If Queen Elizabeth goes to Mexico I can get her a watermelon

                As I write this, it is 8:43 am and my Daddy is asleep.  This is an unusual event and, after checking to ensure he is breathing, I celebrated with a subdued “happy dance”.  I haven’t had a morning to myself since he moved in almost a year ago.  It is an amazing thing.  It is so quiet in my house.  No slurping of coffee, no muted strains of 1960s country music, no random snorts from Lulu; just peace.  It is so quiet, in fact, that I can almost hear the Hispanic couple in the parking lot of the Super Mercado Y Taqueria across the street from my neighborhood arguing over something that sounds vaguely sinister in their foreign tongue but is more than likely a spat about the mini watermelons that are 2 for $1.  I looked up what they said and sandia does mean watermelon; I thought at first they were saying Santeria which is some sort of voodoo-adjacent black magic thing.  The odd part was the sentence they used online por ejemplo (which is Spanish for “stop saying stuff in Spanish”) was “The watermelon is corky”.  “Esta sandia esta corchosa”.  What does that even mean?  Corky?  I have never used corky in a sentence in reference to a fruit or other foodstuff.  The very few times were in reference to 1980s TV characters from Murphy Brown and Life Goes On respectively.

                All that aside, it is unusual for him to be asleep this long.  I know he awoke at his usual 4:45 am as I started to hum “Up on the Housetop” in my sleep due to his clip-clopping into the kitchen.  And I know that he made and consumed his oatmeal as the remains were left on the table, countertop and sink.  It boggles the mind how he remains overweight as a good percentage of his meals and snacks end up on various surfaces of my home, not counting expected places like the dining room floor or the bathroom.  It is sad that ‘bathroom’ is an unsurprising location for eating.  I once asked him why on earth he would eat food in the bathroom and he asked me, without a shred of shame, “Ain’t you ever needed to (use the restroom) while you were eatin’?”  My reply was to assure him that I had not.  When I followed up with the statement, “If you have to use the restroom, I think you might not actually be hungry”, he looked at me, confused, and said, “But my Popsicle would’ve melted if I waited.”  There are no words, people.  Well, there are words, but none that are fit for thought much less print. 

Caffeine is a stimulant for the average person.  It says so on most packaging.  However, I have come to find that what works for most, does not work for him.  He derives no alleviation from pain with the use of morphine.  I, on the other hand, can’t remember my name when on prescription meds.  I once was issued Vicodin for tendonitis and after I left the doctor’s office, I went home to take said Vicodin and go to bed but before I went to sleep, I called my office and told my assistant that I did not want to be disturbed.  Apparently at some point in the afternoon I called her and yelled at her for calling me.  I remember none of this. 

My father has taken 3 Oxycodone at once with no effect.  None.  On the hand, a pint of chocolate ice cream can cure most any ill, he swears.  People drink coffee to give them an energy boost; to wake them up.  My daddy can fall asleep while drinking a 2 liter of Jolt cola.  I, on the other non-macho hand, can simply say the word caffeine after 6 PM and be up half the night.  It is a sad thing.

                And I was never a coffee drinker.  It’s not that I don’t like it; I just never really had a craving for it.  At least that used to be the case.  Now that my Daddy makes coffee each morning and I drink a cup with him, I’ve gotten used to it.  What I drink is an actual cup of coffee in a regulation sized coffee cup, which if I were to measure probably holds an exact measurement of a cup.  My father states that he drinks 2 cups per day.  What he means to say is that he drinks 2 tureens of coffee per day.  I use a cute little cup and saucer that I got at an estate sale.  It is red with multi-colored polka dots; just enough whimsy to start my day on a good note.  He has commandeered the beer stein my brother brought him from Germany and loudly wonders why I have chosen such an un-macho vessel for my coffee transport. 

                As I like to structure my day in my head before I leave for work, I am not much of a talker in the morning.  It has nothing to do with my mood; I am a morning person and thoroughly enjoy embracing a new day.  Sleep to me is overrated but necessary.  If I am tired, I find that if I can get comfortable and just sit quietly for an hour or so, I am capable of recharging and seizing another part of my day.  My father’s days are pretty much the same and I know this because he gives me a play-by-play each and every morning at coffee and each and every evening at dinner or when I come home, if I’ve had dinner with someone else.  He even gives me the run-down if I’ve had dinner and played Pub Quiz (and won and, yes, I’m bragging) and don’t get home until after 10 pm.  He will wake up and regale me with the minutiae of his evening.  What times he peed, what he did or did not eat (mostly lies and mis-remembered mini-meals based on the food wrappers poorly concealed or containers hastily washed) and what TV shows he did or did not enjoy in between bouts of “nodding” (read sleeping) and furious crocheting.  In the mornings I am entertained by the hourly trips to the toilet and the position and length of times sleeping in those positions.  On his left side on the hospital bed for 45 minutes, on his right side on the bed in the guest room for 2 hours and on his back with his left leg cocked up over the side arm in his recliner for the remainder of the time ‘twixt ten and 4:45. 

                I am like one of those parents whose child left the nest and then returned, unable to find employment thanks to those yahoos in DC.  Full disclosure: I hold a mixture of suspicion and disdain for all political parties unless they are approved by John Stewart.  The only difference between these parents and me is I have a bouncing baby boy of 71.  Such a fun age, full of wonder and excitement.  Potty-trained only in the sense that he knows there is a special room for such activities, but has poor aim.  Like a cat, he does not like baths and like a child who has just received the JC Penney Christmas Catalog, he wants everything he sees that is shiny.  Fortunately this child o’ mine can be left for extended periods of time alone, although he would never throw a party in my absence.  He doesn’t like people enough to do that, except for his home health aide.

 I guess there is a pressure to chat to someone whilst they doctor your nether regions every other day.   The Hows and Whats of their conversations are beyond me as he is hard of hearing and she is El Salvadorian, not “Messican” as he reported after their initial meeting.  I can only imagine the conversation that took place for that piece of information to stick. 

I do know they have at least discussed me on more than one occasion as she seemed oddly familiar when she chastised me for giving him a slice of cake for his birthday the very first time we met.  It’s an odd feeling to have to defend yourself to someone who you’ve never met but is privy to your activities, clandestine or not.  They have also discussed London of all things as he asked if she could borrow (Lord Mayor of London) Boris Johnson’s witty book on the History of that city.  As I have what my father has described as a “metric crap ton” of books, I offered to let her keep it.  I have a rule that I must give away a book each time I buy a new one so this presented an opportunity to raid the local Goodwill for a new tome; this one about the royal sisters, QEII and Margaret.  I love QEII (Queen Elizabeth II, for those not on my wavelength).  I know it is viewed as a betrayal of my generation to not prefer Diana, but I simply do not.  Literally a lifetime of service before self and 60 years of fantastic hat/coat ensembles deserves our admiration, people.  

As I try to remember that, although she is the Queen, she is a regular person to a point and someone’s Granny, I wonder do her ladies-in-waiting get bombarded with the minutiae of her nights and days at breakfast or bedtime.  I would love to read QEII’s diaries. I wonder would she read mine.  I read a pilfered copy of Andy Warhol’s Diaries, from a friend’s ex-boyfriend’s house, not Barnes and Noble, dear readers.  My friends are shady; I am not.  And I use that information to this very day although it’s mostly to recognize the names of those people in those photos of parties that appear in Vanity Fair. 

I suppose I should be happy with my Daddy’s information.  All knowledge is good for something, right?  And it means he is still around to generate said information and that’s a good thing.  If only they had a pub quiz category like “Sleep Patterns and Bad Habits of a Displaced Country Boomer”.  Maybe I’ll suggest it next week.  What?  It’s not any more esoteric a topic than “Bridges of Eastern Europe” or “Attendance Statistics for Sporting Events”, of which I somehow knew the answer for the first Super Bowl.  Incidentally it was not called the Super Bowl, but the NFL-AFL Championship Game.

The answer is 61,000.  And that is all I’m saying.

Do teeth in your pocket count as yours?

                I recent encounter with The Dad was disarming to say the least.  I was cooking his requested “country” food and took him a small bowl for taste-testing purposes.  He usually tells me I need to add salt and pepper and, even though I never add the salt as he has high blood pressure, I always tell him I do and he deems it “just right” upon the second taste test.  The dish tonight was shrimp stir fry.  What?  China is a country.  Anyway, when I took him his little bowl, he had to get his teeth out of his shirt pocket to take a bite.  I was so taken aback that I simply stood there, trying to process that information.  Besides the fact that he had them out of his mouth, they were sharing the overly stretched confines of his shirt pocket with his glasses, phone and a crochet needle. 

                As someone who has spent a small fortune on dental care in recent years, I am hyperaware of both my and other’s teeth.  You could have purchased a car with what I have paid for dental surgery.  Not a new car, mind you, but at least a mid-90s Buick LeSabre; definitely more than you need to spend to have an award-winning smile, as if there are awards for that sort of thing.  Even if there were, I wouldn’t be winning any as the small space between my front teeth is not sexy like Lauren Hutton; it’s simply a space.  A small imperfection in an otherwise normal face, if normal is what you call someone whose eyes are so small there is an assumption of a heritage that is indirectly Asian.

                I’ve always heard that you can tell someone’s fiscal health based on their hair, teeth or shoes.  Having had my hair snipped in both hoity-toity salons and chains like Super Clips, I can tell you there is scant difference between the two (for men, at least) other than you won’t get a hot towel facial at a Super Clips unless your stylist dumps her latte on your head because she is texting/drinking whilst she cuts.  There are texting dangers outside of driving, people.  Where’s the advocacy there? 

And I definitely have excellent shoes.  It’s amazing what you can fit your former canned ham of a foot into when it shrinks right along with your waistline. Yay me and my Johnston and Murphy loving self.

                As someone who did not receive regular dental checkups as a child, due to the lack of dental insurance, I can attest to the fact that poor dental care is a factor of poverty that is difficult to overcome; hence my over-priced but still not award-winning smile.  And that is ok.  I am single-handedly funding my dentist’s daughter’s year abroad and I know she would be grateful were she aware.  And I’m glad to help someone go to Europe, although if I had my druthers it would be me or at least someone who would share photos.

                But, back to the teeth in the shirt conundrum.  What does one say to one’s parent who has just (1) retrieved their teeth and (2) from the confines of any location other than their mouth?  How does one tiptoe past that?  Does one address it?  Does one ignore it?  Does one blog about it?  Apparently, yes to the last question.  And I don’t say this to malign The Dad; he is who he is.  But it’s one of the starkest differences betwixt us.  When I was discussing my upcoming dental surgery and told him the cost he was as taken aback as I was when he asked his home health aide if she’d ever heard a gnat fart.  When I added how much I had already spent, he informed me that I “coulda had all them teeth pulled and got (you) some false teeth and then used all that leftover money to buy me a Harley”.

                And I thought about it; not the Harley part but the pulling teeth and saving money part and I realized that I truly in my heart of hearts wanted to have the teeth with which I was born, still in my head and not in my pocket.  I don’t carry change in my pants pocket as it breaks the line of my trouser.  Why on earth would I want to put teeth there?  I don’t put my phone in my shirt pocket as it skews the drape of the shirt and makes me look messy.  Why on earth would I place teeth there?  I don’t want my teeth anywhere heretofore considered unseemly unless it’s biting into a Susie Cakes cupcake or a corndog at the fair, do you hear me?

                Now I don’t know the reasons behind his false teeth but I do know that his health has been an issue for quite some time.  In all honesty, based on his diet and his lack of exercise since he hurt his back at work in 1989, I am surprised he is still with us.  The man has had eight, count them, eight heart attacks and a stroke and I still have to fight him on whether or not he gets to fry the one steak he is allowed per month as I am doing everything I can to keep from becoming an orphan at 41.  And I have to constantly watch his crazy diabetic butt to keep him from ingesting all manner of ice cream and donuts, all the while lamenting that “the sugar” is going to “take (his) feet”.

                And even after I bullied, tricked and outright lied him into a 40 pound weight loss since he moved in, he remains 65 pounds overweight and it’s been an issue for some time.  Based on photographic evidence I have recently uncovered, he transitioned from pudgy to officially fat sometime in 1974, y’all.  And as a former fat boy, I can tell you that the more weight you have on your body, the more pain you will feel.  Doctors have said that for every pound you are overweight, it’s like four pounds of pressure on your joints.  Imagine walking around with your best friend strapped to your back, unless of course your best friend is crazy skinny like mine was in high school (Hey Paige!).  Then imagine walking around with your best friend and her Mama strapped to your back.

                As someone who has lost 200+ pounds in the last four years (yes, I am bragging), I can attest to the feeling of being able to leap like a mountain goat from peak to peak once you shed the equivalent of a normal-sized person from your person.  However, that feeling quickly passes at the first failed attempt to jump to anything other than the premature conclusion that you are actually in decent shape (see previous bicycling blog). 

I was also sad to find the only thing that changed with my weight loss was a thinner me.  I had the same issues, same problems, same everything, both good and bad, other than a more stylish wardrobe.  And while that is awesome (pastel chinos are a beautiful thing, y’all), it wasn’t the only thing I thought would automatically change.  To find that skinny people are just people who are skinny was an unexpected let down.  And here I talked about y’all all those years.  I apologize profusely to all and sundry.  Well, except for that one girl.  You know who you are.

I have tried everything I can think of to motivate The Dad because further significant weight loss will not take place as his only exercise is walking between his recliner, the bathroom and the kitchen table.  Driving at “full rabbit” on his scooter doesn’t do anything for anyone except keep those in his way unexpectedly exercising lest they be rundown by an aggressive Santa look-alike in a Tractor Supply hat, a stash of contraband Almond Joys hidden in his basket underneath assorted crime novels and packs of Freedent, the gum of choice of denture wearers nationwide.

                The only part of his body that is in any sort of reasonable shape is his mouth, as it gets a constant workout due to his sudden singing of random songs like “Rainbow Stew” and “Why Me, Lord?” and whistling with a talent on par with a songbird, y’all.  It’s a truly amazing sound, like he’s kidnapped a bird and hidden it, like everything else, in his shirt pocket.   I thought about comparing him to the Hager Twins or any other minor members of the Hee Haw gang, but I’m still reeling from the residual shame of admitting I knew the identity of Faron Young in Senior English in high school.  The only other people with that knowledge are in a nursing home and think a blog is something “your Daddy useta get.  It’ll pass.”

And that is all I’m saying.

Forced Lesson in Anatomy

                This past week friends from the East Coast were in town and I spent the day with them in The City, otherwise known as San Francisco.  Jane and Mark had decided that we would spend part of the day exploring the touristy things like the trolley and Lombard St.  They also wanted to rent bikes and ride across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito and then take the ferry back.  For reasons I still haven’t quite figured out, I agreed and met them on Wednesday morning.  We walked the mile or so from their hotel to the beginning of the trolley lines. 

Since my weight loss, walking that far is not a big deal.  It used to be a chore to walk anywhere.  Forgetting something in my car once I was inside my loft at the height of my weight (422) and sickness (sarcoidosis) was cause for stress, anger, tears and then the realization that I could live without said item until the following day, unless it was food.  Then I would send my trained parakeet, Excelsior, to fetch the foodstuffs. Full disclosure, it wasn’t a parakeet and his name was Christopher, my long-suffering best friend.

Now that I am down to 200 pounds and not afraid of a little exercise, I felt that I was fully capable of accepting whatever challenge lay before me.  And all was good until we hit Mile 2 on the bikes.  Ignoring the fact that everyone looks ridiculous in a bike helmet, I realized far too late to rectify the situation that the seat of my bike was made of, apparently, a new material that was an iron/cactus hybrid.  My butt cheeks were in agony, y’all. 

We have previously discussed my lack of hind quarters inherited from my Daddy and I can assure you that the sad remnants of my “butt that never was” were on fire.  If my butt could talk, there would have been choice words, dear readers.  Choice words indeed.

 ‘Quads’ is a word that reared its odd little head.  According to Jane, George Dubya’s former physical therapist, I am bereft of developed quads.  It seems that although outwardly I look like I am in reasonable shape, I am actually more akin to an 85 year-old asthmatic than, say, an Olympic runner or even Olympic spectator. Apparently there are different muscles that you use when peddling than you do when walking.  Who knew?  Apparently many people who didn’t major in a liberal art in college.  All this time I thought a quad was that grassy section in the middle of college campuses in movies that need a central point so the completely implausible couple can “meet cute”.  If that couple had gone to the college where I received my undergraduate degree (Mississippi University for Women, or the W), the meeting would have taken place in the cafeteria and the adorable words he/she would have attempted to utter would have been drowned out by the voices of 300 people, mostly women, singing.  Yes, we sang at the W; a lot.

Now quad-less and suddenly fully aware, I wondered could people tell I had immature quads?  Is it a bad thing?  Do I want mature quads?  I decided, yes, I did.  Should I be ashamed that I don’t?  Would my legs have hurt anyway?  And what does it have to do with my butt hurting? Are your quads linked to your butt like that whole leg-bone-thigh-bone song?  Can one acquire quads?  According to Jane, yes you can, but it requires things like squats, lunges and mountain climbers and I remember all too well those hateful, horrible things from my kickboxing classes and I have sworn (literally) on more than one occasion that I shall never partake in any vile activity of the kind that would lead to a more attractive physique.  I am practically unapproachable as it is, people, I don’t want to be so vulgar in my display of awesomeness, right?  Now would be a good time to take a break, maybe have a drink, lest you post something rude about me on Facebook.

However, I am a trooper, as Jane continuously said, and I pressed onward and upward.  Seriously upward, like scaling the side of a mountain.  Have you seen the GGB?  It’s tall, y’all, and I’m not talking like “water tower” tall; I’m talking like “state fair roller coaster” tall.   Don’t judge me.  Have you tried to ride a bike fabricated in some evil Eastern European factory to torment “capitalist pigs” in America to the top of a ferris wheel without a break for water or a panini?  What?  I was hungry from all the quad development.

 Full disclosure:  I pretty much walked a bike to the top of the hill to get on the bridge.  I had tried everything to stay on the seat.  I pedaled furiously then stood on the pedals and coasted.  I even tried to ride sidesaddle.  It was as successful as you would imagine.  So, I created my own rhythm, if you will.  I would bike until I could no longer take the pain, which was around 5 minutes and then I would leap/stumble from the bike and push it along.  Now anyone else would have been irritated to stop and wait for me to catch up, but Jane and Mark are (1) very patient and (2) very much in love.  If they weren’t so darned adorable it would be sickening.  

                Once we got over the middle of the GGB, I was assured, nay promised, that it was “all downhill” to Sausalito.  LIES!  Okay, there is some truth to the downhill-ness of the other side of the bridge but they didn’t mention the continual use of the brake due to the crazed pedestrians who were either high or stupid or both.  Everyone seemed to have the reaction time of a pothead.  For those not in the know, that means slow, like Aunt-Maudie-blowing-out-her-95^th-birthday-candles slow, like waiting-for-Christmas-morning-when-you’re-8-years-old slow.  And although medicinal marijuana is legal in CA, I find it hard to believe there has been an outbreak of glaucoma amongst the teens and 20-somethings that make up the English-speaking contingency of the Big-donkeys-who-walk-in-the-bike-lane club.  Once we left the relative confines of the bridge, I was again assured of the downhill journey and the fun that was in store.

                Again, LIES!  Lies and vicious rumors!  There was a slight downward change in grade but not enough to have recalculated the vectors or tensile strength or other random things I vaguely remember as a Journalism major taking Physics in college.  Once I walked my bike through the remainder of the path before reaching the road into Sausalito, I realized that the bike path they encouraged us to take was not a path at all.  It wasn’t even a narrow designated lane beside the road.  There wasn’t even a shoulder for the road.  We simply rode in the road as if we were in cars.  As the people behind me came to realize, I am the vehicular equivalent of a ’77 Plymouth Volare with faulty brakes and a driver who learned to use a standard on the column a full 15 minutes before getting in front of them.

                And suddenly there was a downhill.  A frightfully steep downhill.  And I’m not talking roller coaster steep, I’m talking steep like the mountain they race down at the end of that John Cusack “Better Off Dead” movie from the 80s.  Using gravity for its purpose, I flew past both Jane and Mark, due to my lack of familiarity with proper braking techniques and my zeal to de-bike.  I leapt from the velocipede and walked it reasonably quickly considering I had just escorted it 10 or so miles, through the quaint, overpriced town, my final destination; the reservation desk for the ferry to take me back to the mainland so I could release the beast to its owners and flee as quickly as one can having walked a bicycle 627 miles across the longest bridge in the known universe. 

Having been rebuffed in my quest for something other than “first come, first served” seating, I left my bike on the rack, unlocked; hoping against hope that someone would steal it and I would be free, brothers and sisters!  Free!  The $100 deposit would have been worth it.  I almost felt compelled to throw the bike in the water and feign ignorance of its whereabouts.

                Truth be told, I hadn’t ridden on a bike since the age of around 11 and I remembered quite vividly the reasons and they were two-fold.  Each fold representing a butt cheek.  I have never felt pain like this, people.  Like an angry nightclub bouncer had punched me in the butt crack, if you’ll allow a vulgar metaphor. 

                After some great Mexican food (guacamole can soothe even the most ravaged beasts) we walked those wretched bikes onto the ferry and once we landed back on the Pier, we carried them up a flight of stairs (no, I don’t know why either) and found ourselves at Pier 1, the actual pier, not the trendy home goods store.  We were supposed to have arrived at Pier 41 as that is where we rented these torture devices.  Here’s a tip for the people running Guantanamo Bay.  Forget waterboarding; simply rent a bike and make the prisoners ride across the GGB.  They’ll sing like canaries.  Canaries that’ve been punched in the butt crack, if you’ll pardon a repeat of the afore-mentioned vulgar metaphor.

                “It’s only a 7-minute ride to Pier 41”, chirped the thinking-she-was-being-helpful-but-realizing-it-wasn’t-true-when-she-saw-my-facial-expression young lady who greeted us at the information booth.  Ever the trooper, thank you Jane, I attempted to “saddle up” and try once more.  It was not to be.  The buttocks made one last valiant effort to throw me from the bike and I was compelled to do what made the most sense to me; I hired a pedi-cab to pedal me, holding my bike, to the bike rental stand. 

                I was so tired and hurting that I begged off dinner and returned home where I made the mistake of telling my Daddy what had happened.  As I write this, he is still laughing. And if my physical pain won’t get me a hastily organized prayer circle, my shame should at least get me onto the prayer list somewhere near Aunt Maudie.  She's 95; it's an assumption.

What came first, the chicken or my opinion?

                Before I left home this morning I wrote my Daddy a note telling him where I was going as he was asleep.  And I signed it.  He thinks it’s funny that I sign it because there is no one else in the house.  I think it’s funny that he gets mad when food is eaten and it wasn’t me who ate it and he swears it wasn’t him.  As if Lulu is dexterous enough to forage for, say, a leftover quesadilla that someone ate but apparently didn’t even like, when confronted and ultimately admitted to eating it and then felt no guilt about it even though it was on the other person’s assigned food shelf and the act violated all manner of agreements both understood and unwritten.  But I’m not one to hold grudges.

                I always try to keep him informed of my whereabouts so he won’t get confused about whether or not I’ve forgotten him or am purposefully avoiding spending time with him.  He sometimes laments that he feels as if he lives alone.  I would love to feel that feeling again, even if for just one day.  Although, truthfully, I do like having him here with me.  I didn’t really expect to and at first second-guessed myself but we are having a pretty good time most of the time.  Of course, I am an absolute dream to live with.  I am relaxed and easy-going.  I am not persnickety about my space or belongings.  And I am amenable to the point of being a pushover in all matters.  As long as we’re going down that road, I can also fly, walk through walls and read minds. 

                Anyone who has actually met me knows the afore-mentioned personality traits are not true, but since I am the only one involved in my family that is writing a blog, my opinion should count as his too, right?  Someone has to capture the real me before my biographers start interviewing people in my life and begin piecing together the truth.  Truth has no place on the internet, as you well know.

                Never has this seemed truer than when I perused the comments on my YouTube video recently.  In 2008 I was in a leadership training program called Leadership VA.  The VA stands for (Dept. of) Veterans Affairs, not the state of Virginia.  In this program, we had to write and deliver a 5 –minute speech on any topic.  I chose “Leadership and Life Lessons I Learned Playing Football against My Will in Junior High”.  You can search “Dustin Thompson VA” to see it.  I was a full 220 pounds heavier and swathed in a lime green polo shirt.  You can see me from outer space; prepare yourself.

But that’s not the point.  The point is someone who watched it (550,000 and counting) has asserted that I am a failed stand-up comic with the stage name of Tub O’ Lard and that I recently got into the “Leadership Racket”.  I don’t know whether to be offended or proud or at least invested enough to remember my password and add my own comment refuting his.

While there is a 91% “like” rate, this one guy thought I was unfunny enough to make up something or there is someone who looks and sounds like me who was an unfunny comic.  Now, I may have a physical doppelganger, but a vocal twin would be a new experience.  I have a distinctly odd voice.  Anyone who’s ever heard me talk can attest to that.  It’s a weird Southern, nasal, fast-talking sort of a voice.  As if Mr. Garrett from South Park and Scarlett O’Hara had a baby whose speech teacher was the Family Guy.  Yet somehow they pay me to make speeches.  Thank goodness I’m funny, right? 

And that was the part that hurt a little.  I would like to think if I were a stand-up comic I would at least be ‘Chuckle Hut’ funny, for pity’s sake.  Since I don’t curse (in print) and don’t talk about nasty stuff, I probably wouldn’t make it these days but I like to think that I am, at the very least, funny during a toast at a wedding.  I guess I now know what celebrities feel, on a very, very basic level.  Of course, many of them invite scrutiny.  Anyone who has left home under-garment-less or wearing police tape as a brassiere are begging for comment, but “normal” celebrities like Helen Mirren and Larry Hagman shouldn’t be open to scrutiny just because they are marginally famous.  And I’m not even marginally famous.  I’m not famous at all.  If I were I’d have more money, right?  There are people at work who have asked me every week for over a year if I’m there to perform an inspection.  Apparently a three piece suit looks bureaucratic.  Who knew?

At the very least, if he was going to malign my character, he should have bought my book.  The link is in the video description.  Speaking of, those of you who read this who haven’t bought a copy, shame on you.  If I get one more one (1) figure royalty check (yes, you read that correctly), I may…well, I don’t really have a plan.  Let’s just say you owe it to yourself to enjoy the wonder that is me in print.  If that’s not enough of a reason, then my Daddy needs more sardines and Vienna Sausages.  Well, not need so much as want.  Come to think of it, if I’m poor then I can justify not buying gross things like that.  On second thought, don’t buy my book.  You’re actually improving the air quality just south of San Francisco.  All the heathen thank you.

Getting back to my point, when did it become okay to absolutely make things up about people and post them online?  Where is the integrity of the public, he asked, ruefully laughing to himself.  I think it’s just ridiculous, no make that, depressing what passes for manners and even discourse these days.  Over the past few weeks, I have seen much more information and opinions about people’s sexual politics than is warranted outside of marriage, y'all.  No one should feel surprised that the CEO Chik-Fil-A supports what he calls the Biblical model for marriage.  And that’s his right.  He doesn’t open on Sundays and that is his right.  This is America, isn’t it?  He is entitled to his opinion and if he wants to deny me Chik'n minis on Sunday mornings, he can, although it's just rude.  It doesn’t matter if you agree or disagree.  It simply matters that it is his opinion and he can have it if he wants to. 

I have had a lot of people ask me my opinion on gay marriage and I am wisely staying out of that whole argument because it shouldn’t be an argument.  It should be a discussion instead of a name-calling, lockstep, for or against shouting match.  Why do I have to agree with everything you say or be your enemy?  Am I not allowed to have my own opinion?  I don’t even always agree with everything I say; why on earth do you expect me to agree with everything you say.

While I am not a Biblical scholar, I did compete in Bible Drill and have been going to church since long before I came out of my Mother’s womb during the second of her three virgin births, as we have previously discussed.  I know what the Bible says.  I also know what many Biblical scholars and theologians have said about what is consider law and what is considered Jewish customs at that time in history.  And if these people, who have spent their entire careers studying the Bible, can’t agree on the interpretation of the intended nuance of a word, then how the heck do you expect any of the yahoos who are butchering the English language in a sound bite on a cable news show at this very minute, to make sense of what Jesus did or did not say.  I don’t even know for certain, said the man who tries to pretend he isn’t an intellectual snob.

Who cares who somebody parties with/dates/marries/lusts after, etc.  I surely don’t care who Bo Jimmy Jack, She’quan’de or Kieran have decided to join together lest many men put assunder, if we're going to bring up traditional marriage/divorce statistics, Mr. Gingrich.  As long as they don’t consummate their love in front of me or within earshot, I let them be.  I don’t want you to be interested in what I do in my house because I can assure you I have far too many other things to worry about than what you are doing in yours.  Lord knows, managing my Daddy is a full time job.  And managing your life should be.  Maybe if you spent more time worrying about your own stuff you wouldn’t have an unhappy spouse and/or horrifyingly rude and disrespectful children who ran into me with their cart because you left them to their own devices at the Safeway while you drank your mocha chino at the Starbucks stand chatting with your equally offensively dressed “friend” of indeterminate gender.  Again, I’m speaking in vague generalities.

What we should be paying attention to is the state of our nation and the crooks that seem to be intent on running our country into the ground.  We can’t be bothered to pay attention to or fight back against the politicians who are spending us into becoming the largest colonial outpost of mainland China and reducing our educational system to not even a memory of what it was, but, boy howdy, we will take up arms to support a chicken franchise that “took a stand” for “American values”.  And you know what this accomplished in the end?  All you did was make people who already planned to eat there because it’s convenient take three times as long to get their food, made them late getting back to work and cost taxpayers (of whom many, but certainly not all, of you are) a ton of money in lost productivity.  And nobody bothered to bring me a sandwich.  Selfish.

                I don’t normally get off on a political tangent, but I have had enough of this mess clogging up Facebook.  I want to see important things like whose kids won what sporting event, how many weird foods my friends have eaten and the eleventy-hundred hourly postings from my friend Stacy O’Quinn Kidd.  Hey girl! 

And by the way, just so you’ll understand, if Jesus were living amongst us today, he wouldn’t be the gleaming-toothed, overly styled televangelist preaching a life of monetary success for a few minutes of prayer each week.  He would also not be a white guy; there is no enclave of white Europeans in Damascus despite the paintings that you and I grew up seeing at church.  He would be the Middle Eastern man who makes you nervous when you’re in line at Starbucks, especially the Starbucks at the airport.  And he’d be hanging around with all those that some segment of society deem “less than”, like gays (who I mostly like; drag queens are a bit much at times) or politicians (who I sometimes like; pundits are a bit much at times) or people who ride Segways and think they’re cool (who I never like and want to push over all the time).  Why?  Because He loves, say it with me, everybody.    

And for all the people who have just been offended by this portrait of Jesus and who just inhaled very sharply and are now trying to calm themselves before they unleash the fury of what they feel is righteous anger, calm down, for pity’s sake.  You shouldn’t even care what my opinion might be. 

But I would like to point out if, during the course of your life and based on your actions and the outward expressions of your heart, you have to constantly remind people that you are in fact a Christian, odds are you aren’t acting like one.  Said one sinner to another.

Epidurals and saving grace

                I know, dear readers, it has been a few weeks since I’ve posted anything.  And for that I am truly apologetic.  Not apologetic enough to have posted anything; mind you, but apologetic nonetheless.  I have been working very hard serving Veterans and could use that as my excuse, but I believe we are close enough for me to admit, I’ve just been tired, y’all; as tired as parachute pants.  As tired as a double-shift ending quickie mart manager who suddenly remembers that they have to go to the 24 hour Wal-Mart to buy Huggies for their grandbaby whose trifling mama can’t be bothered to stop partying to go get.  Not that I’m specifying anyone I know; it’s just a general description.

                Work has been tiring. Some people have likened manaing people to herding cats.  I describe it as more akin to herding birthday balloons; the ones that have been haphazardly and unwillingly inflated by Daddy and Uncle Herschel as opposed to, say, Scary Freaky Clown Guy with his efficient tank of helium and death.  They float lazily along, skittering hither and yon from some ever-present breeze that stems from the slow exhale of apathy.  Of course, you understand, this is absolutely not descriptive of my staff.  No, sir.  Those in my office are the very picture of efficiency and zeal.  Some even read this blog.  Hi Katherine.

                The tiredness has been compounded by the hourly briefing s from my father about his post-surgery condition.  As I may have shared, he recently underwent minor outpatient surgery.  He had a cyst on his…well, let’s just say lower back and leave it at that.  Anyhoo, his lower back “sprung a leak” from the description he gave and he had to return to the hospital for a follow-up procedure where he informed all and sundry in the operating room that their parents were in fact never married.  I really can’t blame him for his outburst although I denied any knowledge of the name of his caretaker or his connection to me when asked.

 It seems that they were forced to give him 4, count them, 4 epidurals before he “felt no pain”.  Of course, he couldn’t walk for about 6 hours after the procedure.  Too bad they couldn’t have given him an epidural in his mouth.  I can assure you if it was (1) medically possible and (2) remotely legal, they would have.  Taking your doctor a hand-crocheted afghan doesn’t really remove the sting of a large red-head questioning the moral fiber of one’s mother whilst you are waiting to remove a growth from the nether regions of said red-head who comes complete with anger issues, questionable hygiene and the inability to be knocked out without using rhinoceros tranquilizers from the zoo, y’all.  Those poor clinicians.

Well, at least they’re all getting a matching scarves to go with their afghans because that’s a typical gift pairing according to my father.  He tried to blame his behavior on the epidural, but he might as well have blamed it on the bossa nova for all the good it did him when I found out about the incident.  Never in the history of man has an eyebrow arched in such a judgmental fashion.  I may have sprained something.      

He has been living with me, as you know, for right at 10 months and we are still trying to get used to each other’s peculiarities.  He is supposed to be trying to lose weight and understand that I am not his maid or even a home health aide, although from the activities that take up most of my free time, it seems that I am something akin to a nanny who cooks.  Like Mary Poppins without the magic umbrella or the wherewithal to sing while cleaning. 

 I am trying to get used to having someone in my house for all 24 of the blessed hours in a given day.  He is never not here.  He does not leave the yard on his own.  I guess I should be happy he goes to the bathroom unattended.  If ever he requires assistance in that realm, we are either calling in an agency or getting some adult diapers.  I love my Daddy and will honor him like the Bible says, but unless you can show me a verse that specifically states “Thou shalt assist your parents in their daily ablutions” you can count me out.

This morning, as every Sunday morning, we have coffee and share the newspaper prior to me going to church.  He only attends when the pain of sitting on a pew in the Presbyterian Church is outweighed by the need for pancakes and sausage.  The pain is a mixture of physical and liturgical; him being a semi-devout Southern Baptist.  His devotion is directly related to the amount of casseroles and frequency of dinners on the ground.  I’m kidding, of course.  He attended church on a semi-regular basis throughout my childhood.  He was one of those Christmas/Easter/my Mother needed to prove he actually existed kind of church-goers.  Oh, and weddings, too. 

I myself was a faithful church attendee from birth through my junior year in college.  Then I fled from the constraints of religion as I was an art major and trying to find myself; an excuse more convenient than true.  I stayed away from church throughout graduate school and it’s no coincidence that the most, dumbest and life-altering mistakes I made were during this time.  I won’t bore, or titillate, you with the details.  Suffice it to say my testimony is a bit spicier than I would have liked, believe me.  I used to wish I had a more exciting life story.  Now that my autobiography reads like an Afterschool Special with parental warnings and includes certain experiences that would necessitate a revival of Oprah's talk show and a heated discussion/prayer intervention by Mike Huckabee and Sarah Palin, I would much rather have had the mundane “saved in 4^th grade, taught Vacation Bible School, trying not to feel/appear holier than thou” backstory.  Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

The great thing about being a Christian later in life is that I can truly see the redemption God granted me.  I have a career that I love; that gives me the success I enjoy despite my lack of planning and ridiculous paths I chose.  God can take even the crookedest path and find you a new route if you let Him.  Rand McNally has nothing on Jesus when it comes to navigation.  Looks like I’m trying to have church before church this morning.  Can I get an Amen?

I’m not sure how I started talking about my Daddy’s surgery and ended up talking about salvation but that’s just how it goes sometimes.  You know a conversation with me is all about the digressions more than the topic, unless the topic is music trivia, leadership, interview skills, Miss America or people who get on my nerves.  I never said I was fully evolved.

One reason I haven’t finished the sequel to A Gone Pecan is that I am also working on my memoirs (is it called memoirs even if you’re not famous and may not even be interesting?).  I will publish excerpts as I complete them or as soon as I am comfortable sharing them.  All of the statute of limitations have expired, I think and I only share to help whomever it can help and at this point I don’t know how or even who that would be, but I feel…no, make that believe that all the things that have happened in my life have to have been for a reason other than to teach me a lesson.  Sometimes the lesson was learned quickly and sometimes it’s taken a while, but a lesson has always been learned.  Maybe. 

I don’t know about you, but I’m just glad that God doesn’t have a last nerve.  If He did I would have been on it, do you hear me?  Now I know that deserves an Amen.  You Baptists sitting on the back row need to give one up.  That’s all I’m saying.

World Peace has a new mascot

                As you know I have been buzzing around town in the ‘neck truck since my sister left in her newly purchased car o’ mine.  It hasn’t been too terrible but I am simply not a truck person.  There are specific things about my Daddy’s truck that aren’t standard on most Ford Rangers that require skills and patience that I just don’t possess.  For example, the tailgate lever (?) handle (?) thingy is missing so you have to reach in the bed of the truck and pull one metal rod one way, whilst twisting and pulling another metal rod in order to open the tailgate.  If I were that mechanically inclined, I would be an engineer instead of a bureaucrat, I assure you.  Well, maybe not, but at least I would be able to give more information to the computer help desk at the hospital other than my computer is black and I am in room 110B, Building 5.  I always tell myself that the sigh of pity that meets my repeated requests is simply “noise on the line”, which I understand is a computer term.  Right?

                You would think that someone who had been "tailgating" on more than one occasion would be more familiar with the inner workings on the gate on which we tailed, but I tailgated at Ole Miss and those gates are not of the Ford Ranger variety to be sure.  I had to let down this particular tailgate to remove his scooter so I could see out the rearview mirror.  When that machine is in the back, it looks like I’m being tailgated by a riding lawnmower that floats – like the skateboards they promised would be around in 2012 in the movie Back to the Future.    There is also the issue of the back side window.  His edition, which is ironically called a king cab, is not royal by anyone’s definition as there are roll-down windows.  I didn’t even know they made those anymore.  And it’s not like his truck is a 1921 model; it’s a 2002.  Who on earth, besides apparently my Daddy, would buy a vehicle with roll-down windows?  Okay, there are those people, but I am simply not one of them.  I never realized how many times a day I need to roll down my window.  I assumed it would be slim to none since I do not frequent drive thru fooding establishments nor do I litter, flip someone ‘the bird’ or smoke or any other behavior that would require someone to lower their window.  However, attempting to use the drive thru car wash, valet parking at work, freeing the random insect that somehow decided to ride shotgun or escaping the fumes of my father have all happened with alarming frequency.

                As I have the soul (and taste) of a trust funder but the spending habits of Scrooge McDuck, I was torn on what sort of vehicle to purchase.  I wanted it to be something that was stylish and attractive but not so expensive as to induce nausea each month when the payment was due.  I know that Dave Ramsay says you should buy a car with cash, but I could not stomach driving that truck any longer.  Some of my outfits simply refused to travel in that particular vehicle.  I have had to return to my room to change out of anything overtly preppy as the pastel chinos and even the saddle oxfords stood their ground, so to speak, and ever so gently lead me back to the closet, signaling the denim and khaki that they were substituting.  I almost said, “Substituting for this inning”!  A sports metaphor. Can you imagine?  This morning, in fact, my Brook Brothers baseball cap leapt from the shelf and onto my head as the word on the street was “Dustin’s going somewhere in a truck!”  Quelle Horror! 

                I had completed quite a bit of online comparing gas mileage, body style, level of awesomeness, etc.  I wanted a Mercedes for the sole reason of saying I had one.  That’s the only reason to buy a car like that.  If people were honest, they would admit that is the main reason you buy luxury goods is to show others that you can and they cannot.  I have a Louis Vuitton wallet.  It cost a ridiculous amount of money and it’s not even leather; its waxed cotton.  But I bought it because it made me feel fancy.  Am I that guy?  Apparently.  And the only reason I paid full retail is that LV has no outlet.  I love nice things but I do not like paying full retail.  My Coach attaché was purchase on clearance at the Coach Outlet, people.  All my Brooks Brothers clothing was either procured at the outlet mall or a thrift store.  The only other item for which I must pay full price is Spanx.  I need these undershirts to keep my post-weight-loss-pre-plastic-surgery midsection in some semblance of a midsection, y'all.  Plus, those people are doing the Lord’s work.  Can I get an amen?  Oh, really?  Ninety eight percent of the people reading this right now either have purchased, are currently wearing or really, really want Spanx.  If I was the only one, the inventor wouldn’t be something like the 3^rd wealthiest woman in America.  Just saying.

But the clothes and accessories are minor purchases in comparison to buying something like a car.  That is serious money, dear readers.  Not to get all street on you, but that’s a lot of Benjamins just to feel fancy and be obnoxious.  I can be that guy for much less money, do you hear me?  I was that guy in my Chrysler Concorde.  Full disclosure, I was that guy in my ’77 Plymouth Volare.    I’ve always been uppity according to mi familia (that’s Spanish).  See?

                So I bought a 2013 Hyundai Sonata.  It looks somewhat like an S-class Mercedes and it is fat and full of cool things and I got a great deal and I am happy.  So happy in fact that when I returned home my Daddy asked me to fry some chicken.  And I said yes!  I have never fried chicken in my entire life.  I have eaten more than my fair share but I wasn’t really paying attention to how it was prepared.  Apparently he had been wanting some chicken for quite a while and was waiting for me to be in just the right frame of mind to agree.  It seems that last Sunday, Norah Jones, she of “Don’t Know Why” groovy bluesy fame, was interviewed in Parade magazine.  She talked about how her mother used to cook fried chicken when they were growing up.  I guess Ravi Shankar, her father, either married a woman from the South or his real name was Reggie and he cooked it himself, because the recipe that was remarkably similar to my mother’s, according to my father.

                So I bought buttermilk, flour, and oil on purpose and without too much shame.  I always have a little; its residual shame from when we lived in the motel in Texas when I was in high school.  Man, I’m being all “Oprah Moment” with y’all today.  Anyway, I fried it up with some onion rings and turnip greens and cornbread and sauerkraut with smoked sausage.  I apologize to anyone whose cholesterol just rose reading that sentence.  Apparently I have become even more of an old Southern lady but that, if we’re all being honest, is no longer a surprise and has become somewhat expected and actually a bit stale, as a disclosure.  Am I right?

                The best part about the fried chicken incident was that it gave me some interesting insights into my family.  I now know why my mother ate very little at supper; she was full from the snacking while cooking.  I personally “taste tested” about 4 or 5 onion rings and ate more "goodies" than I should.  Goodies are the crumbly pieces of crust that fall of the chicken.  My Daddy coined that term when I was very young; I had forgotten I even knew that word.  I was also forced to apologize to my Daddy for always making a mess when he fries something.  I was all OCD in the kitchen today and still managed to get grease on a number of surfaces including my suede saddle oxford.  I know, who on earth fries food wearing suede?  Just you Dustin.  Lastly, it puts my Daddy in a most festive mood; on par with someone who has won $20 bucks on a lottery scratch-off. 

From within the haze of chicken grease (apparently I got the scald just right), he has volunteered to watch both “Queen and Country”, a BBC documentary about my favorite royal QEII, and Drop Dead Diva, an over-the-top sitcom on Lifetime TV.  Maybe they should serve fried chicken at the UN and solve all these pesky world issues in one fell swoop.  Maybe they should serve it to everybody in America and end all this partisan bickering.  Paula Deen for President, y’all.  The country will be too full to fight! 

I do believe that deserves an Amen from somebody. 

Is burnt chicken really patriotic?

I apologize for the lateness of my 4^th of July-themed blog.  I was trying to wait until my eyebrows grew back but that was taking a really long time, so I figured I might as well spill the beans, as it were.  I had decided it might be retro to have a few friends over for a cookout on the 4^th and celebrate as our forefather’s did, or so I’ve been told by the purveyors of alcoholic beverages.  I find it hard to believe George, Benjy and the lot partied down after their victory of those proper British villains by hosting a kegger and burning red meat and poultry.  However, my father took hold of the idea of a BBQ like a raccoon to a penny so off to The Mart for a grill purchase.  What?  Did you really think he’d go somewhere else?  If Crate and Barrel offered a grill I’d have purchased one in either kiwi or melon but alas ‘twas not to be.  So off to The Mart we went on a Tuesday afternoon.  I should have been paying attention to what he was tossing into our buggy but I was too busy fending off his attempts to pilfer all manner of sugar-coated treats.  Have you ever tried to wrestle a package of bear claws from an overly aggressive elderly redneck in Little Guatemala while wearing pastel chinos and trying to maintain some sense of decorum so your disdain for the locals doesn’t seem out of character?  No Dustin, just you.

The next morning, after we laid out the various cuts and types of meats to be grilled, I reminded him that we had invited exactly 4 people besides ourselves to this little shindig.  There were enough hamburger patties to feed every laborer who built the Panama Canal with enough leftovers to end world hunger if we could convince third-world citizens that Spam is truly a food for the masses.  Just sayin’.  I left him to fire up the grill while I went to pick up our fantastic desserts (cupcakes from my favorite new bakery, SusieCakes in Menlo Park.   A rookie mistake to be sure, but I simply cannot go any great length of time without having one of their delectable desserts.  The blueberry pancake cupcakes are so good they ought to be illegal and probably will be soon enough, if the hippies get into the White House in November.  I’ll let you decide who I’m talking about.

When I returned he was dousing the charcoal with lighter fluid.  When I asked him why, he said, ‘So it’ll burn, boy.  Lord, have you fergot ever’thing I taught you?”  Of course not, I can still curse in 5 languages.  The proud Thompson legacy lives.  When I reminded him that the charcoal was manufactured to light with a match he wanted to know how I knew that.  My pointing to the words “Match” and “Light” on the bag was deemed hateful and I was asked to retire to the kitchen with the other women folk, meaning, I guess, Lulu and the ghost?  Before I could turn to get inside I felt whoosh of heat that singed my eyebrows from behind do you hear me?  It was heat on a Dante’s Inferno scale; like backpacking on the sun, y’all.  After he put out the fire that had consumed his most treasured Tractor Supply hat, I asked him what had happened.  He replied, ever so innocently, “I guess I put too much lighter fluid on the charcoal.” 

“You actually put lighter fluid on match light charcoal?”

“I wanted it to light.”

“But the bag said Match Light.”

“Hmpf.  What does Kingsford know about charcoal?”

“As the manufacturers of said charcoal, I would say they know a bit more than you, Fire Marshall Bill.”

“Just go get the meat.” 

Later my guests enjoyed any number of crispity, crunchity treats, which is good if you’re eating a Butterfinger but not so much when it’s supposed to be chicken and burgers.  The fire was so out of control, he actually charred the corn that was wrapped in foil sitting on the bun warming shelf.  Go big or go home, I suppose.  Luckily the cupcakes were perfect.  Thanks Cheyenne!  Can I have my free cupcake now?

No sooner than I had regrown/restyled the singed hair on my arms, the weekend came and as I have previously reported, my new normal Saturday routine involves me chauffeuring my Daddy to “town”.  Mr. Daisy he is not.  This particular Saturday, we had to go get his truck weighed as he cannot find his registration papers with the weight listed and this is a requirement for a license plate in California as they consider all pickup trucks, regardless of their use, to be commercial vehicles.  Yes, the land of the heathen is enough to make a good Baptist talk about somebody, do you hear me?

                Lately I have been refusing to run some of his errands, hoping to force him out of his recliner and into the community at large, to no avail.  Now that I’ve sold my recently paid-off car to my sister and I have yet to decide what mode of transport I will choose, I must depend upon the truck as my chariot.  Of course my Daddy has seized upon this happenstance with all the glee of a cheating diabetic who finds a gallon of chocolate ice cream with no one to stop them from eating it all.  Not that it happened.  It’s purely conjecture at this point, although the fact that the trash can was emptied into the bin outside while I was at work is suspicious.  On a positive note, yay him for leaving the house.

                The reason I am giving you the back story is that we had a very interesting discussion on the way to get weighed.  It involved the level of “macho” of various cooking oils, if you can believe that.  We grilled out for July 4^th and I invited people from work.  Per my father, the attendees were three geeks (me included) two macho men (counting him) and one lady.  One of my managers is a rather intimidatingly large person.  He looks like a Hell’s Angel, but is one of the kindest people I have ever met.  Imagine Gandhi on a Harley but less hateful.  Seriously.  When I asked him why he felt I was a geek (not that I was arguing, I was simply curious) he said everything about me was geeky right down to the grosh’ries in my pantry.  When I asked “por ejemplo”, he said, “What?”  When I repeated “for example” he cited my purchase of grapeseed oil as geeky.

                So, to school you the “Redneck scale of Macho-nicity” for cooking oils, just in case you were wondering and even if you weren’t.  I have decided if I have to know it, so do you.  The price of loyalty for all 34 of you who read this.

                Sunflower oil – “Sissy.”

                Grapeseed oil – “Geeky.”

                Safflower oil – “What the h-e-double-l is a safflower?  You mean sunflower?  I already said Sissy.”

                Peanut oil – “Squirrelly.”

                Olive oil – “Hmmm.  Sounds fancy, so probably Sissy.”My apologies to Rachel Ray.

                Vegetable oil – “A’ight I guess.”

                Motor oil from an old lawn mower – “Macho.”  Just kidding.  What he actually said was, “If you’re not gonna take this serious, then why’re we talkin’ ‘bout it?”

                When I asked what kind of oil he found appropriately masculine, he said, “Grease.  With bacon.”

                “Aren’t grease and vegetable oil roughly the same thing?”

                “How is oil and grease the same thing?  You don’t have them check the grease in your car every 3,000 miles do you?”  Noticing my confusion, he muttered, “Knowing you, you prob’ly do.  Where’d you come from again?”

                “Your loins, old man.  Don’t remind me.”

                The frequency of odd conversations in my house is on par with the level of cholesterol in my father’s blood, which is comparable to a really good credit score.  Like o% financing good, y’all.  Pray if you feel it’s appropriate.