Bowyer Family Talent

We Bowyers like to think of ourselves as contributing members of society. We pay our taxes, recycle, and volunteer months of our time to organize a youth soccer tournament for the community. We’re kind of like Jesus, except we can’t turn water into wine. Which is pretty disappointing.

But most of all, we know how to party. Whether it's a family vacation to Sun Lakes, a New Year’s party at our house, or an infamous Jam Session, we love to have a good time. When our parents threw Lindsay a party for graduating college, Dad got enough beer to put an elephant on its ass.

Lindsay: Dad, you got a lot of beer.

Dad: I know! This party is going to be off. The. HOOK!

Lindsay: Yes, but there are going to be kids here. Little kids.

Dad: So?

Lindsay: Well what are they going to drink?

Dad: I got a couple of packs of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. 

One time, at Sara's 7th or 8th birthday party, Dad was wearing a shirt that said "I'll give up beer when I give up breathing." Lindsay pointed out that maybe that shirt wasn't the best choice for a little kid's birthday party, so instead of changing his shirt, he just turned it inside out. 

 

Even Grandma can hold her own. Though she usually sticks to wine nowadays, that woman could throw back a shot of vodka and be ready for another while you were still cringing in anticipation.

Grandma: You’re lucky you’re drinking beer and I’m drinking wine.

Sara: Why is that?

Grandma: If it was vodka, I’d be drinking you under the table.

This last weekend, we had a jam at our friend’s house up the street. For those who have never been to a Bowyer jam session, it consists of us attempting to play music with our Uncle Mark on guitar, but everyone else is drinking so they think we sound awesome regardless. But on this particular occasion, we put a lot of time and effort into producing a quality show for the guests. For the last month we practiced in the kitchen a few times a week while Dad gave us insightful feedback such as “Bazinga!” or “That song was titties!”

Dad: That was TITTIES!

Sara: Dad, can you refer to our songs as something other than titties?

Dad: Why? Who doesn't love titties?! Why do you think I am attracted to your mother?

Sara: Wow, Dad. That is something I never needed to think about. Ever.

We tried as hard as we could to be professional while performing. Sara even refrained from saying anything profane over the microphone, which is a fucking miracle. But, inevitably, Lindsay made up for Sara’s lack of vulgarity. Lindsay does a lot of the singing in our little band (we're really reluctant to call it a band because that signifies a certain level of talent/competence/committment/pressure), but she doesn't play an instrument like everyone else. She plays the tambourine sometimes when the song calls for it. 

During a particular song, Lindsay took a break from singing and played the tambourine in one of Sara's songs. She looked up and noticed her Grandmother giving her a thumbs up, hitting the person next to her in the arm, and pointing and laughing at Lindsay. 

Lindsay at the end of the song into the microphone: I'd just like everyone to take note of the fact that my 90 year old Grandmother is making fun of me for playing the tambourine. 

Grandma: <still laughing>

Lindsay: You know, support services are an important component of all properly functioning groups.

Grandma: <laughs more>

Lindsay: <flips her Grandma off>

Grandma: <continues laughing>

At the end of the night, we walked home along with some friends from the party who were crashing at our house rather than trying to drive home. Good work, friends. Responsible partying is the best kind of partying.

Soon we decided we hadn’t gotten into enough shenanigans for the night, so we ran over to our neighbor’s yard and went on their zipline a few times. We tried to be quiet, but I’m sure you can imagine how quiet a group of drunken young adults trespassing in order to play on a device designed for young children could possibly be. (Sorry Scott and Jill!)

What? Our neighbors told us we could use the zipline when we wanted! And besides, we all stepped in dog crap anyways so…karma got to us in the end.

The Father's Day Post

It’s the blog’s Father’s Day edition!!!

Yes, we know that most holiday-themed things come before the holiday in question, but we ran out of fucks to give. Our apologies.

We thought the best way to honor and respect our father was to share his words of wisdom with the world. His parenting has taught us many important life lessons (not including things like class, grace, or femininity) and we are forever grateful to him for that. For example, here was his take on the true meaning of Father’s Day a couple years ago, when all 3 women in the household were ganging up and teasing him, and he got pissed at us.

“It’s Father’s Day, which means I have total and complete pussy control up in this bitch!”

Both of our parents were extremely involved in our lives when we were younger. Whether it was taking us to a soccer game at 8 a.m. in the pouring rain, attending our choir concerts, or just helping us with homework, mom and dad were all over it. Dad even coached both of our soccer teams, teaching us how to use our width to outrun the other team and to knock other players over without getting penalized. Over the combined 15 years, he became notorious for his sayings, such as:

 “You’re aiming for the big metal thing with the net. Can’t miss it.”

"Ok...who did I  miss...oh, I almost forgot about you. You're playing left-out. Ha!" 

“How’d they miss you for that World Cup, ref?”

“Who am I missing? Forwards? Hell, we’re so good we don’t need them.”

“Woooeee! Smell that cow manure! We’s gonna beat up on some farm girls today!”

“I’m sick of all this whining. I’m coaching boys next year.”

“They’re running through us like grain through a goose.”

"I'm the all knowing Ayatollah, so you will play whatever position I tell you to play."

“Let’s go out there and beat them like red-headed step children.”

“We sucked so hard there was a breeze in China.”

Dad is a complete troll*. When Sara was 6 years old, he told her that he and mom didn’t want her when she was born, so they put an ad for her in the newspaper. Only when no one else wanted her did they decide to keep her. Oh, and he didn’t bother to tell her it was a joke until she was old enough to figure that out for herself (okay, so I figured that out last year. So what? I bet there’s plenty of common sense shit that you don’t know).

Or there’s his Sunday morning routine. Mom wakes up early to make everyone a nice breakfast…and then dad walks into the kitchen. 

Dad: Hey, are you whipping something up for breakfast? Do you want to go on a walk today? Are you okay?

Mom: I’m fine, why do you ask?

*five minutes later*

Dad: What's wrong? Why are you so cranky?

Mom: I’m not cranky Brock. I’m fine.

*after Lindsay walks in *

Dad: Lindsay, don’t talk to your mother. She’s in a foul mood.

Lindsay: Why?

Mom: I’m not in a bad mood. I’m perfectly fine.

*right before mom actually serves the food*

Dad: Let’s see if your mother can calm down enough to not break the cabinets off the hinges when she slams them shut.

Mom: YOU KNOW WHAT BROCK? FUCK YOU! YOU ARE THE REASON I’M UPSET, YOU ASSHOLE!

Dad: Jeez, I told you she was cranky, didn’t I? Your mother’s just a total mental case sometimes…

But all of his oddities and trolling aside, we do love our dad. He’s always been supportive, loving, and encouraging, and we’d like to thank him for everything he’s done. You’re a great father, Dad; so great that we might just consider keeping you around for a bit longer.

*For those of you who are lucky enough to not have discovered the Internet by now, a troll is someone who deliberately pisses you off just to laugh at your anger and frustration. They’re also known as common assholes.

Bona Fide Occupational Hazards

Dad and I (Sara) work together.

…

Go ahead. Take a moment to mull that one over. Really consider the implications of that statement. I willingly work alongside the man who constantly asks me if I’m a lesbian and eats popcorn out of the trash. In a professional environment. 40 hours a week. To answer your question: no, I am not a masochist. Nor am I trying to muster up the courage to commit suicide.

Well, I suppose technically we don’t work together. He works on the enterprise team and I’m on the federal team. But his office is just a stone’s throw away from my cubicle. And even with his office door closed, that notorious Bowyer voice can still be heard by the majority of the office.

I wonder if we could get a patent on our vocal chords?

Anyways, this situation has made me witness to all of dad’s ridiculousness, whether it happens at home or on the job. For instance, a few weeks ago he was checking his voicemail in the morning.

Cisco 7941 IP Phone: Please enter your PIN, followed by the pound key.

Dad: Fuck. You.

It’s fairly common to hear dad make a phone call to McGonagall*, his supporting inside sales rep. With his door open, he dials her on speakerphone and they proceed to discuss whatever he’s called her about. Except McGonagall’s office is one door away from Dad’s, so everyone can hear the conversation as well as the echo from their phones.

Sara: You both know that instead of making a call, you could just talk, right?

McGonagall: Mind your own business, Junior**.

Dad: Yeah, Sawa. Get back to work.

Another day, my boss and I were sitting in dad’s office, discussing my future financial plans.

Lupin: So when you buy a condo, are you going to live alone or get a roommate?

Sara: I’ll get at least one roommate. I’ve already got one person in mind.

Lupin: Have you talked about it with her already?

Sara: Yes…but it’s a he. A gay he, though, so there’s not much of a difference.

Dad: I swear, she’s got more gay friends than straight. I’m a little concerned.

Sara: Why is that concerning?

Dad: Well eventually it’s going to rub off on you. I’m pretty sure it already has.

One Friday, at about 4:30, I was sitting in my cubicle trying to keep myself busy until 5:00, when my day ends. The company’s president walked by and gave me permission to knock off early. Later that evening I made the rookie mistake of telling dad…

Dad: Dumbledore told you that you could leave early?

Sara: Yep! I guess that means I’m doing well, right?

Dad: I don’t know why, but he seems to like you.

Sara: Maybe it’s because I do a good job?

Dad: No, that can’t be it…

Sara: I’m pretty sure that’s the reason.

Dad: Quit being snotty, I’m trying to think.

*I’ve used Harry Potter characters in place of actual people’s names…not sure why. I guess there could be some sort of liability issue, but I doubt it. I just really want to believe that I work at Hogwarts.

**This is the nickname everyone at work has decided on for me. It’s a combination of me being new AND the daughter of an outside sales rep. I do not condone its use, and as a result I strongly identify with Rabbit from Super Troopers. If you don’t get that reference, watch the movie. You’ll thank me later. 

You Would Bang 20-Something Joseph Stalin, Too

Saturday morning, grandma was complaining about feeling faint. Mom took her to the hospital, and she was released later that afternoon. The rest of us were fairly anxious until we heard she was all right and on her way home. She may be teeny and 90, but she's a tough old broad. Sara, being a very politically correct and sensitive young lady, brought it up Sunday night over dinner.


Sara: So...you’re still here, grandma!

Grandma: Am I?

Dad: Duh, Fran. You’re eating our food.

Grandma: Oh, right. I guess you just can’t get rid of me.

Mom: Watch what you say, because Sara will put this all up on the blog later.

Dad: Just like the elderly abuse.

Grandma: But I am abused!

Mom: I just made you Chicken Parmesan!

Grandma: Eh…it’s all right.

The other day at work, I (Lindsay) found this article* on the internet that had pictures of famous people depicting them in ways that don't generally come to mind when you think of them. 

I showed the family this picture of a 20-something Joseph Stalin**, and they were as surprised as I was by his handsomeness. 

Lindsay: Look at him! He's beautiful!

Jesse: WOW. Look at that scruffy, masculine beard and that full head of wavy hair. And those dark, brown eyes. I'd do him.

Lindsay: Are you done...? 

That's right. My husband told me he would bang one of the world's most notorious and evil dictators.  

Other reactions to this photo: 

Sara: Holy. Fucking. Shit. Young Stalin could do whatever the hell he wanted to me. Even if I knew what would happen when he rose to power.

Mom: He kind of looks a little like one of the Property Brothers. The one that does construction...and he was a biscuit.

Sara: Aren't they twins?

Mom: Yeah, but they don't look exactly the same.

Lindsay: I'm sure Joseph Stalin would have loved to be compared to some douche on HGTV.

* The word "article," is being used loosely, referring to information that any jack-off can figure out how to post on the internet.
**In case you for some inexcusable reason don't know who this guy is (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Stalin)...shame on you.

I Can't Believe You Threw This Away!

Our father is obsessed with not wasting anything. For a conservative who has serious trouble understanding liberals, he sure knows how to live like one. He makes us save aluminum foil after we've used it because he thinks it's expensive. He'll feed anything to Tucker that's leftover from meals...even if it's stuff that isn't good for him (french toast, spicy foods, cooked bones, sweets, tomato sauce, onions, popcorn kernels, etc), because he doesn't want anything to go to waste. He keeps stale bread in the bread drawers to give to the birds, but forgets about it so eventually we have a drawer full of stale and/or moldy bread. He's that guy at the gas pump who awkwardly tries to get every last drop of gasoline out of the tube by holding it up high when the gas has finished pumping. He will try to recycle everything, even styrofoam. He insisted we try to donate all the old soccer trophies with very specific writing on them (example: 1st place, girls U12, Lake Stevens Soccer Bash, 1999) because "someone will want them." He wants to keep the old baking trays after we bought new ones. He drives with the air conditioning off and the windows down because he thinks it's better for fuel economy*. He'll turn off the lights even if you're in the room and using them so as not to waste electricity. If he ever has leftovers from lunch he always randomly leaves them on someone's desk like some kind of leftover fairy because he thinks they'll be hungry later and someone is actually going to eat mystery leftovers.

Another example below

Dad: You threw popcorn with truffle oil in the garbage? That stuff is SO good, and expensive.

Lindsay: Dad, are you eating popcorn out of the garbage?

Dad: Yeah. I can't believe you threw this away!

Mom: Brock stop eating out of the fucking garbage. I'll make more if you're that hungry.

Dad: <finally closes the cabinet and looks around> We have grapes?!

Did we also mention that he suffers from ADHD?

Wait...sorry. I got that mixed up.

We suffer from his ADHD.

* It's not