Nothing says I Love You more than a Goose with an identity crisis and a rabid Joey.



The dingo ain't eatin' THIS baby...



Today is my dad's birthday.

He is 67 years old.

Well, 67 according to what my mom told me this morning when I asked because, honestly, I had no idea how old he was. When someone mentions my dad I picture him walking around the back yard in flip flops and a pair of shorts, bending over to pick up a stick and then using that same stick to point up into the apple trees and bitch about the tent worms.

Yes, tent worms.

A huge nest of worms stuck together in a silk-like web that resembles a hornet's nest that my dad would systematically burn down with homemade torches. Nest after nest. Tree after tree.

And if you ever saw thousands of worms dropping from the sky after being burned to death by some angry Australian then you probably have the same aversion to apple trees that I do. Hey, let's go pick apples in a huge orchard where we could potentially getting buried alive by falling worms! I think I'll pass.

In my mind, my dad is still the dad I had when I was six, watching those worms drop from the sky.

In my mind, my dad still looks like he did when he was 36.

And then I think, really? My dad was once only 36 years old? That is just so weird!

I then I catch a glimpse of his 67 year old self. When he walks too slow. Or can't read the words in the small print. Or how confused he is by computers and cell phones.

And I think, how did my dad get this old? When did this happen? I want him to slow down. I haven't given him enough grief yet.

I was told today that I got my sense of humor from my dad. And for that I'm incredibly grateful because he certainly didn't give me his quick to tan skin or his ability to draw and paint and I kind of feel like he owes me a good trait, you know?

Anyway, to show my love to my daddy today (and to prove I've gotten over the fact that he bought my sister her own dog, but not me; and that when he sold the horse he promised to buy her a stereo, but not me; and that he consistently mows her lawn, but not mine) I asked the office scape-goose to honor my father's Australian heritage and dress up like a kangaroo. Which she did. So, please don't think those are bunny ears because Roos get insulted when you mistake them for big, furry rats. Also, I'm not sure why the baby Joey looks like a crazed mental patient, but maybe rabid kangaroo babies are more common than not.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Also known as: Bill, Billy, Bunker, Wild Bill, Bunker Bill, Roo, Aussie, Oz, and whatever other moniker is floating out there. (He's a very social guy.) 

PS: I've had nicknames, too... Birdshit, Bird Turd and BJ Jo Go Slow. I'm totally thinking I got screwed in the nickname category.