I Think I Found My Missing Brother

I don’t actually have a missing brother, but if I did (or maybe I do and just don’t know about him!), this has to be his handiwork:

By Chris Bucholz
February 12, 2012

Dear Car Owner,

You may have noticed the dent on the left side of your car. If not, allow me to draw your attention to it now. As you can see, it is there, and so is this note, and now two and two are getting put together in your head. Allow me to confirm your suspicions: The dent and note are connected. I have dented your car and wish to apologize for it.

Got it pretty good there, didn’t I? You get that kind of denting action from your core muscles; that’s where the power is.

Read the rest here

In my family we never did anything like everyone else. Everything was fraught with drama and sometimes comedy. Mom’s favorite phrase, “Comedy is next to tragedy” was a litany. Countless horrors fill my head as I type this. Mom wielding a pair of scissors to give me a little trim before a classmate’s birthday party. My hair had been at my shoulder blades when I sat down. I had a pixie when I stood up. I always felt bad about missing that party, and to this day I struggle with the name Felicia. She was the most popular girl in school, and how dare I snub her invitation?! She never let me forget it — right through our senior year.

Mom’s propensity to convolute the mundane touched every part of our lives. Use vanilla extract from the grocery store? You’ve got to be kidding?! We made our own! And it had to be vanilla beans from a certain part of South America and I forget what kind of alcohol, but I’m sure it was a particular brand. Yeah, Martha Stewart’s got nothing on Momma.

Then there were the stray dogs. At one point in my childhood, I honestly could not tell you how many dogs we owned. I think it dawned on me Mom’s passion for strays might have been a little much when over the course of a couple of weeks three irritated neighbors each brought us a new dog and swore they were ours. Despite the neighbors’ exasperation, the local vet adored Mom. When he died, his wife invited us to the funeral — never mind Mom hadn’t used that vet’s services in 20 years. What else could they do for the person who helped pay for a couple of their luxury vacations.

So this morning I was reading Chris Bucholz, and it all came back to me, and I could almost see my mother leaving that note on the dented car. But then I know where she is right now, so it must be her lost child.

And Richard Armitage’s part in this? I’m getting to it. :D

Note to Chris Bucholz:

Thank you. I read your columns regularly, and they never fail to make me laugh and think and not just about Momma.