Random stuff from a random person

Mom, me and the non-existent dead gerbil, Marvin.

Sat, 30 May 2009 12:59:41 GMT

Mom, me and the non-existent dead gerbil, Marvin.

So, where my parents live there is a small road that leads to a cul de sac and my parents's drive comes off the cul de sac and contines about a 1/4 mile to the house. Across the street from the small road that enters into their area is a man named Burley Wayne (first and middle name, he uses both). He lives in this house with his son and next door to his house is a trailer that apparently his wife and the mother of his son lives. I am not sure why, but I have heard that her plastic cup collection is so large, she needs the space. Burley Wayne and his wife, Gene, have decorated their yard with plastic flowers planted in the ground and those plastic birds that have the wings that circle around when the wind blows. Like these:

http://www.mindspring.com/~erhoades...t/yardart01.jpg

Burley Wayne is card carrying crazy. Not kidding. Seriously nuts. We all know that and we all avoid him like the plague. Too much inbreeding in my opinion. Anyway, Burley Wayne decided that the wooded area across the street from him, that belongs to one of the people that lives near my parents, was just too dull. So, he and Gene planted plastic flowers and plastic birds and stuck an American flag on the street sign.

http://www.ece.uwaterloo.ca/~arnora...sticflowers.jpg

This really pissed me off as I had to look at this tackiness every time I went home. He wants to live in tackyland that is up to him, but this was just not on. One night, over Xmas break, when mom and I were coming back from Wal-Mart, we stopped near the garden of plastic and jumped out of her SUV, grabbed everything and threw it in the back. Then we drove home giggling. The next day, we went to a church parking lot and threw the plastic flowers in their dumpster. I am sure that earns me a place in hell.

SIX DAYS later, there was a whole new plastic garden where Burley Wayne replaced the "stolen" plants. The plants were lined up like a freaking pet cemetary. That is what my aunt called it when she was up visiting for Xmas. There was this one lone flower that had purple petals and a yellow smiley face. It looked like this:

http://www.gosmiley.com/natur/face_flower.gif

except it had a long green cloth stem.

One night, my dad was out of town and mom and I decided that if it looked like a pet cemetary, then it should be a pet cemetary. We decided to call it the Pleasant Smell Pet Cemetary and we would have a fake dead gerbil planted there underneath the plastic flowers. Mom found a picture of a gerbil that she downloaded and in an image program, put him in the center of a wreath with the name of the cemetary. Then she printed it out and pasted it on poster board and used metal stakes to make it a sign. That was way too nice and organized for me, so I grabbed an old piece of wood that had been painted white out of the utility closet in the garage that was peeling, took a Sharpie and wrote, "Here lies Marvin, dead gerbul. He was a good eatear." Drew some crosses with my sharpie and pasted pics of american flags from a magazine on it. Then I took some purple glitter threw that on there, and finally wrote RIP on my sign. I took a white wood stake left over from some gardening project, and wrote RIP on it with crosses too. Then we took a flat rock and mom wrote MARVIN on it. I ran upstairs and grabbed fake floral stuff from the Xmas decorations and pasted those plastic flowers on everything.

At 5:30 the next morning, mom and I used my grandparents silent electric golf cart and drove down to the tacky place. We planted Marvin near some plastic flowers, put up the signs, planted the stake, and I did steal the purple and yellow smiley faced one. Then we drove like hell home humming the Mission Impossible theme. By 11 am EVERYTHING was gone. We left to do some errands and when we came back, the place was cleared out and we had three phone messages from neighbors who said that Burley Wayne had a little tantrum out in the middle of the road, apparently he was stomping and raving and waving his arms around in anger. He stood in the middle of the road and stopped everyone who entered our little area to ask who did the pet cemetary thing. He told people that he was taking all that stuff to the sheriff and was going to get it fingerprinted. He was going to find out just who did this. AND he was going to sit up all night and watch the area and shoot anyone with buckshot that messed with that place. That was "his people's land" and he could do whatever he wanted to with it. Apparently, his wife asked one of our neighbors who Burley Wayne stopped and who witnessed his melt down if it looked like a pet cemetary. This guy said, "well over there it does" and pointed to the row of plastic plants. I guess that is what caused Gene and BW to remove EVERYTHING, the stuff mom and I did and their crap. Which is all I wanted, anyway.

The consensus of the neighbors (who have NO idea that we did this) is that kids did it because gerbil and eater were misspelled and besides no adults would waste that much time on something like this. The only one who knows the truth is my dad.

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Dad and the endless family drive in upstate New York

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 18:35:25 GMT

Dad and the endless family drive in upstate New York
A long as crap Dad chronicle story

I was actually there for this one, so this is not second hand from mom. My dad grew up in a small town in Upstate New York on one of the Finger Lakes. I am not going to say which one, mainly because you would never know how to pronounce it anyway as it is one of those long Indian names that isn’t pronounced the way it is spelled. Let’s just say a small town on the Finger Lakes in Upstate New York, OK?

Until my father’s father died my immediate family used to visit up there every year or two. I think this story is actually from the last visit we made up there except for the one where we went up for my grandfather’s memorial service. The cast of characters are:

Me
Mom
Dad
Gran-gran (my dad’s dad)
Mimsie (my dad’s mom)
A station wagon

My brother and at the time his girlfriend (now his wife) also went up there, but those two went on a little “drive” of their own and so weren’t involved in this particular fiasco.

OK, enough back story. The thing about going to visit my dad’s parents is that Mimsie is one of those people that will follow you around and talk at you no matter what you are doing. She will even follow you into the bathroom if you are not careful. She has been known to vacuum right in your room or to open and shut the garage door a bunch of times if you sleep in longer than she thinks you should. So, mom and I had been trying to figure out a way to get some alone time. We couldn’t even get up really early and sneak out of the house as it is impossible to get up before Mimsie. She has radar. She is evil. One of the things I wanted to do that would get us both out of the house was to take some pictures of dairy farms while we were there. There aren’t a lot of dairy farms in NC where I grew up and they are really picturesque which is why I wanted to take pictures. And I wanted out of the house.

One Sunday after breakfast, Gran-Gran asked all of us what we were planning on doing that day. Like I said, my brother and now SIL took off and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to get out of the house as well:

Me: “Well, mom and I wanted to go out and take pictures of some dairy farms.”

Gran-Gran:”That is a good idea. We will all go.”

Me: *inside my head I am saying Damn it, I should have kept my mouth shut. I am so stupid. This is not going to be fun. At ALL.

We pile into my grandparents station wagon. My dad is driving, Gran-Gran is in the passenger seat, mom and I are in the back seat and Mimsie is sitting backwards in that seat that faces the wrong way in the very back of station wagons. Off we go. Now Upstate New York is dotted with small villages and hamlets instead of cities. These small populated areas are separated by corn fields and dairy farms and are connected by REALLY WINDING small roads. The fact that I get really car sick apparently never entered anyone’s mind as I am relegated to the back seat and my dad thinks he is Mario Andretti. This is the first TWO hours of the drive:

Dad: *driving as fast as he can along these WINDING roads starts his commentary on all the places he has hunted and fished. “Chip (his best friend in high school) and I once camped down this area here.” He points out the window to the right

ZOOOM!

Gran-Gran: “Dave, there is a dairy farm right here.”

Dad: *ignoring his father, “Then one time we got a 7 point buck over there!” *points out the other window

ZOOOM!

Gran-Gran: “There went ANOTHER dairy farm”

Dad: “Ok, I think we went fishing down this road here!” *turns down a gravel road

Zoom! Screetch!

Mimsie: “Where are you going? What is going on up there?”

Dad: “Yep-we spent a week down in this area when I was young, you remember that, dad?”

Gran-gran: “No not really. Hey! There is a dairy farm!”

Screetch! Zooom!

Dad: *gets back on the main road and continues driving at mach 3

Gran-Gran: “Dave! I see a dairy farm about a mile up the road!”

Zooms past said dairy farm

Dad: “We went quail hunting down there.”

Now we get to some contruction with those orange cones set up in the road. This forces my dad to slow down.

Mimsie: *she cannot see what is going on up front “Why are you slowing down? What is going on? Hey! That guy behind us is coming up really fast and he is eating a SANDWICH!”

We get past the construction area and the conversation pretty much picks up where it left off with Gran-gran pointing out dairy farms and my dad pointing out places he killed things. Mom and I are just sitting looking at each other in disbelief.

Dad:”I went deer hunting here and it was really cold up in that tree! I sat up there for hours.”

Gran-gran: “Dave, there goes another dairy farm.”

Me: “Stop the CAR! I want to see that dairy farm!”

Screetch! Dad stops the car. We all pile out of the car. I take some pictures of the dairy farm and my dad paces at the side of the road. I don’t know why he is pacing, it isn’t like we have anywhere to go or anything. I get finished and we get back in the car. Yes, I got pictures of ONE dairy farm that day. ONE. And it was from a LONG way away. I was lucky I got that much.

We drive along and in one of these small hamlets is a old white clapboard church. I want pictures of that, too. Dad stops the car and we get out. On one side of the road is a really old, almost dilapidated cool looking church and on the opposite side of the road is obviously the new replacement church. It looks just like the old one, just really new. I am off taking pictures of the old church and trying to get my stomach to stop being sick.

Mimsie: “why are you taking pictures of that old church?”

Me: “Because I think it looks neat.”

Mimsie: “Why aren’t you taking pictures of that new church?”

Me:*trying to ignore Mimsie

Mimsie: “That new church is much prettier. You should take pictures of that one.”

Me: “ I like old churches. I think they are interesting.”

Mimsie: “Yes, but it is OLD and looks terrible. Look at how pretty the new church is.”

Me: *still giving ignoring the old college try

Mimsie: “I wouldn’t want pictures of that old church, I think you should take pictures of the new one.”

Me: *I sigh and move across the road and take pictures of the NEW church. I hope it shuts her up.

Dad:*paces around. Looks at watch. Paces some more.

After I take pictures of the NEW church, we all get back in the car and head off. It is now close to lunch time and we have been driving an hour and a half or so.

Gran-Gran: “ I think there is a restaurant up ahead. We should stop for lunch. It is called “A family diner.”

Dad: “Ok”

We see the place in about 5 minutes. As we pull in, Mimsie spots the sign above the door:

Mimsie: “It is called THE family diner! Why would you say it is called A family diner when it is clearly called THE family diner?”

The rest of the car ignores her. We go in and I head to the little girl’s room. When I get out and go to find our table, I see that my traitorous parents have gotten a table for two and that forces me to sit with Mimsie and Gran-gran without any type of buffer. I shoot a dirty look at my parents and they are LAUGHING at me. LAUGHING! They know exactly what they have done to me. They suck.

After lunch, we get back in the car and drive another hour or hour and a half back to my grandparents house. The conversation back is EXACTLY like the conversation out. My dad points out personal landmarks o’death, my grandfather points out dairy farms and my grandmother just babbles about stuff that has nothing to do with anything. All this at 60 miles an hour on winding roads. I seriously began to think I had died and gone to hell.

Dad and the Goose Calls

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 01:53:58 GMT

Dad and the Goose Calls
A Dad chronicle story

This one is pretty short.

My mom's parents lived in Waco, Texas up until a few years ago when they packed up and moved to NC to be near mom. My parents were heading over to my grandparents house for dinner one day and my dad had brought his goose calls with him. I am not really sure why he took them with him except that he knew they bugged the hell out of my mom. Mom is driving and my dad is in the passenger seat making goose call noises. REALLY LOUDLY

Dad: HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!
(go here: http://www.cobproducts.com/Retail/g...goose_calls.htm and click on hear the calls. BUT make sure you turn up the volume as loud as it will go to get the full effect)

Mom: "Dave, I have a headache. Please stop."

Dad: *gives mom an evil eye. HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

Mom: "God damn it Dave!"

Dad rolls down his window and throws his calls out of the moving car on to the side of the road.

Mom drives a couple of more minutes, then pulls into a driveway, turns around and starts to head back to their house.

Dad: "Where are you going?"

Mom: "Since we have decided to act like 12 year olds, I think we should just go home instead of inflicting this on my parents."

Dad: "Oh. Well, could you stop here and let me get my goose calls?"

Mom: "No! You can come back and get them yourself."

My parents get back home. Dad gets into the drivers seat and goes off to look for the goose calls he threw out the window. He has to wander up and down the side of the road for awhile, but he does find them. Mom calls her parents and explains that they are not coming to dinner. I think she just told them that they were having a disagreement.

Dad and the Toaster Oven

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 13:52:58 GMT

Dad and the Toaster Oven
a Dad chronicle story

My dad's mom (Mimsie) and his oldest sister came for a visit. Dad decided to make them lunch in the form of chicken salad sandwiches (of course we don't eat sandwiches anymore-or if we do, it is a half sandwich on low carb bread). All sandwiches are to be on toast. The toast part is very important because on my dad's side of the family, sandwiches are ALWAYS on toast. It is a rule. Cheese is optional, but toast is not. They are totally wacked out on that side of the family. Mom tells me this story over the phone. But the best part is at the end. Believe me.

Dad: "I am making chicken salad sandwiches! Do we have bread? Do we have chicken salad?"

Mom: "Did you want these on toast?"

Dad: "Yeah! That sounds great!"

Mom: "I think the toaster oven is broken, though. The lever won't stay down on the toaster part."

Dad: "We have to have toast! Let me see it."

Dad puts bread in the toaster oven and hits the lever thing. The toaster oven makes a horrible grinding noise and the lever pops up immediately. Obviously it is broken.

Dad: "Hmmmm. OK, I will just hold down the lever the whole time."

Mom: "I don't think that is a good idea. It is broken. It keeps making that noise"

Dad: "It will be fine! We must have TOAST!"

Dad stands there and holds the toasting lever down for at least 3 minutes and the toaster oven makes that horrible grinding noise the whole time. Then SMOKE starts coming out of the side of the toaster oven. This does not deter the toast man, because he actually takes out the first two slices and puts in two more. Holds down the lever. GRIND GRIND GRIND SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE. He ends up making 6 slices of toast, for three sandwiches while holding the lever down on a smoking, grinding appliance. Why the smoke detecter didn't go off, I have no idea. I guess the kitchen smelled like an eletrical fire. Mom decides she doesn't need her sandwich on toast. Infidel.

I am laughing my butt off on the phone as mom is telling me this. I ask her if the oven part of the toaster oven still works. She says yes. This is the rest of our conversation:

Me: *laughing. "Mom, why didn't he just put the bread in and use the oven part at 250 or something and just keep an eye on it? Wouldn't that make toast?"

Mom: silence........laughing "Oh my god!!"

Me: "By the way, couldn't he have put all six slices in the regular oven and have done it all at once?"

Mom: *Laughs even harder.

Me: "What happened to the old toaster? Do you still have it?"

Mom: "I don't know. I don't think so."

So, the next time I go to visit my parents I look around and guess what I find in a cabinet? The old toaster. Works fine.

Dad and the washing machine

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 23:23:09 GMT

A dad chronicle story

This happened in late summer/early fall 2004

The weekend before my brother and his family took a big old jet airliner carrying them too far away-my parents went to spend a couple of hours with them. Of course, my brother and SIL were busy getting their house ready to pack up, so mom and dad decided to help them. For some reason that I am not sure of or really just don't remember when I was told, the washing machine and outdoor grill had to be taken out to the dump. So, my dad tries to move the washer all by himself. Why? Because he is just that way. As he drags it across the floor, he rips the linoleum. My SIL tells him, "You are tearing up the floor." My dad replies with, "No, I'm not." But, of course there is a big rip in the floor. I guess he couldn't see it from behind the washer and also couldn't hear himself tear up the floor from the sound of his manly muscles bulging.

Now, the house has already undergone inspection, and the repairs and stuff have been done for the new owners. The inspector was really picky and would surely notice a new big tear in the floor. While my dad, living in denial land, goes outside with the washing machine to put it in the truck, my mom gets on her hands and knees and tucks the torn linoleum flaps sort of back under so you cannot see the rip. She doesn’t even bother to apologize for my dad, because it is pointless. My dad comes back in, realizes he actually did rip the floor, and finds some Elmer's wood glue to fix the problem. Wood, linoleum- whatever, right? I am actually surprised he didn’t get some duct tape. So he reopens the gaping floor wound and puts a HUGE glob of glue down. Then he grabs one of my mom's ked's sneakers (the kind that have the mass of roughly a flip flop) and uses this canvas and 1/8th of an inch rubber shoe-like thing to bang on the glue smeared floor. BANG! BANG! BANG! I don’t know why he decided he had to bang on the floor with the shoe. I would assume you could just press down on the linoleum. Now, there is a glue glop spreading out from the tear that he didn't put there. He yells at my mom to get him a paper towel so he can clean up the excess glue. She wets one down and hands it to him, but he wants a dry paper towel. I guess because a rip and glue glob isn't enough of a mess, you have to have paper towel shreds, just to balance out the look.

Then, he takes the grill out to put that in the truck. But it is too big to fit in the truck all in one piece, so he decides to break it apart by banging on it with a hammer. This is on a driveway that isn't all that strong to begin with, and excess banging will probably cause cracks. But logic never stops the He Men in my life. BANG! BANG! BANG! The grill starts to fall apart into pieces all over the place. BANG! BANG! BANG! My SIL doesn’t know what is causing the noise, all she knows is her father-in-law is outside with the grill. She opens the door, sees her father-in-law beating the crap out of the grill in the driveway and smartly closes the door without a word. You really have to admire her.

Finally my parents leave, probably to the relief of my brother and certainly to the relief of my SIL. They get home and my dad drops my mom off at the barn, so she can feed the horses. My parents live on 15 acres and have four horses. My dad doesn’t ride, but my mom occasionally does. She is the one that loves the horses. My dad doesn’t really care. Mostly, the horses are lawn ornaments. He backs the truck (which is new and he got my mom for Xmas) up into the driveway and into the Toyota 4 runner. The truck is fine, the Toyota has to go to the car doctor because my dad smashed the back of it. It is still drivable and everything, but dad insists on taking it to get fixed RIGHT AWAY. I don’t know why. But, my dad needs to take either the truck or the Toyota for a hunting trip that week. You cannot stop the hunting for any reason. Since he insisted on getting the Toyota fixed RIGHT AWAY, he takes the truck and the good dog and all my mom has is the retarded dog* and my dad’s corvette. Which isn't exactly a fate worse than death, but they get all the rain from the hurricanes and you cannot drive a corvette in the rain. They don't like it. They slide around and do stuff like 180's on the road. And you cannot haul horse food and hay in them. They don't like that either. My mom hates corvettes.

*Note: at the time my parents had two dogs. Molly who is a lab mix and is wonderful and Beau, who was a springer spaniel my parents rescued, and had severe behavioral issues and was completely retarded. Not kidding or being mean here. He most definitely had brain damage. He was ‘special’ and not in a good, but kind of dopey way, either. More like in a never listen, poop on the floor and knock everything over, bark incessantly kind of way. They sent him to obedience camp and he went through 5 bark collars. The trainer stopped doing obedience with springers after him. My dad loved that dog, though.

Dad and the kitchen fire

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 19:44:20 GMT

Dad and the kitchen fire
A Dad chronicle story

Again, my mom told this story to me. Many of our bonding talks are stories about my dad.

One night, my parents were going out to an early dinner with their neighbors. They were going to meet at the restaurant instead of going together as the neighbors had to work a half-day at their furniture store. They were meeting for dinner because my parents’ neighborhood had lost electricity due to a storm, so they couldn’t cook anything anyway. KEEP IN MIND THEY HAVE NO ELECTRICITY. So, mom and dad piled into Dad’s truck. As my dad pulled out of the garage, he misestimated (is that a word or am I channeling President Bush?) a little and tore off the driver’s side mirror. That was the first thing.

They have a good time with their neighbors and get back home before it is full dark. I guess dad managed not to do anything too terrible at the restaurant (which was Mexican, by the way) because I didn’t really hear anything about it. When they got back home, they needed to do something about light, as they didn’t have any electricity. My dad is a mighty hunter, and has all this camping equipment. He goes out in the garage and moves stuff around until he can find his Coleman’s lantern. If you don’t know what one is, I will attach a link to a picture. In order to get one to light up, you have to pump air in it, open up the lantern and light the little wick thing on the inside. The lantern holds a well of ignitable fluid to keep it burning. This lantern was really old and my dad had owned it since my brother was really little, so like 30 years or so. My dad puts it on the kitchen counter and tries to light it and it won’t take. Mom is watching this from the other side of the counter and decides this is fruitless so she starts to light candles around the house instead. My dad decides to make this a contest because he is really competitive and says to my mom, “I bet I can get this lit before you finish all your stupid candles.” Mom says, “You are on!”

OK, this is the rest of the scene:

Dad: *pump, pump, pump- tries to light. Nothing. “Damn!”

Mom: *light, light, light- candles are now on everywhere and she is giggling

Dad: *opens junk drawer in kitchen, gets LIGHTER fluid, opens up lantern, pours LIGHTER fluid on the wick thing. Pump pump, pump- tries to light and WHOOSH! The lantern basically blows up with FLAMES shooting out the top! My dad accidentally knocks it onto the floor. Now there is a flaming, 30 year old, lighter fluid soaked lantern burning on the floor.

Dad: “Get! Get! Get! Ppppbbbbtttt ” *this is him trying to say something and to blow out the fire at the same time. He makes that blowing, spitting noise that sounds like ppppbbbbtttt.

Dad: “Get! Get! Get…… fire ppppbbbbtttt!”

Mom: We don’t have a fire extinguisher, Dave” *my mom apparently can speak incoherent husband and knew what he was saying.

Dad: “ppppbbbbtttt!”

Mom: gets some flour and a towel and puts out the fire. No ppppbbbbtttt from her. No real damage to the kitchen either. Weird.

After a few minutes when everything is calm and my mom has obviously won the contest and saved the house, my dad turns to her and says:

Dad: “Were you scared? I wasn’t at all scared. Were you?”

Mom: “You lying sack of shit! What the hell is Get! Get! Get! Ppppbbbbtttt!?”

So, now mom and I say that a lot to each other. Along with-And I would do it again, because I was MAAADDDDD.

Dad and the long walk home

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 03:43:23 GMT

I am not sure how well I will keep up with this. I hope pretty well, but you never know. I have another journal on a forum I was really active at several years ago and then disappeared from a couple of years ago. I have just started back posting there and so I might double post at both places. Like I don't have anything else to do, right?

I think I am going to add stuff here because I can keep it limited to just a few people if I want and there are the tags. I love me some tags. But the Dad stories, I am going to make public.

At any rate, the first thing I want to post is a series of stories about my dad. I would try to explain him, but I think these stories do that for me.

So, let's start:

This first one is probably the best, but I think it will kind of let everyone know what I deal with on an ongoing basis.

Dad and the long walk home
a true story by Paleoanth

My dad is actually a really funny guy. He has a great (but sometimes twisted) sense of humor and I probably get my tendency to make fun of everyone from him. He is very quick witted and slightly sarcastic. Like most people, though, my dad is more often funnier on accident than he is on purpose. Since he has spent years laughing at the stupid crap I do, turn about is fair play.

A few years ago (like 8) I went home to my parents house for a visit. I do this pretty often-at least every three months or so. My mom was waiting for me, my dad was out of town on a business trip. The day I got home, my mom asked me to drive her to the Ford place, as her SUV (at the time an Explorer) had to be fixed and was now ready to pick up. I asked her what was wrong with it. She told me this story but I am changing it to third person to make it simpler to read:

My parents went to the drug store a few days before I got home because my mom had to pick something up. This was sometime in the late afternoon, and in the fall-so let's make it around 4-5 pm. Mom drove her Explorer and my dad waited in it while my mom ran into the store. When she came out, my dad was sitting there with an ice scraper shoved into the gap thing where the window goes when it is rolled down and the black rubber lining that runs along this window was half pulled up. My mom looked at this and said in a kind of exasperated tone of voice, "Dave!" My dad looked at her and said, "I didn't do it." Mom responded with, "Yeah, right" and got into the SUV. I don't know if my dad thought she would believe some random gang of juvenile delinquents just came along and pulled up that rubber strip or what. After my mom got in the car, my dad got out and started walking away. Mom, of course, followed him and kept telling him to get in the car. He just waved her away and kept stomping off like some 13 year old girl who is offended by her parents. You know that walk, right? So, mom just drove off and got about halfway home when she decided that she couldn't just leave my dad out on the road. She turned around and went back to find my dad. By the time she did, he had gotten out of the parking lot of the shopping center and had made it onto the road, still stomping. She came up to him, slowed down and rolled down the window. She kept asking him to please get in the car. He never said a word, just waved her off. She had traffic backed up behind her and it must have looked like she was trying to pick up some guy from the side of the road. Or maybe it looked exactly like what it was-a departure from marital bliss. Anyway, about the third time he waved her off, she said, "Fuck you!" and went on home-which was 4-5 miles away. Dad shows up an hour and a half or two hours later and went straight upstairs. Mom said he didn't talk to her again until the next day and he acted like nothing had happened. So, she had to take her truck in to get the rubber strip fixed and I guess they had to removed the inside panel on the door to fix the whole thing. Mom and I laughed and laughed about this.

Fast forward a couple of days. My dad is back from his trip and he and I do the normal father/daughter bonding thing by going to a auto parts store to get something for my car. We take his Ford Bronco to the store, which is in the same shopping center as the infamous drug store. As we leave the auto parts store, dad realizes that he locked his keys in his Bronco. "Don't worry," he tells me, "I have a spare set in one of those magnetic boxes under the bumper." He begins to crawl around under the truck and burns his forehead on the muffler. He finally finds the spare set of keys under the FRONT fender and turns to me with a triumphant look on his face, which is completely spoiled by the muffler shaped burn on his head. It looks a little like the birth mark on Gorbechov. I try not to laugh as we get in the truck. My dad turns to me and says, "Good thing I found those keys! We could have been in real trouble. We might have had to WALK home." I responded with, "Well, we could have called mom-she has a set of keys to the Bronco. I am sure she would have come down," He said, "Or we could have WALKED home." I looked at him and said, " I don't know, dad, that is a pretty long walk." He just looked at me funny and said, "I WALKED home from here before." Since I knew this story from my mom's point of view, but dad didn't know I knew, I had to play dumb. Which isn't as hard for me as you might think. "Oh really, did you lock your keys in the car again?" "No! I WALKED home because I was MAD!", he says really indignantly. I am trying really hard not to start laughing as I said, "Didn't it take a long time?" He said, "Yes! AND it was getting dark, TOO! AND I would do it again because I was MAAAAADDDD!"

So, of course, I had to tell my mom about this whole conversation. He never would tell me why he was so MMMMAAAAADDDDD that he walked home in the almost dark. But now we have a saying that we use whenever my dad is not around. "AND I would do it AGAIN because I was MAADD!"