The More Things Change…

It’s fair to say that my brother, Scott, and I are middle-aged. It’s just that we keep forgetting that. When we’re together, we tend to lose sight of the fact that we are responsible 40-something parents with jobs and mortgages. That’s why all too often we wind up playing soccer together in my backyard or challenging each other to “find the Oompa Loompa” in the fine restaurant where we were dining. (He found her — an older woman who apparently had endured a run-in with entirely too much self tanner.)

So it’s no surprise that we ended up on the Dance Dance Revolution game after dinner at a rather nice restaurant during a recent family trip. (It’s also no surprise that his 13-year-old daughter went on to crush me at the game something like 5 million to 53,000. And I’m not exaggerating the numbers.)


We also led the family — my kids, his daughter, my husband and our mother (who is the Queen of Never Grow Up) — to cram ourselves into a photo booth for a series of pictures that mysteriously showed only my 10-year-old’s smiley face. (My mother has already scrapbooked them, or I’d scan and share.)

Rewind 20 or so years, and Scott and I are in charge of the Christmas night trip to New York City’s Dan Lynch Blues Bar in a Rent-a-Wreck decorated with Christmas lights and tinsel. Kazoo, anyone? Why, of course.

In other words, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

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