What's the First Thing that Pops Into Your Mind When You Think of Your Father?

Sandwiches. Perhaps I should expand on that . . .

It's probably not the first thing I would normally think about but I'm sitting here eating a sandwich so it made me recall something Mamo said recently.

I was home for Memorial Day weekend and the only thing I was expected to accomplish was to fix Mamo's DVD/VCR recorder. So, of course, I saved it until the last minute.

I stopped by on my way out of town to find an empty house. My Uncle Dave and Aunt Deb had come by to pick Mamo up so they could place their flowers on the family's gravestones and Mamo could take hers home. This left me a lot of quiet time to make the fixes.

When they returned, Mamo had me stay for dinner. We had BBQ beef sandwiches. I loaded mine up with pickles and then returned the top bun. Then, as I normally do, I smashed the sandwich under my palm.

Deb and Dave looked at me like I was weird and he made some remark.

"You know who she gets that from!" Mamo answered for me. "She gets it from her dad! He always smashes his sandwiches, too!"

And I realized it's funny the habits you pick up from your parents. The way you smash your sandwich and dent your pop can. You cross your legs the same and throw your socks at people when you take them off.

I didn't say they were all good habits!

The Words She Knows the Tune She Hums

Wayne and I were playing our game again the other day when I thought I had a clear winner.

"Elton 'Tiny Dancer!'"

"The Beatles, 'Back in the U.S.S.R.' Epic battle!"

And then we argued for ten minutes over which won. I love the Beatles, but I would totally listen to 'Tiny Dancer' if I had to choose between the two!

For the first time ever, we had to bring in a third party. I asked my friend Michelle which she would choose. I made sure not to sway her one way or the other.

"I don't remember the Elton John one."

"What??? What is wrong with you???"

I sang her a few lines. "Oh yeah. I kinda remember. Um. I guess I'd have to go with the Beatles since I don't really know it."

After I unleashed my fury upon her, I relayed her answer to Wayne. He pumped his fist in the air. And I thought that would be the end of it. Until I saw his Facebook status:

"If 'Back in the USSR' and 'Tiny Dancer' were to do battle, who would win???"

It was on! I started polling the first people I saw. My parents.

They needed no time to think about it. "No question," my mom said. "'Tiny Dancer.'"

"That's not even a very good Beatles song!" My dad proclaimed.

Today, I asked my brother.

"Can I skip both and just listen to 'Party in the U.S.A.?'"

In the car on another trip back home, this song came on.

Mamo happened to be with us and was pretty freaked out when we all broke out in song. And even more scared when my dad, mom, brother and I all started headbanging.

At least now you know my insanity is genetic!

I've Got a Bad Disease

I heard this morning and laughed.

It always makes me laugh because it reminds me of my dad. My dad, who always answers "Black Sabbath" when the question is "Who sings this song?" My dad, who makes every car trip memorable.

One time, we were coming back from my grandparents' in Missouri. We were nearing the end of the trip when this song came on the radio. The opening lyrics are "I've got a bad disease. But* from my brain is where I bleed."

My dad shifted in his seat and made up his own words.

"I've got a bad disease. IT'S CALLED TIIIIRED BUUUUTT!"



*Some swear it's "Up from my brain is where I bleed." Who cares. It's not really crucial to the story that I get it right.

Below This Same Remembering Sky

Today, my parents are celebrating thirty years of wedded bliss.

Dad celebrated by mowing the lawn while Mom worked at the pool all day. Romantic, no?

We celebrated as a family last week with a trip to Kansas City. And when I say we, I really mean Marcus, T-Biscuit and I celebrated. Because all weekend long, my parents would ask "What do you want to do? Where do you want to go? Won't you take this money to have a good time?"

I know. We're incredibly spoiled. But somehow, my parents have a good time watching us have a good time. They're cool like that.

And don't think it was all about us. They had an ulterior motive in all this. The more time we spent doing the stuff we wanted to do meant more time for them to spend time alone with The Boy. Their favorite.

Thanks for the fun times--in Kansas City and all the years before! Happy Anniversary!

Love is Like Laughter

I've just finished packing up all the presents I'm bringing for your party. Today you finally get to start talking about your birthday in terms of years.

It seems like you're taking after your Aunt Bee a bit. You've been reminding us for awhile that you're turning one.

Your new thing is to point your index finger in the air as if to say "I'm not sure if you remembered, but there's a special birthday coming up. A certain someone is turning one, you know."

I'm not sure what happened to the year. Wasn't it just the other day that you were a bug of a thing, cocooned in a blanket while I worried about whether or not my brother was ready to be a daddy? Now you're on the verge of taking your first steps and my brother is a pro at changing diapers.

Not that he doesn't beg your Grammy to change them instead.

We ask because we know she'll do it. That lady would do anything if it meant getting some more one-on-one with you.

And I know this will probably embarrass you later in life, but you're the same way. Yes. You're totally a Grandma's Boy.

If she's in the room and it's time to sleep, you don't want anyone but her. If she leaves your sight, you start bawling as though she were never returning.

You were hanging out with Grandpa and me and you bumped your head. Grandpa grabbed you and you whimpered but were fine. Grandpa sat down and you decided to be King of the Drama.

You started screaming and turning red. We tried to quiet you and I realized you were shouting at the hallway. You didn't realize Grammy was gone and you were hollering for her. I had to take you through the whole house to show you that she wasn't around before you'd stop yelling.

Which isn't to say you don't like anyone else. You remind me of your Daddy because you will smile at everyone. Even strangers. But especially with family.

And even more especially when you're in trouble. You do a lot of standing up at the coffee table. At Grammy's that means you have a lot of catalogs and junk mail and candles within your reach. Apparently, they're just so tempting you're always grabbing at something. And of course, someone is always telling you "no."

Instead of getting mad, though, you'll turn to the Negative Nancy and grin. It's funny because you don't even move your hand. You just turn with a big smile as if to say "But look at this! Aren't I adorable with this face? Do you really mean 'No?' Or do you mean 'Go ahead and do whatever you want, you gorgeous creature?'"

Of course we mean it, so we usually have to separate you from the table for a bit. You just wander, un-fazed, off to a toy that you're allowed to touch. But it's just a ploy to get us to think you're being good. Once we're not paying attention, you'll go right back to all that junk mail.

The problem with that plan is that there's always someone paying attention. Nobody can take their eyes off of you.

You've totally changed the way our family works. The television is on, but no one's watching. All plans are made revolving around you.

It kind of freaks me out to see the change in how the family acts now. I never thought I'd see your Daddy look at someone the way he looks at you. Or talk to someone in a voice like that! How goofy!

I knew Grammy would be kooky, but I didn't expect that most of our conversations would be all about you. I didn't know how heartbroken she would be when she's not able to see you in weeks.

Your Grandpa is the biggest surprise. That guy is crazy about you! He changed a diaper. Full of poo. He'll just gaze at you and tell me how he can't believe how awesome you are.

You are pretty awesome. Awesomely spoiled!

Someone's always buying you something. Or giving you a new treat. Or grabbing you for a snuggle.

You're pretty good at the snuggle when you want to be. Your new thing is to slam the side of your face into your snuggle object and pat it with your right hand. The Boy's version of the hug.

I always thought that the spoiling was going to be my job. The plan was that I would spoil you and I would be your favorite. Since everyone else is stealing my method, I'm always afraid you're not going to remember or like me so well.

Last time I saw you, you gave me that look when I showed up. You know, the look that says "Oh not this whacky chick again!"

Once I got my stuff put away, I grabbed you and tossed you in the air a few times. That always gets you laughing.

I tossed you in the air and then sat you in my lap. I would have tossed you more, but as I've mentioned, I was a little afraid of the results.

You didn't seem to mind, though. You laughed and then slammed your head down on my belly and gave it a good pat.

You like me!

You couldn't be bothered to sit there for long, though. No. You had too much to show me. You crawled off, giggling as you went.

You laugh all the time. No really. It's great! Because, what more could I wish for you?

It is always my greatest hope that you will be happy and healthy and that your life be full of laughter.

Happy Birthday, Jackson!

Heart,
Aunt Bee

When I Was Jazzercised

While I was home, we gave Dad some crap (pun intended) about never changing diapers.

Like most dudes, he's not a diaper guy. I mean, it's not like anyone really enjoys it. It just seems like it's usually a chick getting stuck with the duty.

I've changed enough diapers in the last couple of years that they don't bother me as much. But I still can't get used to the ones full of poo. I really really hate it and it always ends up a big mess as I'm hollering more than the kid.

So Mom always gets stuck changing the diapers. "Ew! You stink, kid! MOOOOOOOM!"

Once, during the weekend, we got stuck without Mom around. And The Boy definitely needed a change. He didn't seem to be cranky about it, so I took my time gathering the necessary supplies. This gave me some time to work up my courage.

You see, I had just picked a booger out of the kid's nose. It's not often that I'll do that, either. But it really big and making his whistle as he breathed. Plus, it looked pretty dry and I thought it would just kinda fall out with a little prompting.

I reached my pinky nail in there and dug that sucker out. Then I seriously almost threw up. The booger was even bigger than I thought and it was all wet on the other end. I don't know how something that giant even fit in that little nose.

I needed a little time to work up to more trauma.

While I was trudging around the house, Dad finally got tired of the smell and took The Boy to the other room and asked me to bring him the stuff.

I was speechless. Was Dad really going to change a diaper?

So of course, I grabbed my camera and snuck a picture before I went in to help.

He needed help, too. There was a lot of poo in there. He used about fifty wipes. I stood by and held the crappy diaper in one hand and handed him wipes with the other. It was like surgery or something. Except the request wasn't "Scalpel." It was "Hurry I need another wipe now!"

I kept waiting for him to ask me to sponge the sweat off his brow!

Do Ya Think We Oughta Oughta?

I guess there are few people outside my family who know what Ottabin hair is.

My dad came home one night from work when I was pretty young. "Hey, did you do something to your hair?"

"No."

"You look like you have Ottabin hair today!"

"What?"

"Ottabin! Oughta been on a dog's butt!"

Stuff like that is funny in my family.

I also like puns. My friend Jackson and I spent a whole night looking around his room and trying to be "punny." No really. A whole night. Yes, we were sober!

The other night, I found out Jacque likes to be punny, too. She was making me lasagne for dinner.

"Should I put oregano or parsley on the garlic bread?" She asked.

"Definitely oregano."

"Oregano will!"

You know. She made it sound like "I reckon I will!"

I know. Sometimes I think my friends and I will laugh at anything!

The Day that I'd Wake Up to Find My Wendy

I just talked to my mom this morning. She told me my hometown is getting a Wendy's.

I'm pretty sure my dad is pee-in-his-pants excited right now, just thinking about all the square hamburgers he'll get to eat.

The Face that Fills the Hole

I have some real restroom issues.

Problem 1: I can't go if someone is in the restroom with me. Like, I'll walk into a giant restroom and someone will walk in behind me and ends up in the stall clear down the way from me and I'll sit and not be able to go until the other person is done and gone.

Problem 2: My poop stinks dude! My family will all chime in on that one, I'm sure. I think it's all the chemicals in the food I eat.

Problem 3: This is probably related to problem #2 (Get it? #2? Hee hee!); I really hate pooping anywhere but at my home. But sometimes you can't help it.

Problem 4: Most of the time, I have to poop within half an hour of eating. I think maybe I'm trying to make room.

When I eat at Carlos O'Kelly's, I have to go like five minutes after eating. Like clockwork. My dad is well aware of this problem.

"Well, I'm full. Should we get going?"

"We might as well wait here. She'll have to dump in a few minutes."

When I went home a couple of weeks ago, Mom and Dad took us to Carlos O'Kelly's for dinner. We decided to eat fried ice cream for dessert and I realized I wasn't going to be able to wait.

So I headed off to the restroom and arrived just in time to see a father leading his little girl through the door. He waited outside as I walked in behind her. She rushed into the handicapped stall and left her door open. I stepped into the other stall and latched the door tightly.

I heard the pitter-patter of her bare feet (I know! Ew!) as she walked in and out of her stall. Eventually, she "went" and started talking. I had no idea what she was saying so I remained quiet. She flushed and headed to the sink where I listened as she got paper towel after paper towel.

Oh did I mention I wasn't pooping while this was happening? See Problem 1.

Then I heard her yell "Dad! I can't reach the sink!"

When there was no response, "Dad! I can't reach the sink!!!"

Then I heard her feet and hoped she was leaving. Instead, I saw her feet at my door. "DAD!" She yells at my stall. "I CAN'T REACH THE SINK!"

"Um. I think he's outside," I told her, trying to help as I was sitting on the pot with my jeans around my thighs.

Then Barefoot Canyella decides to see if I'm lying. I see her eyeball smashed up against the crack between the door and the wall of the stall, staring in at me.

No really. Even after I point toward the door and explain her dad isn't in here with me. Apparently she didn't believe me.

Doesn't she know the proper thing to do would have been to bend down and look at my shoes?

Dies Irae, Dies Illa

While I was at home last weekend, I was craving some hash browns.

Saturday night, I told my mom and dad I wanted some for breakfast on Sunday. When I woke up, there were none waiting for me.

"I can go to Sonic to get you some," my mom offered.

I'm sorry but tater tots and hash browns just aren't the same! She just wanted an excuse to get another vanilla Coke.

I stayed until Monday morning. When my dad was trying to get me out of bed, i told him I didn't smell hash browns.

"You're not close enough to the kitchen."

Seems like it was just a ploy to get me up. There was nothing cooking.

Yesterday, I spent some time with Raw and the girls. Her mom made me has browns. I didn't even have to ask for them!

Sophia wasn't as interested in the hash browns as she was in the Pringles. Grandpa Tom was feeding her a chip and said "Body of Christ."

And then I ran because I was pretty sure God was going to smite him.

"Ah. He doesn't have time to punish me for a tiny joke!"

Don't Misunderstand Me

I hate Porta-Potties.

I know, I know . . . who the hell likes them?

But I refuse to use them. I will hold it until I explode, rather than step into one of those disgusting, stinky hell-holes.

When I was in high school, our Country Club built a new clubhouse. So during my golf season that year, our team was stuck with a Johnny-on-the-Go.

On one particular day, I really had to go. I contemplated going in the bushes, but decided I couldn't trust the girls to let me have some peace. I decided to suck it up and go in the Johnny.

Surely it couldn't be that bad. It was kind of an off-season for golf; there couldn't be too many people filling it.

I held my breath and rushed to finish. I went to open the door and

it wouldn't open.

I WAS STUCK IN A PORTA-POTTY!

Really it was perhaps my worst nightmare. I began to panic. I felt the walls close in on me and just knew that somehow, my only way out was going to somehow end up with me slipping through . . . well . . . the big hole.

It took me what seemed like hours, but was really only a few seconds, to jimmy the door enough that I was able to burst forth out into the open, fresh air.

That sealed the deal. No. More. Porta-potties.

I talked to my dad this weekend and told him about my night at Club Rodeo. I tried to explain why I wasn't too excited about getting up close and personal with the bulls. "I figure, I've been to a rodeo before."

"Yeah and you wouldn't go in the outhouse!"

Apparently, even as a little kid, I knew Porta-Potties were death traps.

I have to admit, though, at first I was confused. I didn't realized he meant I wouldnt use the outhouse. I thought he meant I wouldn't go to the stripclub outside of Lawrence, The Outhouse.

Growing in a Hurry

The Boy is becoming quite the charmer. And thanks to Aunt Bee, he has his very first Transformers frisbee.

And Dad is way more into the him than he looks in this picture.

You're Always Scratchin' at the Eight Ball

As many of you may already know, I blew up The Buick, a mere fourteen months after destroying The Croc.

I headed north to my brother's place on Friday night, so I could babysit The Boy.

We had quite a day. He spent his day eating, sleeping, running in place and punching the air. I spent the day filling bottles, singing songs and changing diapers.

My parents brought Mamo and dinner later in the day so we could have a Mothers' Day celebration.

After dinner, hanging out and dessert, Dad headed back home with Mamo, while Mom and I headed to Wal-Mart in The Buick.

It was pretty late so Wal-Mart wasn't totally horrible. I did have to get attitude with some of the workers.

My mom was looking to buy a simple and cheap silver band. They had just what she was looking for in the jewelry department, but it was locked in the glass case. We stood there for quite awhile, obviously looking like we needed someone to help us.

Meanwhile, two chicks in red vests, which I'm assuming indicates management of some sort, were cleaning out the registers and talking about texting people. I know they could see us just standing there. In fact, as they walked to the department, they walked by us and glanced at us standing by the case.

Finally, I got really grumpy and walked over to one.

"Excuse me. Is this department not open?"

Both the girls looked at me like I was rude for interrupting. "Well, we're just closing these registers, but you're welcome to look."

DUH! You mean we can walk through and look at stuff that's just sitting out? Awesome!

"Right. But can we buy stuff?"

"Yeah. Sure!" The girl answered in a friendly tone but I was incredibly irritated. I hate conversations where you can't get a full answer.

"Okay," I sighed and really tried to hide the fact that I wanted to punch her. "My mother would like to see something in the case. Are you able to unlock it?"

"Yeah. Sure!"

And then she still just stood there.

She eventually sent someone our way and my mom finally got her ring, and I got to add to my list of reasons why I don't like to shop there.

Mom and I were both thirsty, so we hit Sonic before heading out of town. My mom is a bit of an addict when it comes to Sonic. No matter how tired she is, she's always up for a vanilla Coke.

At ten minutes to midnight, we both heard some strange noises and The Buick started acting strangely.

"Is that your car?" My mom asked.

"Yeah. I think so."

I turned everything off; air, radio, etc. The engine died and with it went the power steering and brakes. I struggled to keep the car out of the ditch as I pulled over to the rocky and uneven shoulder.

Four miles east of Riley, there is a big sign. It's all light up and has a big arrow pointing the way to Riley. We see this sign most every time we go to and come from Manhattan. We ended up just south of the sign.

So when I called my dad to tell him where we were, I was really irritated that he didn't understand where we were.

I should probably mention that I didn't have very good service in that spot, even in roam. The Flint Hills are awesome at blocking reception. And I was a little high-strung and rambling things like "The sign! Tuttle Creek Boulevard and the big sign! To Riley! AAAAAARRRRGH!"

I went back to the car and looked under the hood. Because I really know what I'm doing under there.

There was water where water should be. The engine didn't feel overly hot. So I pulled the oil dipstick. And didn't see any oil.

I always check my oil before I travel. My dad had changed my oil last time I was home and I checked it a couple of weeks ago. But I didn't check it before I left Friday night.

I felt sick.

I called my dad back and told him I was pretty sure there was no oil. He didn't sound excited but was on his way.

I got back into the car with my mom and waited.

"I feel like I have to pee, poop and puke all at the same time."

"Well . . . we're in the middle of nowhere. Go out in the field and have at it!" My mom laughed.

Soon after that, a big truck pulled in front over in front of us and a man came walking back.

"You need any help?"

"No thanks. I already called my dad. He should be here soon."

A few minutes later, another truck stopped, reversed and pulled over. A youngish guy got out of the truck and hesitated. I'm pretty sure his wife/girlfriend forced him to see if we needed help.

"Thanks. I'm pretty sure I blew up my car, but we have some help coming. Thank you very much, though!"

I thought the days of Good Samaratans were over!

When my dad got there, he took a look at the engine. There was, in fact, oil in the car. Apparently, the hood light was too dim for me to see the oil. I was a bit relieved until Dad had me start the car.

"Okay. Turn it off," he ordered after only listening for two seconds.

I was a bit flipped out, which made me rude and snippy. As my dad pulled us over to a little parking area, my mom was trying to make me feel better by telling me a story. I realized I wasn't listening to her and then when I tried to listen, I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin.

"I'm really sorry. I'm not trying to be mean but I just can't do this right now."

I'd like to publicly apologize to my parents. I really appreciate their help. I was just really really keyed up.

What's the moral of this story? Probably that you should not let me drive your car. I do not seem to be having the best luck.

I'm pretty sure it's Mother Earth telling me to hurry up and get that bicycle.

Sometimes You Gotta Fit In to Get In

So I had a pretty good Christmas. I scored a lot of good loot.

I piled all my opened presents under my mom and dad's Christmas tree so I could gaze upon them all day long. That's how much I liked my presents this year.

It was quite a pile, too. On top of my new grill/griddle, I piled shoes, knives, bath stuff, underwear . . .

That's right. I put my new Victoria's Secret 'Pink' underwear out for everyone to see. What's wrong with that? It's not like it was dirty.

At least I wasn't running around modeling it!

I went to several Christmas celebrations. You can see pictures of some here, here and here.

After all these get-togethers, my parents and I were worn out. We were very lazy the rest of the weekend.

One of these lazy days, my dad asked my mom if she had done any laundry.

"No. I told you I was going to do it tomorrow."

"Oh man! You mean I won't have any underwear for tomorrow?" He joked.

"No problem, Dad! I've got several pair you can choose from right there in that box under the tree!"

Let Your Fever Come

One by one, over the Thanksgiving weekend, Evan, Chris and Jacque all got really horribly sick. In that order.

Evan was first, all misrable during the Thanksgiving festivities. Then Chris started.

Now, this wasn't just your average achy and sneezy stuff. This was the all-out both-ends variety of sick.

When Jacque started feeling queasy, Chris, still miserable, tells Jacque "You'd better get the chicken noodle soup made before you start feeling too bad!"

Last Wednesday, I got a call from my father. "When are you coming here?"

I was planning to visit over the weekend but wasn't leaving until Friday. "Well, maybe Friday. But I was thinking--"

"You mean you aren't coming tonight?"

"Um. No . . ." I was confused. "I have to work . . ."

"But we need you to come up here and take care of us!"

It turns out my parents had been hit by the same flu virus.

We were talking about it this weekend, as I was continually disinfecting things and rubbing hand sanitizer on my hands. "I bet Dad was really happy you gave him such a lovely virus."

"He was pretty grumpy. He would have killed me if he felt like moving."