18 May 2010

"Crickets Live For Two Weeks"


Seeing as I rather abruptly spilled the beans on the craziness that is my parents, I felt as though I needed to explain that the insanity they bring to the table often pales in comparison to that of my older brother, Colin. 

Again, I feel I need to make it crystal clear that I adore my family. They are loving, intelligent, funny, fun people - I just happen to be related to them, and, ya know, sometimes we all need to put a little more fun in dysfunction. Colin does exactly that in spades.

Allow me to provide a Brief History of Colin. He was born in 1979, the first (and if he'd had it his way, the only) child of Greg and Ellen. Everything was apparently hunky dory until one day, he was unceremoniously informed that the family would be moving to a new town, as they were expecting another child and needed more room. Initially, from all accounts, Colin was ecstatic at the thought of a little brother or sister. Imagine the possibilities! A tiny minion to do his bidding! A ready-made scape-goat! A foil of incompetence, raising his every word to gospel-like veracity! 

And then I showed up. Admittedly, my memory from the ages of birth to about nineteen is a bit fuzzy, but I trace this back to one very significant event. When I was two, Colin pushed me down the stairs and blamed it on the dog. (The dog was a matronly golden retriever, and if I recall, she probably would have turned herself inside out from pure guilt at the thought of hurting one of her People.) I obviously don't remember this incident, but I chalk this up to the head trauma caused by my fall. Of course, no one knew the truth until much later, when Colin got into one of his babbling moods, and spewed his dark secret to the whole family over Christmas dinner. The truth of the fall was followed up with a pointed look at yours truly and the statement, "my life was great until you came along." Mind you, Colin was at least 22 at this point, and I was 17, and in all honesty, I had no idea he harbored such animosity toward me.

But Colin and I are actually quite close friends as well as siblings. Granted, it hasn't always been like this, but from very early on, I worshipped my Big Brother. There are photos of us - or him and his friends, rather - with me in tow, toddling around, trying my best to please him. He has always been boisterous, and smart, the center of attention (and his own universe). He's a tough act to follow.

As the toddling little sister, the smallest in the bunch of neighborhood kids, I was often considered everyone's doll. In fact, my brother's best friend when he was a munchkin, Katie, told me once she thought I was hers; and I was often toted around by Katie, her older brother Matt, and Colin during various odd adventures. What various odd adventures, you might ask?

Well, once the trio of elder children floated me down the stream behind Matt and Katie's house in a baby bathtub. I was around the age of three, and the stream was probably a foot and a half deep at its deepest, but still. I often wonder what the hell my mother and her friend Pat (Matt and Katie's mom) were up to during these various high-jinx, but I digress. Regardless, not only did they float me down stream until it became impossible due to the shallow stream, but they floated me through a cement culvert that passed under a nearby road. The three elder children balanced themselves above the water, in a slightly prone position, shuffling sideways as I went on my sail. I recall being intensely nervous, but at the same time totally ecstatic that I was the center of attention for once. Granted, part of me believes this was my brother's Best Plan for how to get rid of me, as though at the other end of this culvert, the stream would open into the sea and he could wash his hands of his little sister forever. As though I would float off into oblivion, à la Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod or some such. My mother always said that his favorite poem was "One Sister For Sale" by Shel Silverstein in Where the Sidewalk Ends, pictured below. (This statement, while I understood to be in jest, still gave me a bit of a complex. I often wondered if Colin would someday set up a road-side Lemonade or Psychiatric Help stand and slip me in during a sale as some sort of "Buy One, Get One" promotion.)



But the baby bathtub incident wasn't the only time I was exploited for my willingness to be included. Once, during a dinner party my parents were having, the aforementioned trio took it upon themselves to provide dinner and a show. I was pushed into the dining room wearing a pair of my brother's holey underwear on my head, my father's old maroon blazer styled as per 1978, a pair of lens-less wayfarers. I clutched a chipped coffee mug, as I begged for "alms for the poor" from our parents and their friends. I was roughly six at the time and had no idea what alms for the poor were (save the reference in Disney's animated Robin Hood), but was well aware that underwear does not, in fact, qualify as a hat. 

Yet, the dangerous and sometimes embarrassing exploitation my brother subjected me to was often minimized by the rare times we did connect. On rare occasions growing up, we'd shut all the lights off in the upstairs of our raised ranch, shoo our parents downstairs to the family room, and have raucous Nerf fights in the dark, laughing and beating the crap out of each other the whole time. Granted, being five years older, Colin inevitably won, but it's hard to do any permanent damage with a Nerf weapon (that didn't stop either one of us from trying, mind you). 

When I pissed him off enough, by the time he was a preteen, Colin could easily pick me up and throw me around. Like many siblings, bodily harm was not unheard of, and he was known to grab me, dash into my bedroom, and launch me at the wall over my bed, providing a backboard for the Courtney-three-pointer as a splatted and dropped onto my comforter. The only time I ever really got one over on him was when he was chasing me down the hall. Realizing I reached a dead end as I approached my parents bedroom door, I dropped into the fetal position on the floor. Unable to stop, Colin rocketed over me, squarely into the closed door. This victory was short-lived, but oh-so sweet. (See how I revel in it even now?)

But those were the years we were not close. It's difficult to cultivate a friendly relationship between siblings five years apart, especially between siblings of the opposite sex. He always looked out for me though. Kid had my back... even if this protective nature manifested in some of the oddest ways possible.

When I was about fourteen, I was reading in my bedroom when Colin marched in, looked at me authoritatively, and said, "If you ever need condoms, you let me know. I can get you some." 

He left.

When he was out of earshot, I think I almost herniated myself laughing. This was my brother's idea of the Birds and Bees discussion, and was so out of my realm of reality at that point, I couldn't conceive of such a need. But the delivery! Ha! Priceless. And Classic Colin.

Uncompromising is often a word one uses to describe a discerning palate, a refined individual, and those unwilling to give up a little to gain a lot. Uncompromising, in Colin's case, means that he is literally unable to compromise (though my sister-in-law may disagree). My mother loves to tell of how, when Colin was six or so, he and a playmate got into a fight over how to play a certain game. My mother informed them that she would not solve their problems, and that they had to compromise. 

My brother quickly responded, "Of course we'll compromise; we'll do it my way."

He hasn't changed much since. It's more than just an unwillingness to bend, Colin enjoys being the Resident Expert on Everything. It might be a genetic trait (except that I try to be accurate), but it also stems from a very good place. For all his bull-headedness, Colin would do absolutely anything for his friends and family. Providing answers to their every question is only part of this. Granted, this also means that my brother often spreads himself so thin that he's vibrating with energy and tasks from sunup to sundown, eventually passing out from exhaustion on the couch at 7 p.m., but that's another issue altogether.

This isn't to say that his self-assigned role as Resident Expert on Everything isn't also partly and expression of (a very hefty) Ego. At a bonfire party a few summers ago (and if you're from Connecticut, you've been to a bonfire party, and you know how it goes), friends were discussing crickets. One was chirping away in the distance, and it prompted Dan to ask, "How long to crickets live, anyway?"

Swooping in from another discussion altogether, my brother announced authoritatively, "Crickets live for two weeks." 

It is his delivery as much as anything which limits discussion. His self-assured answers and statements, regardless of how outlandish or off-the-wall they seem, are delivered with such obvious testimony, it becomes all but impossible to argue with him without sounding like you have no idea what the hell you're saying. Silly peon! How dare you try to argue with the Great and Powerful Colin Zachary?! Pfft. Quiet, before you make us all stupider for having to listen to you.

This technique of uncorroborated expertise has been perfected over his 30 years. Mind you, none of us have yet to figure out exactly how long crickets live, but we have figured out that Colin's answer was pulled out of his ass. But it demonstrates his technique perfectly. As he spews information, he sprinkles His Own Truth in with actual fact, so efficiently that it becomes extremely difficult to tell truth from (mostly) fiction. He would have been a marvelous snake oil salesman, of Fox News pundit. If only Rupert Murdoch knew what he was missing!

Speaking of which, my brother's politics could not be further from mine on the spectrum. Though most of the time I'm aware that Colin will say socially controversial things just to get my goat, more than once my parents have looked at one another, heads shaking, asking, "Where did we get him?" after one of his whacky and unexpected political tirades. Such tirades are executed in the fashion mentioned above, his arguing skills reminiscent of those of a religious fundamentalist - you know, those folks who use their own logic to justify their assertions without any mind to Aristotelian or Boolean logic. 

To put it plainly, you can't argue with my brother. I mean, you could argue with him. Go ahead, give it a try, Bucko... and my God have mercy on your soul. Colin wins every argument he has (except those with his wife, bless her), not because his logic is more valid (see above), or his evidence more compelling, but simply because he was out talk you. Colin would out talk anyone on any subject. And more than that, he loves to argue. 

When put in a room together, especially with the addition of alcohol, Colin and I can discuss with emphasis (that's our term) anything. Sometimes, he's so eager to argue, we'll end up discussing the same side of an issue, just loudly. 

Our friend Smith once critiqued, "I can't be around you two; you're always arguing!"

This took both of us by complete surprise. We weren't arguing at all, really. We were just having a loud discussion. Loud is key, since Colin has always spoken just a little louder than everyone else in the room. This ensures two things: one, he who shouts loudest gets the most things correct; and two, he is peripherally always the center of attention. It's really quite ingenious. Growing up, I learned that if I wanted to be heard at all, I needed to all but holler. (This once caused Tanya to tell me, "In the volume button of life, you need to go WAY DOWN." Then she met Colin, after which she said, "In the volume button of life... WOW." When people meet Colin after they meet me, they understand why I speak loudly and quickly.) It is all a survival technique.

My brother can be painfully funny, too. I have always believed he's funniest when he cuts loose and lets out his goofy side, rather than his lately preferred "controversial" (read: offensive) humor. When I was about fifteen, I walked by his bedroom to see him staring at his feet, holding his socks. 

"Look at this! Courtney, look at this!" He said.

I came in and stared at his feet. "Look at what?"

"I have Bilbo Baggins feet!" He exclaimed, laughing. "Look at them! They're Hobbit feet!"

To be fair, his feet aren't quite of Hobbit-quality, but it was funny. This was years before the Lord of the Rings movies came out, so part of me thinks he projected his own understanding of Hobbit feet form the books based on his very own peds. 

Often, he'll do things like this just to entertain. Whether it's singing Rod Stewart in a Scottish accent or recounting a tale from work, he has a solid sense of humor that was cultivated much in the same way mine was: too much Monty Python, Marx Brothers, and Benny Hill during formative years. 

And this is probably why we're such good friends now. Even though his intense need to do everything for everyone often means he can't socialize, and I see our mutual friends far more often than he does of late, we do almost always have a great time together. 

Rare as it may be these days, I relish the time I get with him when it's just us. His need to be right all the time falls away slightly (often because I call him out of his bullshit), and we are just two kids in a tree fort again, having a Nerf war, but this time with friendly words rather than foam weapons. All the same, we have a relatively contentious relationship at times. And while I will always love him, it doesn't mean I always like him... but I suspect that feeling is mutual. But maybe that's really because we're so much alike.

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