I don't care if Casper IS friendly...

                When last we spoke, we had discussed language, stemming from my father’s use of the term “haint”.  That post lead to a conversation with my sister where she reminded me another word we pronounce incorrectly was “mont-ner”; meaning monster. 

                Being a naturally jouvous person, I normally make an effort to avoid all mention of scary things lest I conjure up some creature in my head which will cause me to lose precious sleep.  I don’t know what happened to me during childhood but I have been afraid of the dark since somewhere in the neighborhood of birth and lasting up to and including last night.  I don’t know what makes me skittish in the darkness but if someone were to scare me with, say, a chainsaw, I could outrun any Olympic sprinter regardless if they used steroids or not.  Once, as a teen, I just about outran a car when I thought the Blue Lady of Humble Lake was trying to “git” me.  The unfortunate situation occurred when I attended my first teen bonfire, wearing my best corduroy pants.  I mention the wardrobe choice simply because, during my flight, said pantalones eventually started to smoke from the friction of my chubby legs pistoning me toward safety.  Now where I thought I was going to find safety in the boonies of East Texas with ‘Flock of Seagulls’ bangs and 3 Swatches was beyond me.  All I knew was I wanted to be elsewhere.

                And elsewhere was where I wanted to be recently when The Dad told me he had seen a ghost in my house.  Now, I realize I am a big strong man (well, a man anyway) but I did not need to hear this.  Before he could describe this recently sighted apparition, he turned to me and said, “All this talkin’ ‘bout spirits ‘n’ stuff had put me to mind the stories my mama told me.” 

While he reminisced and I pretended to listen, I thought of several occasions of my own where I lost any shred of coolness I, or my friends, imagined I had by possessing a lack of bravery which would have gotten me banished from most any Disney movie.  While my friends never abandoned me, per se, most certainly my date to the Junior Prom was less than thrilled when I abandoned her, faster than a celebrity breaks their wedding vows, at the breakfast afterwards. The brother (I won’t tell you his name but it rhymes with Scott Holliday) of the hostess decided to dress as Freddy Krueger and casually tap-tap-tap, on the French doors to my immediate right in the den while I was actively pretending to watch “A Nightmare on Elm Street, Part XVXVIII” along with 7-8 of my closest personal friends and their dates. 

When I ever so jouvously turned my head to the doors and saw this particular face, I screamed like a peacock set on fire, shoved past my date (I apologize again, Denise) and ran down the hall to the bedroom of the slumbering parents due, I can only imagine, to the overwhelming belief Mr. and/or Mrs. Holliday would save me through the use of gunfire or fisticuffs.  I don’t believe either of them were the same after experiencing the invasion of their inner sanctum by a chubby tuxedoed youth and a full 1/3 of the remaining guests alert enough to have noticed my flight, quickly following suit.  Now, I may be exaggerating these points; this was, after all, 1987 and it's a bit hazy, not due to alcohol or drug, mind you. I was a good Baptist youth, although I will cop to an addiction to Aqua Net;  something had to keep that hairdo in place, people.  All I know is the the following year, the Prom breakfast was held in a well-lit hotel suite with suitable chaperones and, for me, a mild sedative.

The most recent event I will share happened in Alaska, while camping.  Now, anyone who knows me is aware while I am not a ardent fan of the outdoors at night, I can be shamed into complying with the requests of the nature loving pseudo-hippies I have collected as friends.

This particular outing was Memorial Day weekend in 2003 and, being Alaska, it was a balmy 40 degrees.  As I was much larger then, the lack of heat was a plus.  Precious I may be, but most persons, places and things are not improved by the addition of moisture.  And underarm sweat stains large enough to effect local weather patterns are not a good look for anyone. 

I had watched the movie The Ring just prior to this trip.  Suffice it to say it was not a romantic comedy about a wedding.  Yes, I know, why on earth do I watch scary movies when they actually scare me?  I have no answer other than peer pressure.  What?  I have peers, in theory. 

We get to the campground and as there were 6 of us, I felt my odds of surviving the weekend without being murdered were fair to middlin'.  I wasn’t the slowest, did not have the largest breasts and was never interested enough to investigate the source of random snapping twigs . I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t be one of the first to die, per the typical plots of axe-murderer movies.  Once we scouted out the restrooms, however, I discovered the source of my pain for the weekend.  Even though they advertised toilets, they were actually toilet seats attached to the top of very deep wells.  Like “Journey to the Center of the Earth” deep.  And if you’ve seen The Ring you know that the girl mont-ner, at one point, climbs out of a deep well and comes to git the people.  Well, I can assure you I don’t need someone to git me whilst I am conducting my business.  The psychological repercussions I don’t want to imagine.  Needless to say I spent the weekend avoiding the bathroom which became increasingly difficult while trying to digest elk cooked in a skillet over an open fire.  TGI Friday’s this was not.

I had yet to feel uncomfortable in my new home even when living alone for almost 4 months, but when he told me he had seen a ghost, my first instinct was to flee.  The high cost of real estate in the Bay area held me in place, however, and I asked him to describe this ghost.  When he stated it was a woman with a large hat and veil and a parasol, I was both delighted she seemed fashionable and suspicious of the accuracy of the fashion as my house was built in 1929 and parasols haven’t been used in any manner since My Fair Lady. 

As I left to cleanse the house of evil through the recitation of any song I could remember with the most Jesuses in it, I noticed a figure alarmingly like the woman he described!  Right in my face!  It was the lovely lady in the painting I have over the buffet in my dining room; my first real piece of art.  My Daddy was either all out of conversational topics not involving bodily functions or he was trying to scare me.  Rude.  I told him if the phantom was well-dressed, then we could co-exist quite happily and I strode off to bed with the full knowledge he had simply fabricated the story and I had nothing to worry about.  Dustin does mean “strong hearted leader” according to the book of baby names.  My parents had chosen well.

Full disclosure:  I left the light on in the den for a couple of nights.  You know, just in case.

English as a Second Language?

                I was reminded again just the other day how my family has a folksy vernacular; an odd combination of country, redneck and Southern that is peppered with words that I believe we may have invented.  I was sitting at the dining table talking to my friend Adam and The Dad was looking at my magazine.  It was the latest edition of Vanity Fair and it was, unfortunately, turned to the page which features photos of some of the contributors.  As a rule, writers are not an overly attractive subset of humanity.  There are exceptions, of course.  John Grisham and I are among those who are considered attractive.  Well, more attractive than, say, J.R.R. Tolkien (I imagine) or Truman Capote (I am certain).

                When he saw the photo of one particularly unfortunate-looking individual he said, “Woo, she’s so ugly, she’d make a haint take a thorn thicket!”  Now, I’m not sure if he has regressed since my Mother’s passing or if he always talked this way and I chose to ignore it.

                Adam, who is a graduate of Northwestern (in Chicago) seemed confused and very quietly asked if The Dad were having a stroke.  I laughed and explained the definitions of both haint (ghost) and thorn thicket (something akin to a flowerless rose garden, all thorns).  While I am not certain of the accuracy of his statement (why would it concern a ghost to run into the brambles seeing as how they really aren’t wearing sheets?) I found it interesting I knew exactly what he was talking about.

                Once The Dad retired to his room to sleep, Adam asked me why he used such odd phrases but I didn’t.  Well, I could fill up a book about the inherent differences between my father and me but I’ll leave this task to the actual book I’m hoping to create from these blogs.  Prepare your wallets people; I have expectations of support (buy my first book A Gone Pecan at Authorhouse.com or Amazon.com right now!) from my readers/friends/family/well-wishers/those easily manipulated by guilt, etc.  This question caused me to review words and phrases my family uses fairly regularly, some of which may be familiar.

                Jouvous – Nervous.

                Tooky – Persnickety.

                Rernt – Ruined.  Could be in reference to a person, place or thing.

                I swonny – An exclamation like “My goodness!” or "I swear!".

                Wompy-jawed – Askew.  See also catty-wampus.

                Chicken Doody – Any spot on your dress, car, shoe, sidewalk, etc.  Typically does not refer to actual poultry excrement.

                “Fine as frog hair” – Said in response to “How are you?”  The joke being frog hair is so fine you can’t even see it.  It’s not as funny as The Dad thinks it is.

                “Ain’t fit to shoot” – Not even good enough to bother with wasting good bullets.  See also triflin’, low-down, no-good. 

                “In a toot” – In a bad mood.

                “Going to town” – leaving your home, regardless of whether you reside within the city limits or not.  Stemming from a youth spent in the boonies.

                Boonies – Living so far outside of the city limits, even wild animals question your presence.

                Coke – any flavor of carbonated beverage.  Yankees refer to it as soda or pop.  We mock those Yankees, sometimes to their faces.

                Beautimous – Very attractive.  See also Linda Evangelista, Jaclyn Smith or my niece Payton.

                Hooty-tooty – Extra fancy.  See also hoity-toity or foo-foo.

                Uppity – Extra fancy but in a condescending manner.

                Nassy – Nasty.  This one seems to stem from sheer laziness.

                Feel free to use these words and phrases in casual conversation to confuse or intimidate frenemies, future in-laws or people eavesdropping at Starbucks.  I would caution against using in the workplace as you may demoted.  I’m not ashamed of my upbringing, but I know enough not to say “I reckon” beyond the comfort of a Tractor Supply store or a conversation with someone named Herschel or Oda Lee.  How else do you think I got to be so hooty-tooty?

As much as I put on, I am glad I grew up in the South and I am, in the deepest recesses of my heart, a good ol’ boy.  I just prefer to show my Southern pride through the wearing of seersucker. 
And that's all I'm saying for now.

                 

               

               

               

                               

Does preppy come in pill form?

           Anyone who knows me knows I have one cowlick in the front of my hair and two in the back. Why my parents left me in the care of bovines in my formative years is anybody’s guess.  The cowlick in front is a nuisance to someone as particular about my appearance as I am.  For the remainder of this entry, I will refer to my cowlick as the swoop as shortening it to, simply, ‘the lick’ makes me as uncomfortable as I was accompanying my niece to the premiere of Eclipse, one of those horrifying Twilight movies.  Since when did pasty become the new chic?   If I were in high school now, I would be muy popular (that’s Spanish)  as I am so pale, I’m almost translucent.  And I have been known to sparkle in the sunlight.  Well actually I freckle, but they both end in ‘kle’ so I’m still in the game, right? 

               So, when the swoop is parted on the left, it causes my hair to swagger into a formation not unlike Conway Twitty.  For those who aren’t familiar with Mr. Twitty (may he rest in peace) you can reference John Travolta in ‘Grease’ or Johnny Depp in ‘Cry Baby.’  If you’re younger than that, you shouldn’t be reading this and need to go to bed.  I feel quite sure it’s past your bedtime, child.  However, if I part my hair to the right, the swoop leaps into a formation resembling Superman, from the movies starring Christopher Reeve, not the TV show where Bo Duke was the Dad.

                The point I am trying to make is why do we call it a cowlick?  Why this particular animal?  Why this particular gesture?  Did it actually happen to someone back in 16whatever?  I have researched the history of the swoop and here is what I found.  They are also referred to as hair whorls and trichoglyphs.  It was started in the 16^th century and referred to the way a mother cow licks her young’s head causing a swirling pattern in the hair.  While those are interesting facts, the name needs work, doesn’t it? 

Trichoglyphs could be useful in my quest to use as many obscure references as possible in casual conversation.  Telling someone I have multiple trichoglyphs could elicit all manner of responses depending on whether they thought this was a medical condition, weird animal or tattoo.  Hair whorl could be interesting although it would be consistently misspelled by a citizenry who for some reason can’t seem to master the proper use of your and you're. 

I realize the word cowlick is not something to which most people pay much attention; however it is the one thing keeping me from becoming completely amazing.  I think we can all agree with fantastic hair I could take over the world.  Well, hair and a family fortune.  And considering my Dad lives with me, I’m thinking the family fortune is nowhere to be found.  When he asks me why he couldn’t he have been born rich instead of good looking, I wonder myself.  About the money, that is.  I have grown accustomed to ignoring my father’s lunatic rants about his awesomeness at anything other than reality show competition-level eating, Olympic caliber flatulence and, oddly enough, crocheting.

Yes, my redneck, macho father crochets.  It’s an interesting dichotomy to reside in someone who retains no semblance of the couth he apparently faked throughout my childhood.  Don’t even start with me, the man leaves his (sugar-free) Popsicle sticks stuck to the placemats on my dining room table along with used blood sugar test strips, crumbs of indeterminate origin, his electronic solitaire game and whichever paperback western he is enjoying at the moment.  It looks like he robbed a Walgreen’s.  And he never says “Excuse me,” when he passes gas from either end.  He ignores it, guffaws or begins to look for the frog he assures me he just stepped on. I rest my case.

But, back to the crochet, which is French for “hook”.  He is pretty adept at a skill he obtained while being jailed for some random fight on some random weekend in the bustling metropolis of Lake Providence, LA when he was younger.  I’m not sure if it was one of those times where he got in a fight because he was bored or simply doing any manner of things that were illegal in that era.  I can never depend on him to stick with the same lie twice; much less tell the truth once.  But whatever the situation he is a skilled crochet artist.  And he produces them at a rate you can only compare to Southeast Asians sewing hidden buttons for Tommy Hilfiger.  He crocheted 8 afghans and 4 scarves between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  He’s already finished a gift for someone who is retiring in June. 

 I have made more runs to the craft section of Wal-Mart for thread than an ill-prepared Vacation Bible School teacher.  And if I have to lie to the woman at the check-out line about my daughter Kinley’s last minute school project one more time, she’s going to get suspicious.  Apparently, I do care what Esperanza thinks of me.  Oh, did I tell you that I now have a daughter named Kinley?  She’s ever so sweet.  She is a carbon copy of my niece Payton.  So much so I could use Payton’s photos and say they were Kinley if push came to shove.  Not that I would do it.  Well, at least not more than once.  Okay, twice.  Okay, once at Wal-Mart and once at Target.  Lydia, my  Target cashier, seemed curious as to why I had so many boxes of popsicles, Uncrustables and kool-aid.    “That darn Kinley,” I laughed and gave her my patented “parent shrug”.   “What can you do with a teenager?”

What am I supposed to do, admit the Uncrustables are for me?  That’d be like admitting I like the song by the boy who used to have the haircut and that I stood in line (in line!) to see Toy Story 3 and that’s a bit more mature than I care to be at this juncture. 

And I fully intend on blaming The Dad. Apparently lying is contagious.  I knew catching “country” was just a gateway, y’all.  I’m slowly becoming a redneck.  But I’m going to do everything in my power to fight it.  In fact, tonight I’m wearing a tie and matching pocket square to bed.

 

Grace Under Fire?

My sister Shontyl asked, while reading my niece’s Vogue, “Did you know that Coco Chanel was a real person?”

                Me:  "Yes.  Didn’t you?"

                My Daddy:  "Isn’t that Ice-T’s wife?"

                Me:  "Who?  Chanel?"

                Daddy:  "Yeah.  His wife is named Coco."

                Shontyl:  "Mr. T’s wife is Coco Chanel?"

                Me:  "What?  No!  He said Ice-T and that’s wrong.  She may be named Coco but that is the only thing she has in common with Chanel you can be sure."  I would have said more but I’m afraid of Ice-T and what may happen if he ever reads this blog.  Excited about the visibility of my blog, but very, very afraid. 

                Shontyl:  "Who’s Ice-T?"

                Daddy:  "He’s on one of those shows.  CSI, NCIS, SBPD or something."

                Me:  "Law and Order SVU."  (In my head:  Who are these people?)

                Now to understand my frustration, you have to know that I am downright persnickety about my trivia.  I know scads of things about myriad things that matter not to most people.  I am a trivia nut and there are numerous tomes and board games in my home that sit unused as my family has tired of my triumphs.  It couldn’t have been my victory dance and chant (all five verses), could it?  Surely not. 

                Now I know that a mastery of trivial facts does not make me smarter than anyone, but I do enjoy being informed on a number of subjects both intellectual and pedestrian.  Full disclosure, it’s mostly pedestrian.  I have read Foucault’s ‘Madness and Civilization’ but only the first 32 pages. 

My trivial knowledge does make me a great Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon-er.  I realize this game is passé but I like it and will revel in my un-coolness.  My sister, in her attempt to malign my trivial character, double-dog dared me to link the most obscure “movie star” she could think of (Tyra Banks) to Kevin Bacon through six movies or less.  Challenge accepted dear sibling.   Tyra Banks was in ‘Life Size’ with Lindsay Lohan who was in ‘Mean Girls’ with Tina Fey who was in ‘Date Night’ with Mark Wahlberg who was in ‘Boogie Nights’ with Philip Seymour Hoffman who was in ‘State and Main’ with Sarah Jessica Parker who was in ‘Footloose’ with Kevin Bacon.  And that’s without using my old standby of Dan Ackroyd-was-in-‘Blue Brothers’-with-John-Belushi-who-was-in-‘Animal House’-with-Kevin-Bacon-link.  Because Dan Ackroyd has been in a bunch of movies, y’all.

                The reason I bring this up is I have a great memory and quick recall and I know many in my immediate family do not.  For example, my sister gets Chevy Chase and Bill Murray confused.  Yes, you read it correctly.  And my Daddy’s frames of reference are boxing, football, ‘Barney Miller’ and ‘Hee Haw’.  But my conundrum is I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do when my Daddy gets dates and facts wrong when he tells a story.  Now, those who know me know part of my “charm” is I am honest to a fault.  I don’t know how to be anything but, so I am very direct in my conversations with my Daddy and all those in my circle, be it work or play.  But I don’t know if he’s misremembering due to his age (he’s only 70) or his need to re-interpret the past.  And it’s constant; like he works for Fox News or something.

                And I find myself trying to catch his mistakes, like some intrepid reporter.  It’s almost become a contest for how many times I can correct him.  Is this some latent rage at our past relationship or lack thereof?  Or am I just being tooky, which is a word my family apparently coined because any time I use it people question what it means.  Tooky is, well, tooky.  You know, persnickety. 

What if I’m just a run of the mill butthole?  And if I am, is it hereditary and can I blame him?  And if it’s not my being obnoxious, do I just let the inaccuracies slide?  Even if he’s using them to malign someone’s character or call into question someone’s motives? 

I just don’t know what to do.  The only thing I know is whenever I correct him he gets his feelings hurt and withdraws physically from me unless we are eating.  Nothing will keep him from his “grosh-ries”.  I have taken the tack of saying, “Are you sure that’s right?  I remember…” and then I tell either the version of the story I have heard my entire life or I re-state the facts as I remember them if I bore witness or participated, willingly or otherwise.

Sometimes it’s harmless, like the year he had his picture taken on the bike from “E.T.” at a mall somewhere.  It’s the most hilarious picture.  He says it happened in 1977 in Lousiana.  “E.T.” wasn’t released until 1982 so I know his version is not true.  Other times he tells my staff about car wrecks I supposedly had which never took place, in locations I have never been, in vehicles I have never owned or driven, doing all manner of things my little Southern Baptist mama’s boy heart just couldn’t have done out of the all-consuming fear of being cast into the lake of fire, y’all.

So, I sit here unsure of what to do.  Do I let the lies fly or do I swat them all down, like so many poorly designed paper airplanes?  Do I conduct a brief cost-benefit analysis before I speak or do I just do damage control after the fact?  Since we’re expected to do New Year’s resolutions, should I just take the high road and let him tell his version of the story?  Even if he skews everything negatively and uses these re-tellings to cast dispersions on loved ones’ characters?  What if I agree with his take on their character but for reasons other than those misrepresented?  Do I agree to keep the peace or just say “oh” or “uh-huh” and hurt his feelings because he thinks I’m belittling his feelings?  Mind you, he didn’t quite say those words.  What he actually said was, “Oh, am I not important enough for you to talk to me?  Would it help if I used bigger words? I've got four hours of college.” 

Also, should I refrain from comments about his hygiene and general demeanor?  Should I have not said, “We could grow corn in your dirty underwear” when he asked if I wanted a garden in the backyard?  Am I hateful? Is the latent aggression not so latent?  I went to nine months of anger management therapy last year to find the root of my hostility and it a seemed to boil down to mi padre (that’s Spanish).  And even if he didn’t treat me very well growing up shouldn’t I just get over it already?  I mean, what’s the damage?  He hurt my feelings?  Well boo hoo you big baby.  Put on your Incredible Hulk Underoos and deal with it, is what I’d say to me if I was someone else listening to me.  You know it’s bad when you get on your own nerves.

So there you have it.  I resolve to be a better person in 2012.  To be more graceful, in the Biblical sense of grace as I am fleet of foot per the witnesses to my dancing skills last night at the Presbyterian Singles Dance.  I don’t think God was mad at me for (1) dancing or (2) with Presbyterians.  I'm sure he didn’t like it when I silently judged that one girl who was wearing mis-matched animal prints and whipping her hair with more dedication that was warranted at a church function during Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer”, but I have asked forgiveness and have resolved to be less judgmental this year.   And that's all I'm saying for now.

Sweeter than a turkey?

               I’m in Maine a few weeks ago, sitting at a cute little overpriced bistro called “The Salt Lick”, which sounds more country than I would have imagined in Southern Maine.  Although, if I were being honest, I always felt Maine was like Mississippi with snow when I lived in Massachusetts several years ago. 
             Normally I don’t answer the phone when it rings as it is rude, in my opinion, to do so while dining.  However, seeing as how my Daddy had been left to his own devices in California while I was gone, I immediately answered hoping the query would be mundane and not involve anyone that had taken an oath; either Hippocratic or “to Serve and Protect”.

“Where’s your stool softener?” he bellowed into the phone loud enough that my table mates could hear him without the utilization of the speakerphone option.

“I don’t have…that,” I said, at once disgusted and desperate to erase the picture forming in my mind.  “What is the problem?”

“I haven’t dirtied in about 6 days,” he yelled.  Deciding I wanted this conversation to end post haste or even faster I took the bull by the horns and proceeded to say in one breath, “That’s not true I haven’t been gone for 6 days and I can assure you you’ve never missed a day I don’t use it I don’t need it I’m just lucky that’s rude you need to go across the street to the grocery store yes the Mexican one and buy that product if you are in that great of a need yes they speak English no I don’t know how to say softener in Spanish that’s almost racist why are you talking so loud unless you or the house are on fire I have to go because I’m eating remember I’m 3 hours ahead of you no you shouldn’t eat lunch yet it’s not noon where you are yes it’s good but you wouldn’t like it because its sorta fancy yes I’ll probably have lobster tonight I know you could eat one the size of small dog and I promise I’ll talk to you later tonight love you bye.”  Good thing I played trumpet in band all through school.  Circle-breathing does wonders in all sorts of situations.

This is just another example of my father’s inability to do anything quietly or discreetly.  He has no issue discussing his many bodily functions regardless of our location or relationship with those within earshot.  And if you know my Daddy everyone is within earshot.  And I mean everyone.  His hearing has gotten worse over the years and now he feels sure you can only hear him if he can hear himself.  And don’t bother asking him to whisper as he doesn’t understand that concept.  His version of whispering is him lowering his speaking voice an octave but with no discernible change in his volume. 

This poses no issue at home but becomes somewhat nerve-wracking when we are out and about like this morning.  We were eating at our favorite brunch spot and as he had decimated his eggs, sausage, biscuit and gravy, he was commenting on everyone around us.  Under normal circumstances, this is normal diner chitchat but then he started to say things like, “That old man with the jiggling legs and the shaky arms sure is eating a bunch.  I wonder how much longer he’s gonna live?  He looks old as Methusaleh.”  Or “That Messican (redneck for Hispanic) lady sure is being a turd.  She’s arguing with that waiter about the table.  She ought to sit her bubble-butt down somewhere.”

And it wasn’t so much that I disagreed with what he said, that old man was 130 if he was a day; he looked like he had done his student teaching when Adam and Eve were in Pre-K.  And that little woman, whose butt did in fact resemble a large bubble, was being extremely rude, but it’s just not polite to say things like that out loud.  A good Baptist does it in the confines of their house or at least in the fellowship hall at church.  He may have been confused because of the food.  You know the rule, if gossip is shared over breakfast items or a cheese-covered casserole, its called fellowship.  For those Southern Baptists who are offended by what I just said, please refrain from talking about me until you can do it in a group, with food, and have a proper prayer circle about the condition of my soul now that I live in the land of the heathen.

Which brings me to my next point.  My father is still in denial about where he now lives.  He realizes that California is not Alabama but doesn’t understand why it can’t be.  Por ejemplo (which is Spanish) we went in search of meatloaf yesterday and when I found that plus lemon icebox pie, he didn't seem surprised although I was; he seemed only to be concerned about the lack of available sweet tea.  I informed him that outside of the South you can’t get sweet tea unless it’s fruit-flavored.  Even in the South sometimes you can’t get sweet tea.  Of course, what do I know seeing as I have only lived outside of the South since 2002 and he hasn’t?  Every time we go to a restaurant, he orders sweet tea and has one of two reactions.  If they say they don’t have it he questions their right to live in America and breathe the same free air that he breathes.  If they say they have it and he orders it and its fruit flavored, he seems surprised and loudly questions the American-ness of the entire dining establishment and adjacent stores in the strip mall. 

Prior to leaving for my trip I cooked up a storm to ensure he had enough pre-made meals to get him through a nuclear winter, or at least the 8 days I would be gone.  If I give him enough meatloaf, taters and greens he seems to not notice there is no sweet tea and he feels more at home. 

When I returned I found that he had not eaten all the food I made.  Apparently he had grown tired of eating the fried turkey dinners I had also made from Thanksgiving and I noticed several contraband Chinese take-out containers and a fortune cookie in the garbage can when I emptied it into the bin.  Apparently he had ventured out from the house.  When I questioned the containers he insisted that he had only gone to the “messican” grocery store and had ventured no further. He said he guessed the containers were left over from the previous tenants although I have lived here since June and he since September.

So, the battle continues in our fight for his health.  He swears I’m trying to starve him.  Today we ate brunch around 9:30.  At 11:00 a.m. he said, “It’s time for dinner.”  My response was that it might in fact be 11:00 but he had only recently eaten and there was no way he was actually hungry, adding, “You haven’t truly been hungry since 1957.”

He said, “The way you starve me, people’ll be able to count my ribs pretty soon.”  I replied that would only be at a BBQ joint as his body’s ribs were firmly encased in several layers of pudge and then I poked his belly which makes him giggle uncontrollably.  It’s hilarious.  I should tape it for YouTube.   

And after he made a strange announcement at brunch, I began to wonder if he had frequented the donut shop across the street.  See, when my Daddy has done something he shouldn’t he makes a random statement to the effect that he has, in fact, NOT done something.  When he announced, apropos of nothing, that he had NOT eaten any donuts while I was gone, I immediately became suspicious and skimmed his diabetic diary entries he keeps for his doctor.  I noticed several spikes in several days.  When I questioned one particular spike from 130 to 253 over the course of 4 hours one day, he spent considerable time trying to convince me that the turkey had caused the increase and that was why he didn’t eat the rest of it.  Silly me, how did I not know turkey was a dessert?