Shit Big Don Says/Does

I work on a 10 month contract. Therefore, I am off work from June 1-July 31. I travel back to Southwest Virginia for those 2 months to stay with my dad aka Big Don--which is quiet the adventure, let me tell ya.

Big Don is 75 years old and a recent widower--he looks somewhat like an older Tom Browkaw with less hair--and has been declared by many of my friends as "the nicest man in the world". Everyone who meets my dad loves him and I'm pretty sure many of my high school relationship lasted a lot longer because of conversations with my dad (and my mom's cooking)--fringe benefits of dating me in high school. Big Don is 6'4, thin, and an endless source of entertainment. Additionally, my dad is the proud "Mayor" of Slant, Virginia (this is funny because only about 16 people, 32 cows, 14 stray cats, and our dogs Twinkie Louise, Ranger, and Tonto live in our community of Slant where there is an official state sign marking your entrance (welcome to) to the town on the front and your departure (now leaving) on the back (seriously--I can't make that up!)--Slant is a suburb of Fort Blackmore which has an estimated population a little over 100 people, 114 cows, 32 goats, 18 dogs, with 12 churches of every type of Baptist known to man, and unfortunately only a few dumpster kitties since they changed waste management facilities). The title of Mayor is merely a joke from childhood because my sister and I always said we lived in "downtown Slant" unlike those who lived on the "outskirts" and at the time our neighbor and oldest resident of Slant was the "Mayor"--what?! ya got to keep yourself entertained on the farm. Since our neighbor's death a few years ago, Dad was officially voted Mayor by me, Crazy Aunt, my sister, my mom, our 3 dogs, and the one-armed/one-eyed guy that lives out the road from us--clearly, it was a landslide victory for the title.

Big Don wakes up on most mornings around 6 a.m.--not only does he wake up early, but he wakes up in the best mood ever--everyday--even before drinking coffee. I look at this as being a freak--no one can be that happy to be out of bed this early without some caffeine. He makes coffee (using at least 3-4 different spoons which drives me crazy), takes Twinkie walking down the "main drag" of town (aka our driveway up to the highway that passes by three houses--which is officially downtown Slant) to get the paper, and then nods off while reading the paper and watching the weather channel for the next 3 hours--as if the weather forecast is going to change all of sudden--maybe the partly cloudy day is going to change to mostly cloudy and ruin his plans of mowing the lawn--which seems to be on his agenda everyday.

I wake up around 9 am. I defend this by saying my body thinks it 8 am because I am on central time-therefore I am not a "sleeping all day" as Big Don says. Quick as my feet hit the floor, Big Don wants to talk and make conversation. For those that know me, I am not a morning person. I do not talk and must drink myself into a caffeine buzz in order to be social. Give me an hour. I mostly just set and listen until I can function or respond to what he is saying.

This morning the conversation ranged from "well, Crazy Aunt called this morning and she has a few weeds in her garden and this, that, and the other that needed to be done out there... now, I tell ya, I got my own weeds and my own shit to worry about.. I ain't going out there to be her weed puller and I know she was waiting for me to volunteer I could sense it"... "well, the weather channel says it may rain.. doesn't look like it.. oh, here we go.. local on the 8s.. let's see what they say now... yep, hasn't changed... I can probably mow and this, that, and the other around here this evening"..."I talked to someone on the phone this morning... do you know who that was? I can't remember"... I was asleep dad, so no..."well, Nickelsville Days (a local town celebration) is coming up.. you and Cindy (my best friend) want to go to that and walk around like girls do--ya know, looking at things, going to the toilet together, courting boys--that is your alls ol' stompin' grounds there!"... in reference to my dog Twinkie Louise who by this point has crawled up on my lap "ya know, it's like she has a little soul in there.. I swear, she is lovvvvvve herself... and she acts like she loves you because you are home.. but I know I am her favorite, but she's not gonna tell you that now is she.. not with both of us sitting here because she doesn't want to make you mad... ya know, she was alseep under that pillow this morning... bout crushed her when I set down cause I didn't see her"... "welll... I think I am going to make me a fried egg and maybe some fried bologna.. I got some on sale... I think it was about to go AWOL (Absent Without Official Leave) so they marked it down.. I figure I have got a few days to eat it before it goes totally and completely bad... if Twinkie eats it and doesn't get the runs, it's still good... want me to fry ya up some too? my bay-bay needs to eat a good braaaaakfast!"... no thanks, dad... I don't want any sloppy, slimey eggs (my favorite Jesco White quote: click here Midwesterners to be exposed to The Dancing Outlaw's take on eggs)

Big Don goes into the kitchen and I see him around the corner of the fridge doing something in the spot we feed Twinkie... Dad, what are you doing?... "well, I was just feeding Twinkie some of that taco salad you made yesterday and some bologna (as he looks down at Twinkie who is shaking her tail like she is on doggy crack) she told me she wanted some for braaaaaaaakfast and bay-bay must have a good braaaaakkfast!".. dammmnit Dad! she is going to die of heart attack if you keep feeding her like that!... "well... reckon there is anything we could do for her so she doesn't have a heart attack?... umyeah.. "well, what?"... DON'T FEED HER BOLOGNA!...

A few minutes pass. "soooooooo.... you think it's okay to feed her vienna sausage?"

I love my dad.

*After this was posted I set down on the couch and Big Don has finally turned off the weather and is watching tennis. Twinkie hops up on my lap. Ugh.. Twinkie... your breath stinks. "Smells like a dead animal, huh? I think she goes outside and eats cat shit or something"... probably... "she probably smells like Venus Williams--her breath looks like it would stink just based on her teeth."

Tears follow.

Pretty Buff, Huh?

I have gone on 3 blind dates in my life. One in high school (took me 8 years to recover) and 2 since living in the Midwest—with the last being the most epic fail.

To start, I am not a phone person--just not my forte for communication. BBM and texting, now that is a different story… My bbm got exchanged pre-date with the guy we will refer to as PB. There was at least 2 weeks of conversation so I could at least established and see a profile picture of PB. He looked normal, not bad looking, plus it had been like 3 years since I had been on a date—desperate times call for desperate measures. PB works at a bank downtown. Don’t really know what he does at this bank, but he wears a suit to work. He has a job and a car—two qualities not always found in the males in the single category.

We decide on a day to go out. He gets my address and is going to pick me up (I know, but he’s friends with a mutual friend—clearly not a psycho and I took self-defense class in undergrad). He gets my digits in case he gets lost. I put on my heels, True Religions, and am looking like a drag queen by Midwest standards (on average, girls here aren’t into the fake tans, dyed hair, and the whole Dolly Parton look that is prominent in NETN/SWVA). The estimated time of arrival is here and no PB.

My phone rings.
Me: Hello?
PB: Where the f’ do you live? I can’t find your f’ing condo. I am down some gd street. Where the f’ am I supposed to go.

I should have hung up, but I have a temper and a potty mouth—plus, I am already dressed to go to dinner and I refuse to go to Chipotle to get a burrito by myself for the second night in a row—so I let it slide, finally get him to stop dropping f’ bombs and give him better directions to my condo than google maps could.

He pulls up and I am waiting outside. Decent car, I spot he is in a suit, looks pretty good until he steps out of the car—no offense to shorter men, but if I can pick you up and carry you around my coach purse like a mini-yorkie you don’t stand a chance to get with this. There is a height requirement for this ride and you do not meet it short stack. He might have been 5’6 on a good day… and I am wearing 4 inch heels and clocking in at a good 6’1. This is worse than him cussing me out because he couldn’t find my condo. Attack of the 50 foot woman--St. Louis edition.

We stand and talk—trying to decide what we are doing. I am already over this and pissed I got set up with an umpa lumpa with a bad temper, no sense of direction, and potty mouth. He asks if he can change in my condo because he doesn’t want to wear his suit to dinner. I say sure because no way is this a danger--I could kick his ass with one arm tied behind my back.

I set down on the couch and show him into my room where he can change. I text a friend for moral support about this situation and then it happens… the moment that is repeated so lovingly by my co-workers and is in the blind date hall of shame… he walks out in jeans and a wife beater and does a Vanna White sweeping motion from his chest to waist with both hands and says “pretty buff, huh?”.

Pretty buff? Are you kidding me? He goes back into my bedroom and grabs an extra large long sleeved St. Louis Blues jersey and puts on. Don’t get me wrong, I love to see a guy in a nice jersey with a backwards fitted hat on game day… but it’s not game day and PB could wear a youth small—there was no need for him to waste the extra money on a men’s extra large. His hands do not even hang out of the bottom of the sleeves. My mind immediately starts thinking—closest place to eat so I can get this over with!

We walk next door to a pizza place. I order a salad because I know that will be quick because it doesn’t have to bake. He orders a pizza. We chat. I spend a lot of time praying for one of my student workers to call me with a work emergency. The little bastards call me every night of the week with something--why not tonight? He tells me a few lies about playing Minor League Baseball. Trust me, after growing up around and working in the MiLB, I can spot a baseball player from a mile away—I am like Haley Joel Osmond and it is my sixth sense—and my baseballdar was not going off. Additionally, I know my teams, leagues, and affiliations… you can’t lie to me about that of all things. Maybe he was the bat boy? He is the size of one. Look at those midget digit fingers. I bet he couldn't palm a nerf ball. I probably have a faster fast ball than this douche. Our food comes. He doesn’t use a napkin, but instead wipes the oil/grease from the pizza on his jeans and uses the extra foot of jersey sleeve to wipe his mouth. I almost threw up.

Finally, it’s over and I return to my condo. I immediately delete him from bbm and block all future invitations and call a friend to laugh hysterically about it. Never again will I go on a blind date. Never. Feel free to share the story—everyone else that has heard it does.