Speaking of boyz....

Otherworldly. Unimaginable.

$500????????

Boyz II Men

Vanilla Ice and Tiffany came to the Beau, and tickets for that were $10. I thought THAT was steep. $500 for Boyz II Men? Wow. Although, come to think of it, "On Bended Knee" was high art.

Ugh

Is there anything more annoying than a place calling itself "JavaWerks?"

I think not. I cannot stand this. Also, Krispy Kreme. Why God Why??? Just call yourself Crispy Cream. There is no harm in it. Really. People would still come to you. You make delicious donuts.

So, JavaWerks already had one strike against them because of that stupid "e." But then they charged me 50 extra cents to make my latte iced instead of hot. Um, I get that the ice costs a little bit of money, but what about the money you are saving by not using as much milk to fill my cup. Couldn't we call it even? The 3rd strike was when the barista didn't put the lid on all the way, thus causing me to spill my pink raspberry latte all down my white shirt.

Sweet. All of this for $6.00. (What recession?)

But it tasted awesome, and the caffeine got me safely from Hattiesburg to Jackson. I will probably go back. It beat Starbucks.

Correction

My mom thought I should edit my Father's Day post because, really, my dad wears cut-off sweats far more often than cut-off jeans.

Growing up

Gus does funny stuff. Well, it's funny to me and Adam. It might be boring to you. So I put him down to go crawling, which he does. And it seems I am always finding him now after a few minutes in some random spot, just lying on his back, babbling to himself. Happy as can be. It makes me laugh. I don't know if he's just lazy and gets tired of crawling, or if he just prefers the vantage point of being on his back. Anyway, I love to hear him talking. Can't wait for those first words!

Who's Your Daddy?

Mine is Joe Wolfe. It would be impossible to sum him up in a blog post, so I won't try. I've never heard anyone else talk about his or her father and thought, "Hey, that sounds like my dad!" If you've met him, you know what I mean. It's easy and tempting to paint my dad as a caricature, and I have done this and still do it a lot. All my friends love to hear stories about my dad. My rogue, towboat captain dad, lover of figs and pecans, freestyle hunter, obsessive music downloader, wearer of jean cut-off shorts, advocate of concealed weapons, chewer of ABC gum, passionate teeth-brusher, selective law-abider who is always up for arm-wrestling and will probably beat you no matter how much younger you are than him.

But he's not a caricature. He's human, and he's a great father. He isn't great just because he came to every dance recital and every choir concert without complaining, when those were clearly not his things. He's great because he would pick me up and carry me to bed when I was little, even when he must have known that I had only pretended to fall asleep in front of the tv just so he would pick me up and carry me to bed. He's great because when I would cry the night before he had to leave to go back on the boat for a few weeks, he would say, "Now don't you cry or you're gonna make me cry too." (Honestly, you probably can't picture him saying this, but I can.) He's great because he never once thought it was worth much to try to keep up with the Joneses (I don't either, because of him). He's great because even though his formal education ended with a GED, I am positive he's smarter than me and my brothers combined, with our 6 college degrees. He's great because he's unwavering about being Joe Wolfe. He's incapable of being anything but Joe Wolfe.

He's great because he fathered my brothers, one of which has turned into a really great father himself, and the other whom I have no doubt will be a truly wonderful father one day.

I always think, on this day, of my many good friends who lost their fathers at young ages. (Seriously, it's really bizarre how many friends I have whose fathers have passed.) I celebrate these men, even though I never got a chance to meet them. And I mourn with my friends who have recently lost their fathers and who undoubtedly had a very tough day today.

I love my daddy and I'm so lucky to have him!

The Healer

On my short drive home from work this morning, less than 2 hours after I wheeled a young patient of mine down to the morgue, I nearly squashed a few squirrels in the road with my front tires. I was distracted, I guess, by the smell of death that seemed to be permanently seared into my nostrils. But no, it wasn't permanent. When I peered over Gus's crib rail and received that big gummy morning grin of his, I forgot about cold morgues. Then later, after I had bathed away all the hospital grime and sadness, I buried my nose in his sweet chubby folds and just inhaled. Deeply.

7 months

He was still on the inside longer than he's been on the outside. That is comforting to me. 7 months is a flash. Every day is a flash. Every second. It's very hard remembering my pre-Gus existence. Good thing I don't have any need or desire to. I don't deserve all these blessings, but I'm sure thankful.

Gus and I dig this.