Confessions of an Antagonistic Older Brother

My parents deserve to be sainted...even though they lack even an ounce of Catholic street cred.

After raising four children--one boy, three girls, including a set of twins, it's a wonder that my parents let any of us see a double digit birthday. Don't get me wrong, to the outside world, we were good kids, but boy, could we bug the ever-living crap out of each other.

In some ways, I blame vehicular engineering. This was before the advent of the SUV. Now, kids reside in their little fortresses of solitude, beyond the reach of antagonizing siblings. We, however, grew up in the era of the station wagon (80s kids everywhere just shuttered in unison), sporting bench seat technology designed to sit three people comfortably...allegedly. Anyone who has ever sat three butts to a bench will tell you it is anything but comfortable and a brawl is an eventual certainty. You can't help it, any design that forces siblings to touch is woefully flawed.

With only four years of separation between the oldest (yours truly) and the youngest (the twins-Becca & Sara), the teenage era in the Newhouse casa was a repetitious mash-up of hormonal tears, ill-timed acne, relationship drama, persistent self loathing...and that was just me. Once you factored in my sisters, you had what in today's lingo would be referred to as...a hot mess.

Let's just say, the formative years among the Newhouse children were not peaceful ones, and as the oldest, I fully acknowledge that I (perhaps) may have (possibly) been the instigator in a fair number (most) of our conflicts...so much so that I (might) have apologized to them in recent years (on more than one occasion). It's called maturity, folks.

That lengthy introduction sets the context for this next tale...of an incident of which my parents have long been ignorant. Now that we're all at least 30, I am somewhat confident Mom won't ground us. Let's test out that theory, shall we?

I remember it well. Mom and Dad had left us home alone while they ran some sort of errand--possibly to buy Christmas presents, have the car serviced, or simply get the hell away from us--and I was placed in charge as per usual. Now, understand, I embraced the role of the eldest sibling with gusto, not to ensure the safety and care of my sisters, but rather...to boss them around. Sisterly in-fighting had left their collective resolve weak, never growing wise that if they just joined forces, they could shift the balance of power in moments.

On this night, I distinctly remember knowing my parents ETA, and we were t-minus 30 minutes. I was holding court in the kitchen near my middle sister, Carrie. Becca and Sara were on the couch squabbling with each other. Growing tired of the twin-fighting (see what I did there), I grabbed each one by the shoulder gently-ish as if to say, "Cool it.," and inadvertently (I promise) pulled Sara's hair in the process.

What happened next occurred in Matrix-like slow motion.

Sara stood up, lifted her nearly full glass of soda...and I hit the deck. From the safety of the floor, I watched as the liquid projectile arched towards the kitchen and connected with an unseen target, showering liquid everywhere.

Knowing my sister was out of ammo, I prepared to depart the floor and apologize, but just as I began to raise my head, I saw another glass of soda come flying from the opposite direction. In horror, I realized that in my instinctual act of self-preservation, Carrie had gone from innocent bystander to drenched victim, and though Carrie's throw landed true, Becca was close enough to become collateral damage in the process. Suddenly, I was no longer the target of sisterly rage; simply a fly on the wall (or rather the floor) observing the most intense verbal barrage I'd ever witnessed.

Cognizant that the parental units would be home any minute and soda stains were quickly becoming permanent, I sprung to my feet, intending to say something eloquent to calm emotions and restore peace. Instead what came out was, "Mom...Dad...we are all going to die!"

Without speaking, we sprang to action--sopping, scrubbing, and scouring ever piece of carpet, cushion, or linoleum found within the splash zone. Suddenly, we went from super slo-mo to hyperspeed (cue cleaning montage), and just like in the movies, the last wad of soda soaked paper towels landed in the trash just as Mom and Dad pulled into the driveway.

You see, nothing brings siblings together like the collective fear of parental punishment. Amidst intense conflict we came together under a united goal--to save our own asses. There's no motivation quite as powerful.

Nowadays, we get along splendidly, partly because we crammed 60 good years of conflict into 14 years of life, and primarily as it turns out, my sisters are pretty cool people. Who'd have thought?

So Mom, I hope you found this tale more amusing than upsetting. Just think, all those years of blissful ignorance...shattered with one blog post.

Hmm...maybe I should have thought this through a bit.

Love is a Food Coma

It only seems appropriate that my post-Thanksgiving Day post centers around food. Nothing pulls you out of a food coma like contemplating your next meal of gluttony.

You see, besides, you know, loving my wife, I married into the Holland family not for money but rather for food. I break that line out at least once a holiday meal, and it is always greeted with rousing laughter. Of course, I always wait until bellies are full, and we are at least three bottles of wine down--it's called comedic timing, folks.

But seriously, thank goodness I liked Sara because it would have difficult to leave behind the Holland family traditions...and by traditions I mean rituals of food and fellowship.

Now my family has always understood the joy of eating. Some of my favorite family memories encompass mounds of chicken fried steak--my mother's specialty--and other high calorie, soul satisfying meals. In short, the Hollands made this Newhouse feel right at home.

Here's a rundown of the meals that found their way into my heart:

Thanksgiving - While the sides are all great, this meal is made by the presence of Greenberg Turkey. What's so special about a Greenberg Turkey? Imagine something so good that an unnamed 30 plus year old man threw a temper tantrum one year when he was told Greenberg was not on the menu. Yeah, it's that good. Plus, it's one of Oprah's Favorite Things except it was one of my favorite things first. In your face, Oprah.

Fourth of July - Besides the aforementioned pyrotechnics, Independence Day is filled with mounds of boiled shrimp. This was the first food-centric Holland tradition I experienced, and I may have made a fool of myself. Fortunately, after coming up for air, I found I was in good company. A few of the recent family additions aren't partakers...and I think they must lead sad, empty lives.

Memorial Day - Ribs, potato salad, baked beans. Need I say more? Well, that's never stopped me. I don't even like potato salad, but I love this stuff. It's like mashed potatoes on crack...yet street legal.

Chicken Spaghetti Day - Okay, this isn't a actual holiday, but when Sara's grandmother makes this dish, I'm like a kid on Christmas, and all my presents are pans of chicken spaghetti and my stocking contains a bottle of cholula--the perfect chicken spaghetti condiment. I swear this recipe could solve all the world's problems. Global warming, the national debt, world peace--all solved by a pan of chicken spaghetti.

I know, I know...some of you are probably lamenting that you didn't factor food into the perfect partner equation. Don't worry, love will get you through the mediocre meals and the tasteless treats to come.

Me? I'm fixing leftovers.

Tales of a Disowned Dog

Our second pug, Coal, was supposed to be my wife's dog...but for reasons outside his control, that association passed many years ago.

For all intents and purposes, Coal is Charley's dog--Charley being the pug from my bachelor days. As long as a I can remember, I knew one day I would own a blond haired, squished face, lap-loving pug named Charley, spelled L-E-Y not L-I-E, thank you very much. After Sara and I married, the rigors of work and grad school left Charley longing for companionship, which he conveyed to us by chewing on his front paws. Now, I can think of far more effective means of communication than self-mutilation, but when you lack the power of speech, I guess your options are limited.

And so, Sara and I set out to find a buddy for my little buddy--my wife insistent on finding a black pug to pair with our fawn. I liked the idea, especially because we were going to name him Coal, apropos for a black pug, and even better because we already called Charley "Char" for short so as a pair they'd be Char-Coal (too cute for words, I know).

The Friday of Memorial Day weekend we brought little Coal home. Coal instantly took to his new brother. The same was not true for Charley. But that's a story for another day. Rest assured, they are great friends now.

In our enthusiasm to have Coal join our family as soon as possible, we didn't think things through very well. That afternoon, we were embarking on a five hour trip to visit Sara's family. That's a long trip for a new puppy with a teeny bladder. Though we intended to stop pretty regularly for potty breaks, Coal apparently didn't get the memo, and within an hour of our departure, Coal chose to relieve himself...all over my wife.

Now, Sara will insist that this was the instant Coal ceased to be her dog, but I think that moment came a few months later.

Our dear, sweet Coal it turned out was allergic to the world, but that trait didn't evidence itself until a little over a year later. I was at work, and Sara had taken the dogs to the vet for vaccinations. Shortly after bringing them home, Sara called to inform me that Coal appeared to be swelling up. Being the supportive husband I am, I offhandedly dismissed her concerns. About five minutes later, my wife called again and her tone made it clear that I was no longer allowed an opinion until I laid eyes on the dog myself.

I quickly trotted home (a perk of residing on campus) prepared to act indignant amidst my wife's assured overreaction. I opened the door and scanned the living room for Coal, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead I found a balloon covered in fur attached to an unfurled tail. I was fully prepared for Coal to start a rapid ascent towards the ceiling. So with my tail tucked between my legs, dog in tow, and an "I told you so...jackass" look on my wife's face, we headed back to the vet.

Sara held Coal in her lap, reassuring him with caring strokes, and I swear to you this is exactly what happened next.

Coal lifted his head...looked Sara straight in her eyes as if he wanted to speak...and then proceeded to...projectile vomit all over her.

This, my friends, is when Coal ceased to be Sara's dog.

A hefty bill and a Benadryl drip later, Coal was fine, but unfortunately, we were just scratching the surface of Coal's allergy issues--a journey that I will highlight in future posts. Just know, the financial resources we have dedicated to Coal's mostly ineffective allergy treatments could support my Father-In-Law's firework habit for several lifetimes.

But back to the projectile vomit: Today, I can view this situation with humor (who am I kidding, it took every ounce of restraint and self-preservation to avoid cracking up as it happened); however, Sara has not achieved the necessary time and distance to see the lighter side of this tale. She may never, which is probably for the best. Coal only inflicted this kind of trauma when he was her dog so who knows what disaster would come her way if she ever reclaimed him.

All I know is that my dogs would never do such a thing.