DOD

Dear Old Dad (or DOD, as my sister and I often called him) would've been 64 today. He died three days before his 62nd birthday. This was his eulogy.

Darrell Hutson was born in his great-grandparents’ house in Salem, Arkansas on August 11^th, 1950. He grew up in Salem, graduated high school, served in Viet Nam, worked, and had a family. He was a humble guy with modest taste, and he would appreciate that people remembered him simply, fondly, and sincerely, rather than with fanfare and flourish.

Darrell never met a stranger. He could drink coffee all day. He could take a nap anywhere. He loved barbecue and fried pies. He was an encyclopedia of advice when it came to tomato-growing success. He was the easiest guy in the world to buy a gift for (summer sausage and crackers). He loved feeding and photographing all the animals that came around his house. He was always humming a tune. He had a way with words (when asked by doctors to describe what he felt when he had kidney stones, he replied, “It felt like I was a-havin’ pups”). And he kept his sense of humor until the end (even though he had lost all his hair to radiation treatments, he told a nurse’s aide who touched his head, “Don’t mess up my hair”).

To Darrell’s friends and colleagues, he was a tireless teller of stories and drinker of coffee. He had an anecdote for most every situation and his sense of humor was his calling card. When he drove his daughters all over four counties showing them the projects that he was so proud to work on and telling them about the people he was so happy to work with, it was obvious that Darrell did not draw a hard line between work and fun—he really enjoyed the work he did and the people he worked for and with. And toward the end of Darrell’s illness, it was the faces of his two dearest friend-colleagues, Mark and JW, that cheered him up more than anything else.

When Darrell’s granddaughter was born, Dad became Pa, and Pa’s family quickly learned that he had a gift for calming a fussy baby. Pa would prop a crying baby Amelia up on his shoulder, walk around with her in the yard, and whisper to her about whatever they encountered, whether it was cattle or flowers or birds. By the time their walk was over, she was calm and sleepy, and the two of them would indulge in a nap. Pa collected doll houses and pink dresses instead of NASCAR memorabilia and fishing poles. Pa watched Disney movies instead of Westerns. And even when his sickness robbed him of his ability to taste food, Pa happily ate pink-and-purple birthday cupcakes that Amelia baked and decorated. 

It would be unfair to remember Darrell without remembering his love for his dog Sonic. Wherever Darrell went, Sonic went. Whatever Darrell ate, Sonic ate. And whatever Darrell felt, Sonic felt. Toward the end of Darrell’s illness, he was too weak to lift Sonic’s hind end into the vehicle, but he made sure to show his girls how to do it so that Sonic was a part of every visit. When Darrell became bedridden, Sonic showed total loyalty: he would not leave Darrell’s side. He slept as close to the bed as possible and nudged Darrell’s hand with his head. Sonic loved Darrell to the very end. They were best friends.

Darrell wasn’t one to use the word “pray”; he called it “talking to God.” When he was first diagnosed with his illness, he welcomed a chaplain to join him in talking to God, and he reaffirmed his faith. When his sister-in-law Sue spoke to him about his faith, he assured her that he and God had been talking. And when his time was very, very short, his family took comfort in his promise that he had been talking to God and was ready to again be with his parents and brother.

Last year, when Darrell, his girls, his granddaughter, and his friends and family thought that he had many, many birthdays left, his daughters wanted to surprise him with a family get-together and a birthday picnic at the river. Coordinating a surprise birthday party for some people may be difficult, but it wasn’t for Darrell: Melissa simply invited him to a picnic at the river, and Darrell replied happily, “I ain’t been on a picnic all year.” He ate fried chicken and sat in a lawn chair with his feet in the water while he watched his family play in the water with the relaxed delight of a man who had old age ahead of him to enjoy.

Darrell Hutson died on August 8^th, 2012, just three days shy of his 62^nd birthday. He leaves behind many loving friends, colleagues, and family members. In many ways, Darrell will be remembered a bit differently from person to person. To the folks at the VA, the DMV, and the Social Security office, he was John. To his friends and family, he was Darrell. To his daughters, he was Dad. To his granddaughter, he was Pa. But to everyone he was a lover of stories—stories to hear, stories to tell, and stories to file away for later. And today, this lover and teller of stories is gone…and the world is a little quieter.

Another Bird. Again.

Ah, my sweet little goldfinches, hummingbirds, and parakeets,

Isn't nature just the best thing? Especially when enjoyed indoors. Flowers from the garden, a doggy curled up on your lap...really makes you feel alive, doesn't it?

Speaking of feeling alive, the sound of a bird scratching and pecking itself into a featherless, shitting mess inside your walls first thing in the morning will also make you feel alive. At least that's how it made your dear ol' Sweet Tea feel when it woke me up this morning.

You'll recall that this isn't the first time a bird has made its way into Sweet Tea's house (affectionately known to the fam as Auntie's B&B). To be honest, it's not even the second. By the second time it happened, I was able to react with the tiger-like reflexes of a jungle cat and release the bird back into the wild without a shit-stain anywhere. No, tender bleaders, this is the third time a bird has taken sweet refuge in Auntie's B&B. The other two times, though, the birds came through a fireplace, so they were out in the open and just needed an open window.

This time, a bird was clearly trapped in the wall. You could make out the batting of wings. It was in the laundry area, behind the dryer.

We discussed what to do. We could call Critter Control or we could try to get it out ourselves.

Fortunately, managing Lucille was not an issue. When it comes to birds in the park or birds in the backyard, she's the toughest dog you ever saw, barking her furry little ass off, letting the birds know what's what. But--just like the first time a bird came through the fireplace--Lucy was happy to stand by and let the humans of her pack handle this:

"Y'all can handle this one. My will get the next one."

David hacked into the wall behind the dryer and peeked into the hole with a flashlight. He then said the most frightening words I've ever heard him say: "It may be a bat." SHIT.

Then we got a genius idea. He cut another hole and I got a bag. David taped the bag over the hole with painter's tape and said, like a cop on a stakeout, "Now we wait." Prepare yourselves for the most glamorous thing you'll see today:

Not trying to intimidate anyone with the glamour here. This really is the gorgeousness of my life.

So we waited. And then we heard a rustling. And then David started to get close to the bag. And then I held Lucy to keep her from running or making any noise. And then it started flapping its wings. And then...I'm not saying "like a little girl" or anything, but then...David shouted, "@$%*! It's a bird!"

Here's the bird as it flew up to the window. David's coming at it with the bag--an excellent advertisement for reduce, reuse, recycle if I've ever seen one. I'm working on my documentary.

Every time David would manage to get the bag over the bird it would slip out.

I decided to get involved. I put a glove over one hand and a Walgreens bag over the other. (I know, the glitz in this story just keeps getting better and better. Sorry, kids, but some of us really are living the life.) The bird was pretty worn out, so it let me pick it up and put it in the bag.

David closed up the top of the bag and we all headed downstairs to release it. By now, of course, Lucy was barking her little ass off like a ferocious beast, thirsty for blood.

Once free, though, the bird flew right out of the bag and up into a tree:

If you're wondering whether the bird was indeed scared shitless, wonder no more:

If you've never spent your Sunday morning photographing bird shit inside a shopping bag, you haven't really lived, folks.

Also, if you're wondering how the bird got in the house in the first place, wonder no more:

You can see in the fourth picture how the houses in this neighborhood have flat roofs. I took this picture on the third floor, hanging over the edge. It's actually upside down. You're welcome.

Further, if you're wondering what that opening should look like, wonder no more:

This one is on the opposite side of the house.

And finally, if you're wondering how David's doing after all this, you can ask him yourself. You'll find him at the Lowe's, in the screen aisle.

Until next time, kids!

The Meemaw Award

Tender flowerbuds,

Ol' Sweet Tea went to an estate sale today and scored big. Some sweet meemaw drove her Caprice Classic to the Early Bird Special in the sky, and Sweet Tea was there to pick up the pieces.

Picture it: a St. Louis suburb. A 1950s ranch-style house in a quiet, upper-middle-class neighborhood. Tall trees, nice folks. Probably a superhip place about 50 years ago.

This hot meemaw had a 1950s, blonde, baby grand piano:

Exactly one metric shit-ton of crazy-ass lamps (this is just a taste):

A television set, perfect for watching "Howdy Doody":

And so, so much more. But ol' Sweet Tea digresses.

Although I brought home a boxful of Meemaw's treasures, I thought you'd like to know that I found the thing I've been looking for my whole life. The thing I didn't even know my life was missing. The thing that--I dare say--I may not have been able to live another day without. Nick of time, kids, nick of time.

I found...wait for it...the Meemaw Award.

You think you'd sell your soul to win an Emmy?

A Tony?

An MTV Award? (Bless your heart.)

Or even an Oscar?

Well then. Tell me you wouldn't move a motherf*cking mountain to have one of these babies:

The pink, white, and gold Murano roadrunner: The Meemaw Award. Can't see it? Picture this:

I know, I know. The glamour is too much. Try to take it in. Tryyyyyyyyy. Not everyone can make a pair of sweatpants and unwashed hair her bitch the way I can.

The Meemaw Award. Live it. Love it.

I'll be back. Soon. I promise.

DMFT: A True Story

My tender, fluffy little cotton-tailed kittens--

Your ol' Sweet Tea been sparse around these parts. I was on such a roll there for a while, wasn't I? Boy, those were the days.

You all know me, so you know why things came to a screeching halt. I've talked about it with (probably) everyone reading this, but I've never mentioned it on this blog. But here goes: my dad got sick. Four months later, he died. But that alone isn't why I stopped blogging. I didn't stop blogging because I didn't have time or because I no longer found vanity plates or mammograms funny...I stopped blogging because I hated being able to enjoy anything--to laugh at anything--when I was watching helplessly as my father suffered.

That's why you don't see too many blog posts here, and when you do, the posts are about weather or my adventures around the house.

Well. I saw some dear friends recently who said they missed the blog (tragic, isn't it?). And I told them about how it's more than just a life change, I told them about the guilt of laughing while someone you love is dying. And they listened. And they were wonderful. And then they told me to get back to writin'.

So here you go. I tried to publish this thing nearly a year ago, but it was just too funny. Too rich. Too much of a good story to believe it really happened. But it did.

SO THERE I WAS. At a Bastille Day celebration in St. Louis. 2012.

There were things for sale, like these here whistles:

There were cute kids, like this here ALF who walked right up to me and gave me the ol' "pick me up or I'll scream" face:

ALFs: Adorable Little Fuckers

There was an auction for a wheelbarrow-o-booze:

There was even a Louis/Marie Anoinette "execution":

And you just KNOW there were some hotties there:

This hot, loincloth-wearing piece wouldn't pose with me until I allowed him to throw a pelt over my shoulders. Truth.

And then...there was THIS. His name was Dennis, and he...uh...introduced himself to me as I was leaving. There was a concert in the park, but Dennis was too classy of a guy to sit with all the other commoners in the park. Dennis pulled his truck up to the park, cracked a cold one, and enjoyed the show.

As I was walking along, I heard a "HEY!" Like a good girl, I ignored it. Surely someone wasn't speaking to me that-a-way. But then I heard it again: "HEEEEYYYY! In the green dress!"

I stopped. I turned and stared at him. "Where you goin' in such a hurry? Come on up here and keep me company."

I told him that, as much as I surely wanted to, I was sad to see that there was no place for me to sit. He patted the top of his cooler emphatically and said, "Come on up."

He asked me my name. I told him it was Sweet Tea. (Actually, I gave him my sister's name. Don't judge. Melissa, you're just now learning this--I'm sorry.) I asked him his name, and I swear to you that he said, "It's Dennis. Dennis Mutha Fucken Thompson."

"Real nice," I said. "Dennis Mutha Fucken Thompson. Cute."

"It's true," he said. "Look here at my tit."

Check out those above-left-nipple initials: D.M.F.T.

Believe me when I tell you I was surprised. I said, "That's not what that means. Seriously?"

"Everybody calls me that," he insisted. "People get so used to saying it that they'd have to be careful when you couldn't cuss. Like, when I used to work at Hobby Lobby, they'd page me on the intercom and they'd say, 'Dennis Muth...uh...Dennis, can you come to Returns & Exchanges.'"

"You worked at Hobby Lobby?" I asked.

"Yeah. And I brought my lunch to work every day in a lunchbox that said D.M.F.T. on it. When some new guy asked me what it stood for and I told him, he didn't believe me, so I had to show him my tit."

How To Get Over It

Tender kittens--

Have you ever been pissed at someone close to you? I have. And have you ever moved past the argument, but you just weren't ready to hug it out yet and be all happy and huggy? Me too. Happened just the other night.

Me and Ol' Boy had a little spat. Nothing big, really, and I was over the argument itself, but I wasn't exactly in the makin'-up frame of mind, if I ain't bein' too subtle.

We had tickets to a ball game later that evening, and I told him to just go by himself. I said that I could do with a little alone time. He said he didn't want to go without me--if I wasn't going, then he wasn't going. Sheesh! I hate wasted money, so I said I'd go. But believe me when I tell you I was not warm and fuzzy.

So there we were. In the car. Making the 10-minute drive to the ballpark.

And then I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye. It was friggen hilarious. Any other time, I'd have said, "Pull over! Get out your phone! [I still have my cheap, crappy, mostly useless phone, you see.] We have a winner!" And we would've laughed together over the ridiculousness of this MAGICAL THING.

You can't see this and stay pissed. I tried.

But I was busy being a stone cold be-yatch, so I stared straight ahead as we sat there at a stoplight.

And then...I felt his elbow nudge my elbow. "Hey. You gotta see this. Look over there." I couldn't not smile anymore. He saw it. I saw it. And it was funny. We laughed. I had planned to stay pissed all night and teach him a lesson, but there it was...the FUNG SHWAY STYLES. Not only does it--apparently--bring style that merges Heaven and Earth to St. Louis, but it also builds bridges between people.

Anyway, we're Kool & The Gang now, all thanks to FUNG SHWAY STYLES.

So there's my Kryptonite: if you ever say "Fung Shway Styles" to me, I'm helpless.

For the record, I also cannot resist, "Rocket science is when the scientists find out things about outer space":

Shih Tzus Don't Dry Well

My patient little poodles--

You won't believe what you're about to read. It's a word-for-word transcription of a voicemail, and it's just too rich, too random, too friggen perfect to believe. But it's real.

Here: let me earn your trust.

FACT 1: By an incredibly fortunate stroke of good luck, some dear friends--Bob and Sally (names changed to protect the innocent--are moving to St. Louis. They are the cutest couple you've ever seen. Witness:

See? Couple o' cutie pies. You can believe me when I tell you stuff.

FACT 2: When Bob and Sally came on a househunting trip to St. Louis, they had to leave the two most adorable Shih Tzu pups you've ever seen--Oscar and Coots--in the care of their realtor (they are selling their house out east). Witness:

See? The cute factor is off the charts in their household. You can believe me when I tell you stuff.

So believe me when I tell you this. While Bob and Sally were in St. Louis, their realtor/doggy sitter went over to their house to walk the dogs before showing their house to an interested party. When she called Bob and Sally to give them an update...she left this message. Believe me, every word of it's true (this is unedited, but I've separated it here and there to help you follow...you're welcome):

Hey, Sally...it's me...it’s uh…too much info to text...

Showing went very well ..it’s...uh...pourin' down rain...got there quarter to six...ummm...took the dogs for a walk...went around the corner and ummm...

One of your neighbors...elderly people...ran a car into the front of the house through the siding..out through the neighbors'...fire trucks,  police officers, blah blah blah...

So all the neighbors are out, uh, talking to this couple, and one neighbor says, “Oh, I’m getting ready to sell my house on Palace Landing but I have an asshole agent and my asshole agent happens to be  my brother-in-law.” Then she asked, “Which office are you with?” and I said, “Well, I’m with the Springfield office,” and she said, “Well, the bitch there stole my husband and he left me for her and…" blah blah blah…

Needless to say…the dogs were soaking wet...I went upstairs, got a towel, probably spent...I don’t know? 15 minutes? Drying them off...‘cause Shih-Tzus don’t dry well...and they looooove to be rubbed down…so that was all good. 

The, uh, guy that saw the house tonight is gonna bring his wife back tomorrow at 7:30, so I’ll go back to the house at 9:15...turn all the lights on and get everything ready from there. 

So...pretty eventful...we were there for quite a while, and I hope you found something there and you like St. Louis…your dogs are hysterical and I got kisses from both of them. BOTH OF THEM!

*Click*

If you don't find that amusing, then--forgive me, but--you don't deserve to laugh. You probably won't think this is funny, either:

Until next time.

Easter: What a Difference a Week Makes

Fluffy little Easter kittens--

Remember how it snowed here in Street Lewie (that's how navigation systems sometimes pronounce St. Louis) last Sunday?

Here's a picture taken last Sunday of the best seat in St. Louis:

The reason this is the best seat in St. Louis is because, when you sit here, you have the best view of the lagoon in the prettiest park in the city (or anywhere, for that matter). Here was the view last Sunday:

And HERE is what the lagoon looked like today, Easter Sunday:

And: 70 DEGREES, y'all!!!

Here's Goose, trying to keep all the 'quirrels in the park in line. Her work is never done:

Yes, she's still a little white fluffy dog, but believe me when I tell you that this is the most fearsome Lucille has ever looked.

And speaking of fearsome dogs on Easter, check out the signs on the front of this house (taken in St. Louis' Italian neighborhood, The Hill):

To the right, hanging on the door, are colorful Easter eggs that read, "EVERY BUNNY WELCOME." Awwwww. To the left, in the corner window, is a black and orange sign that reads, "BEWARE OF DOG." Damn, people--which is it?!

And, since I'm talking about Easter weather and dogs on Easter and Easter greetings, let me leave you with this video of a gentleman who prepared for Easter in a unique way: "One man, one Lord, one faith, one baptism...two nun chucks."

If you can't see the video and you got this blog post via email, you probably need to go directly to the blog post on Sweet Tea to view. It's worth it!

Until next time, my little bunnies!