My Dad

Voting in style

Voting in style 6

Share

Anyone who reads this blog probably knows my Dad likes to bestow gifts on his children.

Really bad garage sale gifts.

Don’t believe me? Just read this and this.

It’s not that I have anything against yard sales or the Goodwill. It’s just that my dad has taste that at best can be described as “questionable”, although “atrocious” would probably be more accurate. Translation: While I truly appreciate his generosity, I do not appreciate receiving second-hand Cross Colors shorts circa 1992.

(True story. Unfortunately.)

Still, every once in a while, Dad gets things right. Really right. That was the case with “The Muskrat.”

Behold, the vintage muskrat stole Dad picked up for me at a recent yard sale. While I’m typically vehemently opposed to wearing fur, I make an exception if it’s vintage and I wasn’t the fashionista responsible for the original loss of rodent life. Judge all you want, but that’s my stance and I’m stickin’ to it.

It was love at first sight. Sure, the lining needs a small repair, and the thing doesn’t smell the greatest, but it’s 1940s fur from a boutique in Hollywood! It’s probably been to the Oscars! Or at the very least, In N’ Out Burger, which is almost just as good!

I carefully transported the fabulous stole back to Smalltown, and it’s been burning a hole in my closet ever since. While it’s breathtakingly fabulous, I still haven’t quite figured out how to sport it publicly. Truly, where does one even wear a fur stole nowadays? Especially when one lives in rural Minnesota?

(And no, Wal-Mart is not an acceptable answer.)

(Although I did consider it for like…a minute.)

I’ve been struggling with the answer to this question for weeks. With no special occasions in sight, I’d resigned to the fact that it would probably be many, many moons before I could go out in public wearing a family of muskrats.

Then, this morning, it hit me like a ton of political propaganda.

If Election Day isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is. Not only is voting one of the most meaningful ways we can express American patriotism, it also only happens once every four years! In my opinion, exercising our right to vote is not only important–it’s exciting, festive, and totally worthy of a few dead muskrats.

(For the record, that last part sounded much better in my head.)

Just as I was ready to leave for the polls, I learned that a good friend (who is also semi-new to Smalltown and had planned on registering at the polls like I was) — needed a third-party from her voting ward to confirm her residency. As I learned of her scenario, I realized Scott would also need someone to vouch for his residency. While I felt extremely honored to play a small part in helping two people vote, I realized this meant I would no longer be voting solo.

It’s one thing to show up to a church basement on a random Tuesday wearing a ridiculous fur get-up by yourself…but doing it with two witnesses who may never let you live your furry ensemble down? That’s a whole new muskrat enchilada.

Still, I was determined to wear the darn stole if it killed me. Wrapped in its furry comfort, I headed to the polls, my head held high. It wasn’t until I was half way there that I realized the fur smelled really bad. Not only would I be the crazy fur lady with messed up hair, I was going to be the stinky crazy fur lady with messed up hair. A poor-man’s Cruella DeVille who just so happens to be interested in politics, if you will.

Scott took this photo after we had registered. He explained to the volunteer (in his best fake Russian accent) that we had just moved to America and were voting for the first time, which was why I had worn my best fur and was obsessively snapping photos.

The worst part? I think she bought it. (I suppose I could have tried to explain myself, but I think we can all agree the truth was way too pathetic to reveal.)

The voting process went fairly smoothly, and I even got Scott to admit he liked my stole. “Just maybe not for everyday wear…” he warned. I agreed as we exited the building and collected our stickers. On the bright side, fur and adhesive work really well together…I’m pretty sure my sticker will be staying firmly in place for the rest of the day.

In fact, I think I may have started a new tradition. Voting in a ridiculously dressy outfit added a certain pomp that actually felt quite appropriate to the occasion. Perhaps I’ll start wearing the muskrat coat for every election.

(After I get it thoroughly cleaned and deodorized, that is. While muskrats may be politically savvy, they certainly don’t smell very patriotic.)

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

Birthday Diva 3

Share

After demanding diamond earrings this year, and throwing a hissy fit after last year’s missing husband bicycle catastrophe, it’s probably apparent that I’m somewhat high maintenance when it comes to birthdays.

While I realize this isn’t the most appealing quality, it’s actually not my fault.

You see, my birthday diva tendencies are completely genetic.

Dad

The original birthday diva.

That’s right — my dad, who celebrated his sixty-fourth birthday earlier this month, is even worse than I am.

There is one difference worth noting. While my birthday demands tend to come with a hefty price tag, Mark wants all of his birthday glory free of charge.

Let me explain.

Last Friday night, our family went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant in Coronado, California. While the food does cost over ten dollars a plate, there’s free bottomless chips and salsa, so Mark agrees to dine there. We had just settled into our seats when I heard the faint sound of singing. Gradually, the melody grew louder and louder, until the table next to us was surrounded by six different waitors singing the restaurant’s official birthday song. As the performance commenced, the birthday “Ponchito” was presented with a slice of ice cream cake that was quite literally the size of a small pony.

I tried not to make eye contact with my dad, but it was too late. The seed had already been planted.

“We should tell them it’s my birthday” he suggested.

“Dad,” I calmly responded, “you’re birthday was eight days ago.”

“So?” he shrugged. “I didn’t get free dessert anywhere else on my birthday…I might as well claim it now!”

I rolled my eyes and went back to my chips and queso. This universal rule about being able to transfer your free birthday dessert to a later date was certainly news to me.

By the time our waitor had returned to take dinner orders, it seemed Mark had forgotten all about the free cake. Unfortunately, the Ponchito sitting on the other side of our table just so happened to also be celebrating a birthday. As the second slice of pony-sized ice cream cake whizzed by our table, Marks eyes gleamed with envy and desire. Again, I did everything in my power to avoid eye contact.

“Hey,” he whispered, “When the guy comes back, tell him it’s my birthday.”

“But Mark, it’s not your birthday” my mom protested.

“How are they going to know?” he grinned. “I don’t have my wallet, remember?”

This was true. Dad’s wallet had been missing for twenty-four hours. Suddenly, I wondered if the missing billfold was a desperately elaborate scheme for free frozen dairy product.

Each time the waitor breezed by our table, dad begged us to let him know it was his birthday. After three failed attempts, Mark decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Excuse me,” he inquired while tapping the waitor’s elbow. “How far from your actual birthday does it have to be for you to get the free cake?”

We cringed. Scott buried his face in the chip basket out of pure shame. I swooped in to salvage what was left of this humiliating exchange.

“Sorry sir,” I nervously muttered, “His birthday was…um…yesterday, but well, we didn’t get a chance to celebrate until tonight. Do you think you could sing to him?”

Our server generously obliged. As he walked away Dad turned to me and winked, wearing the biggest smile I’d seen on his face in a very long time.

Twenty minutes later, his moment in the spotlight arrived.

While most people blush a deep shade of crimson when publicly serenaded with a Tex-Mex version of “Happy Birthday”, Mark chose to sit a little taller, savoring each wonderful second of complimentary birthday glory. He glowed with pride as he claimed the attention of the room, along with his very own slice of pony-sized ice cream cake.

I’d be lying if I said the largest portion of the pony-sized ice cream cake didn’t go to me. Us birthday divas have to stick together, after all.

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

Fanny packs need love, too. 1

Share

Is it just me, or does anyone else revert to their childhood self when they get together with their family?

Unfortunately for myself (and my next of kin) my childhood self is…well…kind of a brat.

Late last night, Scott and I returned to ‘Sota after five days in beautiful California with my parents and younger brother.

My brother is stationed in San Diego, and scheduled to leave on his first deployment to the Middle East in just a few weeks. We wanted to make it down to California to see him off and spend some quality family time together.

Let’s just say we certainly got our family time in. Remember how we still hadn’t booked a hotel last week?

I think you can see where this is going.

Long story short, Scott, myself, both my parents and my brother ended up holing up at his two-bedroom apartment. There were five adults and only four bath towels.

Did I mention he has a roommate?

To say we wore out our welcome would be an understatement.

To say I grew slightly crabby after being in such close quarters with my parents?

Also an understatement.

A gross understatement.

Essentially, I fought with my dad for the majority of the trip. I’m certainly not proud of this, but anyone who knows both myself and my father is probably not all that surprised. Basically, we’re the exact same person aside from our gender, age, and spending habits.

Also? He willingly wears fanny packs.

Anyway…both my dad and I are extremely stubborn. We also both insist on getting our way. Unfortunately, my way is generally the polar opposite of his way, which results in some good old-fashioned head butting.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

(Most of the time.)

The funny thing is, I always regret our little spats after the fact. Yet during the actual argument…I seem to be totally on auto-pilot. It’s as if I’ve been transported back into my snotty, Old Navy-wearing, hormone-raging, sixteen-year-old self, and am completely incapable of acting like an adult and simply biting my tongue, no matter how hard I try.

Also…we fight over the silliest things. There was literally a fifteen minute debacle regarding milkshakes.

So, while the trip was a total blast, my sassy tantrum-throwing ways certainly put a damper on things. I really feel terrible about squandering the last visit before Leif deploys by engaging in petty squabbles and making snide remarks towards my dad.

I realize this blog is typically a place of jest and facetiousness, but today, I’m being one-hundred-percent serious– please take every opportunity you have to treat your family with love, respect and care.

Even if they do willingly wear fanny packs and have horrible taste in milkshakes.

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

Proms and Moms 2

Share

I don’t mean to brag, but this post is kind of a big deal.

Today, my mom is graduating from college!

Graduation

My mom and I at my college graduation in 2006.

My parents are nearly 12 years apart, and got married while my mom was still in undergrad. A few years later they had me, and moved to Minnesota (yup, this wasn’t my first move to ‘Sota!) a few weeks after I was born so my dad could start graduate school. For the last 28 years, my mom has been just one semester shy of earning her bachelors degree.

She also suffers from Lupus, a debilitating auto-immune disease she was diagnosed with in her early thirties. Doctors told her she would never be able to work, not even just part-time. As a stay-at-home mom to four kids (who are only four-and-a-half years apart!) her health, fatigue, and constant pain were a huge hindrance to her duties at home. I can’t even begin to imagine the weight of the discouragement she experienced, yet I do know there were many times she feared she would never get better.

It took many years, and a great deal of experimentation with her treatment and medication, but eventually, mom proved her doctors wrong. She was able to work full-time for the first time since college, sharing her abundance of patience and kindness with special needs children as a paraeducator.

But mom wasn’t stopping there. Not  a week after my youngest brother Janss had graduated with his bachelors degree, she registered for her first semester of classes at Evergreen State University. Twenty-eight years later, she was finally going back to college, while continuing to work full-time.

Today, after countless hours of studying, thousands of words written, and even a creative writing interpretive dance class, she has finally earned her bachelors degree.

And I couldn’t be more proud.

Or maybe I could…?

A conversation from last week…

Mom: Oh! Guess what!

Me: What?

Mom: Your Dad and I are going to the Senior Prom!

Me: But mom…you’re not really seniors yet…Dad’s still a year away from being 65. Or have they officially changed the age to 55 now like they do at Denny’s?

Mom: No, Katrina…not a prom for senior citizens. The Senior Prom at school. I’m probably going to be the oldest one there, but who cares, right? All my friends are going, and I’ve worked so hard…I feel like I need a night out. Plus, you’re dad says we have to go because there’s free drinks and appetizers.

Anyone who knows my father knows he never passes up a chance for free grub and liquor.

Mom explained that she would be doing her own hair and makeup and borrowing a prom dress from a really good family friend. Dad would probably wear the suit he wore at their wedding 31 years ago, which I found to be wonderfully romantic.

I also was kind of jealous that dad still fits into his wedding attire. Must be all that running he’s doing.

Me: Mom, that’s so great! I bet you’re really looking forward to it!

Mom: Yeah. We’ll see. I’m probably going to feel really fat, and your dad is self-conscious about his face peeling, but we’re going to try to make the best of it.

Oh, right.

The face peeling.

Where do I even begin?

I just typed out 873 words explaining how exactly my dad ended up in the ER with second degree burns covering his entire face.

And then, I realized Mark might not appreciate the details of his candle melting accident gone wrong being divulged on the internet.

Long story short, don’t, under any circumstances, try to melt multiple candles into one jar at three in the morning when there’s a pretty good chance you might fall asleep during the process.

Apparently, problems with candles run in my family.

My dad was extremely lucky. He was wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt that protected the majority of his body from being burnt. His glasses also prevented damage to his eyes, and he had the presence of mind not to inhale any of the lung damaging fumes from the fire.

In fact, the horrible burns have actually worked in his favor and given him results similar to a very expensive chemical peel.

Some dads have all the luck.

So, my fifty-two year old mother attended the prom feeling self-conscious about her age and the way her dress fit.

My sixty-four year old father stood by her side, beyond embarrassed that large, scaly sheets of dead skin were peeling off his entire face.

Thirty one years later, he was still too cheap to order my mom a corsage. (Although I do think he deserves some credit for not attempting to melt down all the votive candles used to decorate the tables at the end of the night.)

I called my mom last Sunday, eager to hear all the details of her big night out.

“It was okay,” she sighed. “I mean…there’s all of this build up and excitement, and then you get there and it’s just not that great.”

Story of my life.

And not merely in regards to big events like the prom, but just growing up in general. Prom is similar to adulthood in that you keep waiting for it to happen, and then when it finally does, you realize it’s a little bit…well…overrated.

I always used to think that once I reached a certain age, things would just fall into place. I’d have my life together, I’d be happy and responsible, I would finally be able to look back on all of my hard work and say, “I’m here! I’ve arrived! I’ve finally made it to the place I’ve been working towards.” Adulthood represented a utopian life where everything was polished and shiny. I envisioned myself being put together and problem free. A perfect version of myself.

Instead, adulthood involves sharing a car that doesn’t even have cruise control with my husband, realizing we actually have to pay back all of those student loans we took out, and coming to terms with the fact that we live in an apartment that is within walking distance of the mall.

Also? I no matter how old I get, I still relish every single moment I spend watching “Greek” on ABC family while lounging on the IKEA sofa we had to settle for as we still can’t afford a sectional from Crate & Barrel due to the aforementioned student loans.

Ummm….welcome to adulthood?

My mom’s night at the prom made me realize something really important: Adulthood is awkward. Sure, it’s different from the awkwardness of puberty, proms and pep rallies, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. I still wrestle with some of the same problems I did in high school. How do I make friends? Do I look stupid? Did I say the wrong thing? What if nobody likes my blog? What if nobody likes me?

I don’t think we ever grow out of our insecurities, and I’m learning to be okay with that.

Mom mom is a great example. She’s overcome a devastating disability, has raised three wonderful children (and one snarky one), gone back to work despite her health issues, graduate from college and enjoyed a wonderful 31-year marriage with Mr. Candle Melter. You’d think she’s got it all together, yet despite her list of accolades, she still felt goofy at the prom.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure I know anyone who didn’t feel goofy at the prom.

Yet in spite of our fears, our self-doubt, our flaws, and yes, even our peeling faces, we can still be successful, fulfilled, content individuals. We can have fun at the prom without being the King or Queen!

Having your life one hundred percent together is not a prerequisite for making it wonderful.  A comforting thought, indeed.

Almost as comforting as the knowledge that I’ll never have to go to the prom again.

Share

Liked this? Then try these:

1 2 3