In my hallway stands a hutch.
One of those catchalls with drawers and shelves designed to display plates and nick nacks and the like.
Something that grandma would display her precious things and perhaps photos of the grandkids.
It stands, completely out of place amongst furniture of dark angular woods, with its decorative swirls and dust magnet crevices.
A hutch made with love by my daddy for my birthday. Out of blood, sweat, lots of cursing and love.
Knotty pine. Lacquered and now aging yellow.
It stands in my hall, totally out of place.
But every time I walk down that hall, to and from my room, I smile a bittersweet smile.
You see, when that hutch was created we lived hundreds of miles away, with his first grandchild. His brain hiding a tumour the size of a grapefruit, diminishing his ability to see. To think. To remember what he was doing. Whether he had eaten. Destroying his pituitary gland and his body’s ability to regulate itself.
Yet he was determined to create this for me.
You can see the minor errors. Errors that I know would have been preceded by even bigger errors that he would have discovered and cursed himself.
Too fucking proud and stubborn to go to the doctor.
Too fucking scared to have his fears confirmed.
Days after he presented this hutch, and the bedside tables that I still own – too small and the wrong colour with sticking drawers – he was in surgery to have that brain tumour removed.
And again 3 times over. Seems that bastard enjoyed taking residence in my Daddy’s head.
So that hutch represents my fathers love and devotion to me. In my minds eye I can see him toiling.
And that hutch makes me feel loved.
And holds all mah shit.
February. First of all , who was the fucker that named that month. Cause all the r’s and vowels and shit mess with my head. I know how to spell it, but ALWAYS type the bastard wrong. Stoopid head month naming bastards…
The month after January (ha! Take that month naming bastard) was a very busy month for my blog. And Google searches – hello freakshows! – still hit posts from that month every damn day.
Discussing the Diva Cup at a drunken 1 year olds birthday,
Rule 34 of the internet and finding out another use for my beloved Clinker (including a pic of me with curly hair, never seen before in the wild),
Douche bags and my mothers edumaction in the aisles at Safeway,
and hiring a personal assistant, sans clothing.
Then exciting posts where I:
Discover that the rocking corner is a mighty fine place to drink,
Offend all my Christian readers with a simple flick of a switch,
and offend another blogger unintentionally in a fit of reflection and hurt (man, reading back on that one still smarts, the post and the comments),
Contemplate whether my husband is fattening me up to ensure fidelity,
Give up shit for Lent and find out that I am not related by religion to Tom Cruise,
feel extremely old while Pumping Up the Jam,
bought new shoes, one of many posts about new shoes,
and help Boo with his homework. For the first and last time.
PHEW. What a month. Now click on every link, biatches. Cause all that linking took ten times as long as the damn post.
As a side note: My daddy is fine now. Well, he is clinically blind and has to take some serious medications for the rest of his life, and has a fucking AWESOME scar on his head that totally makes him look like a superhero or Indiana Jones or something. Cause my daddy fucking rocks. He could kick all your daddies arses and Chuck Norris’ at the same damn time.