Monkey Business

I apologize now for my lack of blogging this week. Truly, it's because I have not had much funny to rehash. Weds thru Fri of this week had me wanting to pour vinegar in my ears so I wouldn't be able to hear the squeals of delight as I broke out the glitter and "holiday" crafts. We all know good and well that these were Christmas art projects, and I came home daily with glitter stuck in my hair (I'm not kidding) and marker covering my forearms. Oh and I don't know what vinegar would do to your ears but I was hoping for a burning sensation that would cause a lack of hearing. It would be better than listening to, "MIIIIIISS ROOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!! I CAN'T DO IT! THE GLITTER'S ALL MESSY AND JENNY STOLE MY BUTTON!"

Seriously? Seriously. 5 more days of it and then I get a nice break from the little Christmas angels who I'm sure will all be on the 'Nice' list.

Except for the PTA president's son who managed to irritate me enough to earn himself a one-way ticket to the principal's office. There's a proud parent for ya.

At the end of a harried week, I did what any good daughter would do that has been ignoring her parents: I brought them tamales. Oh yes. The white folk love them some tamales made by the bilingual teachers. Au-then-tic.

I was heating up the tamales with my dad in the kitchen tonight and we started talking about Christmas. It is a well-known fact that I am quite possibly the worst gift-giver and I expect people to hand me a list. If you do not give me a list of things you might possibly perhaps like, then I may be forced to give you the equivalent of poop in a box (albeit, with a pretty bow).

Or at least a nice razor.

I asked my dad for the bizillionth time (yes, it's a number...look it up) what he would like for Christmas this year. He looked me in the eye and said, "A service monkey." When he finally accepted the fact that I would, in deed, NOT get him a monkey of any sort, I asked him again. He told me, "A pony." At this point, I wanted to revisit the monkey idea because a monkey (especially one providing a service) seemed better than a pony. Because truly, do you know who this present is to punish? My mom. She would have a monkey or donkey taking residence in her house or backyard. I told him that I would drive to my uncle's house that lives about an hour away and I'd go get his childhood stuffed monkey, "...wasn't Muggs his name?" Dad gave a combined look of euphoria and displeasure and said, "His given name is J.Fred Muggs but he goes by J.Fred. Calling him J.Fred Muggs would be like calling me First Middle Last Name, Jr. instead of calling me 'Dad.' Now, let's not make fun of J.Fred or his brother Zip." I think I gave him the look of, "WTF?" Then I remembered that I forgot about Zippy (formal name of J.Fred's brother). And Puppy Dog.

They all live safely with my uncle and apparently, my dad still loves them. A lot.

After Dad had settled down from the childhood memories of his ratty, little pals, I asked him what he would like for Christmas. Again. This time he said, "Well, I've had my eye on a 17-year-old Taiwanese girl that needs a good home here in America."

It is now where I should insert that my dad is a comical man. Strictly just for kicks and giggles. At this particular moment, I was doubled on the floor laughing. My dad would never actually order something like that off the internet.

Except for the time he ordered two pairs of 'mocasins' that were reminiscent of his liberal days as a college student at UT. Back in the day, he went months without wearing real shoes, and preferred his 'mocasins' that were oiled in dung. Let's be honest and call it like it is...the 'mocasins' are Jesus sandals. I would like to point out that while my dad was a member of student government at this particular university, they elected a dog as student body president. I always like to throw that fact in there to prove that the 70s were marked with insanity and nonsensical behaviors.

Insanity that I desperately wished I lived through.

As we sat and ate our tamales, chile, and Fritos, I had a couple of thoughts running through my mind: 1. On a scale of 1 to 10, how badly will I be 'tore up' later after eating this meal? and 2. What AM I going to get my dad for Christmas?

Right then and there, my mom knocked over her glass of water, spilling it all over my dad and the table and the floor. They scramble to start cleaning with napkins. Then my dad said, "See, if we had a service monkey, he would have cleaned up the water."

I'm not ordering a Taiwanese girl for Christmas. I guess I can check into a good deal on monkeys.