For all my fellow bloggers out there, who can relate to the struggle of finding inspiration… I’m sitting on the Washington State Ferry, a love/hate commute for Bainbridge Island locals and I think of all those “funny” things I forgot to write down. So now, shifting on the hideous red vinyl seats while the night crew vacuums and closes off sections for cleaning, the only word than runs through my head is “Blog, blog blog, blog, blog blog blog”. And I am hoping and praying that the juices start flowing. All writing becomes a daily routine, like working out; we gotta continue the pattern, even if it’s moot just to keep our fingers clicking along.
I guess a story worth telling that I honestly was too little to remember accurately but have seen on home videos repeatedly is the relationship I had with my dad. My god, I worshiped the man, I guess I still do but I no longer smell his feet when he asks, just to see his response of laughing so hard he cries while I poke my nose near his big toe and crinkle my face in disgust.
We were living in Australia, and I was enjoying my 6th birthday. We had cake, balloons, obnoxious cone hats – it was glorious. My parents had built me my very own playhouse outside, with a sand floor and a play kitchen. Little did my parents know that building a tin shed playhouse during the beginning of Australia’s summer would result in the ultimate hot lava game of “don’t fucking touch the sides kids”. So it became a communal kitty litter box.
We got by, we had what we needed, and what we didn’t have we would either figure out how to get it at a cheaper cost or say screw it. My dad was suffering from some severe chapped lips, and with Carmex being 5 bucks a stick, he opted for the cheaper version. The result? My dad staring at the camera, flaunting fluorescent pink lips, and begging his parents to send some manly Chapstick. I sat next to my dad and hand him a book my grandparents had given me as a gift, “Good Families Don’t Fart”. I urged him to read it aloud while I tapped off another large piece of cake. My mother, who was the filming guru tried to discretely ask questions about my birthday while capturing my father reading to me about a Canadian family who gets eaten by a fart monster.
“Jane, what are you reading?” I looked up from my cake and fart jokes and stare at my mother with the ultimate double stink eye and ignore her. My dad continues to read about the fart monster eating all the cans of beans in the house. My mother attempts again, “Jane, are you having a good birthday?” I look up at her again, crinkle my nose and make a face only imaginable as an ugly dog’s. Five times I did this to the camera and my mom, and the clincher was right when I finished my six-year-old “fuck off” face, I would look back at my dad and laugh about farts and keep eating cake. What can I say? Don’t come between a daughter and her father while sharing a good laugh about Canadian families being devoured by a fart.