Recently, I had the opportunity to catch up with my dad and stepmom over brunch. By brunch I mean that they ate stolen caviar with their pocket knives and washed it down with beer. The day started with my dad insisting that we stop at World Market so he could “get” me a Velvet Crumble. I’ve never had a Velvet Crumble; it’s a treat my father used to enjoy as a child in Australia, and I’m told it’s delicious. But the market didn’t carry it, and though I’d love to try one someday, I was relieved, feeling like I’d had a close call.

Over the past few visits, I’ve come to realize that I can’t take my father anywhere he won’t steal something. In the past, I used to join in on the shenanigans and was mostly too drunk to think about repercussions. But now I have children and school, and while I still find it amusing to watch my dad shake out his pants leg while the loot piles up on the floor, I feel uncomfortable being involved.

Somehow I have lapped my father in the responsibility race. I find myself in the front seat of the car trying to explain why he can’t have an open container while he mutters that I’ve changed and I used to be cool.

During his visit in Eugene he stole four leather coats. By the time he was ready to catch his train home to Redding, there was a pile of leather in the corner big enough to make other visitors nervous.

Antique pocket watches from a museum, bacon-shaped Band-Aids, a shock pen, Oregon Ducks sweatshirts, meats preserved in a variety of ways, oddly shaped marshmallows—you can find these things and more, all falling out of Dad’s pants at any given hour of the day. So, if you’re ever looking for Rick, just follow the trail of LED flashlights and honey sticks. He’ll be there.

Recently, I’ve discovered a new tool for pain: the voice of Jim Cummings, better known as Winnie the Pooh. He also does the voice for the Tasmanian Devil and Tigger.

I’m not skilled enough to express how truly awful his voice is—it’s absolutely disgusting. It hits something in my brain that makes me want to fall to the floor in a fetal position and apologize to anyone I have ever hurt.

I’ll be looking for clips to put on my mp3 player for the moments I’m feeling self-destructive. Lately my lineup of horror has been Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative, Color Me Bad’s Sex You Up, Wayne Newton’s Danke Schoen, Ice Cube’s Check Yourself, Jesse and the Rippers’ Forever, and finally, Michael McDonald’s I Keep Forgetting. This is a mix I reserve for nights when I’m feeling like I can’t do anything right.

I googled pictures of Jim and was shocked to find that he looks nothing like what I imagined. I thought he’d be covered in a light coating of fuzz and have lumps in places where lumps normally do not gather. I thought he would have no eyebrows and would wear flesh-colored suits. But he kind of looks like Rip Taylor, and his fat reserves are pretty evenly distributed.

This surprised me. I’m usually very good at guessing what people look like based on their names and voices. It’s actually one of my talents. People will come to me with a name and I’ll provide a description so they’ll know what they’re looking for. The other day I was given the name Rupert Corkhill. I described an overweight blond man sitting at a desk eating an egg salad sandwich. I was right about everything but the egg salad.

Of course I have no way of proving this, but I’m sure that Rupert is the name of a man who walks around his apartment in nothing but a shirt, windows open, wiener flapping in the breeze. Ruperts have no shame, Gretchens wear dirty underwear, and all Mikeys do speed.

You may be wondering how this is connected—I’ll tell you. Back when I had a television and was feeling like a failure, I would watch this particular Christian show. I don’t recall its name but, like many Christians, the host had red hair, a plain face and vacant eyes.

This show served two purposes. First, it satisfied my desire to punish myself with terrible media for no good reason. Second, it reinforced my belief that I do in fact have a special talent for knowing things about people based on little or no evidence. It was this woman who made me realize that all female Christians—and only Christians—wear their hair in a half ponytail. Thanks to her, I’ve dodged dozens of uncomfortable conversations with evangelicals simply by crossing the street when I see their telltail of the half-pony variety.

Ethan says I stereotype, but he doesn’t understand the scientific nature of the process. In real life, I avoid people I’ve determined to be annoying and lame based on their clothes, hair, name or style of walking. It’s only behind closed doors that I surround myself with things I hate.