Growing up amid the cows and houseflies of a rural town, I believed in the magical world in magazines and wanted to live there. It was so clean. Everyone was so happy. Or so stylishly bored.
And now, with the right lighting and a little photoshop, I do live in a magical magazine world where my darling cherubs frollic together in harmony with nary a tantrum in sight. It’s called editing.
Watching the Fluff-n-stuff play with Salty reminds me so much of the many years when my brother was my best friend. Though I had two sisters, at precisely 15 months apart, John and I were the closest in age and interests and consequently, inseparable from childhood through college. In high-school we ran in the same friend group and ate lunch in our little posse together every day. At home we watched cooking shows, woodworking shows, Beavis and Butthead, and all the old stand-up comedy greats together. In school, we were in choir together, musicals together, debate together.
We depended on each other. I had a car and drove us around. John would stick a dry erase marker up each of his nostrils at the same time which made me laugh to the point of tears. Twice he surprised me when I got home from working on the yearbook with a plate of chocolate chip cookies on my bed–overbaked into black charcoal briquettes.
We were always pranking each other. One year for Christmas, I gave him a nice new wallet into which I had slipped an extremely unflattering picture of a morbidly obese girl. Oh the explosive laughter!
The sad thing is, my brother and I aren’t close anymore. We love each other, but we don’t talk. We haven’t lived near each other in 18 years, and we’ve both been married for over a decade which, like it or not, changes friendships including family friendships. Every time I see or hear from him, I miss my friend.