O Brother, Where Art Thou? 

Welcome to the first installment of CL's new women's column Vodka Yonic. To read past editions, visit our sister paper Nashville Scene.

After I made sure the fireball that smashed into my shoulder hadn't set my long, loose hair on fire, I asked my friend why he decided to chase me with a Roman candle in the public parking lot. I had successfully dodged all but the final flaming projectile, much to the delight of my friends, who cheered as they filmed the attack. The friend who nearly set me on fire sincerely apologized for frightening me, remarking that I took it "like a champ" before asking, "Come on, didn't you grow up with brothers?"

No, I definitely did not. I'm the oldest of three girls; even amongst my extended family, female cousins outnumbered male cousins nearly three to one. The kind of raucous, dangerous childhood my friend was asking about just didn't exist for me. Sure, we played in trees and creeks — we definitely had our fair share of scrapes and bruises — and we had video games. We just didn't try to push people off of limbs or play complicated drowning games, and I never attempted to strangle my sister with the Nintendo cord.

While I'm by no means a gender essentialist, I can't help but notice a difference in the childhood stories shared by people with brothers versus those of us who had none. For instance, I can remember a period of bitchy adolescent annoyance when my stepsister was in a copycat phase, following me around everywhere. Sisters, right? Well, my dad tricked his brother onto the roof and took away the ladder. The story goes that he was up there for hours. I also remember a childhood friend whose little brother lost an eye due to an unfortunate self-stabbing after a mishap with a rope and knife. I think he was 7 years old at the time. One time my sister got chicken pox. The tales really don't compare.

I really wanted a brother when I was growing up. Specifically, I wanted an older brother. To be even more specific, I wanted a cute older brother with even cuter friends who would always be hanging around. It was a very exciting time for middle-school me when a girlfriend of mine acquired a stepbrother — a stepbrother with a car. He was very good-natured about taking his new sister and her weird, bookish friend to the drive-in and assorted fast-food establishments. He lent me a few copies of Kurt Vonnegut novels (I was a very erudite 13-year-old, or so I thought) and, using the magical powers of adult hindsight, was a very good older brother to my friend and her sisters. But older brothers are supposed to be good. Older sisters? Fuck if I was driving a bunch of kids around when I got a car.

It wasn't until college that I made a lot of male friends. It was a group of guys with interests similar to mine — alas, still "bookish" — so there weren't yet the kind of life-or-death parking lot explosion games I've come to know and tolerate. But I was way behind on supposedly shared pop culture. Maybe things are different now, but when I was a kid in the far-back olden days of the late 1980s and early '90s, there were still pretty big trenches between "boy shows" and "girl shows," or "boy movies" and "girl movies." I think that if I had grown up with brothers, I would be more knowledgeable about the Star Wars universe, or He-Man, or whatever. Of course, my college friends never wanted to talk about The Baby-sitter's Club, so maybe we should just make a rule that ostensible adults should spend less time shedding nostalgic tears for media of yesteryear. Sorry, Buzzfeed.

My post-college friendships skewed older, and toward people who were really into music. I was — and still am — sometimes at a loss during these balls-deep music-nerd conversations. I've had several friends closer to my age who had older brothers (and sisters) introduce them to bands and artists I'm still forgetting the names of. Do you have any idea how much smoother my social interactions would be if I had been born with a brother old enough to love Pavement or Sonic Youth? "Anyone wanna talk about The Baby-sitter's Club? No? OK, carry on."

I've never actually discussed my desire for a brother with my family. Maybe I'm the only one who wanted one. Perhaps my parents shuddered at the thought of a potential son constantly trapping his sisters on the roof. Maybe my sisters thought my strange friends hanging around was annoying enough and would have hated to have some greasy teenaged music-nerd boys eating all the Pizza Bagel Bites.

I'm lucky, really, because so many of my friends have ended up as surrogate brothers, the kind I always wanted. They're cute, bookish, very good-natured about going on trips with a bunch of girls, and have taught me how to be a little more raucous without necessarily veering into recklessness. That said, I know where to buy Roman candles if I need them.