humor.

1.  I was going to do a major clean on the house this weekend.  Glad I didn’t decide to do that last weekend.

2.  At least it happened before I did the big grocery shopping.  We literally had no food in the house.  We’re going to need that grocery money now and I hate wasted food.

3.  The headline on the news is “House Fire Leaves Family of Seven Homeless.”  Wow.  I’m homeless.  Isn’t that hilarious?

4.  Well, we were thinking of moving anyway.  At least now I don’t have to pack.  I hate packing.

5.  Heck no, I didn’t give an interview to that news reporter.  Me, standing outside my burning trailer, hair a mess, no insurance, and 5 kids running around me?  Might as well paint “white trash” on my forehead.  Though it would have been awesome to use the thickest southern accent possible to say grammatically incorrect sentences and ask if anyone seen my dawg runnin’ around anywheres.

Not my best stuff, but it’s all I could come up with, considering the situation.  Point is, my brother laughed.  I love him for that.

I love that he’s a wonderful husband and father.  I love that he’s a smart butt.  I love that he asked for a cake for Christmas when he was four.  I love that he gets super excited about food and can eat approximately 50 tacos in one sitting.  I love that he bakes and makes homemade buttercream icing.  I love that he loved The Honeymooners and Dobie Gillis when he was in elementary school.  I love that my grandma had to drag him out of bed by his feet to wake him up for school.  I love that an 8 oz. coffee gives him the jitters and makes sleep impossible.  I even love that he snored like a foghorn and kept me awake when my parents forced us to share a bed in a pop-up camper for “fun” family vacations.

I just love him.  Period.

Happy Birthday, Baby Brother

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Now let’s see if he does read my blog.  If you read this, little brother, leave a comment.  In the comment section.  Not on Facebook, not in an e-mail.  Here.  We’ll be waiting.