Hiding in the Dryer Take 2

Well, I did it…and recorded it for proof. This go around the dryer was much smaller, and I had to wait for literally (anne perkins), AN HOUR, but it was a smashing success. Let me first explain that this was a payback to my mother a long time coming.

And yes, I waited for an hour like this.

About four years ago Pudge (mom) was going through all her old makeup and purging of eye shadow she no longer used. And like any other loving mother, thought to make the best of her cleanse to smear the black, blue, and gray shades across her face. My sister was in on the joke, as I sat at the computer near the base of the stairs, she shoved a suitcase down the flight of stairs as my mother waited at the base. Pudge started screaming, and stumbled around the corner covering her face, as she slowly lowered her hands and with a quick glance it looked like she was the victim of a half ass curb stomping. She started laughing and yelling “it’s a joke, it’s a joke!” but I was already bawling. So, came my moment to seek revenge, since I had been discussing a prank of me hiding in the dryer previously when I was in college and it was such a success, I decided to go for round two.

And then my moment came. I wish it was a better video, but take what you can get when both legs are asleep and can barely breathe with a Goodwill mask on.

Cheers to Birthdays-the Evil Eye-and Fart Humour

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 6^th 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.