Ode to Brett

So my twin, Brett, keeps asking me on a daily basis if I have written a blog dedicated to him yet. And everyday, quite simply, the answer is NO. And then I usually say, “I’ll write a blog about you when you actually start reading my blog.” Yeah, jerk! But I’ve decided to be the bigger man (Or woman. Gross. Or girl.) and tell you all the wonderful things about this hermano ‘o mine. Maybe then he’ll start reading the adventures of Brie Cheese, because we all know how amazing they are!

So, a bit about Brett:

-He’s five minutes younger than me, a fact that irks him to no end, and a fact that I gleefully remind him of at every available opportunity. This is a pic of us our senior year of high school. Do I look older now? I don't really think so...

-He served a mission in Manaus, Brazil, (aka Amazon Jungle madness) and is now crazy about the country. He also delights in speaking Portuguese to me, as if I actually understand what he’s saying.

-Twin is (if you can believe it) much more of an OCD freak than I am. Everything has to be perfectly set up on his desk just the way he likes it, and he hates messes and chaos. I deviate from the norm anorexic, here, because mess doesn’t really seem to bother me at all. He once almost broke my arm because I got a few crumbs on his bed and swept them onto the carpet. When I refused to get the vacuum, he got an evil, unstoppable, crazed look in his eye and nearly broke me. I just laughed and laughed. –And this was in high school! No doubt you are all thinking it was like when he was six or something. Nope. He was a big boy.

-Brett’s graduating in May with a degree in International Studies with a minor in Business. He’s moving to St George (three hours from SLC) because he got a promotion at where we both work, Molina Healthcare. I’m sad Twin is moving, but I’m resigned to being happy for him, since I know it’s the twin sisterly thing to do. Here's a pic of him last year on our birthday. We went to Storm Mountain and had a picnic.

-Brett saved my life when I was a wee one. I was like five, and our crazy psycho dog, Turbo, was inadvertently killing me. See, he was on a giant chain that was seriously about thirty feet long, because the neighbors complained if we didn’t leash him because he’d get out of the yard and impregnate their very expensive and temperamental Dalmatians. So Brett and I were playing outside, and Turbo was so excited to be playing with us, he started running circles around me. Well, soon the chain started to slowly wrap around my body, and eventually it had pinned down my arms and was up at my neck! I couldn’t breathe and was starting to turn purple, and Brett eventually understood I was like dying and ran to get my mama. She unchained me, thank heaven. And I lived.

-Brett is very conscientious of what I am eating. It began in high school, when my mom enlisted him to do spy work at lunch, while I was deep in the throes of my anorexia. He can’t seem to shake this. He’ll see me at work, and for lunch, I may bring something like a granola bar, fruit snacks, cheese and crackers, and a Diet Coke, and he gets so upset because they aren’t “real food,” and how am I supposed to gain weight on snack foods? I’ll then stand there for the requisite lecture before being excused to go back to my desk, properly sorrowful for my erroneous ways. But it’s the appropriate thing to do, I suppose – have a brother look after his sister, I mean.

-Brett’s married to a fabulous chica, Angela. I’m in awe of the fact that I seemed to have married him, and he married me. And by that, I mean we each married spouses that are frighteningly like our respective twin. Weird. Awh. Aren't they adorable together?

I sure do love you, Betty!