Saturday, June 22, 2013

20 Questions, minus 12, plus 1

               Very recently, I am loath to admit, I was not the shining beacon of Christianity that you have come to admire.  No, dear readers, those who bore witness did not see Jesus in me, to be sure.  Now it wasn’t so much what I said or even that there could have been choreography (I believe some people refer to it as gesturing), there was simply a loosening of my self-imposed limitations for public displays of my unhappiness.  And other than the occasional forced wrangling of a wayward server at a dining establishment, I am usually free of anything bordering on pedestrian behavior.  And I’m not talking about persons in crosswalks.  Let me elaborate. 

                As you may or may not know, I am not a fan of bicyclists.  So much so that it sometimes causes me pain.  Now I would like to say, before you get all out of sorts, that I do not hate bicyclists, that would be un-Christian, and I even have some very close friends who are cyclists.  However, were I to come across them on their velocipede (because I am that guy) I would want to hit them…just…so.  Mind you, I don’t want anyone to die; I just want them out of my way and off of my streets.

                The main reason is I cannot stand the fact that they are selfish.  Allow me to elaborate again.  They can’t decide if they want to be a car and share the road or something far more nefarious and ignore stop signs and traffic lights.  At least the motorcyclists who weave in and out of traffic illegally state their obnoxiousness through loud tail pipes and ponytails.  All you see of those blasted cyclists are skintight clothes and weird little helmets.  For those outfits alone, they should be punished.  Because, I can assure you, no one wearing spandex should actually be allowed to do so.  Those who have the body to pull it off don’t seem to feel the need, apparently.

                But as I am a benevolent chronicler, I will give them a free pass as I have other questions to share, dear readers.  And some of those would be:

1.       Why do I get weird songs stuck in my head when I hear my father whistle?  And I don’t mean weird as in “did he make that song up?” I mean weird as in “why on earth is he whistling ‘Little Drummer Boy’ in June and why does it make me think of Janet Jackson’s ‘Black Cat’?”

2.       Why does my father ask me if I brought leftovers, specifically butter beans, when I come home after a Friday night Happy Hour, where I go to eat inexpensive food whilst my posse drinks it up?  Where does he think I go after work, the VFW Hut? 

3.       Why does he consider all of my friends who are not fat or a redneck to be a dork or a nerd?  And, yes, I have plenty of non-dorky friends, thank you very much.  Well, not PLENTY, but some.

4.       Why does he insist on wiping his spills on the counter/stove/table with his hand (not a paper towel or dishrag) and even then only half-heartedly?  Has he decided that the only way for me not to be able to remove him from my home is because he was literally stuck to the counter in the kitchen, like the tomato seeds and strawberry juice that typically reside there until I come home from work to more work?  Did I mention I walk to work?  Uphill.  Both ways.

5.       Why does he insist on sharing the murder report from across the bay (Oakland) and pretend it’s for our little town; acting as if this sleepy little haven of wealthy, older folks is dangerous.  It’s Menlo Park, for goodness sakes; a bedroom community of a bedroom community of San Francisco.  The police report in our weekly paper is filled with such breathtaking crime as random noise disturbances and reports of “suspicious persons”, which always ends up being a case of mistaken identity with either a new gardener or the housekeeper’s grandchildren.

6.       Why does he insist on calling my house, which is on the grounds of the medical center, government housing?  I know it is in the literal sense, but you know what he means.  And, no, I don’t know why it bothers me.  That’s a bit more introspective than I can to be at this juncture.

7.       Why can’t he remember that both the woman who cleans our home and the woman who cuts our hair (also in our home) are both named Clara and they are not, in fact, the same woman?  One is about 23 and pregnant; the other is about 50 and clearly not pregnant or even chubby but he can’t seem to tell them apart. 

8.       On that note, why did “Haircut Clara” say to Lulu, on her first visit to our home, “Do you smell my doggie on my hand?” as she offered her hand in a sign of friendship, like you do when you meet a new dog, and then proceed to tell us her dog had died thirteen, yes you read that correctly, years prior?  Is he stuffed and mounted in her den, I wonder?
9.  Why can't I ever figure out how to properly close a blog post?  

These are the questions I have.  If you have answers, please let me know.  And that is all I’m saying.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

I'd rather my white trash ghost simply say Boo!

                The other night, The Dad hiccupped in such an aggressive and abrupt way that I didn’t know what was happening and actually reached for his inhaler.  When he caught his breath, he said, “That hiccup was so big it made tears in my eyes as big as a horse turd.”  While I refrained from speaking, my facial expression conveyed all that I needed to convey which he ignored and asked, You know what a hiccup is, don’t ya?”  Before I digressed into a clinical definition of said bodily function, he said, “It’s a fart that got lost!”

                Lately, when he makes any similar statement I have taken to looking to my left as if there is someone there to see me roll my eyes.  It’s not unlike the TV camera I always thought should have been but am now extremely happy was not there filming me for the reality show that is my life.  The Dad has caught on to this practice and asked who I was looking at.  I told him it was the ghost he swears lives in our house.

                While I do believe in ghosts only because I have seen one face to face (still not over that DeeDee Smith, thank you very much), I do not believe that my father has seen any specters in this particular home of mine.  A recent episode of Doctor Who solved the riddle of a ghost by discovering it was a time traveler stuck in a rift in the time/space continuum or somesuch quasi-scientific reason.  I realize that Dr. Who is not actually based on real science, I sure do wish I could have a closet that’s bigger on the inside because my colored chino collection is getting out of control, do you hear me?  However, as Lulu refuses to take sides in this battle, I have decided that there really is a ghost and she agrees with me.

                I can assure you if there were some supernatural force in the immediate area, the activity that takes place in and around my father’s bathroom would most certainly cause that force to flee to the relatively safe confines of purgatory or wherever they’re supposed to go.  Look, I said I believed in them, not that I had a doctorate in paranormal psychology or some other pseudo-science like physics.  What?  Physics is math parading as science.  I took it in both high school and college and still have night terrors.  Two pages of calculations just to get the formula before you enter the numbers to get the answer?  Madness!  Utter and complete madness!  Said the Journalism major.

                Of course when I mentioned to my father that I seemingly believed in his sightings, he began to talk about death and dying as many older adults are prone to do.  You have to understand that I have recently begun to realize that my Dad will be living with me until he passes on from this world.  I have already begun to acclimate myself to the very real possibility that I will forever be a bachelor because who in their right mind would want to marry someone with a 71 year-old belligerent and flatulent teenager?  No, really, who?  I need names, people.

                And with that thought in mind, I gave him a direct order as if he were an employee, that should he feel himself slipping from this realm, that he quickly retire to the yard as to not taint the happy feel of my home because I will never live, again, in a place where someone to my knowledge has died.  And Dee Dee Smith knows exactly what I'm talking about.  I love my house and do not want to move.  No, I don’t think it’s selfish and you’re rude to suggest that.

                The downside of his death, besides the fact that he would be dead, would be that, were it actually possible, he would come back to haunt me.  Of this you can be sure.  I would have history’s first farting, burping ghost who would somehow figure out a way to fry a steak on my stove just to keep it greasy.

                Because being haunted is not a father-son activity in which I would willingly participate.  Although, outside of eating and/or complaining about stupid people, what activity would appeal to us both, is beyond me.  Apparently, from the commotion to my immediate left, one of my father’s current activities is scratching his chest with his middle shirt button unfastened, like Napoleon, without the couth or the short man complex.  When he finished, he didn’t re-button his shirt.  When I asked why he was insistent on being unkempt, he said, “What if I have another itch?”  I can assure you, the Supreme Court hasn't judged anyone as much as I am judging him right at this very moment. 

                Seeing my look of mild revulsion, he sat and smiled like a cat eating sawbriars through a picket fence.  Yes, that’s what he said.  I asked him to spell sawbriars to ensure accuracy. Even I, with my fluency in redneck, several dialects of country and a passing familiarity with Mississippi-specific white trash, was unfamiliar with this particular phrase.  Apparently, sawbriars are a real thing, I binged it, and as you know eating any briar, saw or otherwise, would require one to chew very carefully. 

                And I truly don’t know what else to say at this point.