What’s a ta ta?

I’ve been remiss in updating Hot Dog Beehonkus for a couple reasons: 1. Ryan and I got kicked out of the house we were renting and decided to buy our own place amidst the maelstrom and 2. lately I’ve been in a funk about my dad and haven’t found much about his steady progression joyful or funny. But! He came through the other day while visiting Timber in Augusta. During a morning walk with the dogs, a “Save the Ta Tas” bumper sticker drove past them – a popular breast cancer awareness campaign 99% of the population has pulled to a stop behind at a red light.

“What’s a ta ta?” Daddy asked.

“Robert,” my mother murmured as though explaining this wondrous synonym for breast would offend a stray cat or man riding a roaring lawn mower. “I’ll tell you when we get back to the house.”

However, Daddy wouldn’t let it go.

“When we get back to Calhoun, can we get a ta ta? Maybe we can get Bobbin and Ryan a ta ta, too!”

“Robert!” Mother clasped her chest. “Ta tas are BOOBIES.”

“Oh.”

Instead of lamenting the deterioration of our father’s vocabulary, Timber grew irritated that he didn’t offer to gift her a ta ta upon his return to Calhoun. When she relayed this vignette to me via telephone, my heart swelled with victory: Daddy chose ME as his top tittie recipient.

My father always has been more of a fanny man (hence the title of this blog, an homage to my mother’s beehonkus); in fact, growing up he always barked at her butt but never her breasts. When playing softball in the front yard Mother usually served as pitcher, and one summer evening I batted the ball straight into her areola.

“OUCH!” she bellowed.

“Poor Mommy,” Daddy cooed, massaging the wound – the most affection he ever offered her breast in front of Timber and me.

“Stop it!” she screamed.

In college I went through a brief phase of wearing tie dye fabric draped across my shoulders as an excuse for a shirt and bra. I decided sporting a green one I found at local consignment shop Psycho Sisters for Sunday lunch with my family would be appropriate, even though a couple Saturdays prior while wearing it at Club Europe a creepy 40-year-old man lifted me above his head and spun me around in a frightening re-enactment of his favorite scene from Dirty Dancing or Swan Lake. I couldn’t tell which one.

“Yer boob’s hangin’ out!” Daddy yelled when I leaned toward the bowl of green beans.

“Oops,” I said, realizing the sheet indeed had shifted to one side, ta ta hanging dangerously close to the mound of mashed potatoes on my plate.

“Good. Gawd!” he huffed, spooning raspberry jelly onto a slice of bread.

Oh how I long for the years when my bad ’90s clothes offended my father, when the word “ta ta” elicited a rise in his eyebrows that now are permanently stuck in a clueless dispassionate line.