I have two dads.
No, it’s not because I have a brokeback-mountain type sitch going on family side. It’s just that – like every other kid in America – my parents are divorced. Most kids get really bummed out about shit like that, but not me. I think it’s awesome, mostly because my parents, all 4 of ‘em, have done kick ass jobs of keeping both families together.
Plus, you know how I like to put the “art” in “retarted”? Well, it’s pretty nice to have not one, but two freaky families to glean material from.
And that’s where today’s post starts.
I recently wrote about one of my dads, Popi (AKA “url”, or “CG”), and his penchant for passing gas. A man who, while we were growing up, frightened all of our friends by farting at the table and blaming it on the guests, Popi’s favorite place to eat out – I kid you not – is called the Windbreak Café.
Seriously.
But anyway, my other dad, he likes farting too, but he’s not really hardcore. No SKD, (short for Serial Killer Dad), he’s more into being a hippy.
When I was in Alaska, visiting with SKD, I told him about this great restaurant Maaa and I had found. “It’s called the Middle Way Café,” I said. “It’s awesome because everything is organic and vegetarian.” I gushed about the vegan chocolate beet cake I’d had at lunch and gave my critique of the kitchen staff: “They’re all a bunch of hippies,” I gleefully cooed.
“That’s real cool, man,” SKD replied. And then, from the dude who talks like Tommy Chong and wears friendship bracelets like they didn’t go out of style in 1976, SDK said something really funny.
“You know, I used to be like that,” he said, “but I’ve lost touch. I’ve decided recently that I need to get back to my hippy roots.”
I wanted to tell him, daddy-o you never lost touch, you’re already there. Instead though, I just smiled.
And so, a few hours later, because we’d had this hippy talk, I really shouldn’t have been surprised about what I found in his freezer.
Being snoopy, (because I dig freezers like some people dig medicine cabinets), I saw a HUGE bag of herb.
Pie-eyed, I stared at the greenery tucked in, all snuggly-like next to a carton of sugar-free ice cream. The lettering on the clear plastic bag holding the illicit contents said M-A-R…
Before I could finish reading the word, there were footsteps in the hall. I figured it was SKD. I quickly shut the freezer.
When SKD entered the kitchen, I was standing there looking all sheepish. I mean, it’s kind of awkward for a gurl to catch her pops with the ganja, after all.
Looking to make an o’ hasty exit, I said, “Uh Dad. I’m going to go outside now. I, uhm, need to call Angel about… uh… flight reservations.”
Once outside, I dialed my spouse. After more than a few “ohmygods”, I got the story out. Angel laughed. I promised I’d take a picture to show him when I got back.
Fast forward a few hours. Dinner having been eaten, SKD and co. laid up, fat and lazy in the living room, I grabbed my camera and headed to the kitchen.
Stealth-like, I swung wide the freezer door. I gripped the camera, hoping for a quick, clear shot. But it didn’t work out. Know why? I dropped the damn thing.
You see, I was really surprised. Further inspection of that bag of herb, well it proved to be just that –a bag of herb…
Like herb you cook with.
Like spices.
Yeah, like spice-rack type stuff.
Not quite marijuana, the herb I found so intriguing in SKD’s freezer was M-A-R-J-O-R-A-M.
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Hannihaus Rocks! You should join.
(Cheered by champagne, he only protested a little.)
