By popular demand... this is my family in a nutshell, it will only probably be funny to those who know them, but I throw it out there anyway with as much background information as I feel like giving.

Jedayla is getting her master's degree. Well, not getting it yet, but walking in ceremony because she will get--- it is complicated, she's getting her master's degree. I don't know why I am bothering explaining it because this story is for her. ANYWAY, mother, father, and I are sitting way up high in the stands of Ryan Field watching and giving dirty looks to parents who cannot control their young children (as if my parents could control me or Jedayla when we were younger). I was sitting between my parents, for I had to make sure and keep the horseplay to a minimum. It is quite chilly sitting in the windtunnel-esque bleachers and I am wearing short sleeves, so, throughout the whole two-hour or so long ceremony, I have to deal with the parental units asking me if I am cold and offering me my father's jacket. I refuse each time (I was not terribly cold, just a bit chilly), and it is a good thing that I did. During the benediction, my father asks one last time if I want the coat, and, like the other 6 million times, I refuse. He says with a smile "well fuck you then, I'm going to wear it" and puts it on. About two minutes later or so, the priest is still giving the benediction and the crowd (including the young children) is silent in prayer.

My father leans over to me and whispers through laughter "I just found a rotten tomato in my pocket, it's really gross." I slide a bit closer to my mother. My father was not finished speaking: "Haha, I remember putting it in there a few weeks ago. Could you ask your mother for a kleenex?" For a man who just got his hand covered with moldy rotten tomato at his daughter's graduation ceremony, he seemed to be enjoying this. I lean over to my mother and say "father would like a tissue, I'm not telling you why." She snickers and starts looking for a tissue. I change my mind: "Ok, I'm telling you why. He--" (it takes me a few attempts to keep back the laughter and keep my voice down at the same time) "he just found a rotten tomato in his pocket. He says he put it in there weeks ago." My mother bursts out laughing and quickly tries to muffle it when we start receiving a ton of angry stares from the crowd. I deliver the kleenex and my father leans in to tell me to tell my mother "everything she ever said about me was true." The message gets even more muffled laughter.

So here we are, the three of us little children, like misbehaving kindergarteners, one of us with a rotten tomato in his pocket, snickering uncontrollably to angry faces staring back at us during a very silent and serious time of prayer during a huge formal ceremony. If that is not classic us I could not tell you what is.

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There is an epilogue to the story. The tomato, contrary to all reason or logic, remained in my father's pocket for the duration of his trip in Chicago. He did not throw it out, he did not clean the coat; he left it in his coat pocket, rolled the coat up in a ball and threw it into the trunk of the car. Then he drove goodness knows how many miles to Washington, D.C. to drop off Jedayla, and, as far as I know, the tomato remained. As far as I know, it is still in his pocket now.