My Brother was Born in the 60s

And today he’s 40.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! My brother is 40. Don’t tell my sister, but she’ll be 40 this year too. In about 11 months. (My parents thumbed their noses at silly things like birth control and abstaining from sex for 6 weeks after the birth of a baby. “Pish-posh” said they, and then they had 2 babies in the same year. Dummies).

I like to tease my brother and sister about being born in the 60s since the rest of us (meaning their spouses and Bryan and I) were born in the 70s. My sister protests and thinks she’s as young as we are because she was born a mere 2 weeks before 1969 ended and her husband was born only 3 weeks into 1970, but the protest doesn’t stand. It was the 60s. Everything was different back then. And things that were around back then are old now. I didn’t make the rules.

My 40-year-old brother lives all the way in West Virginia now, but our grandmother saw fit to die yesterday* so her favorite grandson would have an excuse to travel to Chesaning so he could spend his 40th birthday at Dave’s bar playing Setback with his dumb ol’ buddies. Why yes, I did just spend 12 days in Chesaning, during which time my grandmother was in the process of dying and, yes, she actually did wait until the day after I arrived back in Columbus to die. Par. For. The. Course. Mikey was always her favorite. And for that, he’s a douche.