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. ________________________________________________________

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