Carrot Sticks and An Apology

Ok, first, I wanted to apologize to He Who Aint for my birthday story. For those of you who don't know, He Who Aint is my father. Both my parents comment and read my blog. Hootie is my mother, which, coincidentally enough, is the greatest name ever, because it is short for Hootie McBoob.

I want to apologize to He Who Aint because that post was not supposed to sound insulting, in any way shape or form. I had been thinking for the last week or so how to incorporate a story about him into this blog, and specifically my birthday post. I was trying to find a way to have him be the main character that the readers empathise with.

For those of you who do not know, or did not take an astronomically high amount of literature classes in high school like I did, every story has a protagonist that the readers are supposed to empathize with. He was supposed to be that main character. It's wasn't supposed to be a "Look what my dad did wrong" post, but more of a comedy of errors post, all while still being funny. Because that's the main point of this blog - to be funny. I genuinely hope he forgives me for this, because in retrospect, I could tell where he was coming from where he would think it was insulting. I never meant to say that he was a bad father - I actually meant quite the contrary. My whole family is exceedingly proud of him for his sacrifices and accomplishments.

And to be honest, my birth story is one of my favorite stories because I always thought it was funny, and more than that, it incorpoates my favorite people, all while we learn a lesson: things go haywire but in the end it all works out and you can laugh about it. Now I kind of realize I am the only one laughing. So once again, I am sorry dad.

So now, a story about my parents that is funny (and I ran this by a complete stranger and she laughed, so here's hoping it IS funny.)

My parents never gave us sweets as a children. My brother and my desserts usually consisted of raises. The only exception to this rule would be when my dad would bring home those Popsicles that were in those plastic tubes (I cannot for the life of me remember what the heck they were called.)

My parents called the Ice Cream truck the Music Truck. Whenever the Music Truck would come down the street, they told us to come inside and they would give us carrot sticks, and then we could dance on the front lawn to the music truck while we ate our carrot sticks.

One day, one of my parents friends was over and noticed what was going on, and called my parents sick bastards. He then gave us money and told us that they sold ICE CREAM out the side of the truck, and that it was, in fact, called an Ice Cream truck.

But even to this day, I still call it the Music Truck, because some old habits are hard to break. This little fact has caused great amusement for my friends and co-workers over the years.