My darling sis sent me and Maaa a link via e-mail. The subject line? “Awww Cute.”

And it was.

It was so very cute, I almost soiled my britches.

It was so very cute, Maaa nearly had a heart attack.

Know what else was so very cute? How Sis was thoughtful enough to give Maaa a call, after sending the link, so Sis could hear—direct from Mother’s mouth—the joy and delight which would undoubtedly ensue once she’d opened The Special Message.

Isn’t that sweet?

I want you to witness, dear hannihaus readers, just how sweet Sis is.

—->Click for Spanky’s Message O’ Love<----

Seriously–I swear to the flying spaghetti monster, sometimes my sis is so sweet I could just scream.

I’ve got two dads. And they are awesome.

Growing up my dads taught me a lot of things: how to ride a bike, race a snowmobile, catch a salmon, pitch a tent, pull a finger, and pop a wheely.

They taught me that yellow means go faster, and that red—like the kind Mom sees when you’re 15 and you back her car into your teachers in the Safeway parking lot, causing $1500 worth of damage—means stop, effing stop.

My dads taught me that every dude is a scumbag who only wants in your pants. And while I agree that dudes are pigs (generally speaking), not once did I date a guy who wanted to wear my jeans.

… This might be because I’m so small—the only dude I’ve ever dated who could fit my Old Navy bootcuts was CFTP. And he’s gay, so he’s got plenty of his own pants. And unlike mine, they are nice and pressed and everything … But I digress.

Growing up, my dads always told me I could be anything I wanted to be.

… Except when I was 16 and said I hated boys and wanted to become a nun. Popi said I couldn’t be a nun, mostly because we aren’t Catholic.

And I was like g-damn it.

But whatever.

As I get older, I see that being a father is not just something that my dads do. It’s something that my coworkers, my neighbors and my even my best friends have started doing.

And while I do not plan on becoming a father any time soon—partly because I’m 12, and mostly because I don’t have the equipment and/or requisite body hair—I want to tell all the dads of the haus, I appreciate you.

Seriously, being a dad probably sucks sometimes. Especially when your five-year-old daughter sticks a bean up her nose and it ferments. And you have to take her kicking and screaming to the ER. And when you get home, the extraction is kept in a jar on the kitchen table for said daughter’s amusement.

Yeah, I wouldn’t know how lame that’d be.

But my dad would.

Much love to Popi and SKD, Dave, Rick, Matt, Lance, Mister Misadventure, and all the other daddies of the haus. You rock.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love Mom.

I just can’t say enough about the woman who bathed me, clothed me, and—advancing my lifetime fascination with flatulence—taught me to sing about beans, beans the musical fruit.

Yes, while other moms were singing oh-so-sweet lullabies to their four-year-olds, mine was trilling about tooting …

And that is so totally awesome.

But I digress.

So yeah, there’s a lot of things I need to thank Maaa for. For one, she passed me bald, breach, backwards and upside down through her petite little hoo hoo. Oh yeah, and she did this at home, without an epidural.

You think I’m a hardcore hippy? Meet my maaa.

Another cool thing Mom did was make me a daughter. I mean, that right there is entirely awesome. Because—while I am innately a jackass—I couldn’t be an offspring without Maaa making it so.

Unfortunately, while Mom made me a daughter, I didn’t make her a mother (at least not the first time). That honor falls on Maaa’s first born, my elder bro-bro, Nicky.
…

But actually, (and this just occurred to me), Nicky may *not* be the responsible party after all.

More than likely what made my maaa a mother was a six pack of Schlitz and some Ravi Shankar.

But anyway …

Happy Mother’s Day Maaa.

My gift is this blog, and this post’s for you …

xoxoH

—–
I’d also like to wish a Happy Mother’s Day to Angel’s mommy Kim, my step-mom MistressElida, my sister Spanky and all the other Mommies of the haus. You are amazing.

I called Popi yesterday.

I asked him “Did you have fun last weekend?”

He said, “I had fun with your maaa.”

“Oh really,” I said, “What did you do?”

Popi replied, “I don’t think you really want to know that.”

And then – because I was clueing into something gross – I threw up in my mouth a little.

I wanted to hang up, the innuendo being more than this innocent could bear. But instead, I bucked up, stuck it out, and stayed connected.

Know why?

Because I am an adult. And I can talk about adult things.

Hee.

Besides, I guess drinking herbal tea and studying organic tomatoes, isn’t so bad.

… Because that’s what Popi was referring to when he said he had fun with Maaa, right?

RIGHT?!

Parents can only have fun doing garden planning.

It says that in the Bible somewhere.

I’m sure of it.

Really, don’t look it up.

There’s no need to argue this one.

Please don’t argue this one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to leave some change for the tooth fairy, brush my unicorn’s long flowing mane, and find Peter Pan –we’re lunching at the Neverland Café and Baked Beanery.

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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I was supposed to be here in December, but a little something called Mystery Malady sidelined those plans. Instead of being home with Maaa and Popi, communing over cocoa, I spent my holidays confined to a sickbed in Florida –my only respite from which was to visit a doctor who put her finger in my kiester.

…Because nothing says holiday cheer like a pointer in the patoot… at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

So finally, and at long last, I’ve made it north to Alaska. From sunny state to snow state, when I left Orlando it was a comfortable, 80 degrees. When I got to Anchorage, it was slightly colder at 6-below-effing-zero(!).

In case you’ve never experienced 6-below-effing-zero(!), it’s really cold. Like boogers-freezing-in-your-face cold. Like having-an-electric-plug-on-your-car cold. Like the-critics-reception-to-Mariah-Carey’s-Glitter (AKA “the crapperpiece”) cold.

So yes, having had this bone-chilling experience, I can safely say that it is only by the grace of God, and the Buick’s butt warmers, that I am here typing today, and not sitting on the tundra somewhere, a frozen organic-raisin flavored popsicle.

God bless the bun warmer –I may be little in the middle, but I got much (freezing ass) back.

Mariah Carey displays twinkie chic at the Marie Claire photo shoot.

So speaking of the Divine Miss Bovine – (I’m talking about Mariah Carey here, not my booty) – I was tickled when, standing in line at the grocery, Popi pointed to a mag with the Singing Diva on the cover and immediately began mocking it.

Indeed, dressed in a body-hugging lemon-colored shift, Mariah Carey looked so lardaceous, I can’t believe it’s not butter…

But I digress.

Anyway, for a minute or two, Popi and me, we had a grand old time. But then, as is his check stand custom, Popi felt the need to do his patented two-step-rip.

…And then fun and games were over, the cashier and several innocent bystanders left gagging in the wake.

You see, like Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the sound of a bell, any time – and I mean any time – Popi is at a cashier station he will inevitably rock back and forth on his heels, first lifting one butt cheek, then the next.

When Michael Jackson does this kind of fancy footwork, it’s usually followed by a crotch grab. When Popi does it, the finale is the firing of a stink torpedo.

When I was small, this heinous hoe-down was awfully embarrassing. Even on Mother’s day, his arms piled high with cake and confections, every year Dad somehow found a way to tip himself up and toot one out for an unsmiling teenager in a supermarket smock.

Because I’m grown, I can appreciate Popi’s eccentricities, and I wanted to laugh at his oh-so-predictable public blast of the trouser trumpet. But the thing is, it wasn’t very funny…

Mostly because I was standing downwind.

Oh man, it’s good to be home. ________________________________________________________

Wanna see some mountain pics from my AK Vackay? Click here.

Want to join my map? I will love you forever. Click here.

Rockstar Brother cracks me up. He’s been calling from Alaska to give me the latest on home front happenings and today he told me about Christmas.

“Did you hear what Baby Paige did to Maaa?” Rockstar Brother asked.

“Nope,” I said, “What did she do?”

“You won’t believe it, but Paige kicked her sneakers into Maaa’s mashed potatoes at dinner!”

“Oh holy lord!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it was a bad scene,” replied Rockstar Brother.

Because I’m big on jokes that make you groan, I had to ask: “Why do you suppose she did it?” And then I followed that up with a nice little, “Do you suppose it was just for kicks?”

*ba dum bum ching*

Thank you, thank you. I’ll be playing at the haus all week folks. Be sure to tip your waitresses on the way out.

So seriously, when I learned what my precious two-year-old niece, had done, well naturally I found it to be very disrespectful. Poor Maaa had her pristine, snow-white, mashed up mound of starch desecrated on the holiest of days and dinners, after all.

And so we say, R.I.P steaming taters.

Oh how I wish I had been there when that toddler-sized tenny lodged itself in the divot where gravy’s supposed to go… but I digress.

Christmas here in Florida was different. Not quite turkey with all the trimmings, Angelface and I found ourselves dining at the only place in town that was a) open and b) not Dennys.

If you’ve seen A Christmas Story, you’ve probably already guessed it. Always open, and quite the cliché, Angel and I dined holiday-style at the China Buffet.

Because all-you-can-eat pork flied lice for $9.99 is pretty good, even when it’s Christmas.

And I wonder, if Paige had been with us celebrating the birth of Christ over cashew chicken, if she would’ve kicked her Keds into my dinner.

I would’ve had to tell the waiter there was something in my food. He would tell me not to worry, it was just the house special after all.

“Ah,” I’d say, “tonight I’ll dine on egg-shoe-young.”

Dear Spanky,

Today you’ve reached a milestone. Already legally permitted to drive, smoke, and apply for credit cards, now you get to throw down some hooch whenever it tickles your fancy.

I can’t hardly believe it, but today baby sister, you turn 21.

Happy birthday babe, and a word to the wise: avoid drinking anything tonight that ends in “er” (I.e. BudweisER, GoldschlaggER, JägermiestER, etc.). Failing to head my warning will probably cause you to throw up a lot… at least that’s been my experience with these sorts of things.

Before You Were Born
I told Maaa I wanted a baby sister, and not just any baby sister. She had to have blonde hair and blue eyes like Charlie Brown’s sister, Sally. In retrospect, cooking you up to my specifications must’ve been quite a feat, because the rest of us (Maaa and Popi included) are fairly brown.

Good thing we lived in the sticks and didn’t have a postman. The neighbors might’ve been suspicious.

Our Special Bond
Before you came into my life, I’d never had anyone pee on me before (I guess Pampers weren’t as leak-proof in the 80s). And I’d never had anyone steal my clothes, my makeup, or my best CDs –Thank God my high school boyfriend was gay.

Yes Spank, before there was you, I’d never known the beauty of choreographing and performing, as a duo, an interpretive dance to the Spice Girl’s Two Become One. I think it’s only mildly embarrassing that we performed a sexually-charged, estrogen-equivalent-of-boy-band-schlock number for our parents… complete with pelvic thrusts… on the day of the birth of our Lord and Savior…. Because nothing says Christmas like:

I need some love like I never needed love before
(wanna make love to ya, baby)
I had a little lover, now I’m back for more
(wanna make love to ya, baby)

Wish I Was There
Spankylou, if I was home, I’d bake you a rainbow chip cake with strawberry frosting, because that’s your favorite. And just for the hell of it, because it always seems to make you so happy, I’d go ahead and let you knock me over like a sack of potatoes. You could then drag me around the house by the legs of my Levis, de-pantsing me in a painful manner, while you laugh maniacally over my screams of “Maaa, I’m getting some serious rug burn here!” You see, darling Spank, along with your mutant blonde hair, you were also blessed with hulk-like strength, a fact of which I am reminded of at every family gathering when you inevitably bend me up like a pretzel for the amusement of others.

Loving you muchly, on this, the day of your birth,

xoxo,

sis