Jason is not a father. That fact has never impeded me from using Father’s Day as an excuse to celebrate him. This time, however, my well-intentioned plans went far afield or more like down the hallway to the bathroom.

For Father’s Day this year, I decided to give Jason a night in paradise. Every aspect of this evening, including his gifts, was tropical themed but the highlight was a fancy homemade dinner crammed with coconut and pineapple.

I prepared grilled pineapple pork sandwiches from slow-cooked meat and blended up refreshing pina coladas but the best part of meal was, undeniably, the banana coconut luau cakes. These muffin-sized desserts were served over slices of fresh pineapple and topped with from-scratch coconut-caramel sauce and macadamia nut brittle, along with whipped cream of course. Aloha deliciousness!

Despite the yummy menu, our evening did not end up as gastrointestinally ideal as it started. In fact, it literally went down the toilet. You see, Jason had eaten lunch that day at a restaurant that shall not be named. (It rhymes with Sargent Loa.) After that meal, his stomach didn’t feel so good but he forgot about its malcontent until he again tested its temper with my large dinner.

About half an hour or so after eating his special Father’s Day supper, Jason’s tummy began to remind him that it still resented his lunch insult. He spent the rest of the evening feverish and groaning in bed, with some speedy bathroom trips mixed in for variety.

I know the question lingering in all of your minds. Did my delightful dinner cause the gastric version of Pompeii? As a food scientist, I can assure you the answer is no. Firstly, I did not get sick. I am, undoubtedly, made of hardier stuff than Jason but I don’t think my stubborn make-up could have saved me from his digestive disaster. Secondly, the particular restaurant where Jason partook of lunch has given several of our friends slippery guts on more than one occasion. Thirdly, a handful of Jason’s coworkers that ate lunch with him that afternoon were also “indisposed” the next day. And lastly, I am the most sanitary cook you will ever encounter. No one gets food poisoning on my watch.

And that is how my appetizing meal deteriorated into diarrhea. I guess life is just a crap shoot…or, in this case, perhaps a crap chute. Happy Father’s Day Jason! I hope next time you find paradise it’s outside your lavatory.

Since God gave me stuff that shakes, I dare not waste it in shakelessness. For I have it on good authority that talents are not to be hidden or buried. It would seem that mine are pretty exposed. Yup, I am that righteous.

Recently, I began belly dancing again after taking a few years off. I joined a class with hips of all skills. As with previous courses, no criticizing appearances was allowed in this class’s hallowed mirrored halls. We undulating ladies celebrated the loveliness of the feminine form, stretch marks and extra padding and all.

After eight weeks of lessons, my group performed at a laidback function at the Provo Farmer’s Market. Fortunately, a downpour predicted to hit mid-routine didn’t materialize until much later that day. The wind didn’t get the memo about the delay though. A breeze gusted as we shimmied, which made our veils completely unruly. Still, wild wardrobes and all, it was a memorable experience performing on park grass to a leisurely crowd.

Belly dancing isn’t anything like the seductive business it has been popularized as. For me, it’s a pleasant way to exercise my core with amazing women and appreciate that real beauty comes in many dimensions. Also, I love to dance and, surely, God didn’t give me bouncy hips for nothing.