If You Belonged Here

Pandora's Father is Straight Hood Status

It's not easy to be me.

Oh, I'm sure you might think I have it easy with my wonderful boyfriend, no bills, parents' income,  fantastic roommates, and killer friends and family.  But, if you knew what I had to endure to achieve all that, you might considered yourself blessed.  

I was cursed to be born to a father who thinks he's "straight hood." 

Let me just tell you now that being 52 years old and bald with a beer belly does not qualify as "hood."

That's right people, my father thinks he's a gangster.  Call him Papa Gangsta Pete and he'll be thrilled that you did.

 

(This photo is two years old.  No, I'm not that awesome and don't always sport the 80s look on a daily basis.  It was part of a distraction from my surprise party.)

My father affectionately calls my mother his "biatch" and constantly asks me if "I'm picking up what he's laying down."  He likes to dance around to the Black Eyed Peas and honestly aspires to be Diddy.  Truly, he was excited about our family vacation to Amsterdam and kept talking about all the "hookers and hash" he was going to get.  When he gets back home from his job as a California State Peace Officer, he's sure to announce that he's "up in the hizzle."      

Putting up with my father is just like putting up with a 7-year -ld boy.  He runs to get places, torments my cat, and plays his Nitendo Wii all the time.  Granted, my father uses the Wii to lose weight.  He's about 3 months strong with the program and we're actually seeing improvements.  I'm tempted to sell him for endorsement deals like Jared did with Subway.  I'm also convinced that I recorded everything my dad did for a  day, I could make bank with it on Youtube.  

Yeah, I use my father, but what loving daughter doesn't? 

With a quick flash of a smile and some puppy eyes, my wallet is 10 dollars richer.  But, don't think I get an allowance, people.  As my dad would say, "That's for kids who actually do chores.  You get welfare, honey."

My dad is horribly obnoxious.  Yes, I do find him funny, but after hearing the joke "Why does Snoop Dogg carry an umbrella?" for the 46th time, he gets a bit old.  Papa Gangsta Pete is also that one guy in line at Disneyland.  You know, the one who makes a joke loud enough in hopes that other people hear it and laugh? Embarrassingly enough for me, that is my father.  

My father has gathered quite a fan base.  Seriously, you can become a fan of him on Facebook.  But, then again, you can become a fan of almost anything nowadays.  Polly has told me countless times about Ramblin' Jack being in awe of how Papa Gangsta Pete mercilessly took down Baby Dol (she's only 5) with words at Thanksgiving dinner.  Luckily for Baby Dol, she has Skipper for an uncle and therefore understands that when any adult figure who tell her that her "parents don't really love her" and that they "purely keep her around for a tax deduction" it's all lies.  

In all seriousness, Papa Gangsta Pete makes a great husband.  He and my mother have shared 22 years of "marital bliss" and it's obvious that my mother wears the pants in the relationship.  My sister, mother, and I are his weakness.  He'd go to end of the world for us.  He's told me that the only way he'd be disappointed in me is if I didn't give him grandchildren.  I told him that I could get right on that for him.  He could have killed me with the look he gave me.  

Papa Gangsta Pete is an excellent cook and turns into a Bobby Flay in the kitchen.  He gets excited about trying out new recipes and uses my sister and I as tasters.  But, he always says one thing before he cooks us dinner:     

"Don't think that I'm giving you dinner because I love you.  I'm required by state law to feed, clothe, and put a roof over your head.  This is not an act of love."

I'm sure, Daddy, I'm sure.....

Bookgirl Announces the February Book Club and is Begging the Question 11.. 'Cause She Multitasks Like That.

The book club was so much fun, we're going back for more.
 
And I'm making a risky decision this time. I'm picking something I haven't read yet myself. I've heard good things about it, though.
 
If you all hate it, I'll publish my address. You can come over and throw rotten vegetables at me.
 
Or something.
 
This month's book is Incarceron by Catherine Fisher.
 
I'm not even going to try to explain it. Just read it. But first, watch the cool trailer.

Discussion to take place here on February 24th.
 
Okay, on to our question..
 
Any time I do something I'm not proud of, I'll look at the person I'm with and say, deadpan:
 
I'm going to hell.

So here's the scenario: It finally happened.
 
All your littering and snarky comments and putting recycling in the trash caught up with you. You're in hell. 
What does it look like?

Now at various times in my life, I've had different theories about this. In college I used to insist that if I ever ended up there, it would be an eternity spent in Kinko's during finals week.

I feel the same way about Home Depot, when I'm looking for something specific and it feels like all the men speak a language called "hardware" and my English isn't enough to navigate. Sometimes I walk in there and break into a cold sweat.

If I died and went to hell, there would be Celine Dion playing.

All. The. Time. Loudly.

The only person there to keep me company would be my ex-brother-in-law: the twitchy, bigoted one with ADHD who thinks the whole world owes him something, and who never... shuts... up.
 
It would smell like poop.
 
Forget hellfires. It would be cold, and windy, with driving rain, and i would be forced to wear wool, so I both itched AND smelled like wet dog.
 
If there were televisions, they would only play Dora the Explorer. Those long pauses every time she asks a question make me homicidal.
 
Either that or I'd just spend an eternity in my last job.
 

Which would be even worse.

Alice Needs A Cleaning Lady. Er, Person.

Day late and a dollar short, I know.

Actually I'm a lot of dollars short but the good news is that on my first day in town I had an interview (on the phone but still) with a great non-profit here in my new digs and it looks promising, if I do say so myself.

The interview has me thinking and since I think in terms of Facebook status updates here's precisely what I've been thinking:

"If I get a job, that means I can't start drinking at 2pm anymore"

Oh, how I've been enjoying drinking in the middle of the afternoon. Never before 12pm, though, no need to worry about me.

Anywhoo, what this means is that, yes, I've actually moved to the real Midwest. The drive was good - I slept somewhere in mid-Kansas, which was an adventure all itself. Did you know that somewhere in western Kansas you can visit the country's largest prairie dog? Now you know. But I'll suggest you don't make the trip just for that. If you're passing through, however, it's about the only thing to see for 400-plus miles so you're probably going to want to make time for it. There is a wind farm, but there is absolutely no need to actually stop, let alone slow down, to see it.

So, I'm here, sans child. I was planning to bring him on the drive and had a good plan for how to handle 20 hours of driving with a 3 year old. Turns out drinking and driving isn't allowed in any state, so that plan fell right on through.

Last time I arrived here, just before Thanksgiving, I couldn't believe the state of things, where the state of things equals the cleanliness of the home my husband-to-be occupies. I would have previously described the man as "dirty" plain and simple, but Polly set me straight there. 

I now know that the man isn't dirty, but instead he's filthy. He keeps tidy, for the most part. Doesn't leave his clothes on the floor or his dishes in the sink - but also doesn't seem to have any regard for the state of his bathroom floor.

Polly says a marriage won't work if you've got to clean someone else's pee off the floor and I think she's right about that. And, for a change, I'd prefer this marriage be one that works.

So job number one is finding a cleaning person. I'd say lady but I won't discriminate if I find a man house cleaner. I just highly doubt there are many men in that particular profession.

Do you guys have someone who cleans your house? Tell me why it's worth it and what it saves you in terms of marriage/sanity/throwing up, etc.