Happy Birthday Dad

It was my Dad's birthday this past weekend.  No, I do not know how old he is.  When you're a 21-year-old idiot like myself, everyone else simply falls into one of three categories:

1) Younger than me
2) Older than me
3) Dead

I like to think of my Dad as one of the founding members of Group 2, although he likes to act as if he's part of Group 1.  Maybe that's where I get it from.

Anyway.  On Sunday afternoon, I went over to my parents house to help Mum with a special birthday dinner.  One of the fifty-two similarities between my Mother and I is that like me, she too is addicted to shows like Masterchef and My Kitchen Rules.  And - like me - this addiction has caused her to become overly ambitious in the kitchen.  For Sundays dinner, she'd planned a 4-dish menu:

• Greek lamb and mint yoghurt
• Ham and potato bake
• Roast garden vegetables stuffed with a vegetarian mince
• Chocolate mud cake

Now when I say 'overly ambitious', I don't mean it in a bitchy way.  I had no doubt in my Mum's ability to totally nail this dinner.  My only real concern was the roast vegetables - because she'd never done it before.  And to me, vegetarian mince sounds like the kind of dish that can result in either taste sensation or chronic diarrhea.  Luckily for all of us, it worked out.  I don't think '18 consecutive trips to the bathroom' was at the top of my Dad's gift list.  Not this year anyway.

Before I moved out, I always joked about how much my parents were going to 'miss me when I'm gone!'.  When my older sister Catherine left home it wasn't so bad, because I do a killer impersonation of her and could pull it out every night at the dinner table.  Plus she is a nightmare to live with and none of us liked her that much anyway.  Kidding!  Catherine we love you.  Oh yes, the secret is out: I know you read my blog.  And I know you're not the only one.  Anyway, like I was saying.  "You'll miss me when I'm gone!" I always said to Mum and Dad.  Turns out, I underestimated.  They don't just miss me.
They're going crazy.
It's been like a week and a half, right?  My Mum has baked three cakes.  AND a lemon meringue pie.  And Mum's a busy lady!  She works.  She cleans the house.  She runs every morning and does paddling on weekends.  When the hell did she find time to make all these desserts?  On her lunch break?  Or maybe she's becoming a sleep-baker and is doing all of this in some hypnotised state at four in the morning.  Either way, my Dad - the original chocoholic himself - is in his element.  It's good to know if the nursing thing doesn't work out, my Mum has a definite career as a trainer on The Biggest Gainer.

So there's the obsessive cooking.  Also?  They've both become addicted to Grey's Anatomy.  Which I guess isn't so strange in my Mum's case, but Dad?  Here is one of the most disturbing conversations I have had in my life:

Mum: Oh, Meredith.  Who hasn't she slept with?
Me: She never slept with McSteamy.
Mum: Oh yeah.
Me: Or Alex!  She never slept with Alex either.
Dad: Who in their right mind would sleep with Alex?  Hello, manwhore.

Hearing the word 'manwhore' come out of my Dad's mouth, well...that's an experience I'm not likely to forget any time soon.  Coming across as both inadvertantly hilarious and mind-blowingly inappropriate at the same time seems to be a Trew family trait these days.  With the exception of my sister, who lives in a state of perpetual humiliation, and moved all the way to Darwin to get away from us.