Well Miss Krissy, it’s a good thing that you have “so muchroom for a mushroom” because I’ll be mailing you a hand-painted, fifteen pound concrete phallus later today. Just for good measure, I had everyone (Mom, Dad, Rocco, Thom, and Lucy) give the cap a little lick before I nestled Flournoy atop his bed of packing peanuts and styrofoam. Please email me your mailing address so Flournoy can enjoy spring in his new home. I expect pictures of him nestled betwixt some ball-like vegetation, damnit.
(Erin, you should know that Dad thought you should have won for your inspired comment, despite the random drawing selection process. If I had a consolation ‘shroom, it would be yours.)
Now here’s a little insight into my morning. Imagine trying to follow this conversation with a wicked case of allergies, a leaking uterus, and totally devoid of caffeine:
Me: How about we just call these chocolate chip cookies breakfast?
Dad: You know something? Life, originality, creativity…all happen at edges and boundaries. Look at the lake, life is where it interfaces, where it edges, along the surface. Look at chaos, self organizing systems.
Rocco: Look at Einsten.
Mom: I definitely get stupider with age.
Dad: Look at any system, you analyze it at the edges because that’s where the axis crosses. If you’re out in the middle of the field, you have no frame of reference.
Me: So is that a yes on the cookies?
Seriously? These are the profound insights that Dad just whips out in the middle of the most mundane conversation imaginable. This from the man that utilized x and y variables when I asked for help with my third grade math homework, the man that built our first home computer from a kit, the man that builds operating systems in German just for a little extra challenge.
You can’t spring that kind of insight on a gal before 10am! Now BOTH my brain and uterus are oozing. Good thing I’m not writing on weekends as this noggin is plum out of steam.
Since Mom and I are both feeling a bit “stupider” today (and I suspect some of you riot grrls might also be worn out from a long week), I offer you this little musical gem from the man that made my mom a supporter of interracial marriage. I can’t count the number of times I heard her sigh, “He makes my ovaries ache,” when we’d listen to his records.