House Rules

A Hypothetical

Contributed by Kris

Hypothetically, let’s say that your father is arrested… for a non-violent crime of course.  He’s no Scarface.  No, he’s arrested for some DUI related offense; like maybe his 4^th DUI in 5 years (and you are definitely not gonna include those other 8- 10 times in years past because who’s counting).  You’re not surprised that he’s behind bars because frankly the writing has been on the wall for years that this outcome was inevitable.  And just for argument’s sake, let’s say that his incarceration has been a relief to you.  Sure you love him, that’s obviously not in question, but you have not had to deal with the day-to-day hassle of having him in your life.  The calls, the unwanted visits, the unreasonable requests for favors.  The way he makes you feel sorry for him even when he is the sole person responsible for the predicaments in which he constantly finds himself.  And frankly, he’s quite literally out of your hair.  I forgot to tell you that you happen to reside within a hundred yards or so of his domicile, which is his parent’s house naturally.  And if you would put yourself into this fictitious scenario, imagine that you’ve corresponded with your dad by letter a few times and seen him face to face just once in the last ten months.  That visit came after his second stroke in two months, and you were understandably concerned that he was about to die.  It’s not hard to imagine that death could come for a lifelong addict.  But imagine the relief you’d feel when you see him with your own eyes (behind a plexiglass construction cuz television does get that part right); you get confirmation that he’s still hanging in there.  And he is genuinely happy to see your face.  That’s nice, right?

Still with me?  Okay, now onto your hypothetical problem.  Father’s Day is upon you, and you want to get him a card.  Something that honors him as the person who donated half of your dna but that doesn’t extol his virtues as a parent.  This is a problem.  I’m not sure why with such a sizeable swath of the population being rounded up for jail time rehab that Hallmark hasn’t come out with a Daddy’s-In-Jail-But-I-Love-His-Jailbird-Ass holiday card.  It could be dubbed the Felony Father line and include a Get Out of Jail Free card to lighten the mood.  You can surely see the necessity of laughter for those serving time.  Now dispense with the hypotheticals for a second, try to recall the messages you read while shopping for a FD card this year, and….  That’s just it.  And….  I mean it’s not like you can buy the card that mentions all of the great things your dad has done for you.  Remember the time you played catch together?  Nope, you don’t because summer was his peak drinking season.  Remember all the camping trips you took together?  Well you do, but it reminds you of the time he drunkenly fell through the tent and scared the hell out of you and your sister.  Forgot to mention your hypothetical little sister; sorry ‘bout that.  What about all of the financial help he gave you through the years?  That’s funny when you recall sleeping on your wallet so he wouldn’t steal your money again.  And…

And you still love him.  Not hypothetically.  You really do.  He’s a mess; he’s always been a mess; he will likely always be a mess.  So you get the card with the fewest words.  It says something simple like To My Very Special Dad.  And he is special.  You can kinda remember him teaching you how to sketch robots.  Or that time he listened to The Marshall Tucker Band with you while telling you about the best back roads to ride around.  And how he would take you swimming and try to convince you to jump out of the tree even though you were scared.  And when you did it, he was so proud.  And his sense of humor and his laughter.  And...

Non-Traditional Students

Contributed by Kris

Clearly these students have gone back to school after an unfulfilling career as typists.  

Hit Em Wit Da Hee

Contributed by Kris

Maybe I’m just lazy, but I don’t want to listen to new music to find my Summer Jam.  That’s probably the first sign that I’m headed towards bitter middle age.  The second sign will be when my poly-blend trousers are tucked safely beneath my armpits.  However, I’m not immune to the occasional trendy hook that the preteen set gravitates towards.  Case in point, Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke, T.I., and Pharrell (who also has his mitts in Daft Punk’s Get Lucky).  I’m pretty sure that it’s the Marvin Gaye Got to Give It Up sample that pulls me in, but this tune is clearly a front runner for Summer Jam 2013.  It has sexy crooning, the aforementioned jacked Marvin Gaye beat, and exuberant shouting.  Just don’t watch the video or this delicate soufflé collapses.  It wants to be George Michael’s Freedom 90, but the models prance aimlessly while the singers pose unconvincingly.  And without the gravitas of a Christy Turlington or a Cindy Crawford or a Ms. Naomi Campbell (Ms. cuz I’m nasty) the effect is comical not sexy.  I wouldn’t say that the video is the biggest disaster since Amanda Bynes **toke** dropped her “vase”, but it definitely lacks David Fincher’s critical eye for composition and narrative.

Back to Robin Thicke for a moment.  If you really want a deviated septum **wink** kind of season, you should get into Cocaine.  After all, mountains of nose candy and handcuffs in back alleys go together like lemonade and front porch rockers.  It’s the very essence of summer.

If that’s not your scene though, I would like to offer an alternative.  This next candidate is very dear to me.  It has the vibe of a stoner song, the beat of a hip hop jam, and the lyrics of a true innovator.  Missy Elliott’s Hit Em Wit Da Hee has real potential as my Summer Anthem.  That’s right, circa 1997 ya’ll!  I told you I’m lazy.  But listen to this one.  I mean, this features Lil’ Kim, after Hard Core but before the crazy facial reconstruction.  Missy is not speaking the Queen’s English; she’s barely speaking intelligible words.  Wait, is that onomatopoeia I hear?  Why, yes it is!  This is the Summer Jam your English teacher could support.

Jingle Balls

Contributed by Kris

In case it’s not totally obvious at this point, I should say that my mind gravitates towards the absurd.  I find that I’m drawn to artists who make really odd choices whether that is in lyrics or in instrumentation or in personnel.  And in doing my research for my summer soundtrack, I had a really bizarre pull to a Christmas in July theme.  That led me directly to a recent release by Mrs. Olivia Newton-John and Mr. John Travolta.  Wait, who?  Did they remake Summer Lovin’ to the tune of Jingle Bells?  Sadly, they did not.  But they did team up again to produce an exceptionally crap-tastic Christmas album, This Christmas.  

I should clarify.  ONJ was on her game; the voice is still strong with that one.  JT (not Justin Timberlake, who is currently sporting Barry Gibb’s falsetto) seemed to struggle… and by struggle I mean lose the battle.  So why would I want these two dictating my mood all summer long?  

Six words: I Think You Might Like It.  The song has generous helpings of auto tuned voices (cough John cough), cheesy lyrics, and sleigh bells.  This is the song that will be played in the elevators in Hell or in Mr. Travolta’s case, elevators in Xenu’s volcano.  

I know it sounds like I’m crapping all over this, and I am.  But in the best way possible.  This song is infectious.  Like Hep C infectious.  I dare you to listen to it while staring at the accompanying photo.  You’ll never get it out of your head.  And for that quality alone, it is Summer Jam worthy.  It’s also pretty ballsy that they named this jingle I Think You Might Like It when everyone involved knew damn well that we probably wouldn’t.  So what I learned after listening to Olivia and John is that my search for The Summer Anthem of 2013 will continue… cuz this ain’t it.

Let the Music Play

Contributed by Kris

It’s that time.  It’s time to set the whole tone of Summer 2013.  Will it be a Summer of Love?  Will you need an anthem to rave and drink to?  Or is it a season of loss and sadness and sunburn?  Of course, I mean it’s time to pick a Summer Jam.  You’ve gotta be proactive.  You can’t just passively stand by and let the Top 40 determine the whole course of your next 3 to 6 (depending on the effects of global warming) months.  You’ve gotta take just a few minutes for yourself.  Listen to your heart.  Listen to your inner voice(s).  Listen to Pandora.

I’ve really cut it close on coming up with my own Summer Jam.  Since I primarily listen to NPR on my morning drives  and to old country music on my iPod, my choices tend to come down to Terry Gross and Charley Pride.  Fresh Air does not a Summer Jam make.  But as I am still trying to make a choice, I decided to share some of the finalists for my Summer anthem.

You’re the Reason Our Kids are Ugly by Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty - This one is a little tricky because it could signal that you and your lover (to use an 80’s throwback reference) are in the midst of a Hot Summer Feud or that you’re pregnant again.  Neither option seems like a great way to spend your summer months.  And everyone knows that heat, humidity, and pregnancy bloat are a terrible combination.  I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that my relationship is stable, and I will not be having any more kids (dogs/cats/turtles).  But this song is still a strong contender, and not just for the Ruth Buzzi shout-out.  It’s upbeat and snarky and funny and bitchy.  It practically demands that you drink to get through it and through the work week.  It speaks to the disappointments that we all feel from time to time with our mundane lives.  And it gives us the freedom to blame someone else for those problems.  What’s better than a guilt trip and a whiskey?  I can’t think of anything either.

I'm Gonna Do This

Contributed by Sarah:

Two Things

Contributed by Kris:

Dear Morning Commuter,

Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Holly Beach

Contributed by Kris:

Thursday

Friends!  Hugs and Air Kisses.  Stairs of death.  Visors with our nicknames!  Freezable drink bags and coozies!  How do we get all of these groceries in the fridge?  There is NO room.  You cannot see the table.  I need a drink.  We all need a drink.  Rocking chairs!!  And a view of brown waves crashing along the shore.  This is a ghost town.  Catch up.  Refills.  Spillage down cleavage (this motif will repeat often).  Linda, get the hose!  Laughter.  International sign for Waffles.  We are learning new things.  Time to break in the Fry Daddy.  Tater tots wrapped in bacon

and kissed with jalapeno.  Delicious.  Time to walk the beach with Linda.  Dead fish.  Dead fish smell.  Seriously, like baby dolphins except not.  Porta-potties on the beach.  Genius.  Back to the porch.  iPod time.  And singing.  And Chicago popcorn.   I’ll make love to you!  I mean it.  T likes Jim and Ginger too!  Bonding.  Feeding the legendary Puddin’ Pop Hush Puppy Catherine Grace Halbert of the Alexandria Halbert Sea Pee-ers a bite of Chicago.  Probably drunk.  More laughter.  Fritters.  Put them in our face.  Decide to make banana pudding (confirms drunken state).  Passing out commences.  How does this get any better?

Friday

Nobody is sleeping late.  Wait, what?  Gulf breeze is keeping it pleasant.  It’s close to 9.  We need a drink.  Fritter and Peaches start cooking.  The fear of the chicken liver is real.  But it is overcome.  Mimosas may have a helping hand.  How many bottles of champagne?  A bunch.  It’s not even noon,  but we’ve found our drunk.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Porch Twerkin’ with the gang.  Not ready for advanced.  But we learn where our Twerk buttons are.  Porch Twerkin’ commences.  Wally Wally Wally World.  Keep your feet turnt out.  Sweet ‘Tater gets mechanical.  Found a good use for the outdoor shower, ahem.  That man on the plow is circling again.  Drunk crafting with Puddin’ and Lucy.  Oh, it’s a competition.  Paint on Grace’s elbows… and fingers… and maybe face.  She is winning.  Plow Man is in a cement truck now.  Hot Dawg and Waffles and Fritter brave the beach with the sweetest beach cart known to humankind.  It can hold up to 4 beach chairs and a cooler.  Or 4 dead children.  Some bananas need a nap.  And a snack in bed.  Check on the

beach crew.  There is burning.  And the birds are crazy.  Dead fish smell.  People can drive on this beach.  Mostly in trucks with Confederate flags.  That’s right, plural.  Back to the safety of the porch and those rocking chairs.  Linda, get the hose!  Realize we actually forgot a few groceries.  How is that possible?  Trip to the store.  Plus we need ice.  That poor ice maker has had it.  Waffles takes a cat nap on the drive through the marsh.  Is laughed at cuz it’s adorable.  Lucy and Matt make crawfish dip.  Drink it up.  Where did those kids next door come from?  We can get louder.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Ready for advanced twerkin now.  Cards Against Humanity.  Sweet ‘Tater is killing.  Laughter.  T is drunk, and funny as hell.  The Blood of Christ ends it.

  Smell Yo’ Dick.  Funky Fresh Senior Choir sings Hey Ya’ and Ridin’ Dirty.  See, we’re louder than those kids.  Find crumbs from Puddin’s lunch nap snack.  We were warned.

Saturday

Early to rise.  Everyone.  This never happens.  Wait, Lucy is still asleep.  Someone has to represent.  Crock pot tater tot casserole.  Yes please.  And we all need the recipe.  And we need to finish these bottles of champagne.  Wally Wally Wally Wally Wally World.  Feet are still turnt out.  Get low.  Drunk.  Grace is still wearing crafting paint.  Rocking in the chairs and listening to the Gulf.  People are parking trucks and RVs on the beach.  Only in Lousiana.  Booze spillage.  Don’t tell Linda.  Hot Dawg is experiencing swelling.  The sun is cruel to fair skinned folks.  Headed to beach with Guac and Hush Puppy.  Load on the sunscreen.  Roll over every 20 minutes.  Gotta finish this drink before the Jim gets too hot.  Sun is stealing my buzz.  Back to house.  Time to bbq.  Fritter is grilling hot dogs and vegetables.  We need the roughage.  Neighbors won’t let Fritter feed the pug a hot dog.  Poor, mistreated mutt.  Lucy to brussell sprouts:  ‘how does it work?’  That happened.  Laughter.  We are all vegetable experts, so we tell her how it works.  She has no love for the grilled sprout.  Eating is becoming work.  Full time job.  The sun and booze have zapped us.  Energy is

Have A Cow

flagging.  Pictionary and drinking and rocking on the porch.  We are definitely louder than the kids.  We are definitely tired.  We are definitely gonna have a lot of food leftover.  We are still laughing.

Sunday

Last day with our Chicago family.  Boo!  More porch sitting.  We have run out of champagne.  Shit’s getting real ya’ll.  Wonderful Gulf Breeze.  The Fry Daddy has a very regimented fry schedule til the girls fly out.  Grace does not have paint on her anymore.  When did that happen?  Lucy is done crafting.  That pergola will take what she gives it.  Hush Puppy finally gets hush puppies.  TV time and drinking.  Brother starts circling.  Quick trip to soak up some sun.  Drinking has become a job.  I need water.  Maybe I’ll stay sober tonight.  Back to house.  Hot Dawg’s ankles are still swollen.  Some kind of Bates Motel marathon is happening.  T and Waffles are heading out.  (Throw up International Waffle sign now.  Seriously, do it!)  So much laughter and so many stories.  UP is thrown out as possible location for next year’s trip.  Kinda like we have an exchange student program happening.  She Keep Her Body Clean.  Brother and Jackie land at the same time as our girls depart.  Guess I could have one more drink.  The bottle is almost empty.  Cut to Lucy stories on the porch.  Scooby!!  Puddin’ dating stories.  Asbergers!  Brother stories.  Tchefuncte!  Laughter.  I gotta cook shrimp creole.  Holy Hell… I’m

drunk.  This was not supposed to happen tonight.  What this creole needs is more heat… ummmm…. Nope.  You can see the table.  Dinner happens.  It is good.  Our faces are melting off.  Grace decides she wants to live, so she takes a nap.  Smart girl.  Sarah gets  nicknamed T.T. by Brother.  We are once again in peak form and rocking on the porch.  Oh no.  Peach Moonshine.  Bonds of friendship dictate that you drink from the jar.  Oh no.  That jar is empty and I’m taking pictures with Jesus.  Stairs of death… especially when you’re hammered.  Seep Seep Nigh Nigh.  My feet are turnt out.

Monday

Shut ‘er down.   Holly Beach, you have been everything I needed.