Moose in the Kitchen

Many of the menfolk in my life are blog-shy. I mentioned my brother on this blog once. My mother, ever the soul of discretion, read it out loud when he was in the room. He was not pleased with me or my decision to tell the internet that he used to enjoy quality time with My Little Pony. I hadn’t even gotten to his stint as a six-year-old drag queen. The one that was so effective his teachers referred to him as a girl for years. Nor had I mentioned my strong suspicions that he’s actually a Martian. A purple one.*

So I can’t tell you that he’s here to visit. I can’t tell you that he fights fires in the desolation wilderness armed with only a backpack full of water and a shaggy-yet-stylin’ hairdo. I can’t tell you that by getting a job straight out of college he TOTALLY UPSTAGED ME. Me, the perfect older sister. Who graduated from a fancy school right at the four year mark and was the only college graduate in the year 2000 who didn’t get a job on that newfangled internet thing with a massively inflated salary. Seriously. There were only two people unemployed that year: me and some guy in Kentucky whose forks were equipped with protective covers. My self-esteem still hasn’t recovered.

I can talk about Captain Queso. But he hasn’t obliged me and my readers by being hit by any cars lately.

Dear Captain Queso,

Please get on that. I need content.

Love,

Moose

I can also mention this person:

Enjoy that photo. It’s the only picture in existence that doesn’t include impromptu karaoke with a turkey baster. This is because the photo was shot with a long-range lens and there were no turkeys or basters within a thirteen mile radius. Catching my dad on film without a turkey baster is like catching Angelina Jolie on film without her top. Not out of the realm of possibility, but your odds on seeing an alligator performing Don Giovanni opposite a hippo in a purple tutu are significantly higher.

I don’t even have anything interesting to say about him right now. I just need to talk about someone on this blog who isn’t 1. my dog, 2. a bucket of neuroses, 3. a chocolate chip cookie.

He did make me a set of colored blocks with numbers carved into them when I was in kindergarten. It was an endearing but ultimately futile effort to teach me math. Math that didn’t involve counting my fingers or bursting into tears. Thanks, dad. I wish that responsible parenting had paid off with a Fields Medal, but I still have trouble with subtraction in the double digits and my checkbook hasn’t balanced in over six years. But then, children who need brightly colored blocks to teach them basic arithmetic aren’t winning any medals without the words “Nice Try” or “Better Luck Next Time” engraved in the shiny plastic.

In short, most males of my acquaintance deny my god given right to splash their personal details all over the internet. Luckily, my ability to utterly humilate certain people in public with nary a keyboard in sight is surpassed only by my ability to eat eight cookies in three minutes. (And, dude, you should see that.)

~~~

*All the above statements about my brother are totally made up. (Except for the drag queen bit. I have the pictures to prove it.) I’m pretty sure he’s too lazy to sue me for slander but, you know, just in case.

Related posts:

1. Three Sticks of Butter = Well-Spent Evening
2. The Pineapple Feels Violated
3. Moose, Patron Saint of Cookies
4. I’d Like to Buy a Clue for $200, Pat
5. I Have an Internet Connection and I Know How to Use It