Clean your room


I talk to both my parents almost every night on the phone. My mom and I talk about lots of stuff. Books, the text conversation I had with my Nana (her mom) this morning, and my sex life. My dad and I talk about other stuff like what we did with our day, how much we slept, and what we’ve eaten that day. Tonight when I spoke to my parents I mentioned to my dad that I needed to wash my dishes again. I’m just one person living in a very small basement suite and I feel like I always have to do dishes. Or clean my bathroom. Basically, I walk behind myself and make messes as I clean.

Now my dad is texting me, asking if I did my dishes (I did) and if my room is clean. My room is sort of clean. I cleaned it yesterday. Except because I have this awesome super power of walking behind myself, making messes as I clean, my room is only “clean enough”. So dad told me to clean my room. Via text message. From over 400 kilometers away.

My first reaction?



Except…he’s my dad. And I don’t really want to see what happens if I don’t do as I’m told, so I’m off to clean my room. For the second time in two days.


An Every Day Hero


I can remember when I was a kid – I must have been four or five around this time – and the playground below our house would be just one giant mud field. The snow would just be melting and my sister and I would be transitioning from our winter snow pants into our spring splash pants. We’d exchange our winter boots for our gum boots and mom and dad would tell us to stay out of the mud down at the playground. We could play on the actual playground itself, but the giant mud puddle was forbidden.

We never listened.

We would start off splashing in the puddles, getting absolutely soaked and work our way further into the mud field until…


We would scream bloody murder for dad to come and save us because our boots would get sucked into the mud, trapping us in place and leaving us stranded in the middle of what I thought was the worlds biggest puddle. We’d be up to our shins and higher, screaming at the top of our lungs and our giant of a father would come and rescue us. Every. Single. Time.

And without fail for the past 25 years, my dad has been there. Always. Every. Single. Time.

Today he turned 50. He’s carried me through the tough stuff in life until I could learn to walk it on my own. He took me bra shopping and fearlessly buys tampons when they’re needed. He takes care of his family. He’s taught me how to have fun…even at 5am on game days or when grocery shopping is so mundane and boring that it hurts.

So here’s to the father who’s another year older

And cheers to my dad who is as strong as a boulder

Happy birthday to the man who is…

Ever there,

Losing his hair

And is always disgustingly right.

Seriously, I don’t remember my dad ever being wrong! It’s just downright freaky that someone could be right all the time for 25 years! I’ve even tried to catch him being wrong and it just never happens. Either way though, happy 50th birthday to my dad!


My Undies Are Trouble


Today I decided to do a load of laundry. There just happened to be a basket of dirty “whites” waiting for me and calling my name to be cleaned. And yes, some of my clothes were in there so that was the basket that was getting washed. However,  my undies happen to be trouble when in the wash, and today was no different. I tossed in the load of “whites” containing my gonch, my dad’s socks and undies and some of my mom’s bras into the washer and went to Barriere to grab a few groceries that mom said we needed for the night.

Naturally the washer was done by the time I got home so I let my dog, Moose, out to pee while I went to toss everything into the dryer. Or at least that was the plan until I realized there was a big clump of clothes stuck together at the bottom of the dryer that wasn’t going to come out unless I broke something. Initially I thought it was one of my mom’s bra’s that was the issue, but it wasn’t. As I slowly freed one sock after another and carefully extricated my dads socks without ripping them, I started see that everything was held together by a strip of black that had wrapped around the middle swisher thing in the washer. Again, I figured it was one of my mom’s bra’s being the douche canoe and holding up the laundry process.

And again I was wrong. I’m a super duper knot remover and take-er-apart-er. So after a few minuets of untangling socks, boxer-briefs, bras and undies I started to notice the black material holding together everything was cotton and elastic. Soon my Little Miss Trouble undies were free and I was glad to see they weren’t the culprit as I started to suspect. I mean, what other pair of undies would wreak such havoc with a load a laundry other than my Little Miss Trouble gonch?

Finally! Everything was set free except for three of my dad’s socks and one of my mom’s bra and I could see what had caused all of the trouble. See what I saw, I knew the trouble maker of that load of laundry was no longer salvageable so I ripped the material a part to free my mom’s bra and dad’s socks to come up with a very mangle and now torn up black thong.

It was one of my favorites too.

Sadly I know this is what happens when you try to cause too much trouble: Someone will eventually rip you a new one and you’ll be left out to dry where ever you happened to be tossed.

On another note: I’m sure my mom will yell at me later because she found a torn up thong laying somewhere random in our basement.

Weird Good-Byes


Ever since I was a child my mom has tried to lead me down a path of positivity and light. For the most part she has succeeded, for the rest of it, well…At least it’s funny and we have fun. My latest mantra is life is “When my mom judges me for what I do, then you can have a turn too.” I like it because it rhymes. I also like it because my mom mostly just laughs at my shenanigans. She is the first person to accept me for exactly who I am and the last one to ever stop supporting me. If my mom is mad at me, then I know I’m in trouble. With that said, over the years we’ve come up with a ritual for whenever I’m being left anywhere unsupervised.

I say: Okay, lady! Love you!

And then she says: Love you too, baby. Be safe, no kissing, no drugs, no drinking and no ritualistic killing of animals.

Or at least that’s what she used to say to me when I was a teen. Nowadays is different. Mom knows I have sex, she knows that I drink and…ok, these days my momma just says what she just texted me as I’m getting ready to head to town to visit a friend:

Parental Units-Momma: k b safe. no ritualistic killings…U know the drill

So these days I’m simply forbidden ritualistic killings and just have to be safe. I’m pretty sure it’ll be a scary day when that gets added to my list of things that I’m allowed to do like kissing, drinking and drugs. Though I guess it might be better than how my dad and I say good-bye…

I say: Kay. Love you, daddy. See you later!

And then he says: Love you too. Be safe.

So I say: I’m always safe.

And he replies: Except that one time.

Then I agree: Except that one time.

After all these things are done and said, I run out the door with my dads car keys and drive off into the horizon to obey my parents rules. I stay say safe (except that one time I crashed my car in 2005 that I haven’t lived down yet), I don’t ritualistically kill anything and I try to be home at reasonable hours. Because that’s what good kids do.

Growing Up Me


The other weekend I got a ride home with a friend for a quick weekend home with my dad. I needed it. On the trip home I was talking about my childhood and it really got me to thinking about how I was raised. Now, let me tell you, I had one of the best possible upbringings that any child could have. I had really easy going parents who weren’t overly strict, but at the same time really established a decent set of boundaries with my sister and I. Not only that but without really doing anything serious, they helped us learn the difference between right and wrong. Of course there were other people in our lives who helped us to grow, but the bulk of it was my parents and…I really don’t remember the presence of discipline in my life. Plus my parents did a great job at either allowing me my privacy or giving me a great illusion of privacy.

Oh wait! I lied. I remember two times in my entire life where my dad had to discipline me, specifically. The first time was when I spat in a guys face. Yes, I spat in someone’s face, but that was after he’d hocked up a huge boogie in my face. Obviously an eye for an eye wouldn’t work in this case…so dad grounded indefinitely. I went to my room, read a book, listened to music, regretted my actions and then the next day all was forgotten and I went outside to play with my sister and our friends. This was the only time that I’d ever gotten grounded and it really struck home for me: Dad was willing to slam down the hammer and actually ground me! Believe it or not, that lesson stuck with me until I was about 17. The other time that dad had to bring on the discipline was a couple years later when I was 14 and got a set of C’s. You see, I was allowed to get C’s, but not in Math, English and Science all at once. This time I lost my CD player, my CD’s and wasn’t allowed to watch TV until I fixed my grades. So what did I do? I read. I love and have always loved to read, so after dad dropped that hammer, I hung out in my room and read. Again, it didn’t matter that the punishment wasn’t the greatest of punishments, it was the fact that I was getting punished that put me back in line. I knew I did wrong and I tried not to do make that particular mistake. In fact the next time that I got a C was three years later in Math 11. I tanked trigonometry.

Outside of those particular incidences…I didn’t have a lot of rules that I had to live by. Here are come of the bigger rules my parents generally reminded my sister and I of:


  • Every time we went anywhere alone would tell us “No drinking, no drugs, no boys and no ritualistic killing of animals.” Then she would normally yell at us “MAKE GOOD CHOICES!”
  • Mom had the classic rule of “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” I would later amend that by saying “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all…unless you can make it funny.” Mom laughed at that one, so it became the official rules.
  • There was also a limit on the amount of swearing I could do around my mom – My sister couldn’t curse as much as I could and there were certain words that were forbidden in our world.


  • If you hit them and they get back up, you didn’t hit them hard enough – As bad as this rule sounds, it was a rule I lived by through most of my childhood. Normally the only time I really hit a girl playing sports was if she was playing dirty and picking on my teammates, or if she was really irritating me. In which case, yeah, I played dirty back and it rarely turned out well for the other girl.
  • Dad also made up the rule one day that if he ever caught me smoking, drinking or getting jiggy with it that there would be consequences – If I got caught smoking, he’d make me smoke a whole pack or baggie of whatever I got caught smoking. If I got caught drinking I’d have to drink an entire 40 of the cheapest tequila Dad could find. If I got caught getting jiggy with it or doing drugs, I’d have to move in with my Nana…ya know, he’d kick me out of the house for those offenses.
  • I also had to look out for my younger sister no matter what we were doing. I remember one time that she got hurt and I got into trouble for it because I should have been looking out for her.

Besides all of that, my parents were perfectly ok with the fact that I tended to moon just about anyone and everyone, cursed a little too much and tended to laugh at horrible things that I shouldn’t laugh at.

I’m not going to lie: I sometimes didn’t take my dad seriously. I never actually called him on his BS because I’d tried that in my younger years and it never turned out in my favor. So I barely drank until I left for university and when I did, I tried to be darn sneaky about it. I never wanted to test my dad, his rules and especially his punishments.

I think most of my growing up years were a fine balance of my sister and I picking our battles with our parents and vice versa. Sure, I mooned a lot of people and my mom as a result had to see more of my ass and more of the return moons than any mother should have had to deal with, but I didn’t dress like a prostit-tot or act like a raging hormonal skank. I may not have acted like a respectable person at times, but I think it was a win in my parents favor that I at least looked like a disease free human being that wouldn’t start the next plague.

Instead my sister and I are most likely to incite a riot of some sort just for shits and giggles…but that’s because we’re adults now and think as long as we make it funny, it’s ok.

See? We were raised with an excellent sense of morals!

Day 3.7 – March Madness Parenting Tip


Through the bulk of my life my dad has worked some pretty crazy hours. Most times he was gone before I woke up for the day and wouldn’t get back until around dinner time…at which point we’d eat and soon after dad would go to bed. Other times he would be working these freaky arsed graveyard shift hours where he would be gone before I got home from school and would be asleep by the time I woke up for the day. Though I remember a lot of mornings waking up to my dad covering me up in a blanket that he’d warmed up in a dryer and getting to say a quick “hi” and “I love you” before he went to work.  Now that I’m a little bit older and looking back, I realize that I didn’t get to spend the most amount of time with my dad, but the time that I did spend with him was amazing.

One of the best compliments that I’ve ever gotten as a basketball player was when one coach told me that I “played like I was 6’6”. For the record I’m only all of five feet and nine inches tall. When I was 17 and being told that I played tall, I thought it was the best thing ever! As you can tell, I loved the comment so much that it’s stuck with me.

Now what does my narcissistic memory have to do with the time I spent with my dad, you ask?

Well, everything!

You see, my dad is 6’3 and is a big guy. He played basketball growing up and was a post player just like I play down in the post. My dad didn’t have sons, so as his semi-tall daughter, it was up to me to be just like my dad. I didn’t think like that when I was kid, my only thought was that I wanted to play just like my dad did in his hay day. I wanted so much to be just like my dad that I even wore his basketball number, 15, all through high school. So not only did he teach me how to play hard as a basketball player, but he also taught me how to play big. I’m competitive so whenever my dad and I would play one-on-one or he would teach me how do something, I wanted to do it better, bigger and I wanted to win. And when you get used to getting beat up, knocked around, and running into a solid wall of dad who is built like mine playing against anyone else isn’t as bad.

During all of that time, my dad and I were having fun.

The only move I never figured out to dunk with authority. Or how to dunk at all!

However, even though my dad come to a lot of my games and always made time to practice with me (Not just for basketball but for softball too!), he still worked a lot. He liked to relax and rest after a hard day’s work and I never blamed him for resting when I wanted to do something else. In fact, my dad was, and still is, so awesome…he made watching TV into a great father/daughter activity. I can remember in high school when March Madness (the be all and end all of basketball tournaments – NCAA college finals!) would roll around and I’d get the rare night that it would be just me and dad watching the game. It was really rare and I remember this particular event happening only a handful of times where I would imitate my favorite post moves as we watched the game. Dad would be laying on his couch and I’d have my basketball in my hands and I’d see a particular move that I loved and I’d just have to try it then and there. So I’d get up and try it. Dad would correct me and I’d keep working on it until I had the general idea of the move learned and in my head. I would spend almost the entire game imitating these giants. I’d try to move just like they did, shoot like they did and get position like they did until I was doing my 5’9 version of what they were doing hundreds of miles away.

Then I’d take it into the gym the next day and practice it until it was perfected. After that I’d show it off to my dad at the first chance I got and he’d correct it again, and again…and again until I had it totally correct. I may not be a giant like the post players in the NCAA are, but at least I could do their moves! For me, this was fun. I loved it. Learning to play down in the post and learning to play basketball in general was one of those special times where I had 100% of my father’s attention. I learned, we had fun and I also wound up with some of my best childhood memories.

I mean who could forget a 6’3 holding a basketball as high in the air as he could while he used his other hand to hold onto his teenage daughters head and singing “Da na na na! Can’t touch this!” ?

My point to this whole entry is that even though my dad worked a lot and couldn’t spend endless hours doting on me (because you know…I also have a younger sister who I had to share the doting with), the time that I got to spend with him was fun, memorable and it helped me to become who I am today.

For those of you who know me, you know that I am definitely my fathers daughter. And for those of you who don’t me, you’ll have to believe me when I say that I am my father’s daughter. I’m proud to say that because my dad made almost every moment matter whether it was teaching me how to play basketball, watching TV or…showing off his impression MC Hammer.

Day 5.6 – I always forget something


I moved away from home the August after I finished high school. I was 18, I’d packed and loaded up my Uncle’s truck that we were borrowing with all of my stuff. I had everything that I could possibly need living away from home. Teddy bears, blankets, my blankie that I needed to sleep at night and pretty much everything out of my bedroom except for my bed and bedroom door. With all of that in the truck, I was ready to move away from home and start my journey as a pseudo-adult who lived on her own.I kissed my dad goodbye and me, my mom and my sister were on our way.

Or at least we were until we stopped in town to get money out of the bank and my dad drop up behind us.

He approached the truck and leaned in the window and asked if I had everything.

I replied that yes, I did.

Then he asked what I was going to wear.

I replied clothes and turned around to look in the back of the truck and noticed that the suitcase and bags that I’d packed with my clothes weren’t there. I’d forgotten to pack my clothes! All of them. As in, I was on my way to university that was 400km away from my home without any clothes except for what I had on my back. No shirts, no pants, no underwear, no socks. And I needed my socks!

So we turned around, drove back home, picked up my clothes that were packed and waiting for me and we were off again.

Ever since then I seem to have a habit of always forgetting something. No matter how many times I come back to the west coast of BC I have managed to forget to something, be it little, barely noticeable or integral to my existence, I forget one or two or many things. The point is, something always gets left behind. These things include: my dorm room keys, make-up, rugby boots, birth control, a favorite shirt, cell phone charger, glasses, basketball shoes, jackets, pants, my favorite teddy bear, Zoodle, hair ties, head bands, mittens and my wallet.

My mom drove me back to school today and after unpacking and making a right mess of my hobo hole, I came to realize that I’d forgotten two of the things that I really need and want in my life. The first was my Cartman (from South Park) pillow that is soft and covered with my drool so it’s perfect for sleeping on. The second was my iPod touch which has all of my music and is needed so that I don’t kill the people around me when I’m stuck in transit and need something to keep me amused while I wait for my bus or get stuck sitting next to another stinky person.

Sadly when my dad finds out he’s going to call me and tell me that he asked if I had my iPod. Which I thought I had. I was darn certain that it was in my little backpack. Apparently it wasn’t so dad gets to gloat because I forgot something even though he took the time go go everything that I could possibly have forgotten.

As I was heading down the steps to load up the car he asked me if I had my birth control, my books, my chargers, my phone, my iPod, my clothes and everything else that I usually forget to pack. Dad and I do this every single time as I head out the door to leave home once again and every single time I wind up getting a phone call from dad asking me to name what I forgot and then he teases me for forgetting whatever it is that I’ve forgotten.

Someday, I’ll remember everything…but today was not that day.