I promised a story behind the name, and here it is:
My father is not one to take his responsibilities in life lightly. Everything he does, to him, is a BIG DEAL. This includes all tasks from his pastoral duties to cooking a family meal to household repairs. Consider:
When cooking a meal for two or four, it is important to use the biggest pot possible, because why cook for one meal when you can cook for six, or even seven?
When shopping for groceries, remember to pick up little yellow tubs of butter and bags of potatoes each shopping trip, for one never knows how much butter or potatoes one might need at any given moment.
When patching nail holes in a wall because your wife has once again decided to redecorate, it is not only important to paint carefully over the patched holes, but hell, why not just redo the entire wall?
When purchasing supplies for a home renovation project, buy widely from all product aisles, then lose the bags in your enormous, enormous tool room, then find them all one day and decide its not exactly the product you need, so go out again for a hammer, and come back with a tablesaw.
When gathering necessities for your yearly deer hunting trip, remember to not only buy brand new, top-of-the-line silk long johns, but also hand warmers, feet warmers, special boots, gloves and some sort of sub-zero-grade overcoat that could make an Eskimo sweat.
Now, I love my father very much, but boy, does he like to just DO things, which is why he earned the nickname, “The King of Overkill.” We call him that when he serves up enough curry to feed a whole village in India, or when he decides that making venison jerky would be super fun and then proceeds to dry enough deer to fill an entire kitchen.
One instance, however, is more memorable than any other to me. I happened to be about seventeen, and had just started to experience the worst menstrual cramps of my life. Both parents had always taught their children to be extremely independent. If we needed or wanted something from the store that was not a basic food staple, we should get in the car, gather some cash, and go buy it. Well, this time, I needed period supplies, but was seriously, seriously sick enough that I just couldn’t go. My mom was busy doing who-knows-what, so she asked my dad if he would go, since he was already out the door to the store (to buy little yellow tubs of butter, no doubt).
He came back with—I am not joking—TWO industrial size boxes of panty-liners, enough pads for a year, and I think (?) three boxes of tampons. I believe he supposed that if he had to go and get this embarassing purchase once, he better never have to do it again. My mom and I were alternately amused and horrified at his purchase...what the eff??
The best part, though, was apparently when he finished checking out and had his bags and bags of cotton, string, adhesive and plastic, the bemused lady at the checkout waved and called out as he was leaving, “Have a nice month!” He told us this last fact sheepishly...but, of course, he never, ever had to go to the store for those items again. Perhaps he finds temporary embarrassment a good trade off for long-term humiliation.
Well, at least it's a good nickname...