Dear reader, how was your weekend? Ours was lovely, filled with volleyball, bike rides, cello concerts, sleepovers, good food, and cousins. Notably lacking in yardwork, housecleaning, and laundry.
All in all, I can't complain.
We spent Sunday evening at my brother's house and dear reader, I am telling you: he laid down a feast. I'm really not sure whether I should introduce my brother as a great surgeon or a great cook. As he's never had occasion to operate on me, yet I've spent the past twenty years devouring his amazing culinary efforts, I'm more inclined to gush about his expertise in the kitchen.
But the fact of the matter is he is a great surgeon. I mean it. Ever since we were kids, I've watched his magical hands and maddening capacity to focus produce all kinds of miraculous results. From great artwork to tying the most intricate fishing flies to cutting homemade bread on a perfect 90 degree angle (not easily done, I assure you), the precise capacity of his fingers awed me to no end.
And the funny thing is, he always knew he wanted to be a surgeon. All I knew was I wanted to stick with my big brother. So we schemed up this great plan to never get married and travel the world curing all kinds of maladies.
He, the great doctor; I, his intrepid nurse.
And everything was going grand, everything was just keen until I bungled it all by fainting at the sight of blood.
So then we had to go to Plan B, wherein he became a great surgeon while I became a high school English teacher who only talked about blood in literary terms. We both went our separate ways, got married, had a pack of kids, and for years it seemed as if I would hardly ever see my big brother again.
But how curiously the path of life winds and intertwines! Because after years of being here, there, and everywhere, we are now both here, in the most unlikely of places: two kids who ran with wolves in the wilds of Canada settled in a whole new kind of wilderness, Las Vegas.
And in the next little while I am going to tell you more about my brother. I'm going to explain in excruciating detail the kinds of surgery he performs. Because I thought you might find it interesting. It could even be you are looking for a great surgeon. And most of all, I will take no end of pleasure in plunging up to my elbows in blood (figuratively speaking, of course) without feeling the least bit squeamish, faint, or in danger of swooning, fluttering, and falling gracefully to the ground.
In some small way, it will feel as if Plan A got dusted off and set back on the table.
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p.s. My apologies the picture has very little to do with the rest of this post. Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by my capacity to wander off topic. Truly, I am not opposed to getting Caroline's hair cut. At least not adamantly opposed. Not as opposed as I am to, say, endless lines at the post office, piles of feral laundry, and guilt trips. I can't stand those.
If she keeps asking, I'm sure it will happen one of these days. One of these days when she gets old enough to drive to the salon by herself.