Oh, Brother

On the long plane ride to Rhode Island, I distracted myself from my anxiety about Brian by concocting a list of the things I love about him.


His quotable quotes. Not just the content, but the delivery, too,.
"Booger on your face!"
"I'm going to go take a shit and think about him."
"Let's take virtual bong hits."

His genuine, emotional reaction to Alex and my engagement. It was like he didn't see it coming. "What?!?! Holy shit. No way."

He cried, over Skype, when we told him we're pregnant.

He seems excited, if curious, about being Uncle B.

His carpe diem approach to life.

The irony that one of the most laid-back people I know is also one of the most anxious.

Everyone is his best friend. Even his baby sister.

The story he told me growing up, that I was hatched from an egg on Easter.

He wore his tennis shoes to sleep for the week after the Bay Area earthquake in 1989.

He think I told our parents, at the age of 8, that he was smoking pot with his friends while babysitting me. I hold strong that my 2nd-grade self did not even know what marijuana was.

He texts and posts Facebook photos of his tomato garden.

He makes the best sweet potato/yam mashers ever. Key ingredients: coconut milk and Chef B-Love's special t0uch.

He tries to support and cater to my neurotic diets over the years - by cooking me kale - in a cup of butter. That must be why it tasted so good!

Our Fudge Fight of 2004.

I was inspired to follow and live in cool places because of him.

Christmas in Argentina with the Hartman's, lace cookies and all.

When crazy Grove Street roomie, Cyrus, told Bri he drank too much - after just one beer.

He ran the Vancouver 1/2 Marathon in his skate shoes in the pouring rain because his running shoes got stolen from my Volvo the night before.

We drove straight from Colorado to Rhode Island and he didn't let me drive. Ever.

He supposedly adored me as a baby.

He started riding a stand-up paddle board before the big craze.

Chocolate Lover's Festival.

Take care of Bri and Paul after their separate ski accidents. And visiting the Montrose WalMart with the two gimps.

B-Love is the most accurate nickname.

When he got his wisdom teeth pulled, he asked get me to blow pot smoke in his mouth so he could get stoned. When I declined, he proceeded to make pot cookies. Dad accidentally ate them.

He loves my husband and considers him a brother.

He cried at our wedding, but hid his tears behind sunglasses.

He asks me about 1x per month for my Xanax.

He thinks I'm a doctor.

He's a great gift-giver: Tahitian black pearls, diamonds for high school graduation, plane tickets to visit him.

He treats his friends like family.

He's like the captain of a pirate ship, tattooed and running with a posse.

Even if he's annoyed of Dad, he's never, ever rude to him.

He once shot a Robin Hood and was said to be Junior Olympic archery material.

He's unsettled when he works too much or when he works too little.

He's a serial monogamist, but is devoted to each of his girlfriends.

He is Peter Pan. And now people are starting to think I'm his older sister.

He's not afraid to be sensitive or vulnerable.

He can sleep anywhere. Always had.

His work ethic and leadership in the kitchen.

Singleminded devotion to certain brands of foods. Stouffer's mac 'n cheese. Parmesan Goldfish crackers. Green Machine.


So here's to healing thoughts that my brother quickly returns to the person he was, the Brian that everyone loves. As if you can't tell that from his Facebook page.