Lessons From Flammable Briefcases

In honor of my dad's life, which both started and ended this month many many years ago, I'm sharing a funny story that also taught me several huge life lessons.  He was a hilarious man who most definitely had unique ways of getting his message across.

I was in 3rd grade and my book bag had broken to the point that I couldn't use it at all.  Back in those days, 3rd graders didn't have much homework, if any at all, but a cool backpack was a status symbol.  It couldn't be those babyish ones with the cute little sparkly pics on them anymore because when you're in 3rd grade you're so grown up that you are practically old enough to vote!  It also couldn't be those boring one tone brown or green colored ones that the college kids (who also happened to be my sisters) used.  I still haven't figured out what the hell was wrong with those people, and why in the world would one choose such a boring style for their bag when they could have a totally kick ass New Kids on the Block bag or something as equally cool.  Anyway, mine was broken and I had nothing.  You might as well have thrown me out on the streets and made me eat from dumpsters for as low as I felt.  I was positive that everyone would think I was homeless.  I couldn't even afford a bag, or at least I was convinced that is how it appeared to my fellow classmates (who actually never even noticed that I didn't have one and no one really cared, but that's beside the point!!).  I begged my parents all weekend to take me book bag shopping.  I don't remember exactly what the excuses where that came out of their mouths, but in reality, they would miss out on some killer episodes of Gun Smoke (boooooriiiiing) or M*A*S*H* (which I secretly loved because I wanted to be "Hot Lips" Houlihan) and some quality quilt making time.

"Hot Lips" Houlihan ~ My secret 3rd grade idol

5:00 p.m. rolled around that Monday evening, and my dad walked in the door like he always did.  He took big man footsteps up the stairs and vvvvvvuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupppppp pulled his belt out of his belt loops which, in some households freaked kids out, but I was never beat with a belt or anything else for that matter, so this action had a significantly safe feeling for me.  It meant my dad was home and everything was right with my little world again except on this day, which still lacked a backpack. . . He flipped it across the iron railing with a taaaaaa-paang from the buckle hitting the iron and announced, "Punkadoooooooo (that's me), I have a surpriiiiiiise for yoooooooooooooooooou!!"  I skipped and jumped and shouted yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay as I grabbed the unassuming sack.  I was soooo excited as I opened up the surprise to reveal. . . . . a weird, fake brownish plasticy, vinalish flat briefcase??  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat the heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell was THIS SHIT?!  (I don't think I said that, although it wouldn't have been frowned upon in certain situations as my dad was a realist who called things like he saw them.)  "Dad? *eyes big and sad with lip quivering* what's this for?"  Don't tell me!   Pleeeease don't tell me it's. . . . "Well?  What's it look like?  It's your new school bag!"  OMG, he told me what I didn't want to hear, and he said it in such a way that I KNEW he was sooooo proud of himself.  Everything about him was smiling and laughing ~ his eyes, his mouth, even his ears were perky!!  I. . . . WAS. . . . PISSED!!  Oh no he di-ent!!  I overly dramatically yelled and cried at the same time, "I'M IN 3RD GRADE!!  EVERYONE WILL LAUGH AT ME!! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"  I threw the gift across the room and ran down the hall to my bedroom and slammed the door.  *over dramatic CLICK* I locked the door.  I would NEVER come out again!  He would be sorry when he didn't see me for 10 years!!  Little did I know that I'd be the sorry one.  Not only didn't I understand that it was just a joke, but my overreaction didn't do anything except piss him right off!  Waaaaait for it . . . waaaaaait for it. . .

At least if it was this cool, I could just pass it off as being awesome and like I totally meant to use a briefcase as a school bag.

But, nope, it was similar to this.  Even the Internet was too grossed out to put a pic of the real thing on it.

I didn't spend the next 10 years of my life in my bedroom getting even with my dad.  I came out for supper about 30 minutes later and spent the rest of the night playing and drawing and putting on 12 pairs of socks under a pair of pantyhose so I could fit into my sister's super awesome blue silky high heels.  I was getting closer to looking like Hot Lips Hulihan by the day!!    I just knew she'd love my shoes. . . and my homemade cankles (yep, that's what it looks like when you put on 12 pairs of socks and cover them with pantyhose).  It may have looked like I had a severe case of ankle edema, but I was feelin it!! 

What's NOT hot about this?!  

Dad came home Tuesday evening and went through the same comforting routine that he did every night when he got home.  *vuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuupp and ta-piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing* "Punky, I got you a real school bag this time!"  Excited again, I raced to the same looking unassuming bag as yesterday and opened it up with joy because surely he wouldn't do it to me twice in a row. . . even though I never apologized for my previous day's behavior because I totally wasn't even remotely sorry for freaking out. I should have already known, but you know what they say about hind-sight.  I pulled out the same freaking fake plastic, pleathery looking, set it on fire and it'll instantly melt to whatever is closest to it, diamond pop open briefcase.  ARE YOU FREAKING SERIOUS WITH THIS CRAP?!  I just looked at him and cried and dropped it on the floor again.  This time his face was more demonic looking as he smiled.  He was teaching me a lesson, and I sure as HELL was going to learn it before I was getting anything that even remotely resembled a real book bag!  The same crap happened for about 2 more days until he finally announced that I was ungrateful and bratty and most definitely couldn't take a joke.  I'm still not sure which was the worst offence out of the three. I felt like a dumbass for my bawl baby behavior and at the same time still appalled yet humored by the thought that he threw his own man sized temper tantrum by making me relive the briefcase experience for so many days in a row to teach me what?  I should have said, "Oooooh an awesome, plasticy, flammable, briefcase!!  I LOVE IT!  There are starving kids in Africa who will never have a plasticy, flammable, briefcase!  I'm so grateful for mine!  I'll love it and pet it and cherish it always!"  If I only would have known that saying that was the key to a REAL book bag that first night *head shmuck*!  I apologized for being a dramatic, ungrateful, bawl baby, and I seriously meant it.  I felt soooo stupid for my behavior.  Thank goodness the only people who saw it were my parents!  I got a super cool book bag after my apology, and I have no memory of what it even looked like. It must have been awesome though because I didn't throw any tantrums about it.  I remember those briefcases though, that's for sure!! 

My dad was a wonderful, loving and super funny man who also had a tendency of throwing weirdly unique, big daddy tantrums if you rubbed him the wrong way which usually only happened when someone was being an ungrateful, wiener, bawl baby (adults included).  He would HATE Rush Limbaugh because he's king of the whiny wiener fan club!  Anyway, as hard to believe as it is, I most definitely learned some lessons from this episode.  First, don't take life seriously.  It would be super funny for a 3rd grader to use a plasticy, flammable briefcase and definitely don't throw a tantrum about it if it isn't your bag, baby.  Second, be grateful for what you have.  It could be taken away from you in a heartbeat.  I'm not referring to my super cool briefcase collection (which is still somewhere at my mom's. . . stay tuned for pics!  I WILL find them!).  I'm referring to my dad.  He's been gone for 18 years, and I still miss him like crazy! Third, be respectful to others.  You never really know what their motives are.  Fourth, toughen up!  Nothing is worth storming through life being angry or tantrumy plus it makes you look like a wiener and a dumbass!  I could write a novel on all of the lessons my dad taught me in life.  I am truly blessed to have the family that I do!  Miss you loads and love you tons, Dad!  Catch ya on the flip flop! 

Broken Eyeballs

It's funny how there are days that you have no idea what you want to blog about and then all of  a sudden. . . BAM! . . . something magical happens, and tonight the magic is called Number 4 Guy wakes up freeeeeaking out!! 

I was sitting here reading blog posts from the peeps that I normally check in with when it happened.  "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!  MY EYEBALLS ARE ALL BROKEEEEEEEN!!"  Naturally I completely freak out, my butt starts tickling and I throw my laptop across the couch.I just knew I was going to see something sharp and outlandish jetting out from his eye sockets.  GRUESOME!!   Buuuuuuuut it turns out, he just NOW, at 10:30 at night, figured out that he can move his eyeballs.  He apparently hasn't been paying very close attention to them over the past 3 years. . . until tonight. . . . at 10:30. . . . on a Tuesday. . . . when every other child in this state is sleeping. 

I comforted him and showed him all the crazy things my eyeballs can do, and then we investigated the dogs' eyeballs.  Yep, they both had broken eyeballs too. He felt much better about his own eyeball situation.  Sometimes it's a good feeling to know that you're not alone in the world. . .  

Bacon, Cheeseburgers, and Butt Cheeks

I overheard this conversation among my kids.  It pretty much speaks for itself.

Lil Miss- I want bacon!

Number 2 Guy- Bacon is made from cheeseburgers. *bites his cheeseburger looking thoughtful*

Number 1 Guy- NO!  It's made from a pig.

Lil Miss- Bacon comes from pigs?!  *GASP!*

Number 2- Cheeseburgers are made from pigs. *takes another bite*

Number 1- Number 2. . . ur dumb.

Number 2- I'll show you what bacon is made from *gets off chair and moons Number 1*

Number 1- That would be where ham comes from.

Lil Miss- Bacon comes from your butt?

Number 1- NO, that's what ham comes from, I said!

Lil Miss- From Number 2's butt?!

Number 1- No, from a pig's butt. *looking annoyed*

Lil Miss- Oh. . . I just want bacon.  I don't even want ham.  You guys are dumb! *crosses arms and marches over to the bar counter to color*

My Friend, the Convict

So a few months ago one of my friends made a dumbass choice to drink and drive and got pulled over.  Luckily the only thing hurt was his pride. I can also say that he hasn't driven drunk at all since then.  By the way, we'll call him Moe. 

This is what Moe looked like over the weekend.



Moe got to spend the weekend in the clink making up for his poor decision making.  This was our textual conversation once he got out today.

Moe: Freeeeeeeedooooom!!! 

Me: Jail bird!!  How's life on the outside?

Moe: I don't know yet.  I'm still adjusting.  I am staaaaarving though!

Me: You better eat something you've been dreaming about from the inside.

Moe: I know!  I'm totally gonna pig out somewhere once I check my computer for messages and hop in the shower to get the smell of criminal off me.

Me: You might be able to get some chicks with that smell especially if you hit a McDonald's or a Walmart.  *shrugs*

Moe: *laughs* Why didn't I think of that?!  That's a FANTASTIC idea!

Me: Hell, I don't know!  Is it too late?  Are you part of the clean man club, or can ya still catch a few dirties?

Moe: Oh I still got the stank on me.  Women of the Walmart, WATCH OUT!

Me: They will flock to you!  People will mistake you for the free government peanut butter and cheese line!! 

Moe didn't find that very funny.  Oopsie!!  I'm so inappropriate sometimes! 

I Have Fall Down Syndrome

I was just sharing a story on http://www.filing-jointly.com/ and figured it should definitely be blogged about.  Here it goes! 

Once upon a time in a land far far away, located about a half hour from my house, I fell down at a funeral. .  . while wearing a long, tightish dress. . . (wait, it gets better) while holding Number 1 Guy who was about 6 months old at that time. 

Funeral. . . wait, is that Matt Damon at the funeral?!  I didn't even see him there that day!


PLUS

long, tightish dress

PLUS

Number 1 Guy

PLUS


Fall Down Syndrome

=

Here's how it all went down. . . literally!
The burial service had ended and everyone was slowly making their way back to their vehics.  I was showing off my new beautiful, big brown-eyed baby boy to long-lost and not-so-long-lost relatives.  (I may or may not be an attention whore, but that's another issue altogether.) Anyway, once the awwwwwwwing over my pretty bean had finished, we started making our way to our car.  Our entourage glided across the fresh spring grass. . . ok, I'm gonna cut the bull shit right here. I was probably walking like I was on some sort of rocky mountainish terrain wearing 10 inch high heels which looks similar to all of the girls under the age of 30 walking around Vegas in heels after midnight.  Don't forget, I have Fall Down Syndrome (self-diagnosed).  I looked around and noticed van loads of cute, little and not-so-little grandpas and grannies gawking at us because what else is there to do when you're waiting for the assholes who parked at the front of the line to move their damn cars so everyone else can leave?  You gawk at the assholes as they walk past and talk a bit of smack about them!  That's what you do! Aaaaaaand that's what they did.  Yep, you guessed it!  We were the assholes and karma was about to bite mine! 

Here's where the karma enters the story!
I was walking and noticing all of the people noticing me when all of a sudden, my foot fell into one of those invisible holes that hides just under the covering of grass.  (Those bad boys will getcha every flippin' time! Even more so when you have the Fall Down Syndrome like I do!) Everything went in slow motion . . . foot hits hole. . .  other foot steps forward. . . the earth reaches up and pulls my body and my baby towards it. .  . my free hand flails in the air, reaching for anything to make it all stop. . . my other arm grips my baby tightly to my chest. . . realizing it's not going to stop, I flip my whole body over in midair like a fish flopping on dry land so I don't fall on my precious bean. . . my voice rushes over my tongue and teeth "OOOOOOOH MYYYYYYY GOOOOOOOODNEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS!" (I didn't swear much in those days.  I was such a nice girl back then!). . . The entourage stops to see what the hell I'm yelling about but only as long as it took for them to realize I was no longer cool enough to be part of their little club which my husband happened to be the leader of.  Apparently "cool" people don't have Fall Down Syndrome!  HATERS!  Anyway, as I hit the ground with a KERSHMACK the next horrifying thought entered my grey matter.  How in the name of The Jonas Brothers was I going to get back up?!

This is where the story gets dicey!
Wearing a long, tightish denim dress (which, let's face it, is super freakin neat to do) is sort of like wrapping your whole lower half with duct tape.  You may have had the same experience as a child when you go through the stage where you want everyone to tie you up. . . . and they wrap your legs together tightly and then walk away laughing as you stand there thinking, "How in the name of The Jonas Brothers am I going to get out of this?!" You take a step, then fall down and wallow around like a deformed, tipped over penguin until you find just the right position to get back on your feet or, worst case scenario, you end up having to grow up in a pile on your living room floor because you have really mean brothers and/or sisters who just laugh at your crazy wallowingness as they walk by all neat and pubescent.  HATERS!  Ok, back to me kershmacking the ground and realizing I'm totally screwed by my style choice that seemed like such a great idea that morning.  I just laid there and laughed and laughed and laughed some more realizing how there is a possibility that I would end up raising my son right there in the cemetery if either A. Someone didn't come to help me up or B. I didn't have strong enough thighs to power through the handicapped dress situation.  I heard moans of, "Oh my god" (because no one knew what OMG was back then) and "Don't look at her!  Keep walking!" quietly thundered through the entourage.  I realized I was going with option B because option A was clearly not an option with these people.  I tucked my baby under my arm like a football and focused all of my attention and power into my thighs (which happen to be large and in charge thanks to some kickass genetics), and I did "The Count" which is the same "The Count" that your 8 year old self either did aloud or in your head before you jumped into the already twirling jump ropes at recess.  I had the mental focus of Mr. Miyagi and the strength of the Karate Kid in that moment because I knew I was choosing life or death for my baby.  Either I would power through and watch my son grow up NOT on the grass in the cemetery, or I would epically fail (I can say that cuz that's what the cool kids do)  and squish him like a road pizza.  (I know, that's not a very pretty picture but just go with it.  It's super dramatic and there should be suspense filled music playing in the background right meow!) I rolled around like a deformed penguin until I found the perfect position to focus my whole being, my whole inner Karate Kid, into my monster thighs.  Mr. Miyagi would not be there to guide me anymore.  This was all me.  Breath. . . breeeeeath. . . and "The Count". . . 1. . . twooooooo. . . two and a half. . . . two and three quarters. . . Ok too scared!  Start over . . . yep, this was all me.  .   . 1. . . . 2. . . . . . . . . THREE! 

This is the happy ending!
The clouds parted and the sun shown down as the electric power, the power of Mr. Miyagi's wisdom, shot through my body as I stood up.  A guttural grunt poured out of my mouth which was almost the same sound that my nephew used to make when he was taking a fierce dump and everyone in the house knew it. Grrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwww!  I did it!  I stood up while wearing a tightish, long denim dress WHILE holding my baby!  That is just unheard of!!  I may have looked like a deformed tipped over penguin, but I felt like a lioness who had just single handedly saved the life of her cub from a herd of starving hyenas.  I strutted to the car like the asshole that I was having parked in the front of the line blocking my audience in which is actually similar to locking the doors and fire escapes while you're on stage performing.  YOU WILL WATCH ME, AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!! (Insert evil laugh here)  I learned a LOT of lessons that day.  First, no one thinks a wallowing, tipped over, deformed penguin looks cool.  Second, the only person you can count on in life is yourself, especially when you have deformed penguin moments.  And finally, I am a total lioness, and my genetically large thighs are the shit, dawg!  I have one final question for you.  If I start a Fall Down Syndrome support group, would you be willing to join?  You don't actually have to have Fall Down Syndrome to be a part of it.  You just have to know someone who does.  It's like aa and al anon mixed together!  That sounds like a freakin blast if you ask me. . . which you didn't, but I thought I'd share anyway.

Call of Duty. . . In the Bathroom

The kids jumped in the car after school today, and this conversation ensued:

Number 2 Guy~ Hurry home!  I need to make a Call of Duty. . . BAD!!

Me~ Oooooh Modern Warfare in the toilet!  Don't forget to wipe!

Lil Miss~ (completely annoyed) YOU GUYS!  It's CALLED I gotta take a POOP!! 

                     ~~~~>









Yep, World, this is my 2nd child who will be referred to as Number 2 Guy from this point on.

He's a little ADHD, very special in a naughtyish sort of way and quite possibly the world's greatest snuggler!

Magical Penis Rock

Once upon a time I found a giant magical penis rock, so I put it in my garden.  The End.

Maryam ~ Does it vibrate?

Me ~ I don't know.  Let me go try it for the 15th time.