I have been writing this column for a few years now, and I often talk about my family. I thought having a different last name offered them a little protection from anyone truly knowing they were related to me, but I sometimes forget and mention my maiden name. My sister once suggested that I use pseudonyms. I think she wanted to be Natasha or Alexandria. I find my family remarkably good sports about the stuff I share, since most of the stories are theirs, too. And while this isn’t The New York Times, their friends occasionally will comment about something I have written. I, of course, think that’s fabulous because it means someone is reading the column! But I’m sure at times they just want me to stop sharing and write about the Cardinals or something.
In a recent column, I compared my brother John to Forrest Gump. I heard through the family grapevine that he was not pleased. You see, the only thing John and Forrest have in common is their sudden interest in running. John is a smart guy. He went to Harvard for his MBA. (George W. Bush was in his class!) I am telling you this not to brag about him, but so you know that the genetics in my family are outstanding. To further impress you, my brother Michael has his Ph.D., and Tim has an MBA from Washington University. That would leave Dennis, Natasha (Teresa) and me to compete on Family Feud, where we would kill it. My point is, John is no Forrest Gump—well, except for the running part.
Being a loving sister, I called to apologize, and like so many things I do in life, I just made it worse. I left a voicemail explaining my comparison and ended with, “I love you. Don’t die.” I have no idea why I said “don’t die” to my 70-year-old brother. I knew it was bad when Carey, my husband, looked at me and said, “WTF is wrong with you? You told him not to die.” Yes, I did. Not your typical sign off.
So I called my sister Teresa, who didn’t answer. Then I called my brother Dennis under the guise of having a question about my roof. Dennis gives great advice, although it’s usually always the same: Keep your head down and mouth shut. His reaction was, “What the f-bomb is wrong with you? Don’t die?” When John called back, I explained myself. He assured me he didn’t care and laughed at my ‘don’t die’ comment.
My siblings don’t exchange Christmas gifts, but this year, each one is getting a coffee mug that says, ‘Love you. Don’t die.’ Next week, I will write about the Blues, though I have never been to a hockey game. Does that cute Wayne Gretzky still play? Let’s go Blues!
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.