Saturday, April 23, 2005


Happy Birthday, Baby

Everyone needs someone in their life who they admire without reservation. Someone on whom they can always rely. Someone who has inspired them to believe in themselves, and to reach for their goals, and who accepts and supports them no matter how much of a fucking trainwreck they make of their life.

I am fortunate in having such a person in my life. My brother.

This is a little late. His birthday was actually on the 20th but I was going on about making a porn movie that day, and didn't even mention him. Which is sort of appropriate for our relationship, really, and at least I remembered to call him, which is better than I've done some years. I'm a twat.

I'm quite a bit older than he is, a fact of which he delights in reminding me. For three months of the year I'm six years older. He always points this out. He is a bitch. It is now five years for the next nine months. Deal, baby.

My mother lost two children before me and when she got pregnant with me, she assumed it would be more of the same. Apparently I had different plans.

The women in my family don't tend to be terribly fecund, so my parents expected that I would be an only and treated me as such. Imagine my horror when, after being The Princess and Heir to Both Dollars, she had the poor taste to produce another child. To wit: The Son.

I was determined to hate him, and managed to do so until the day he came home from hospital. My mother plopped him in my arms, said "this is your baby, you have to help take care of him". From that moment on I was utterly captivated. A real live doll that I could feed and dress.

I apologize now for the princess costume.

I still remember saying "Honestly, Mother, someone has to Teach That Child to Read". He was four and not reading yet! I was offended. And so I made up flash cards and books and who the fuck knows what a demented nine year old can come up with? Anyhow, it took, and he hasn't stopped since.

I remember when he had fish, and they all died. It was too cold for the goldfish, so we had a small ceremony. And then another. Then he got a tank with a heater, but the pump and filter assembly had holes that were too large. We had several small ceremonies. We fixed the holes and then the power went out and again with the several small porcelain-side funerals. I don't know when he finally realized that our family just isn't meant to have fish.

I left home when he was 13 and was gone for several years. I missed a bunch of the teenage angst and that's likely a good thing.

We've both had some terribly tough times. I took him in when he couldn't stand my parents any longer. He took me in when I was homeless.

He bought me good jewelry. I taught him how to walk in heels.

Throughout all of the *mumble*eight years, I don't think we've ever had a major fight, although it's been a little rough at times, like when I spoke German and he didn't and I would tell him he was a Kleiderschrank or a Fussboden and he would tell on me to our parents. I think he learned German in self-defense and is to this day far closer to fluent than am I.

Through all of the "interesting" times we've had, he's been a constant in my life. I don't think I have ever once thought that anything I could do would make him stop loving me.

The reverse is also true.

And so, baby, a couple of days late, happy birthday. I don't think I tell you often enough, or maybe ever, how much you mean to me.

Happy birthday, Scheisskopf. *g*

That's so sweet. What a great birthday tribute :)
Thanks for sharing your great brother story. I feel I need to tell you my favorite episode with my brother. He was 17, I was 7.

Like every boy in 1978, he had a blue Chevy Nova with an 8-track player. He was driving me home from the grocery store. It must've been late winter, because I was wearing one of those klunky velvet coats with the pyschedelic ribbon down the front. I mention this because it probably saved my life.

Neither my brother nor I wore seat belts... I liked to sit in the middle of the seat and steer as he worked the gas. If he went to fast, I'd just let go and he'd eventually have to steer by himself... I returned to the far end of the seat bench. I didn't know it, but I hadn't closed that heavy Chevy door hard enough. It wasn't fully latched.

My brother made a sharp left curve, and I flew out the passenger door. Somehow, that velvet hood cushioned my fall as I rolled for maybe 20 feet.

My brother kept driving. I don't think he realized I was gone... Eventually he stopped the car, jumped out and ran to check on me. Besides a large goose-egg on my head, I was fine.

He knelt in front of me and said, "Kelly, if you tell Mom about this, she's going to be really mad at you."

Somehow I believed him. My mother didn't find out about that day until I was 25 years old.
awww * wipes tear* * hugs*
Gott in are too funny!
My German is a little rusty but these "terms" I could decipher...must go change the undies now...pissed myself laughing.
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