The Twin That Was Born 21 Months After Me

I was born in July of 1985. Twenty-one months later, my twin was born. Who is this twin, you ask? Why, my younger brother, of course. How could this be, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It is due mainly to the gross misconceptions of the public at large.

I was reminded of this state of twin-ship while texting my aforementioned brother earlier this evening. Bret (my "twin") had texted to tell me about something he remembered while watching the old cartoon version of "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" and then proceeded to mention "Prince Caspian". Unbeknowst to each other, Bret and I texted each other how we hated how Peter was a whiny kid who didn't wait for Aslan and staged a suicide mission that involved leaving many behind (this angers us greatly because it was so NOT in the book!). Bret remarked that we were practically twins, and memories ensued....

This is me with my brother. I realize that we're really...smiley in this pic, but I don't have a lot of pictures with the two of us, so here it is. We look similar, right? Similar enough to be, I don't know, maybe, siblings? But twins?

It all began, my mother has told me, on the Fourth of July, 1987. Bret was three months old, and I was nearly two. I was walking and Bret was, quite clearly, not. A woman behind my mother had the audacity (and, may I add, sheer asininity) to ask my mother if Bret and I were twins. Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Now, in the defense of the ridiculous fireworks woman, I was born early and continued to be very short for a good portion of my life. Also, before I discovered hair color Bret and I had nearly identical coloring. As the years went by, many others asked if we were twins, so I really can't get too upset about it, except for the fact that I think you should be able to tell newborns and toddlers apart...just saying.

Incidentally, no one thinks that Bret and I are twins anymore. It may be related to the fact that Bret is now like 6' 3" or something and I'm like 5' 2". I've actually had people ask if my younger sister and I are twins...even though she's five years younger than me (other people ask if I'm the younger sister). I guess maybe I just look really young?

Oh well. As long as, as Bret pointed out, we don't go around wearing matching outfits, we'll be okay.

P.S. No one has ever suspected that my older brother and I are twins. Of course, he's blond and hazel-eyed and was always hecka tall. I'd wonder if he's adopted, but that's more likely to be Heather because she's the one that doesn't like Neil Diamond.

"I don't know if the best things happen while you're dancing or if they just happen in Vermont..."

As you may (or may not) be able to tell from the title of this post, I went to see Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" last night, as performed by my alma mater (insert moment of high school pride here). Despite the various costuming errors and typos in the program (which were fodder for sarcastic comments from myself and Amanda), the show was very well done (especially the amazing tap number) and reminded me of how much I really love musicals, most especially seeing them performed live.

The excitement begins long before the show even starts. I love getting ready to go out to a cultural event, even one put on by a high school. It's just something out of the ordinary that reminds me that I'm not just a little girl living in a small-ish town. Going to stuff like this makes me feel classy, even if it's put on by a high school. I love entering the theatre and looking for my seat, then sitting down and looking through the program (even one riddled with errors, and I don't just mean ones published for high school productions) before the show starts.

Next, the orchestra in the pit. You hear them tune, see the director arrive and then...the overture. The overture is played and gets everyone, or at least me, excited for the show to begin with snippets of songs that will be performed during the course of the show. Then the curtain rises, and everything is pretty awesome for the next couple of hours (unless you go to see some crazy show...or a Rodgers and Hammerstein, because most of those shows have some dark moments).

Another thing I love about musicals: the romantic storyline. As an example, I give you one of my very favorite musicals: Meredith Willson's "The Music Man", the film version of which stars the incomparable Robert Preston and the absolutely fabulous Shirley Jones. As much as I love love love that movie, the reason that this musical holds a particularly special place in my heart because it was the very first musical I saw in person. Incidentally, it was also performed by my dear high school my freshman year. I so very much love the fact that Harold Hill spends so much time going after Marian Paroo (let's set aside the fact that his intentions were not so much romantic as they were devious...perhaps that makes me delusional, but this IS a musical. A little delusion goes a long way in enjoying a world where people burst out into song and dance). I've just always loved that fact that a good musical will throw together a man and a woman who have no business falling in love and fight it as hard as they can, but a few songs and a couple of revealing scenes later they're singing a duet of love (not to mention those great kisses!). I have to admit that I had a bit of crush on the guy that played Harold Hill for a little while. It's pretty much like falling for fictional movie characters, except they also sing!


Look how happy they are! Well, she's happy; he just looks like he's staring into the sun. I guess I just love musicals so much because they tend to be a conglomeration of so many things that I wish life could be. And how about that beautiful happy ending with a handsome man? The fantastic singing isn't too bad, either. I know that it's a bit much to ask for, and I'm really not expecting my life to turn into a musical, so there's no cause for concern. I just think it would be nice.

The marching band is optional, though.

I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!

Last week I had a brief love affair...with Nutella on Grandma's peanut butter cookies. I've loved Nutella since high school, when we would have it on French food days in French class, but it was always on baguettes and such. I've also tried it on toast and, more recently, on waffles (way good-try it sometime). For those of you unfamiliar with this delicious-ness known as Nutella...

There is it. Chocolatey. Hazelnutty. Absolutely wonderfully tasty. Anyway, someone brought a jar to the JCP last Saturday to put on mini bagels (which was also hecka good), and there happened to be some left over when Monday came around. I was about to enjoy a package of Grandma's peanut butter cookies when I happened to look over and observe the jar of Nutella sitting on the break room table. I thought to myself "Hmmmm. Nutella is pretty darn good. I'm pretty sure I need to try it on these cookies". So I did, and it was so good! This ritual was repeated the next couple of days until the jar became empty.

But it was delicious while it lasted :)

Curse You, SlimFast! and other tales..

A couple of weeks ago, my mom and I went down to Murray to visit my sister and take her shopping for her birthday. As my mother and I shared some laughs on the drive down, I noticed that my ribs hurt whenever I laughed. "What could be the cause of this discomfort?" I wondered in agony (okay, not agony, more like mild soreness). Suddenly, the answer came as I remembered an event of the previous day.

Rewind! Rrrrwwwrr.

The day before, Amanda and I had gone to Sam's Club, where I picked up a case of SlimFast, which I occasionally drink for breakfast. The important part of the story is the fact that I picked it up...and just kept on holding it. I did just fine from the shelf to the checkout, since the two are pretty close together. The problem came after checking out, when we saw my mom near the exit. As we stopped to chat, I discovered the need to readjust my hold on the case of SlimFast several times. It didn't help when my mother decided it would be humorous to push down on the case, which almost made me fall over. Anyway, we eventually made it out to the car, and I didn't think much of it until the next day, when I discovered that I had bruised ribs, which hurt every time I laughed (which, incidentally, caused my mother to find extra opportunities to make me laugh). Curse you, SlimFast!

Tale 2: When we got to my sister's apartment, we noticed a small grouping of ducks on one side of the parking lot. After slowing to observe the ducks, we noticed ducks on the other side of the parking lot, waiting to cross and join the other ducks. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, ducks began to appear! Ducks! Ducks! All together, there were between 20 and 30 ducks. Being overly dramatic as I am, I started yelling "Ducks! Ducks!" and my sister, who was waiting outside for us to pick her up, called me and told us to just start driving. We hesitated because we were concerned for the safety of the swarm of ducks that had by this point surrounded the car in a most menacing fashion. We couldn't even honk the horn because the one in my mom's car doesn't work! We decided to slowly roll forward and, despite a plethora of protesting quacks, the ducks began to move and we were soon able to move forward and pick up my sister.

Of course, it was fabulous to see Heather, as always. I'm glad we survived the duck ambush so we could have that experience.