My Dad Is The Best Post-BreakUp Date.

Hey everyone [Dad], it's that time again!

It's Wacky Wednesday Rem[wem?]inisce Day!

A.k.a. Dad, you've got your 11th round of chemo today and that totally sucks but you sir, do not- so here's a bit of awesomeness to take your mind off of the unfortunately quiet rave taking place in your hospital room. (You've got the drugs; I could absolutely Spotify you some house music. If you'd like. Just lemme know.)

(And in case you wanna catch up: Week 10, Week 9, Week 8, Week 7, Week 6, Week 5, Week 4, Week 3, Week 2.5, Week 2, and Le Intro. A hint at the crazy-awesome that is my father.)

The year was 1995. I had just turned 15.

I had recently been- for lack of a more delicate term- dumped by my first "real" boyfriend. And, well, I wasn't taking it so hot. It was the middle of the summer, and all of my friends (those whom I hadn't abandoned for the appeal of an upperclassman boyfriend) were busy doing terrific things in far-flung locales like New Hampshire.

Yes, I had a mullet. And a 2XL sweatshirt.
WHO WOULD BREAK UP WITH THIS?

My Dad, however, knew exactly what would cheer me up (and perhaps even blow my mind). He took me to a Blues Festival nearby, well aware that I was had a near fangirl obsession with Etta James, B.B. King, and the like. Both were there. We also saw Jimmie Vaughn (bro of the legendary Stevie Ray), J. Geils, and Elvin Bishop. (My heartache was flung aside as I realized that my Dad had presented me with the best summer of my life.)

He had gotten us seventh row seats. And- miracle upon miracles- people in the first six rows all meandered off before Etta James' set. (Fools!) So then suddenly there she was, singing- DIRECTLY TO ME AND MY DAD. I nearly lost my mind with joy as I sang along with her. Then I noticed that my Dad was laughing. And I noticed the look that Etta was giving me. (My Dad later called it the "why is this little white girl singing every single word?" but I called it The Ultimate In Awesome, Amen.)

The day was beyond fantastic, but what really sticks in my mind is the fact that it was an entire afternoon with just me n' my Dad. Listen, I'm the second of four girls. My folks owned a 'round the clock breakfast and deli establishment. One on one time with either of my parents was always at a premium- but that day, my Dad made me feel special. Cool. Non-mullety.

Like I was completely worthy of a day like that. Like I was his first choice and really, should be anyone's.

Even with my special blend of je ne sais quoi.

So Dad, get better. There are so many other concerts and festivals and musical extravaganzas we need to experience.

(Next time I'll buy the 35 buck souvenir hat.)

10th Round Of Chemo? Say It With Embarrassing Childhood Photos.

Dad, 

Today is your tenth round of chemo. (I'd say something pithy like "only two more rounds after this to go," but I won't. Because no one likes pithy crap like that.) 

I will say, however, that you continue to rock. And you continue to be strong and nonchalant and such a GUY about this whole thing. To which I can hear you say, "I've just gotta get it done. What choice do I have?" I can also hear you say, "I'm really gonna need you to stop blogging about me, Keel."

And while I can't do that- I really just can't- I can present pictures of us like this to the world:

This is the famed Edaville Railroad picture. And I was not having it, whatever "it" was supposed to be. And yet you never flung me onto a train track or handed me to a station attendant.

I appreciate that, Dad, I really do. That's just good parenting.

And I'm gonna go ahead and hazard this theory: if a guy can handle his pointy-hatted two year old having [what was apparently] the worst tantrum of the century in a public (and Festive, Dammit!) locale, then he can for sure handle another round of chemo.

Hang in there, Dave ["Keel," you continue to say].

You can do this.

And I can guarantee that this treatment won't be as noisy as I was.

An Early Birthday Present, Dad.

Dad, 

Tomorrow is your birthday. Today is your 9th round of chemo. One of those things is awesome...and the other is rather annoyingly unfair. (Like when the segues between MST3k clips seem to go on and on and on and what is with all of the chatter, people?)

So to celebrate the former- and distract you from the latter- here's some stuff I'm pretty sure you'll just love. 

Like Johnny At The Fair:

Or this kid's school picture (courtesy of Awkward Family Photos):

This impossibly hard rock n' roll trivia game: 

How about he fact that I was so surprised to see someone I actually knew at my own wedding:

Maybe a good quote from Jack Handey:

If you ever fall off the Sears Tower, just go real limp, 

because maybe you'll look like a dummy and 

people will try to catch you because, hey, free dummy.

And definitely this pic that proves you know how to rock- on yours or anyone's birthday:

Happy birthday, Pop. 

Love, your obnoxious daughter 

...And a legion of awesome folks high-fiving you from across the internet. 

My Dad Doesn't Embarrass Easily.

Hangin' with da ladies.

Hey Dad,

Thanks for making us feel like we were exactly where you wanted to be on a Saturday night. (I mean, I know it's true, but still. We could get a little trying. Kate especially.)

Thanks for taking me to the drugstore after I got my first period and for acting so cool about the whole thing. I'm sure that's where you wanted to be on a Saturday night.

Thanks for not leaving me at Edaville Railroad that one time when I pitched the mother of all tantrums.

Ditto for that wedding where I got into the bowl of grapes and subsequently needed to be dealt with.

Thanks for always answering your phone at work, even when you know I'm calling to cry about grout or have a suspicious question about power tools.

Thanks for reading this during your 8th round of chemo and rolling your eyes at me at this very moment.

And thanks for agreeing to get better super soon. Because we have lots more adventures ahead of us.

And there are so many places from which I have yet to be carried out kicking and screaming.

The Post Where I Beg My Dad To Come Back To Chicago.

Dad, today you start your seventh round of chemo. And while it's not the super-funnest thing you'll ever do, I'd like to remind you of a time when you were working on a house so hopeless you [silently] wished to burn it down.

That house was my special fixer-upper house, Dad. And I'm so very glad that you didn't follow through with your initial response of kicking the house into a bricky heap while choking back Ugly Tears (uh, maybe now I'm confusing you with me.)

This picture kinda sums up what you were working with. Remember that fan? Yeah, that fan was roughly five and a half feet off of the ground. And totally hanging at an angle. It was the Fan Of Certain Decapitation. I called it The Highlander fan, remember that? (Yeahhh, you thought that was a nerdy joke then, too.) Well, you fixed that fan- as well as lifted it to a whopping height of about feet, making it slightly more suitable for the next family of borderline carny-folk to move right in. (And you placed six more ceiling fans in the house, giving us air all over the place! Sure, we couldn't breathe all that well due to the boarded-up and shot-out windows, but you work with what you've got, right?)

Baseboards were boarded to bases. Things like nails spiking out at face height were secured behind actual trim. Locks were changed and storm doors were added- preventing random passersby from just waltzing on in. (Not sure who would've wanted to, but you ensured that they couldn't, and that's my point.)

And that door resting against that pocked wall in the photo? If you'll recall, there were many, many doors resting against many, many pocked walls.  You fixed 'em all- doors were hung, walls were spackled. By the time you left, the place looked a lot like a building where one could actually reside and not worry about things like rodents running in from the backyard. (At least not through the door.)

And that's a wicked teensy fraction of the work you've done to this Money Pit [Of Dreams.] At the end of each day, your clothing would be so drenched in sweat and unknown/unmentionable substances that we all offered to bury your shirts in the backyard for you.

So Dad. You can do this chemo thing. Because- seriously, remember what was going on in the bathrooms? You're tougher than chemo because you could handle what was going on in the bathrooms. Seriously.

And get better soon.

We have a lot more work to do.

We Put The "Ire" In "Ireland".

As my Dad gears up for his sixth round of chemo, I'd like to thank him for my heritage. Namely, my fabulous half-Irishitude.

Back when I was a little kid, St. Patrick's Day was a major holiday in our household. (Are you catching on to the fact that everything was a major holiday in our household? We're a tad celebratory.) My Mom would make stellar corned beef and cabbage (no small feat, being an Armenian and all), we'd sit around the table with our cups full of dyed green milk (extremely Irish, that), and listen to songs that alternated between horrifically sad and raucously happy. (It always confused me that the weepy ones were about love and the hilarious ones were occasions where someone had died.)

You're right- this is not a St. Patrick's Day pic.
But I think it's pretty indicative of how festive we are.

On one special St. Patrick's Day in high school, we had just finished a great meal (and I was working on my seventh piece of soda bread with raisins) when my Dad decided to call his parents. Now, the Flynn side of the family has always prided itself on its one thousand percent Irishness. (And there are few things fiercer than an Irish family fiercely talking about their Irish heritage.) And, like many families do, they would retell the same stories to hear the same familiar towns and surnames over and over again. So this night was no different- my Dad, having placed his mother on speakerphone, asked her where her specific side of the Callahan/Flynns had hailed from.

She paused.

And mentioned the expected Counties Kerry and Cork and Galway...

And paused again.

"But my mother-" she answered thoughtfully. "She came from Paris."

"France?" Someone joked. Because obviously there must be a Paris, Ireland. Because we were NOT French. She assented yes, it was France. And that was that. We couldn't quite wrap our minds around the fact that this had never before come up. And we were all slightly stunned to be instantly [partially] French. (Except for my mother, whose one thousand percent Armenianitude was not at risk.)

And the next day, my Dad spoke with his brother and found out that he already knew. But no, we weren't French. Because even though my grandmother's mother was from Paris, she only lived there with the family who had adopted her.

From Italy.

So after spending the night as a [partial] Frenchwoman, I easily slipped into my new identity as a mostly Irish and Armenian gal with the smidgeniest of Italian somewhere in there. Like in the pinky.

But in honor of this upcoming St. Patrick's Day- and due to the fact that I wish I were celebrating with my Dad- I'm ready to be fully Irish, tell the girls about Counties Cork and Kerry and Galway (and Paris), and let everyone eat entirely too much Irish soda bread with raisins.

Dad, knock this round of chemo outta the park. Listen to some sad-meaning-happy Irish tunes and rest up until we can toast some green beverages again. I'll even let you pick.

As long as it's not green milk.

Turns Out, You CAN Go Home Again. (If You Clean It.)

On Thursday afternoon, I flew home to spend time with my folks for a wicked long weekend. I wanted to poke my Dad until he laughed during his fifth round of chemo (which is a medically and historically proven way to get smacked upside the head) and berate my mother into Feng Shui-ing the heck out of her living areas.

So yeah, you could say I was a big ol' helper.

Here are a few things I realized (and reaffirmed) about my parents and our family's home:

-If you're looking for duffel bags, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Super sorry. But you can't have any. Because we have them all. In one closet.

-The worse the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode, the better (according to my father and the level of evoked laughter). Unless you're my mother. Then it's directly proportional to the times she will walk through the room and plaintively ask- Really? This episode again?

-If you're looking for CDs, vinyl, recordable media and filmed anything, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Because my Dad has them all. In one closet. But now they're alphabetized and sorted by height.

-The plethora of decorated and drawn angels people have been sending from all around the world for my Dad's treatment and recovery could paper our home. No, for real. Rooms are papered with these pieces of awesome.

A corner of the family room.
ONE corner of ONE room.

-And any trip home (especially one sans kiddos) goes entirely too fast.

(Get better soon, Dad, or I'll be forced to fly home again and move even more of your stuff.)

My Dad Is Tough Enough For The Scrambler (With Kids).

Dad,

As you prepare to smack this latest round of chemo directly in the face, I'd like to remind you of a little story:

It's the story of a Dad. With two little girls. (Well, actually four, but at the time of this tale the smallish ones were running around and shoving things like Tic Tacs up their noses. They weren't doing real things, yet.)

And that Dad did things with his little girls that no one really wants to do. Like wrangle side-ponytail hairdos on his tweentastic daughters. Have conversations about which boys were "cute" and which ones were horrid human beings. (Sometimes the same thing.) And smush himself onto rides with two other people, at least one of whom was a rather seasick individual.

But we never knew. We didn't have the slightest idea that a grown man wouldn't jump at the opportunity to defy the laws of spatial relations and vomitude to bodily secure his kiddos from flying out of a Scrambler which- at best- would comfortably hold two human beings. THAT'S how Dude you are.

So be like that with this round of chemo.

Don't- not even for a second- let the chemo know that it's elbowing you in the face or that you can't feel either of your feet. Tell it to sit down and stop bickering. Because- yet again- you got this.

And not one person who's ever met you is surprised.

Happy Anniversary, You Crazy Kids!

This couple.

They met and decided to go have some wild adventures and then he built her a house on Cape Cod.
Then they had a kid.
(And then they had this kid.)

And then two more kids, which everyone agreed was a) not "a little brother" and b) not "a trip to Disney World."

Then came two more houses, at least three business ventures, and a whole menagerie, which [eventually] included five dogs, five cats, two hamsters, and at least thirty fish.

And they are now these folks. (Smushed in the back.)

And we clearly no longer allow them to take pictures by themselves.

Today is their 39th anniversary. (40th for dating.) Here's what I wrote to them two years ago. And it's still all true. (Especially the bit about my Dad not being able to brush a decent ponytail. But since he's more than come through in other aspects, we'll continue to let it slide.)

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May you have another 40 [gazillion]. The traditional gift for "39" is lace. But I think we all know what your hearts desire...

A much bigger couch.

Cheer Up, Dave!

Dad, as I've been trying to think of many ways to keep your spirits all bright n' shiny during your carousel bouts with chemo (and because last night you gave me the "You really don't need to be posting so many pictures of me" talk over the phone)...let's compromise.

Here are things guaranteed to make you cheerful as you start another round today:

A picture that Nora collaged of you:

So, listen, maybe the mustache isn't on your lip- per se-
but it's there. Also, you are smiling.

This clip from our favorite Mystery Science Theater 3000 cinematic epic, Mitchell:

A good Jack Handey quote:

Whoever these kids are:

LORD, they must have attractive parents.

And our family's weird habit of Photoshopping a picture of Emily (clad in a peapod suit) into any and all pix:

I'm not even gonna watermark this one. Have at it.

We love you, Pop. Like a peapod loves the spotlight. (Feel better.)

Just Let The Man Read.

I simply love this picture of my Dad and one of my sisters. It embodies oh-so much about my father and everything we adore about him:

His devotion to his family.

His sense of humor regarding his ever-present kids.

And his tolerance- because Good Lord, it's like his one day off a month and this is literally the first time he's even seen a newspaper all week. But no, totally. Go ahead, Rachel, crumple that paper and he'll pretend he's already scanned the sports section.

It'll be good practice for when he re-enacts this very scene twenty years later.

So Dad, as you start your third round of chemo today, stay strong, take care of yourself...

...Maybe even read a newspaper. 

Until a smallish blond person rips it out of your ever-patient hands. 

Hey, Dad.

Pops, as you steamroll through your second day of your second session of chemo, I'd like to invite you to reflect upon the good times.

Like that time you found a yellow dinosaur. 

I mean, clearly you were between gigs for the evening- that is what was happening here, right? (Ziggy Stardust onstage= terrific. Rhinestone cowboy just a'cause in someone's living room= ...well, this is a positive reflection. But so was that shirt! Badabing!)

So there you were, being adorbs with this dinosaur (goose?) and, well, I don't know the rest of the story. Because I was minus ten years old. But I would love to, and that's my point. 

Never let it be said that Dave Flynn had a misspent youth. This is a man who, quite obviously, was youthfully spendy. I think we can all look at this picture and know that a) something awesome was about to happen, b) something awesome DID just happen, or c) Dave Flynn is the best Still Life photobomber ever to run through a living room. (No, seriously Dad, please tell me what was happening here? Was this your dinosaur/goose? Was it Mom's? Was it for Mom? Were you between ladies and this dinosaur/goose comforted you in a way that no polyester-clad woman could? Is this dinosaur/goose actually my mother?) 

Like I said, reflect upon the good times.  

Because chemo's kind of a jerk. 

So let's all hug the dinosaur/goose. But not you, Dad.

You've had enough. 

Through Thick N' Thin...And Ungodly Temperatures.

As my Dad undergoes his second round of chemo this morning, I wanted to remind him of how thoroughly awesome he's always been. He has- quite literally- always been there for me.

Like when it was 30 degrees and snowing during my [outdoor] college graduation. In May. (A few years back.)

...To watch me receive a Frisbee-shaped diploma.

And ever since, to witness my [sometimes painful] late night comedic ventures.

And to read my [largely unpaid] forays into freelance writing. (Especially the early stuff. Really free. Really early.)

And to duct tape my home back together...even though sometimes the duct tape was the newest and nicest parts of this Money Pit, circa 2009.

Oh my God, Dad, I'm so sorry.

(And thanks.)

Trees And Panic And Church. And Drinking.

"I have no idea what's happening!"- Suzy

I've been feeling very behind, rather frantic, and Not. In. The. Holiday. Spirit. At. All.

And as ads (and Facebook) have been reminding me...there's only a few short weeks left to get it all done. And this made me panic.

Until I realized that it's December 3rd. THIRD. Not twenty-third. This is actually the official start to the Christmas season. It's true. Think about it: When you were a little kid and read (or watched) aaaaaany story that concerned Christmas...did it take place in October or November? Nope. It was somewhere smackdab in the middle of December. (And generally somewhere smackdab in the middle of the Midwest. I don't know why these shows always concerned families residing in Indiana or Illinois, I just remember that they did. Maybe I'm thinking of John Hughes films.) 

Anyhow. I'm trying desperately hard to enjoy this season. We got our tree this weekend (at the traditional Home Depot tree lot) and as we pulled into the parking lot I had to reassure myself that there would still be "good" trees. On December 1st. (There were.) Nora was stoked beyond belief to choose a tree that "wasn't too thin." Susannah was rather confused but determined to enjoy herself. (And P.J. did that Guy Thing with the tree man where they spun the tree and banged the trunk officially.) 

That night, the girls were positively vibrating off the ground with tree ornament excitement. Zuzu's job was to walk across the room with larger ornaments, hide them under a shoe, squeal excitedly at them, and then fling them in the general direction of the tree. Nora's job was to carefully suspend nine ornaments on the same branch, roughly two inches from the floor. They did this for an hour and a half. And honestly? That was magical. 

Everything you need to know is
going down in this very pic.

The next day we went to the 10am mass, which was being said for my Dad. (Thanks, Kris!!) P.J. was actually the one who got to say the intentions for my Dad, which was rather special (even though, at the time, Nora was attempting to raise and lower the kneeler onto the pregnant lady next to us and Susannah was preoccupied with peeing through her outfit onto my shirt). But being there made me think of the Christmas stuff I treasured doing with my family growing up- and especially my Dad. Like getting the tree. Hanging the lights. Watching the favorite TV specials (over and over and over). Having him read The Night Before Christmas to the four of us girls. And then the four of us girls and the five grandkids. Having a cordial glass of peppermint schnapps on the rocks in front of the fire (which, as he's repeatedly told me, is the perfect Christmastime drink). 

I would so love to be sitting in front of the fire drinking something with him right now. I'm sure he'd dig that, too.

Because I am his favorite.

But for now, I'll try really hard to slow down and not feel the Christmas Panic every morning and night.  I bet a schnapps would help. 

Maybe just a [singular] schnapp. 

Five Reasons My Heart Feels Good Today.

Wearin' our buttons for Pop! Socks, no. Buttons, yes.

So maybe I missed the boat on the whole pre-Thanksgiving Giving Thanks thing...but I've compiled a nice little list of stuff that makes me exceptionally cheerful today.

5) My Dad is officially Dave: Unplugged. (From the wires and IVs and pokey things that make it hard to sleep.) Even though he's still in the hospital, he's now Mobile[ish] Dave. And that makes my heart grin.

4) My daughters, walking around this morning, had the following exchange-
Susannah: Nah Nah! My Nah Nah!
Nora (running into the room): Yes, my dear little sister! I am coming to you!
Susannah (happily): Nah Nah.
(It was practically a straight Chekov translation.)

3) While driving Nora to preschool, Marc Cohn's Walking In Memphis came on the radio. And I sang it to my kids via the rearview mirror. I sang that song. And they looked...confused. But polite. Zuzu gamely nodded her head along with me as I belted out Every. Last. Word. ("Ma'am I ammmmm tonight...")

2) As I walked between rooms, gathering laundry and shoes and sippy cups, I had a vivid flashback of playing Scattergories with my sibs over Thanksgiving. Particularly, the moment where my youngest sister attempted to convince us that a) "fennel cake" was a thing, and b) it could be purchased from a vending machine. Indignantly. For the next twenty-four hours. And for some reason, during that recollection, I laughed until I was in danger of doing that high-pitched-can't-breathe-squeal-of-she's-not-coming-back-from-this-one kinda laugh. (And it felt nice.)

1) Finally, after logging on to Facebook this morning, my heart done swole at the number of "likes" and messages of support for my Dad that have poured in from (quite literally) all over the world. That, combined with the texts, emails, phone calls, Tweets, Instagrams, and blog comments, makes for a pretty sweet Word doc for me to present to my [completely overwhelmed-with-all-the-love] father.

And so I'm happy.

That Dave. What A Charmer.

This adorable urchin...

Turned into this urban cowboy...

Who then turned into the guy who's gonna be so thrilled that I keep posting pix of him on the interwebz.

(And who's gonna just have to get better soon and ground me, himself.)

The One For My Dad.

This post isn’t snarky, silly, or sarcastic. No memes. No misheard lyrics or whimsical pictures of my kids being childlike. And not even one reference to my cats.

This is a post for my Dad.

Put quite simply, he’s my hero. He gave me the first Boston album I ever owned (Third Stage), drove with me to the drugstore after my first period, and took me to see Etta James in concert after a particularly tragic breakup. His recipe for Fettuccini Alfredo is unrivaled, try as I might to emulate it.  I could listen to him play the guitar for hours. And he wouldn’t dream of leaving me hanging when I lob a quote from Monty Python, Wayne’s World, or any of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 movies.

He’s a man of very few words and even fewer methods of technological communication- but he’s never once left any doubt of how much he loves me.

And right now he’s very, very sick. In fact, at the time of this posting, he’s being wheeled into surgery. Big, bad, Shouldn’t Be Happening To Anyone’s Dad Let Alone My Great Guy Of A Father surgery.

So I’m asking for a little help.

Some of you are religious…some not quite so much. But I believe that most of you believe in something bigger than y’all…so I’m begging for some good thoughts. A prayer or two. A mental high-five. A momentary acknowledgement of “That Dave Flynn is a stellar fella and needs to stick around for a few more decades.”

It would mean simply everything to me.

My big sis designed these incredible buttons o’ support for my Pop- and even though his mustache isn't quite so handlebar-y (at all), it’s a pretty good approximation with the Maverick sunglasses. And I’d love to place a gigantic order and then send one out to each of you. My sibs and I have decided to wear these pins until he’s completely, one thousand percent better. But in the meantime, we’ll email him all of the pictures of folks wearing his likeness in support. So message me your deets if you want in.

Or just say a mental li’l something.

And thanks. 

You Don't Tug On Superman's Cape.

"...And then, the King smote all of the princesses' suitors..."

Let me paint a little picture of heroics for you.

The four of us- Peej, Nora, Zuzu, and myself- were sitting and having a lovely dinner. Well, "lovely" might be a loose term. In fact, it had gotten downright stressful, due to the fact that Nora was bouncing around her chair like a pinball and Susannah was laughing like a loon at her sister's antics.

"Where is her booster seat?" P.J. wondered aloud, less than calmly.

I reminded him that it was still in the backyard from two nights' prior, when we had a [fantastic] barebecue with friends. It had been sitting out there, just waiting for someone to remember it and return it to its rightful kitchen chair. (But nope, we're that lazy; we'd rather repeatedly scold a two year-old for not sitting still than walk outside and spend the fourteen seconds hooking it back up inside.)

Eventually, Peej capitulated and went to get it. Nora was fastened. Susannah was subdued. Dinner was finished and P.J. excused himself from the table. After he left the room, I cleared a couple of dishes to the sink. Coming back, I saw that Nora had already begun to disentangle herself from the booster's buckle.

I also saw a spider.

A gigantic one.

The thing was a mere inch from her back and neck and had crawled out from the underside of the booster seat while I watched in horror. Now, I'd never say that I had a crippling fear of spiders, but this hitchhiker was mammoth. No exaggeration, its body was roughly the size of the top joint of a man's thumb.

And it was fast. Really, really fast.

I swallowed a scream (MUST'NT SHOW EXTREME FEAR IN FRONT OF THE IMPRESSIONABLE YOUTHS) and choked out a wimpy "P...J..."

He came bolting back in (with his sonic Spidey Sense that his wife's bravery had- once again- faiiiiiled) to find me gasping and flailing at Nora's booster seat.

"What, Keely, what?"

I stuttered and pointed to her chair. He leaned over to see what was wrong and unwittingly placed his hand right next to the hairy, beastly thing.

"OH MY- P.J., NO- THE CHAIR, THE CHAIR, THE THING ON THE CHAIR, YOUR HAND!!!"

And P.J., glancing down, did a neat shuffle step and made a sound that, while not a scream, was pitched slightly higher in his register than normal.

Nora, still struggling with the buckle, looked up in confusion. "What're you doing, Mommy/Daddy?" (Her time-saving nickname for the both of us.)

"Take her, take her- while I..." P.J. inched closer to the thing with a piece of scrap paper (which, admittedly, was way smaller than the spider.) I fumbled with her buckle like I was rescuing her from the path of an oncoming train. P.J. grabbed at the spider, only to find that it was still moving. Really. Fast.

I stood back with Nora in one arm, blocking the blissfully unaware (and still happily eating) Zuzu. Meanwhile, P.J. was having his own dilemma, being the barefoot hippie that he is. You know, the whole "live and let live" thing? But, adding to that mantra was the knowledge that- "Keely, it's jumping! It's JUMPING! IT'S JUMPING! Is it still in my hand?! It's getting away!"

So he acted fast. And. He. Crushed. It.

I was- and am- stupidly impressed. Because I cannot imagine that killing with his bare hands was on that night's agenda. But- and here's the crucial part- it could never be on mine.

Peej- You just keep leveling up in this video game called 'Being A Dad.' And I'm grateful.

Because, seriously, the girls and I would still be sitting there just emoting at the spider. Well, except for Susannah. She was really hungry that night. But in the future, we'll regale her with tales of that night's bravery.

(Happy Father's Day.)

Popapalooza '11

It was a really great weekend.

Sure, Keely, you say. You always have a good time/eat too much food/nap during the chaos/watch MST3k your Dad and old movies with your Mom. What made this trip so boss?

He shreds.

Well, there was live music. Featuring my Dad.

And two bands.

Three if you count my sister Chelly wailing on the vocals.

And the food was in a buffet- that means that no one really knew how much food was consumed. (Secret: new plate each time? Little convo with a new party guest each go 'round the food table? That's how it's done. "Oh, Keely, you should eat. Think of the baby!" "Well...okay.")

A rare, non-food table picture.

Learned that trick back in '92 from a good friend.

On one day alone, I made four (4) trips for a bowl of sausages ALONE. That's right. Not even a flower for garnish. Bowl o' sausages. And that was just that type of meat. There were others. And I had some enchiladas and oriental salad and salad salad and pasta and potato salad (even though I do not- generally- care for the potato) and chips and multiple cupcakes originally in the shape of a sunflower.

Where's your I.D.?

The night before, I had been in charge of frosting the yellow ones. There were many delicious (and temper-tantrumy) casualties.

Kazoo= instant party.

The music was epic. The groupies were out of hand.

But easily, the best part was the one-on-one (or, rather, sixty-on-one) with the birthday boy himself.

And the pulled pork sammiches.

But mostly my Dad.

You're the best at this, Pop.

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.