You may be wondering about the title of my blog, or you may not give a damn at all. My father had a wicked sense of humor. I'll share a little about that before I go into detail about the title.
Let's start with this:
Sexy, right? I was 13 and hadn't yet discovered the art of eyebrow grooming. And no, that's not a Halloween witch-wig. I had taken it upon myself to dye my hair "black cherry," although the "cherry" part never did make itself apparent.
One day, my dad and I had been going through a box of old pictures, and I came up with that one. It's actually a school picture-- you can tell by the lovely blue background, emulating a beautiful sky. My dad pulled the picture out of the box and erupted into a fit of hysterical laughter. I play-punched him, and blamed him for allowing me to go out in public on a daily basis with that look.
A few days later, that picture began turning up everywhere. I would open my drawer to get dressed in the morning, only to be greeted by my own, adolescent face. I would make my bed and find myself underneath my pillow. When I went to get my car keys-- there I was, in my pocketbook. The worst one was when I made a new friend at school and I offered to give her a ride home. We were about to leave the school parking lot when I remembered there was a CD in my glove compartment that I wanted to listen to. I opened the compartment.
Other things my dad enjoyed doing:
-- Punching the trunk of my car while I was slowly backing out of his driveway, dropping to the ground, and rolling on the grass to make me think I hit him.
-- Waiting for me to select something from the bottom shelf at the supermarket so he could kick my leg out from under me while I was crouching down.
-- Putting a scary Halloween mask in the middle of the washing machine so when I opened the lid to put laundry in, it would be staring at me.
-- When I first learned to drive, I was terrible at parking. I would constantly hit the curb and knock the hubcap off of the front passenger-side tire. One afternoon I went out to the car and saw that he had removed all four hubcaps and replaced them with paper plates.
And now, the eggs-- "Eating Eggs for Cash." When I was really young, maybe around three years old, my dad would cook omelets for me. I loved them because he would put a ketchup smiley face on them. Then one day I decided that I hated eggs. Then a day later (just an estimate), I decided I hated ketchup, too.
To this day, I would rather eat the contents of my vacuum cleaner than eat an egg. The site, smell, consistency, and taste simply make me ill. My father was a big omelet fan-- Spanish and Western, to be exact. If he ordered an omelet at a diner, he would offer me ten dollars to take a bite of it-- all so he could laugh hysterically while watching my poor face contort in disgust while tolerating the torture for ten measly dollars. I should mention that we did this all throughout my 20s-- it wasn't as though I was 9 years old and desperate for ten dollars, thinking that it could afford me any toy I wanted. I was 26 years old, and wanted the money.
I miss that man so much-- if he is looking down on me, or happens to be using the Internet in heaven, and decided to read this blog, I want him to know that I would eat omelets every day, if it meant I could see him again. He wouldn't even have to pay me. Not the whole ten dollars, anyway.
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