freaky friday

**Because I'm going to be in the snowy Rocky Mountains this weekend, cuddled up with a good book and a couple of dogs with my parents and mother-in-law, I'm posting this from the past (woooo).  But I'm still going to call it for Freaky Friday and cross my fingers that nothing noteworthy happens between now and when this posts tomorrow. I mean today.  Whatever. This post will be riddled with verb tense problems.  Just go with it.

Friday the 13th everyone!  I hope yours was a good one.  It's one of my favorites really.  Thirteen is my lucky number.  I met Mr. Bump on March 13, 1999.  We got married on October 13, 2001.  Even after being together for 10.5 years, we're still actually ridiculous enough to celebrate our monthiversary on the months we remember what day it is.  (Yeah, I know, we're disgusting.  Just throw up in your mouth a little bit and move on.)

Nothing really weird happened yesterday except a smallish work computer weirdness which I have attributed to the day just because.  But as a day I enjoy it.  Since we headed up to the Bumpalot together last night, I am sure my father took the opportunity some time today to share his story about my 6th grade science fair project about superstition (lame-ish, I know, but it was on a list of topics and much more interesting than the previous year's Mt. St. Helen's debacle or the year before that's sponge lung project) and the way in which he used the opportunity to mess with my head.  I can't really convey the hilarity he attributes to the story (mostly because I don't find it so much funny at this point) so I'll skip it here.  Let's just say it involved a black cat, a ladder, and a sharp u-turn.  See, even the cryptic details are boring. 

Anyway, Thursday was my father's birthday, so he and my mother came up with us this weekend to celebrate with a little trip to Bumpalot.  I'll have to set aside some books for him because he's a pretty voracious reader when there is no way to watch sports.  He'll read anything.  Last time we were up there he picked up a book of Wodehouse stories.  If you know my father you know he's just about as far from a British comedy of manners kind of guy as exists in the spectrum. He's turning 75 this year, I believe, which is crazy.  I can't believe it's even remotely possibly he's that old.  In part, because he doesn't act his age.  He still works construction, often out of doors, in both the broiling of summer and the freezing wet windy winter.  He's as butch as butch gets, my dad.

I just went in search of a prior post about him, but I haven't tagged most of them so I couldn't find it.  Look through the archives.  It's probably somewhere in 2006.  I also went in search of a picture of my dad, but apparently those are all trapped away on my laptop, which I am not near.  Oh, wait, here he is hiding behind my mother last Easter!  Joy!  Here is my family.  My dad is the Santa in the back.

Happy birthday, Dad!  Incidentally, doesn't my mama look so cute in her pink suit?  She's so smoochable.

Anyway, yesterday is almost over so I need to skedaddle.  Hope you are having a lovely weekend!