Excessive Force

Hit my first house bright & early this morning, off to a great start! Left there & headed to the center of town to pick up my Dyson from repair. I was cruising happily down Sheridan, took a left on McClure and boom! there it was, an accident. Paramedics. Fire Engine. Squad Car. In the distance, a black wrecker. Huh. I sat for a moment, and the white Hyundai in front of me started to move. Being the heifer that I am, I followed. I assumed there was SOMEONE up ahead directing traffic. The accident appeared to be clearing up. The doors were closed on the ambulance. I didn't see anyone loitering. The flatbed was loading up a little red car far from being in dire condition. It was at this point, I realized the error of my ways... ...there was NO ONE directing traffic... Here I was, in the oncoming lane, white Hyundai no longer in my vision and there's nobody directing traffic. Oooops. About the time I realized there was No One Directing Traffic, I heard a man bellow, "HEY!" I stopped the Honda and looked over my right shoulder. Nobody to my right, nobody behind me-- What the hell---? At that precise moment, a man practically screamed in my driver's side window, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?????" That be Law Enforcement. Having seen No One, imagine my stunned surprise when I realized Officer Friendly was standing less than three feet away from my open driver's side window, Sputtering with Rage. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I immediately began to tremble. I've been driving 31 years, folks. THIRTY-ONE YEARS BEHIND THE WHEEL: three minor accidents involving law-enforcement, two speeding tickets and ONE expired license and NEVER in my LIFE has someone in Law Enforcement been anything but polite to me. NEVER. Regardless of what I may or may not have done... I attempt to collect myself. "What was the question, Dawn?" my brain asked. Oh, yeah. "I'm going to get my vacuum," I answered myself. Although the brain is still firing, I cannot manage to form a complete sentence, I am so stunned. My brilliant response to Officer Friendly was: "Going." To which he yelled: "WHERE ARE YOU GOING????" Well, hell, Officer, ya caught me--I'm a rolling Meth Lab... Ya caught me, Officer, Robert Snowden in Drag...The State Department can rest easy knowing YOU were the brave soul on the job. The one responsible for catching Robert Snowden. And here President Obama thought his ass was in Russia. Nope. He's dressed in drag, driving a white Honda CR-V through mid-town Peoria, at the intersection of Knoxville & McClure. Step up for your medal of honor, sir... Officer, ya caught me--doing mach 3 in a combo school zone/construction zone talking on my cell phone AND texting. Wellllll, I'll be dipped, Officer, ya caught me: DUI at 0900 on a Monday morning, convicted felon armed to the gills. Better call ATF for back-up... But, back to Officer Friendly, spewing forth venom: "WHERE ARE YOU GOING???" Stilllll stammering, I responded: "There." Brilliant, Dawn. Keep 'em comin'... "HOW ARE YOU GOING THERE WHEN I HAVE THE LANE BLOCKED????" It was at this point in time, my brain began firing correctly and I was instantly able to put this entire scenario In Perspective... ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? You wanna cuff me, you Jack Ass??? Why don't you tase me, while you're at it, you arrogant b*stard. It was an Honest Mistake, why don't you crucify me along with humiliate me in front of the line of traffic you've got backed-up here while you grind your Point of Authority home??? And then I thought to myself, "Well, Asshole, you don't have the ROAD blocked, so I was gonna use THAT." Thankfully, my sunglasses were perched perfectly on my face. Had they been askew, he'd have clearly seen the absolutely livid, furious look I had especially for him. "Where do you want me to go?" I spit out from between clenched jaws. "BACK UP!" And he pointed his finger behind me, whereupon there were 25 cars lined up behind his Scene. I did just that. I backed up 80 feet to the nearest parking lot, calmly turned my car around and surprised myself by not peeling-out, laying rubber, or fish-tailing. I did, however, fly The Bird for Officer Friendly, but I did so Under The Radar. I looked in my rear-view mirror to find him standing in the middle of The Road, staring at my vehicle as it pulled away. Was he waiting for The Bird? Or was he making a note of my license plate for future reference? Hopefully he has the memory of an elephant, if he talks to everyone the way he spoke to me, he has a lot of license plates to remember. I am very thankful I was alone. Had my husband been in the car, I'm pretty sure he'd be in County right now, awaiting his next hearing. What frightens me the most is: what if that had been my child who had been driving and had become confused? What if my child had become frightened and took off? What then? Furthermore, what was wrong with walking up to the window and asking, "Ma'am, what are you doing?" I understand he's not patroling the nicest of areas, but for the love of God, I thought I was going to Hell for making a mistake. I really thought that there was someone directing traffic. Really, I did. But the slope of the road, I couldn't tell. So, I followed the white Hyundai. That car was probably Robert Snowden in drag cooking meth, dead drunk at 0900 on a sunny, Monnday morning, armed to the teeth...

Navigationally Challenged Barbie

"You need to quit airing our dirty laundry on FaceBook," my husband complained to me about a month ago.

I screw my forehead in confusion, "Huh? I don't air our dirty laundry on FaceBook, Birdy."

"Yeah, well, ______ called me at work yesterday and said I can't get out of bed Monday through Friday without hitting the snooze 3x, but on Saturday, I wake up BEFORE the alarm. Really, you need to quit putting OUR business on FaceBook."

It's not OUR business, and it was funny.

Therefore, as opposed to making a FaceBook post, I decided to blog about him...


My husband is the biggest adventure I have embarked upon, outside of giving birth and attempting to raise well-balanced, well-adjusted, productive members of society.

Birdy is content to wear t-shirts to work, holes and all. If I purchase something at a garage sale, he's happy to wear it; however, when it comes to hunting, NOTHING but the best will do. He has one pair of sneakers, one pair of dress shoes, one pair of casual dress shoes, a pair of cowboy boots, work boots, and one pair of "run-out-to the kennel" shoes. I could go on all day long about how many different pairs of shoes he has for hunting. Or boots. Or hip waders, or chest waders, or scent-lock, or camo jeans, or sweatshirts, or duck hunting pull-overs, or down jackets, or hunting bibs (which differ greatly from hip waders or chest waders). Or, how many pairs of long johns he has. Or hunting socks. He has more hunting socks than I have everyday socks. Then there is the scent-free toiletries, not to mention how many firearms he owns (we won't delve too deeply, as we don't want to alert ATF), or bows for that matter. I mean, physically, you can only hunt with one bow at a time. Or should we discuss how many tree stands lay in and around our yard, basement, patio...but currently, out patio is being occupied by goose decoys.

Like 50 of them.

When we lived in town, he hollered up the basement steps and asked me, "Where are my _____ shoes?" The blank is not a description of said shoes, but a colorful adjective...

"In the basement."

"All my stuff's in the basement, why are all my things in the basement and YOUR stuff is upstairs? Why aren't your shoes in the basement?"

"You have so much SHIT, there's not enough room for all of it up here, so in order to keep it CONTAINTED, I decided to put it all in the basement. Altogether. Let's face it, you come with more freakin' accessories than BARBIE. That bitch is jealous of you..."

Most of that still holds true here at the new house. Even the accessories.

I am a creature of habit, but decided to go ahead and let him keep some of his hunting stuff in the upstairs closet. Because he is taller, we hung his stuff on the top rack in the closet. I'm not sure why, since he can get everything he needs down, put cannot put anything back up there. NOTHING. I am forever dragging the stool out, scaling it, and hanging his Barbie crap back up for him. To keep it altogether. To get it out of my HAIR.

I've complained long and loud about how much of a mess my husband is in the mornings, but on hunting mornings, he is especially challenged...

...I am married to a man who took me turkey hunting in the canyons just east of the Mississippi River. In the driving rain. Up a mountainside with low-hanging branches on trees that didn't produce leaves, but long, vicious stickers. Like trees covered with needles. Over an electric fence that would put a steer on its knees...I'm stumbling over tree roots, going uphill, loaded down like a pack mule, carrying a firearm in one hand, having left one hand free to carry a flashlight. Which I promptly turned on...

"SHUT THAT THING OFF!!!!!!"

Huh? Are you kidding?

"SHUT IT OFF, NOW!!!!!" he whisper-screams. Yes, it's possible. Go hunting with the man, you'll witness it.

We don't call it Birdy BootCamp for nothing...the man is focused.

There's a fine line between hobby and mental illness.

One of us crossed that line many, many mooooons ago...

"But, I can't see, Birdy."

"You'll do fine! We don't want the turkeys to see it."

It's 0400 in the driving rain, I'm pretty sure they're smarter than us and they're still sleeping...

Who's the turkey here, bud?

So, although I was terrified to put an eye out on a needle-tree, I clicked off the flashlight. Mr. Sure-footed led us directly to the tent, whereupon I promptly laid down in my rain gear and fell asleep til the sun came over the horizon.

Hunting Barbie behaves far differently in his own bedroom.

This past Saturday was my first day off in two weeks. I have been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger with hives lately. Last Friday night I made a request, "Look, I'm beat, will you please not wake me up in the morning?" Hunting Barbie has latched onto something to hunt this late in the season.

SNOW GEESE.

Do I care?

Nope.

I get enough goose season, duck season, turkey season, teal season, dove season, shotgun season, bow season, crappie season, blue gill season, bass season, mushroom season to last me a lifetime. I DON'T GIVE A FREE-FLYING ____ about snow geese.

Honestly. Don't care.

Don't wake me up.

"Get the dog out of the bedroom. She'll start pivoting like a ballerina the minute YOU wake her up & drive me nuts till I get up and feed her."

So, at 0425, his alarm goes off and he hits the snooze button. Thanks. At 0426 the alarm goes off again. He gets out of the bed, walks directly into the wall, clearing a shelf, breaking a picture frame, and knocking a shadow box and it's contents onto the floor.

Who put that wall there????

I do believe Hunting Barbie put that wall there. I seem to recall Hunting Barbie moonlighted as Carpenter Barbie for nearly a year, and built us a beautiful home.

Needless to say, he needs assistance cleaning up...so much for sleeping in...

This season has been better than most. Normally, he hits the overhead light because he cannot locate his chest of drawers in the dark. Nevermind that his socks have been in the same dresser, in the drawer, in the same corner of the same room since we moved in...

Heaven forbid, he lay his socks out the night before in the closet...or the garage...or his truck...or the neighbor's house.

Just throwing that out there.

So, on Saturday night, we have our little fundraiser here locally for the youth baseball program, whereupon, on our way home at midnight, Birdy announces he is going snow goose hunting the next morning.

Are you kidding??? Come onnnnnn, man.

On our way home, we have a little conversation about someone's inability to get around our bedroom in the dark. "Birdy, you've lived there six years. You CANNOT navigate that bedroom in the dark. Why not?"

"I dunno," he giggles, "I guess I'm handicapped."

"You're navigationally challenged in your own bedroom, honey."

And

---WAIT FOR IT----

He agreed.

Of course, Sunday morning his alarm goes off. Being so used to setting the snooze, Birdy assumes he shut the alarm off and heads to the bathroom. "Did you shut it off?" I ask as he stumbles out of bed.

"Yes, I shut it OFF!" he snarled at me.

Seriously.

Oh, no he didn't.

He hit he The Snooze.

Being unfamiliar with his alarm clock, I had to pop the battery door off, and dump the batteries on the floor to make it stop.

Thankfully, I rolled over & went back to sleep.

Monday morning rolls around...Birdy's alarm goes off, he hits the snooze. It goes off again. He gets up. I relish the fact that I don't have a busy day and leisurely roll about the bed half-awake, stretching like a well-rested cat, when I hear my husband say something I cannot repeat, and


CRASH!!!

to the floor goes a picture frame.

The man bounced off my an antique rolltop desk that belonged to my grandfather when he was a child. The desk hit the wall and blew a picture off the wall.

GOOD MONDAY MORNING...

Last night I couldn't sleep. So, I took an actual whole half milligram of my sleep aid. Wow. I talked to my physician's office today about changing that script around to something that I know works and they treated me like a junkie. I'll be finding another doctor shortly. But that's really not what this blog is about.

It's about my bull-in-a-china-shop navigationally challenged 40 year-old husband...

He had the day off and VOILA! heads directly to the goose pit to hunt those stupid snow geese that don't have the sense God gave a gnat to FLY NORTH already!

I didn't think anything of it. He gets up, makes enough noise to wake the dead on the other side of the planet, I get up. If I don't get up, you know, after alllll, it IS Thursday, Birdy'll wake me.

Uh, no.

I woke me at 0615...I texted him & asked why he didn't wake me.

His response?

"I was afraid to..."

Seriously, what makes today ANY different???

If only changing his name would've fixed the problem...

Last night, Dillon popped popcorn. Besides all other food groups human, popcorn tends to be one of Chelsea's favorite foods. Dillon decided he'd see how far he could throw the popcorn kernel and Chelsea could still catch it in her mouth.

I'm thinking at least half a mile, but who am I?

While backing up & throwing, Dustin decides he wants in on this act. So, he kneels down next to Chelsea to see if Dillon can throw popcorn in his mouth. It's at that precise moment, my "I'm-excellent-with-kids" dog reaches out and snatches the popcorn not an inch from Dustin's face.

She's such a gooooooood dog...

Chelsea one, Dusty none. She's forever taking food from that child...

This morning, while Chelsea was in bolted in the garage eating her breakfast, Dusty and I were having toasted peanut-butter sandwiches for breakfast while watching "Good Morning America."

Big news, Rod Blagojevich was sentenced to fourteen years. I think he should've gotten an even twenty in a maximum security lock-up just for breathing, he's such a crooked politician, but nobody asked me...

Dusty is quietly munching on his peanut butter sandwich, watching the news when he blurts out--

"That's not his name!!! His name is Keith Lyons!!!!"

I look at the tv for confirmation.

Yep, still watching Rod admit he was wrong while his wife, Patty, who I am sure is about to sue for divorce and take back her maiden name, stands faithfully at his side, crying softly.

Puuuuhhhhyyyyuuuuuke.

But, back to the name change.

"Who are you talking about???" I ask, glancing back at the tv.

Rod's bad hair is still filling the television screen.

"That guy!"

"What'd you say his name really is?"

"Keith Lyons." Dusty's sure of it.

I'm doing my mental run-down of who in the world this kid is referring to, when it hits me...

"The guy from Peoria?"

"Yeah, I think he is."

"Seen him on tv? The news?"

"Yeah."

"How's this name sound, 'Kevin Lyons'?"

Dusty chews on this thought and his breakfast, and says, "Well, maybe."

"Okay, buddy...Kevin Lyons used to be our State Attorney. He took a position that I believe required votes from the public, or maybe he required them to be State Attorney. Either way, he's not our State Attorney anymore. I know him, Dusty, I used to work in his office (pre-dinosaur days, I could get a job). That man on the tv, going to prison, is not Kevin Lyons. That man is our former governor and he's going to prison and I'm not getting into that conversation."

"Oh. Okay."

"However, you are on the money. They do bear a resemblance. Especially with allllll the hair they sport.

I'm pretty sure it would've taken more of a name change for Rod to beat the rap and go out on the lam. Perhaps a new hair cut...

Michael Jackson & a loaf of bread

The day after Thanksgiving, I program the Christmas radio station onto my car radio and I don't change the channel until December 26th. My children are forced to listen to Christmas music in my vehicle. Dillon hates it. Of course, he's a teenager and it's rare when I do something he likes.

Dustin rarely complains about it, but did comment that a song by Harry Connick Jr. was depressing. I guess because it was slow. Not being a big fan of Harry's, I was good with his remark.

After leaving hitting practice tonight, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" came on the radio. I thought for sure, Dustin will like this one.

About the second verse, Dustin blabs, "This chick cannot sing."

"What??? It's not a chick, Dustin. It's Michael Jackson from when he was with the Jackson Five!"

I gotta quit talking to this kid while I'm driving. He drops one of these comments on me and I nearly put my truck into oncoming traffic.

Dustin looks at me in disbelief.

"Yes. It is. He used to sing lead in front of his brothers when he was a little boy, Dustin. He probably wasn't nine years old when this song was recorded."

Stunned, "That's Michael Jackson?"

"Yep. Actually, it's the only time I liked him. When he was little. He was so stinkin' cute."

...Goin' back to Indiana, Indiana here I come....

After the song ends, Dustin does his best imitation of Michael Jackson singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and he sounds pretty darn close to the real thing...perhaps a perm...

We travel a little farther along Creek Road, when Dustin lays this question out:

"How can a trailer with bread or potatoes or rolls weigh so much?"

Obviously, he's started speaking mid-thought. This happens alot. Sometimes Dusty doesn't realize I can't hear him think...

"Let's start over. What's the question?"

"Okay. A semi with a trailer filled with bread. How come it weighs eight tons? It's bread."

Oh, boy.

"Well, you have to take into account how much the semi weighs, how much the engine weighs, the tires, the trailer and then you add in the weight of the bread. Just because it's bread doesn't mean it's light. When you ship bread, it's usually stored on stackable plastic trays, so the trays add to the weight. If you stack a loaf of bread on top of a loaf of bread and keep going, you smash the bread. Now, just because one loaf of bread doesn't weigh very much, it doesn't mean 5,000 loaves of bread are light because one loaf is light. It all adds up," I'm hoping I explained shipping bread well enough for him to understand. We won't discuss weight or balance...

I was interested in a position with a major manufacturer in the area that pertained to shipping, although I have 12 years of experience in the shipping industry with one of the biggest shipping companies in the world, my experience is from ten years ago; therefore, I am a dinosaur and I don't really know shit.

"How much is a ton?"

Come on, kid, ask me something simple. Like, how many feet are in a mile.

"A thousand pounds?"

"So, an eight ton truck weighs eight thousand pounds? No, an eight ton truck weighs sixteen thousand pounds."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, there's two thousand pounds in a ton, so an eight ton truck weighs sixteen thousand pounds."

"Really? Well, then, what the hell did you ask me for???"

He laughs at me, "I don't know."

"Words cannot express the depth of my love for you, child."

Just a Girl

My laundry room sink was leaking back in September. Early September. I asked Birdy to take a look at it.

I know, I know, he's "a carpenter not a plumber." I get this. But, the last time I attempted to mess with plumbing was to fetch a diamond earring. I got the earring, but Birdy spent the entire evening working on pipes while I ran back and forth to the hardware store.

I am no longer allowed to go near the pipes.

I mopped up the water mess in the bottom of my cabinet and went about waiting for my husband to check out the situation.

A few days later, I came up with a "gentle reminder." I have to give "gentle reminders" or I get the "I'm a carpenter, not a plumber lecture."

"Honey, did you figure out where my leak is in the laundry room?"

"I didn't find a leak," Birdy responded.

"Really? I could've sworn there was water in the bottom of the cabinet."

"I didn't find any water."

It was then that I knew. He is a carpenter not a plumber. "Bird, did you turn on the faucet?"

"No."

Really???

"Well, honey, it's in the pipes, not the faucet, so when you look at it again(gentle suggestion), turn the water on & it will probably leak for you, too."

I went back in the house to give him a chance to ponder that statement.

He pondered it all right. He pondered it until yesterday--October 23--when I said, "Honey, my laundry roon sink still leaks."

Normally, this leak would've lasted until March, when all things huntable are no longer huntable. However, as luck would have it for my husband, he wasn't sitting in a tree. Mother Nature is ruining Birdy's hunting season with hot weather.

I was further astounded when Birdy immediately got up, grabbed a flashlight, and proceeded into the laundry room.

I can count on one hand how many times he has been in the laundry room since he hooked up my appliances five years ago...

After a few moments, Birdy announces he has found the issue and needs some "pipe dope." Not weed. Some sticky stuff that's water tight. It gives a tight seal and doesn't leak.

I dig around, unable to locate anything. I suggest he call my father who has EVERYTHING.

Except "pipe dope."

Tonight, after my class and The Family Homework Session, I ask Birdy:

"Is the sink ready or does it need to set-up for 24 hours?"

"It's ready."

Wow.

I wander into my laundry room and notice one of my favorite Fall Dish Towels is wadded up on the counter. I pull it apart and look at it. It's wet and it's covered with Pipe Dope.

Really?

I just went through all my holiday decorations a few weeks ago, and I decided to keep those towels for a reason--I liked them. Alot. Yes, I've had them for seven years, but they're cute. They had corduroy pumpkins on them. It was one towel of a matched set.

With Pipe Dope on one corduroy pumpkin towel.

No longer part of a matched set.

I holler out to the garage and ask, "Is this pipe dope on my towel?"

"Probably." Heaven forbid he commit with his response..."Why????"

"Does it come out????"

"I don't know! But, hey, YOUR LEAK IS FIXED."

I shake my head and go back to laundry. I love him but he's such a mess. I'm a cleaning lady, we don't lack for crummy rags around this joint. Seriously.

As the evening wears on, I wander back out to the garage to watch the World Series with my husband who is still slightly honked-off about fixing a leak and ruining a towel in the process. I'm past it, but he isn't...yet.

Anyhow, I'm kinda leanin' towards Texas. I like the uniforms and that young feller that pitched last night did such a fine job. I think his name is Derek. I don't recall his last name. It could never matter that it was printed on his back allllllll night long....I really only pay attention to the games Dusty plays. I love to watch Dusty play baseball.

I've been watching Dusty play baseball for about five years now. You'd think I'd have the game dialed-in at this point in my life, but I don't.

"Was that a ball?" I ask Birdy.

"Yes." Sigh.

"He was out, why didn't they call him out?"

"I don't know." Sigh.

Most men would love it if their wives watched sports with them, but I don't think Birdy really enjoys me watching sports with him.

Baseball anyway.

I make it a point not to watch sports on TV.

Especially not football. I'd consider watching golf before I'd watch football.

Unless Dusty wants to play football, then I'll watch.

Anyhow, back to the game...I'm watching the game, watching the pitcher and the catcher communicate. It's cute to watch the little kids do that. They laugh at each other. But not the big boys. They're serious. They're focused. I mean, it's the World Series, they ought to be serious. And focused.

"What are they saying to each other?"

"Who?" Birdy asks.

"The pitcher and the catcher."

Birdy shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Are they picking pitches?"

"Probably, or maybe he's asking the pitcher what he wants for breakfast. Or what he wants for dinner...."

"Or if he thinks this pipe dope will come out of this cute, festive fall dish towel???"

And Birdy laughs.

"You're so lucky. You are SO lucky. You got me!!! And I'm alllll girl...I'm YOUR girl!!!!"

Bird's Girl....

Karma

I am forever telling my children, "What comes around, goes around." They don't get it and they don't care. They will care, though, when "it" starts to come back around in their direction.

Karma, boys.

Payback.

Revenge.

The ______ you give is the _______ you get.

I can't say it here, in this forum, so feel free to fill in the blanks.

Last week, one of my clients did something nice for me. She left me a little cellophane bag, wrapped in Halloween ribbon, filled with hand-made soaps. When I got home from work that day, I off-loaded my TrailBlazer (yes, I still have the TrailBlazer) and set the bag of soaps on the workbench. Unfortunately, that's all the farther I got with them.

Arriving home from class tonight, Dillon announces to me, "Dustin pulled a 'Papa'."

Oh, no.

"What'd he do?" Excite me, kid. I just came from Math class, Boy, and my brain looks like AND feels like cold, congealed scrambled eggs.

"Well, he cut the top off that little bag of stuff you had--"

And I fell-out laughing, because I could see it coming.

My child is SO predictable.

"and plopped one of those colored things into his mouth."

I cannot stop laughing.

From the other side of the garage, pipes one seriously pissed-off child, "It's not funny, MOM! It tasted AWFUL! It wasn't candy! It was SOAP!"

"And that's what my sassy-mouthed little boy gets for telling me "no" lately," I reminded Dustin.

"He couldn't get into the house fast enough to rinse his mouth," Dillon finished proudly. He is always so thrilled to share one of Dustin's screw-ups with me, since I'm so busy sharing Dillon's screw-ups with others. He's a teenager, he has about 50screw-ups a day...a good day.

There is payback. And if you're lucky, God let's you witness it.

But, only if you're lucky.

Second Opinion

I've long-talked about what a mess the men in my life are. My father, my husband, my children. Not so much a "dirty" mess, just a mess. Most of the time, a "mess" isn't a bad thing, it's usually an affectionate reference.

I always try to take the opportunity to jot down the things that fall from my father's mouth, along with the things that fall from my children's mouths--especially Dustin. Dustin's brain being wired exactly like my father's, it can be quite frightening to witness their thought processes in action. As if that isn't bad enough, they have the same fashion sense: non-existent. Dustin knows his clothes don't match and has announced as much to me, "I know it doesn't match, Mom, and I don't care." Well, that settles that. The announcement made by my father, "If your Mother knew I was in town dressed like this she's throw a fit." Then, of course, if it's hot out, you will find Dad minus his shirt. Mind you, he wears his suspenders AND his belt, but no shirt. Apparently it's okay for folks to see his bare chest, but he's still not free enough with our body to let folks view all of his ass, only a select portion of the crack. Enough said.

I was in the garage one day with Dad when he started grumbling, struggling into his t-shirt. "Your mom wants me to put a shirt on. I don't know why."

"Perhaps she just can't take it," I quipped sarcastically, as if that physique were irresistible.

"You must be right. It's a lot to take in," he giggled.

Yes, that and there's need for a fork for each eye...

Along with his incredible fashion-sense, my dad has his own "language". Translation is required. I was talking to him on the phone Monday morning, when he said, "I wanted to tell you something else, but I've forgotten. It was on the edge of my mind."

Really? Maybe it was the tip of your tongue.

Dad's Associate Producer, Keith, broke his leg last weekend. Dad relayed what the doctor told Keith, "Well, they gave him more vike. Vike...vike," obviously struggling, I suggest, "Vicodan?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"They did the NMRI on him."

"MRI?"

"Yeah, that's it. They gave him a prescription for maureen."

Maureen is your aunt, honey, "Morphine?"

"Yeah, that's it. They give that to cancer patients, don't they? Wow."

Lately, those in my life have been painting. I just re-painted our "master" area of the house, my mom re-painted her bathroom and my in-laws are re-painting their entire house. This has caused quite a dilemma for my mom. She's wanting a new sink and faucets in her bathroom; however, the style she has selected she cannot locate matching faucets for the bathtub. The bathtub faucets are thirty years old. She's having a difficult time with this problem. Since she's painted, she has also changed the hardware in the bathroom. As Dad is retired and usually pretty handy with power tools, she assigned him the task of putting new handles on the cabinets. Apparently, these new handles and drawer pulls are unlike any others Mom has ever used before.

Dad relays this information to me on Thursday when I was there to clean their house. "So, your Mom gets these handles, and I put them on the cabinet doors and she tells me I put them on wrong. There's no other way to put it on, so I know I did it right. But she wants me to show them to Dick when he stops by and see what he has to say about it. Can you believe that???" He is floored that my mother does not trust him with her handles. I cannot repeat anything else that was said, as it really isn't fit for mixed company. I laugh loudly over this obvious insult.

I called him this morning and we had this conversation: "Yes, your mother is still waiting to hear what Dick thinks about these handles." He's a little sarcastic about it, so I was surprised to hear my mom in the background. I'm thinking that Dad must be a little bold and full of himself this morning...

My mother, who is NEVER so rude as to butt-in on a phone conversation makes a crack from the background. Dad repeats it, "Second opinion. She calls it a second opinion. Can you believe that???" I hear Mom's voice again, "Oh, she says if you go to the doctor you might want to get a second opinion and that's what she wants for her handles, a second opinion."

This time her muffled voice causes Dad to laugh, "Oh, she doesn't really trust my opinion because my shirt was buttoned up wrong."

"She says, 'Why would I trust you to tell me it's right when you can't even button your shirt right???' Can you believe that? I even try to button it right and I still screw it up. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to town only to realize after I've gotten home that my damn shirt was buttoned wrong the entire time. And you know that would just driver your mom nuts."