Friday, October 23, 2009

Family Affair

posted Thu, 21 Oct 2004

My brother, who has read this site only twice (that is two times, yes, one, two) emailed me to ask, “Ok this update. I was just reviewing your blog with my friend Gregg (yes, another Greg). We searched for Greg and Brother to little avail. Gregg doesn't understand why there is no dirt on me.”

Well, if he – my brother Greg who has read this site only twice – would actually read the blog instead of just searching on a few terms, he would see that I have referred to him many times. But as he has only been to the site twice, I guess he wouldn’t have seen those many references.

At least he has been to the site. My sister Jenny, with whom all of you dear readers are well acquainted, has never been here. Never.

My mother reads the site every day. My cousin Suzanne, whom I have never met (she is actually the daughter of my mother’s cousin, so this is not as weird as it sounds), reads the site almost every day.

But my own brother and sister are not avid readers. If they had blogs, I would read them every day. Maybe even more than once a day. But I am just a better sibling, I guess. It’s always been that way.

Greg wants to know why I don’t write about him. So I will tell you about my brother.

Greg is 39 years old. He will be 40 in four weeks. He is 13 months younger than I. That’s why I am the way I am, my mother hypothesized once. The way I am? I asked. Oh, you know – that you probably didn’t get enough attention as a baby.

My mother was barely 20 when she had me. She had horrible morning sickness her entire pregnancy, then got pregnant again right away with my brother and had morning sickness with him. She was living far from home and family and friends and all of a sudden found herself with two little babies with no one to help her.

I would have felt like crap, too.

A few years ago, my brother (who has only read this site twice) and sister (who has never read this site) were visiting me. Greg announced, with horror, “Do you realize that mom and dad had been married only eight and a half months when you were born?” (meaning me).

Jenny and I shrugged. “So?”

He sputtered. “Well, you know what that means!”

“What?”

His face turned red. “You know! That mom was pregnant before they got married!”

“Big deal.” Jenny and I both returned to our books.

“But – but – that means they had to get married!”

My brother was quite upset about this. Jenny and I had to explain to him that full-blown weddings with dresses, bridesmaids, and churches are usually not thrown together in two weeks. And then we reminded him that dad had proposed to mom in June – they had married in February – at the Tombstone Tavern after their third date.

“Well, then,” he said darkly, “that still means they – you know – did it before they were married.”

My sister, a neo-natal nurse practitioner, put down her book. “First of all, no it doesn’t. Gestation times aren’t precise. Second, even if they did, so what? Why do you care? It’s none of your business. Sheesh.”

Greg is an architect. He has his own business in Austin that is doing quite well. He just bought a house and is very excited about it. He is going to have his interior design friends help him decorate. I am curious to see photos. Greg is very creative and artistic – he can make the house gorgeous if he wants. It will be interesting to see if he is different as an owner than as a renter.

He is single, never married, although he has had some nice girlfriends. He has also had some not so nice girlfriends. OK, some sleazy ones. He is smart and funny and always thinks of the best presents to get people. He can be a bit of a grouch. In recent years, he seems to have made an effort to improve, although he has backslid some. But then, don’t we all? If you know any nice single women, he’s looking…

He is about 6’ tall, cuter than he thinks he is, with brown (graying) hair and hazel eyes. He used to be a lean triathlete machine, but hasn’t done that in a while. He learned to play piano several years ago and now he rocks. Not too bad for a guy who can’t carry a tune. (He hates when I say that. Get your own blog, dude!)

There. Satisfied?

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