Alias.

Ah, vacation. A chance to rejuvenate, get some color on my pasty skin, and eat seafood. I'm talking our annual pilgrimage to meet up with family in Sanibel Island, Florida. Woot, woot. Only this time, four new people came along...

It's a lovely day on the lanai in our condo, and I'm overhearing my husband on the phone trying to book a boat rental and he's repeating his name way too often. "Bryan." (Pause) "No, it's Bryan." (longer pause) "Bryan...no just Bryan."

What was up with that? I ask. Apparently, they started a bit early at Jenson's Marina and had a wee bit of trouble understanding someone who is now booked for a pontoon rental tomorrow under the name Ron Bryan.

"I don't know..." Bryan says, perplexed, "I kept telling them my name isn't 'Ron', it's 'Bryan', but somehow they decided on 'Ron Bryan..."

My husband, now asserting himself in a more confident manner, decides to adopt this new persona with vigor. Grabbing me tightly around the waist and planting a very dramatic smooch on me, he declares in a baritone voice, "Ron Bryan kisses like that."

Turns out Ron Bryan does a lot of things different. He speaks of himself in the third person, he collects only the best shells, he orders beers with a thunderous bellow.

That afternoon as Ron Bryan, myself, and my parents sit in beach chairs on a quiet stretch of sand, my father sits staring out at the ocean.

"Dad?" I ask, a bit concerned.

"My name is Hawk." What the...? It's as if for the better part of his life he has waited for the chance to claim this. No hesitation, just 'Hawk'. And apparently he no longer answers to 'Dad', either.

"Well, I want a name too." My mother whines. "I'm Periwinkle...no, I'm Sandollar. Sandollar!"

My father looks at her, disgusted. "Hawk doesn't associate with someone named Sandollar." He scoffs. "Your name is Blade."

My mother, in her polka-dot bathing suit, sipping chardonnay, wrinkles her nose. "Blade? That doesn't sound like me-"

"BLADE. That's it." He interrupts. I guess 'Hawk' wasn't the only name he has given forethought to. I later am christened as Scout, and the fab four raise their plastic glasses in a toast to our new found secret lives.

"Blade broke her toe." My mother announced as she limped on the beach the next day. Hawk rolled his eyes and said, "What's new." Turns out the alias didn't protect Blade from wayward driftwood or a lifetime affliction of clumsiness.

Scout doubled over with laughter as Ron Bryan pulled her back onto the boat with the grace of a blind juggler. "Was Blade a ballerina in another life?"

Hawk chuckles at my comment as Blade glowers at me, "Oh, shut up."

The fab four conquer sharing appetizers, finishing 1000 piece puzzles, and being overall fabulous. We later return home to our normal lives; Ron Bryan mows the lawn and Scout sweeps up dog hair. The aliases becomes less visible as we blend into the day-to-day, until we are virtually one in the same.

My cell phone rings the next week and my mother, laughing, speaks dramatically into the receiver.

"Hawk is going to be so mad at Blade! I got pulled over for speeding! I only got a warning, but-"

Without hesitation, Scout reacts: "Your identity has been compromised!! Abort mission! ABORT MISSION!"

Until next year, Sanibel.

Yours,

Scout

Three's Company.

In my house I like clean counters, no cell phone chargers left out, and the air fresh with dryer sheets. That being said, when my husband's brother Brent moved in with us six months ago, I immediately imagined my small quaint home resembling something like a locker room. Sports. Beer. Ugh. When the two of them tried to tell me of the amount of football about to be on my television, I mourned. Men. I was outnumbered.

What had I done? Why did I agree to this? Wait. Is the dishwasher emptied? Brent! You are amazing. I was wrong. I inherited a neat freak! A neat freak who cooks!?! You have got to be kidding. My good fortune!

Things changed around our house. We sat down for dinner. Not in front of the TV. We used my table now, the three of us. Ribs, shark, bacon-wrapped jalepenos. Grilled for me almost every night. We talked about our days. Laughing a lot. We played board games on the deck, drinking margaritas.

The atmosphere in the house changed. I guess it kind of...woke up. Brent liked to prank, do stuff like hide behind doors scaring the heck out of me when I came home from work, or hijack my Facebook page. I hid his dinner on the bookshelf, which I thought was funny. And I made a life-size Mel Gibson and hid it in his bedroom. My greatest creation.

I don't know, but slowly it was like he had always been there. Someone that was just my brother-in-law before was now like...my buddy. I looked forward to hearing his police stories from work. I even kind of like the mounted hunting trophy's he hung up-though I made a rule that anything with eyes had to go in his room. I'm still a liberal from Massachusetts, after all.

Last month when their grandmother passed away Bryan, Brent and I drove 5 hours to go to the funeral. We joined the rest of the family and headed to the wake, or visitation I think it was called, the next day. I remember scanning the room full of relatives I didn't know for Bryan, to see if he was ok. I saw him chatting with someone, he was smiling, and I sighed and relaxed. Then immediately I did the same for Brent. It was like, Bryan is ok-check, Brent is ok-check. My family is ok-check. When they cried at the funeral, I felt an ache. When they are sad, so am I.

I don't know how long Brent will live with us. He'll get a wife, a home, and be happy. I foresee nothing but good things for him to come. He deserves it. I think I'll probably be really sad when it's time for him to go. Yeah, I know I will. My house will be too quiet. And who will tease me? Who will I make fun of? Bryan is too easy a target. And too nice. But for now, when I am doing a jigsaw puzzle, got some Ray Lamontagne on the radio, watching two brothers cracking each other up, asking me to make them homemade margaritas, I'm a happy gal.