On Friday, the plan is that my son, my dog, and I will load up in the car and travel to spend the weekend visiting my mom. We’ll also get to see my brother and his son, my nephew Plow Boy (a name once again earned last week when, several months shy of his fifth birthday, he proved himself capable of causing my brother’s shoulder to become separated, with a bone chip thrown in for good measure). And just as important, our family will be together on my winged brother’s birthday, April 28^th.

Now it’s no secret that my brother and I are very different and often at odds with one another. Although we both love sports, we don’t usually agree on players or teams…and while we’re both greatly interested in politics, there’s only one politician about whom we even come close to agreeing (and that’s likely only because of our father’s association with him when he was campaigning for president). And as if this wasn’t enough, my brother has earned my mistrust, yet again, with his recent claims of being allergic to shellfish, in spite of the fact that it is common knowledge that anyone who doesn’t eat raw oysters is so obviously morally suspect.

But it doesn’t end there.

You see, although he walks upright (most of the time) and his knuckles rarely drag, he somewhat adeptly uses his opposable thumbs, and he owns (and occupies) a decent house, my brother is conspicuously unevolved. I can say this because I’ve been in his kitchen, one equipped with not much more than a fridge, microwave, stove, deep fryer, and an iron skillet. How he cooks so well (and he does cook well), I’m not so sure, but for his birthday, I’ve decided to thrust him towards the lifestyle of our species by giving him a decent garlic press.

I made a mistake, however, in that I waited until this past weekend to start my search, thinking that it would be a fairly simple task to zip into the store and buy a garlic press, just like the incredible one I have, the one I am fairly certain I can’t live without. That said, I waited too late to order one online without paying an outrageous price for hastened shipping given that, seemingly, everyone else around here must already own a decent garlic press (that's the only reasonable explanation I can come up with to justify why local stores deemed it unnecessary to stock decent garlic presses).

Ahem.

And in a town where mental health is the third largest industry (behind educating folks and building pickups, rather expensive pickups), the pool from which one can collect sane friends is admittedly rather shallow. I thought I’d done a decent job at it, though, so I thought nothing of asking a few of my closest and dearest for guidance as to where I should look next for this holy grail of a garlic press. But instead of offering suggestions, the initial reactions from these people who I thought were normal, these people who I have allowed to enter my inner circle, treating them not as though I'd just taught them to play basketball in some institution with Chief standing under the basket, but instead, like they were normal, like me, well those wild-eyed fuckers reacted like I’d just asked them if I could lick the backsides of their kneecaps. A few of them smothered their chuckles just barely enough to offer responses that were little more than rhetorical pleasantries (“A garlic press? You're the only person I know who'd...oh never mind...did you try the store?”), but their initial glances towards the heavens followed by heavy sighs let me know…ain’t none of my folks right in the head.

I wept inside for them, but I couldn’t waste a lot of time worrying about them, as I was not willing to give up on my mission, my search for THE garlic press, in spite of the obvious urgency for some desperately needed mental healthcare for my buds. And it’s a good thing…because I did find a decent garlic press, not like the one I own, but possibly better, the one I’d almost ordered from Williams Sonoma, with the garlic slicer right next to the press.

And so now my brother will be hurtling towards civilized living and my friends, well, I suspect they’re outside now, raiding my birdfeeder for thistle and sunflower seeds.

(Happy 43rd, Bro!)