For My Daddy

Saturday mornings were exceptionally special in my house growing up.

I vividly remember walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

I didn't willing wake up, nor was I gently awoken by my dad rubbing my back whispering "good morning sweetheart" into my ear. I didn't smell the thick aroma of bacon and french toast emanating from the kitchen, or hear Abbey whining to be taken for a walk.

I woke up to

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while

Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies

Hoping for the best but expecting the worst

Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?

and

I'm turning Japanese

I think I'm turning Japanese

I really think so

and

Mirror in the bathroom please talk free

The door is locked just you and me

Can I take you to a restuarant that's got glass tables

You can watch yourself while you are eating

and sometimes

When I'm with you baby, I go out of my head

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

All the things you do to me and everything you said

And I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough

blasting out of the stereo in the family room loud enough to not only wake up our whole house, but our neighbors as well.

At my Los Feliz address, our Saturdays were spent cleaning and organizing our uncomfortably small house. We didn't go to the beach, the park, or even get to ride our bikes. We went to the hall closet, the kitchen, the backyard, and the bathrooms. The jobs were tedious and we fought over who was assigned to which job.

You might think cleaning out the Toy Closet was the easiest, but you're wrong. Because that included the dreaded red box (an old plastic crate that contained anything and everything from black widows to monkeys out of their barrel). Everything in the red box had a specific place and you had to figure out what each piece of plastic was, where it belonged and then put it back in it's respective home.

The pantry was a close second in the difficulty department. Sure you could sneak cookies when no one was looking and count how many boxes of jello were stashed away in the back of the cupboard but that just prolonged the process and left you sprawled out on the floor surrounded by cereal boxes, soup cans, and bags of chocolate chips with a wicked stomach ache.

I liked cleaning out the drawer in the kitchen the best because I got to sit on the green carpet of our family room and my dad would place the drawer in front of me. And because a 7-year-old girl lacks the ability to distinguish nails from screws, a flat head from a phillips, and an x-acto knife from a razor my Daddy helped me identify the objects and told me where to put them, then let me color code the coupons in the coupon book.

I'm pretty sure every child hates household chores and responded with complaints like "Morgan had the easiest job!" "No one is helping me!" "This is child abuse" and "I can't believe you're making me do this!"

But these Saturday mornings are among the memories that hold the most detail because from what we claimed to be child abuse and unevenly distributed tasks were days when my dad brought out the orange string ball and played catch with us in the family room and my mom made grilled tuna sandwiches for lunch that we would eat while sitting on the patio in the backyard. Saturdays always ended in a game of Sorry! with my dad on the floor of the family room and slices of pound cake and coke floats as rewards for our hard work.

And every time I hear a song by Alphaville, The Vapors, English Beat, or Depech Mode, my stomach does a flip and my eyes start to burn and I smile enormously wide because I think about waking up Saturday mornings and walking down the hall through my parents bedroom and into the family room in one of my dad's white t-shirts and a pair of Limited Too pajama shorts (purple with cows jumping over crescent moons) hidden underneath the sea of Hanes fabric hanging down to my knees.

We cleaned our house this Saturday - not my family, but Kenny, Kara, and I. We traded in waking up at 7:30 for 10:30, Alphaville for the Beach Boys, and cookies for beer. And although I became a little (okay a lot) nostalgic and felt a deep desire to blog about my dad waking me up ridiculously early to strange music, once again I am thrilled that I have such opportunities where new experiences constantly bring up old memories.