My father has been the fodder for many a amusing blog post. But, he loves it. I truly believe that is where my exhobitionist streak came from. If I have one, that is. If I don't have one, I am claiming one. RIGHT NOW.

He is, with my sisters, my biggest blog fan. He loves reading it and later discussing it with me. For the tricky emotional parts he doesn't understand, he calls his wife who then interprets. Really, we have this system down rather nicely now.

Yesterday he sent me this an email:

I love reading your blog. I love the screen name porkchop, says a lot about your self confidence.

He also requested that I post something regarding the vaccume cleaner saga. Up to this point, since I knew he frequented my blog, I have not written anything. But, as usual, he finds the ludicriousness of the situation SO compelling, (or is it my winsome charm?) that he cannot help but laugh.

For two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS, the vaccume cleaners have been clattering around in my vehicle like neglected children. I have considered naming them and giving them cute bonnots, but decided that could be interpreted as my "clock ticking" or other such nonsense.

For two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS, our floor has not been vaccumed. I was personally lobbying to have The Brothers pick up all the dirt off the floor. Much more productive than playing Xbox for oh, say, FOURTY-EIGHT HOURS.

But I digress.

I was supposed to drop these nameless children/vaccume cleaners off at the repair shop. Which I could not find. Which I am convinced is a drug front. Which happens to be three blocks from where I work.

Every day, I would come home from work and Dad would ask me a vaccume cleaner related question. Found the place yet? Dropped them off yet? WHEN ARE THE DAMNED FLOORS GOING TO BE CLEANED? With promises of "soon", "only a matter of time" and "HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW" he was appeased. But I avoided the subject at all costs because I was forgetting, procrastinating and generally not making my poor vaccume cleaner children a priority in my life.

Two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS later. I have found the place. Yup. Situated a few blocks from where I work. It DOES look like a drug front. AND is never open.



Dad is very fearful for what kind of children I will produce.