INT. NIGHT. A BEDROOM.
An alarm clock by the bed reads 4:00 AM. A sweating DAD bolts upright in bed, gasping.
DAD: I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH BOOKS ABOUT WINSTON CHURCHILL.
He glances at his bookshelves.
DAD: Wait. Yes I do.
He sinks back down gratefully.
***
A sleeping DAD is taking a road trip to an unclear destination. On the way he stops by an unfamiliar Starbucks, where the baristas do not know his name or his usual order, and they are out of world music CDs.
***
Someone has moved that paper. You know that paper. The paper that was just here. The special paper you needed but didn’t tell anyone not to move that was near the briefcase by the phone, just a minute ago.
***
The kitchen was finished. The basement never was.
***
A genie appears and tells your father that he can bring any U.S. President back from the dead for a single day. He’s overcome. He panics. The only name he can think of is Woodrow Wilson.
“Wait,” he says, as the genie snaps his fingers and disappears. “Wait, I didn’t mean it. I meant — I meant Teddy. I meant Teddy Roosevelt. I meant to say Teddy Roosevelt.”
Woodrow Wilson makes him listen to every one of the Fourteen Points before asking if he could get a ride to the library.
***
When he made it out to the driveway, everyone else was already in the car. “Come on,” they said in unison. “We’ve been waiting for you. We’re all ready to go.”
She was already in the driver’s seat, seatbelt on and everything. “I thought I’d drive today,” she said brightly, as if she was commenting about the weather or something equally harmless. “You can sit in the passenger seat.”
***
Tags: dads, dads love churchill, nightmares, why is it so dang important for dads to always be the one who drives
This was all cute and “oh, some people’s dads are so funny” until I got to the last one. DAAAAAAAAAAAAD.
WHY DO DADS ALWAYS HAVE TO DRIVE WHY IS THAT SUCH A THING
In my family, it is because my Dad is the one with the extremely detailed map of all the world’s roadways stored in his head. I am convinced that if you put him down anywhere on Earth, he’d figure out how to get home by going on I-95 East for about, oh, two and a half hours.
He did that so he could be the one to drive. That was his plan all along.
Whenever we go to a restaurant, my dad always insists on dropping us off at the entrance and then parking by himself. ALWAYS. Even fast food places. Even if there is an empty parking space right by the entrance. When we say, “just park, we’ll all go in together,” he gets mad.
And on the *occasions* Mom got to drive . . . he’s directing her every move as though she can’t figure out that someone’s about to cut her off, or to get in the left lane now because there’s an on ramp ahead. Dad was a maniac on the road but would get ANTSY and BOSSY when my mom took the car up to 70 on the highway.
The only time my mom drives is if my dad has had a couple of beers, and oh god the backseat driving
Ha, my mom always drives but my dad has the passenger seat set up just the way he likes it and gets pissed if someone else has been sitting in it and moving the seat forward or changing the radio.
My dad can’t hear very well in his left ear (BUT HE DOES NOT NEED TO GO TO AN AUDIOLOGIST HE CAN HEAR JUST FINE) so if he sits in the passenger seat, he can’t hear the person in the driver’s seat.
OH GOD DADS, JUST GO TO SOMEONE ABOUT YOUR HEARING, PLEASE.
He’s not losing his hearing, it’s just that everyone else started watching TV really quietly for no reason lately. Turn the damn thing up!
And everyone has started talking nonsense for no reason! They must be making jokes all the time, even when context makes that extremely unlikely, because it’s impossible that he could have misheard them!
Does anyone else get the thing where he hears fine early in the day and if he can see your lips, but by dinnertime, you realize that it’s a carefully constructed facade?
DAD’s hearing is fine. It’s just that “your mother” insists on talking to people from other rooms as if it were not physically impossible to hear words through an open doorway.
Oh man, I can relate. I live with my parents right now, and both my mom and my dad are in their early 60s and their hearing is starting to go. I spend a lot of my time at home boosting the signal on their messages to each other, making sure they heard what the other one said (often because they insist on yelling from the other room instead of coming into this one.) It’s the only way to avoid bickering starting &/or them needing to repeat themselves three times (at escalating volume).
It doesn’t help either that Dad tends to mumble to himself when he is washing dishes/working on his computer/puttering around. Sometimes it’s the radio he’s talking back to, and sometimes it’s a person in the room with him (who has learned to tune him out, but at that moment was supposed to paying attention to him), and it’s not always clear who he is addressing?
Oh god, the Dad mumbling. Constant, louder when outraged, with the faint air of reproach as if he would not have had to develop this habit if his family really listened to him. Last time I suggested that maybe he didn’t need to argue with npr while I tried to drink my coffee in peace, he exclaimed “Well I pay for it, I have the right to respond!” as if he thought the radio was a two-way device.
I live with my parents too these days. Mostly they can hear just fine, they just seem to be incapable of actually understanding what the other one means. Translation duty 24/7. I really don’t know how they manage when I’m not here.
MOMS TOO
This is also my husband, even before he himself was a dad.
Uh, I think it’s the dang ol’ patriarchy again.
That was the one that struck me, too. Only it’s not that my dad has to drive – he and my mom switch off all the time – it’s that the very idea that he could possibly be the last person to the car is so completely absurd that this would practically be my own nightmare.
We have done this to my dad. It is one of our little jokes, like carefully opening every single one of the cupboards, or moving several things one foot to the left of their correct location. It’s great, because you can hear him grumbling his way up to being mad: WHERE IS EVERYONE, WE’RE GOING TO THE LAKE, IT COULD BE THE LAST SWIM OF THE YEAR, or HOW MANY CUPBOARDS CAN YOU POSSIBLY LEAVE OPEN WHEN MAKING A SIMPLE MEAL? – and then growing silence as our perfidy dawns on him.
My sister and I are ace at applying makeup in the car because of all the times we have been dragged out before we can even put on primer.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR SHOES ON
Yup, same here. He doesn’t say anything, of course, he just waits by the door, keys in hand. Or the rest of us will be puttering around, taking our time putting on our shoes because Dad’s still in the bathroom, until we realize NOPE he’s been outside in the car for five minutes.
Actually, my mom has come the closest to the driving thing. She’s a lot more lax about it now, but when she first got her Prius she would not let my dad drive it, because he didn’t do it right.
Oh my god, Dad waiting in the car for five minutes, Dad SO ANNOYED that you weren’t ready to go ten minutes before you said you’d be ready just because he was, Dad idling in the middle of the road waiting for you. DAD NO.
Yes this this this. My Dad basically hates anything that involves getting the whole family in the car or getting us all to meet him somewhere on time. Of course “on time” for my father is 30 minutes to 2 hours early.
(He was always the one who drove, but honestly my mother doesn’t like driving much and has less stamina for it. The only trip I can recall them switching off on was a two-week road trip.)
Can one ever have too many books about Winston Churchill? (If one is a dad).
DAD wakes up and tries to make coffee, but all he can find is foofy pre-sweetened flavored coffee. He curls his lips in disgust, but knows he is unable to function without the caffeine, and is forced to drink an entire mug of the drek.
DAD is outside raking leaves, and the wind keeps blowing his pile of leaves and scattering it across the yard. He is forced to rake it up again and again, in a sisyphean labor, until he awakens.
DAD is helping his DAUGHTER move. She reveals that she has packed large boxes full of books, rather than small boxes as he specifically instructed. He throws out his back and wakes up grimacing and rubbing his lumbar region.
DAD is preparing the turkey for Thanksgiving. It turns out dry. All of his relatives whine about it, especially his MOTHER-IN-LAW. He leaves the table in disgrace and wakes up shaking with shame.
No one comments on the unique flavors of a DAD’s sourdough bread. He explains carefully about the special starter he brought back from his trip to Alaska. One of his SONs slathers the bread with crunchy peanut butter.
HAH! I can totally picture this!
Now, I’m going to have nightmares.
Much like Camus’s Sisypheus, we must imagine a DAD forever raking autumn leaves in his yard happy. Can we imagine a state of being happier for a DAD than minor outdoor manual labor in sweater weather?
Oh my God the last one would so be my Dad. He’s the only one that can actually do the turkey. My mom does the rest of Thanksgiving, but the turkey is Dad’s.
I told my dad the Churchill one and his response was “Actually, I could use some more.”
Also my dad would never voluntarily step into a Starbucks when there was a perfectly good Dunkin Donuts, 7-Eleven, White Hen (RIP White Hen), or similar nearby. (Also he buys TWO coffees at 7-11 and then puts one in the fridge for “the next day.”)
I could never get it through my dad’s head when he visited me in Boston that at Dunkin Donuts, a “regular” coffee got you one with cream and sugar. If you wanted it black, you had to ask for black.
RIP WHITE HEN. WHITE HEN FOREVER.
so much depends
upon
a White Hen
sodden with rain
without booze
My dad would never step into a Starbucks unless traveling in a benighted region without Caribou. There would be detailed grumbling.
My dad hates Starbucks with a passion but loves Tim Horton’s. My family lives about 2 hours from the Canadian border and he always gets really excited when he gets to go to Canada because there are so many chances to stop at Timmy’s.
DAD sits at a table, in front of a large, snarled tangle of fishing line. As he tries to extricate his hand-tied flies, the knot tightens and becomes impenetrable. He wakes up in a cold sweat.
My dad’s version of the last one would also involve stopping to pee at EVERY SINGLE REST STOP on the way to the beach. The horror!
I read this as “stopping to pee at every single stop sign” and momentarily wondered if you had misread “Dad Nightmares” as “Dog Nightmares.” whoooops.
Dad is forced to make frequent stops by passengers; is unable to “make some miles”
Dad is unable to leave for trip at his preferred time of 430 am, to “beat the traffic”
Someone “borrowed” his 22 piece DVD set of great air battles of WWII
Someone insists on looking at a map so he is unable to “take the scenic route” to their destination.
In the case of my dad it would be “…stops by an unfamiliar Starbucks. Orders coffee and the barista gives options.” (he just wants coffee, the normal kind, he does not want to hear about their roasts)
My dad’s birthday is on Wednesday. Maybe I should get him a Winston Churchill book. Hmmmmm.
I say again – dads can never have too many WC books
My dad’s birthday is Thursday. He’s not big on Churchill but he always needs more natural disaster books.
My dad is clearly the odd one out here, all of his books are about yoga and time management.
Dad has to watch a BBC period-piece show alone. He keeps turning to ask his wife or daughter, “Who is that?” “Why is she there?” “What does he want?” “Where are they going?” but no one is there to reply, “I DON’T KNOW – this is the first time I am seeing this.” He cannot make out the accents and wakes up, tangled in the sheets, still feeling frustrated.
Haha! You’ve met my dad, then.
DAD has to watch his favorite BBC shows but DAUGHTER is not there to turn on the subtitles and he can’t understand what they’re saying! At all!
Traveling with my dad – we turn on the TV, and the Game of Thrones episode with the Red Wedding was on. There’s the early scene, where Jon leaves the wildlings and also Ygrite.
“Why is he leaving her? Why isn’t he taking her along? Why is she shooting at him?”
Then the picture shifted to the Frey castle, and I turned off the TV. No one wants to have to explain the next scene.
DAD is watching Mad Men with family and says nothing at all the whole episode.
DAUGHTER wakes up feeling oddly peaceful even though she can’t remember her dream.
My mom does this.
Does that mean she’s a Dad?
OH MY GOD. Constant refrains of “Wait, what? Who’s that?” He spent half the most recent episode of Hannibal muttering smugly about somebody’s kidney even though it had NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PLOT.
I want to start a trend of giving left-leaning dads Clement Attlee books. Can that become a thing?
NO.
DAD goes to get his evening souvenir plastic Taco Bell cup of Diet Coke and red wine, but none of the four cases of Diet Coke in the house are cold.
DAD measures the garage at his DAUGHTER’S townhome and discovers that it is, as he had feared, slightly larger than his own.
your dad’s nightcap sounds perfect, A+ to your dad
My dad is so protective of his car because it’s standard, and NOBODY CAN DRIVE STANDARD BUT MY DAD APPARENTLY. According to my mom she used to drive standard all the time but had to start getting automatic cars because of my dad (he only has a standard now because getting a brand-new car in 2005 with standard transmission and no power-locks or -windows was several thousand dollars cheaper, SOMEHOW).
Also there is always coffee at home but he insists on buying a coffee on his way home from the gym, where he goes every day, and which is three miles from his house.
Oh my god, are you me? Do we have the same dad? Except my dad makes his own coffee.
Depends. Does your dad get cranky on holidays and family events because those are the days he doesn’t have free time to get to the gym?
Also, how much weed does your dad smoke, and does he realize nobody else has ever said “doing a bone” because of what it implies
DAD is proven wrong.
Throwback nightmare to pre-Internet days: DAD cannot find Traveling Wilburys Vol. 2 anywhere!
My dad introduced me to the Traveling Wilburys as a very young kid and I hated them for YEARS before realizing at about age 17 that they were in fact, awesome. Then I listened to “Tweeter and the Monkey Man” for approximately 6 months without truly understanding what it was about and driving everyone else in the house batshit.
My dad LOVES that album and played it on all our family trips. I used to sing along to all the songs, including Tweeter and the Monkey Man, and never understood why my mom was so tense when it was on. Actually, I’m still not sure why she got so upset as I obviously didn’t understand the lyrics. I mean, I thought a racketeer was some kind of pro sports player. You know, like tennis or badminton.
Or: DAD’s lovingly maintained early 80s record player needs a new part, DAD discovers that the only place in town that sells the part is staffed by 19 year old who is covered in tattoos and basically has an entire jewelry store on his face.
DAD is on a long drive. He pulls into an unfamiliar town, and, to his dismay, the only coffee option is the hated Starbucks, owned by the Dark Lord Of Basketball Betrayal, Howard Schultz.
DAD looks into his thermos. It is empty. He breaks into sobs.
FADE OUT
DAD enters the computer room. All teh music stuff is gone. All the keyboards are gone. There is a single tambourine lying folornly on the floor.
DAD has to lsiten to his daughter talk about computer games.When he attempts to say something about how it isn’t real storytelling, and how he knows all about it because he played the three levels of Doom he got free on a computer magazine, his mouth seals up. He is forced to listen to someone elses passion and expertise.
DAD goes to the shop, only to discover they no longer produce his brand of tobacco.
“He is forced to listen to someone elses passion and expertise.”
+10000000
A documentary did not make him an expert wise above people who make their living in that field.
Clearly you have been living inside my boyfriend’s nightmares.
That line. Oof. Gettin’ a little real around here.
After his daughter has finished talking about computer games, she starts explaining how homophobia and the problems with modern American masculinity can be traced back to the patriarchy. DAD’s mouth remains sealed, no matter how many flathead screwdrivers he stabs it with.
Do we have the same dad?
On reflection, I don’t think my dad has any Churchill (or Atlee!) biographies. However, I did just mail him two volumes on Theodore Roosevelt, and he asked for a 500-page biography of Louis Pasteur for his birthday, so I feel like he’s still holding up his end re. Dad Literature.
The scene is a mid-priced family restaurant. The waitress asks the party, “How was everything?” DAD quips, “Great, you’re a great cook.” Before DAD’S eyes, a chef’s hat appears on the waitress’s head, and he jerks awake with the words, “Thank you, I actually did prepare your meal today” ringing in his ears.
Daughter has figured out a faster way to get to a family member’s house, with fewer stops, thus beating his time
Other neighbor’s lawn is greener
I arrived somewhere faster than my dad one time and he had SO MANY QUESTIONS. WHERE DID YOU GO? WHERE DID YOU TURN? BUT WHAT DID YOU DO THEN? HOW DID YOU GET THERE? BUT THAT’S NOT HOW I WENT?
“Yes, Dad. Remember, if we went the same way, we’d have arrived at the same time? And we didn’t? Because I was here first? It’s okay. It’s a lot to process.”
I hate driving (and thus I got rid of my car) and if my boy wanted to forever be my chauffeur during the rare times I must travel by motorized vehicle I would be oooookkkk with that.
DAD receives the long-awaited Disc 3 of Ken Burns’ Baseball documentary in the mail via Netflix. It is scratched.
I vill not buy ziss Ken Burns documentary, eet eez scratched! My DVD player is full of sea urchins!
It is Saturday morning. DAD awakens to find that all of the yardwork has already been done.
The terror of a new day washes over DAD, leaving him in a state of confused paralysis.
DAD tries to make a marijuana vaporizer out of a baby food jar and finds himself somehow, incredibly, unable. He is clever and inventive and has made many things in his lifetime, the lion’s share of which have been used to smoke pot, but the baby food jar stymies him.
The check comes at the end of the dinner at Ruby Tuesdays. DAD reaches for his wallet. “But dad, I already paid,” says his daughter. She is 12, and already employed full-time at Price Waterhouse Cooper and living alone in New York City. She takes a sip of coffee and says, “I always pay. Remember?”
For my dad, the biggest nightmare here would be eating at Ruby Tuesdays, or any other “GD chain restaurant.”
“Someone has moved that paper. You know that paper. The paper that was just here. The special paper you needed but didn’t tell anyone not to move that was near the briefcase by the phone, just a minute ago.”
Ah, it’s like you were at my parents’ house with me this past weekend!
It is also completely impossible to describe this paper or the information contained on it, or to take half a second out of complaining about it to look at the piece of paper being held up by a member of your family who is saying “Is this it? Was it this paper? This one, here, in my hand, which I found near the briefcase by the phone? RIGHT HERE IN MY HAND, DAD,” in order to confirm or deny whether that is, in fact, the paper.
OK, so the last one isn’t, like, a chilling vignette meant to evoke taking dad to an adult care facility? Because I’ve come to expect as such from you, Mallory, and that’s immediately where my mind went. So tell me. Tell me it’s not the case so I can stop being sad today.
No, it’s just that dads hate letting moms drive, she said, BROADLY GENERALIZING.
DAD arrives home from work and immediately senses something is wrong. He looks at the thermostat – someone has turned up the heat by two full degrees! He wakes up, relieved to be in a cold sweat and checks the power bill.
This, times 1 billion.
Lowe’s is closed. So is Home Depot.
I’m not even a dad (well, I’m a doggy dad) and that gave me the cold sweats. What am I supposed to do, go to Ace? But they don’t have lumber!
That would be my dad’s dream, actually – his nightmare would be if our plucky local hardware store finally gave up to the Home Depot behemoth.
If my dad showed up to a local hardware store as often as he goes to HD and Lowe’s (often on the same trip out of the house) they would probably arrest him for stalking.
My dad calls it “Home Despot” because it takes over all the little guys.
My dad called it “Home Deh-pot” like a train station. He also referred to David BOO-wee (because that’s how you pronounce Bowie, MD).
Marginally related, does anyone else’s dad refer to Lowe’s and/or Home Depot as “the toy store for dads”?
Just mine?
My dad got angry last week because Lowe’s screwed up his garage door opener order and, “If I had ordered it from Home Depot, it would’ve gotten here within a few days!” He only went with Lowe’s because of the lure of free shipping.
DAD learns that his daughter has gone more than 3000 miles between oil changes.
(And I’m with @Emby. My dad was recently diagnosed with “cognitive deficts secondary to Parkinson’s” and this list gave me ALL THE FEELS.)
Thank you for reminding me that I need an oil change. (I will respect this reminder as coming from both our dads. I’m so sorry to hear about your dad’s diagnosis, I can’t imagine.)
Thanks. I feel confident that my dad’s “cognitive deficits” will have to get pretty damn serious before he stops reminding me to get oil changes.
I’m sorry to hear about your dad’s diagnosis. Good vibes going your way.
The most Dad thing my Dad does is collect nuts and screws and little bits and pieces from things he has taken apart and reassembled and keeps them in little glass jars in the garage. So I know what his nightmare was; he was REALLY upset when they stopped selling salted roasted peanuts in glass jars.
I can tell I’m related to my dad by the bucket-o-parts I’ve been accumulating in our closet.
Oh god
Your dad is Agent Gibbs, isn’t he?
I’m PRETTY SURE that the reason my parents had 4 kids is so their baby food jar collection could keep growing.
I have four siblings… IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW
Tell your Dad to hunt down the local Shriner’s Club…my GrandDad is a Shriner and we get salted roasted peanuts in glass jars by the caseful
DAD discovers that his daughter has bought a new TV with a larger screen than his. He immediately buys an even larger one, but just as he’s settling down to watch some football, his daughter calls to tell him that she’s bought a new TV even larger than that. He returns the new TV for another, still larger TV, but his daughter does the same, and so it continues, again and again and again, until, finally, his daughter is unable to fit any more TVs in her living room. DAD triumphantly logs on to Consumer Reports to find the TV that will deliver the finishing blow –
and discovers that no TVs of the size he needs to buy have been rated yet.
For my dad, a new Starbucks to explore is one of the biggest perks of traveling. See also, “Hey, let’s check out the Target in this town!” and “Oh, look, a Wal-Mart! We don’t have those back home!”
My dad burned his hand really badly this weekend and I had to strong-arm him into getting a person with a medical degree to look at it. Your hand is covered in second-degree burns, DAD, it’s not FINE, you need someone to practice real medicine on it.
(Turns out it is going to be fine, but the lesson is ALWAYS get second-degree burns on your face, hands, and feet checked out, and also it’s okay for dads to seek medical advice and not just be tough until it goes away. *eye roll*)
Oh dads – I met mine at the ski hill last weekend (where he had been sleeping at the hostel with all the youngs) to find out he had cut his finger badly, and had wrapped it in a napkin, secured by an elastic. DAD. Just ask for a bandaid.
Dad can’t get the WiFi to work, he has already finished the newest Wheel of Time book, and nothing is needed from the store.
DAD discovers that DAUGHTER (19) has Signed A Contract, and is locked into one mobile phone contract for a whole twelve months. Despite extensive questioning, DAD can find nothing wrong with this decision, either financially or legally. DAD is torn between Pride that he has trained her well and Fear that he is now redundant.
DAD is forced to sit, immobile, while watching someone else load the dishwasher. They place all of the bowls facing the wrong way.
DAD goes shopping for a new cell phone. They are all touch screens. None of them “just make calls”.
DAD turns on the TV to watch a marathon of “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives.” He is instead greeted with an endless loop of “Everyday with Rachel Ray”.
Oh god, the first one is my nightmare. I literally cannot think of anything worse.
Me too! I sneak behind my kids (who I have ordered to load the dishwasher seventeen times) and reload it. Every. Single. Time. (It’s possible that despite being a MOM I am also in fact a DAD.)
i just went back and added a dad joke to the list because you geniuses have inspired me
Thank you for adding it second-to-last so my comment still makes sense. 🙂
(The new one would also be exactly my dad if he brought back Pierre Trudeau instead of anyone.)
omg i almost put it last but then i was like ‘oh no that would make the comment girl sound crazy’
DAD cannot stand to see cherry tree with actual, fruit bearing branches and decides it needs pruning. Two hours later, a bare stump appears before him. DAD is puzzled how that bare stump got there and is later dismayed at MOM’s horrified reaction to said stump. This cycle is repeated every spring with all trees and decorative cedar hedging.
DAD is driving through an unknown territory, scanning the radio for oldies stations. There are no oldies stations.
this is also my nightmare
DAD is decorating the Christmas tree with his CHILDREN. He looks down and sees that he has no hands. His DAUGHTER will have to put the tinsel on the tree. He cannot open his mouth to explain to her how to do it. She does it WRONG.
All video and audio footage of ELVIS PRESLEY is lost forever.
The BRONCOS lose the Super Bowl, 43-8.
My family has never put tinsel on our Christmas tree, because early in their relationship my parents had a fundamental disagreement over how to do it. Compromising on when to open presents was fine, but apparently the placing vs tossing debate took it a step too far.
Someone has erased all the Solitaire games from DAD’s computer.
DAD responds to his daughter’s message, but upon reaching the end discovers that the capslock key is stuck on. When he tries to sign his email DAD as per usual, it comes out dad. He deletes it, tries again – dad. dad dad dad. His type-constructed authority crumbling, he finds the shamefully-signed email has been sent to all of his children several times. How will they ever respect him now?
(I honestly cannot figure out why my father insists on using all caps to sign his emails. Every time.)
related:
DAD learns how to read back through his text messages, realizes in horror that his phone has automatically deleted his signature on each. How will his family know who these text messages are from if they are not signed Dad?
(I have explained the whole “caller ID/contact info” thing to him many times, and have given up.)
My father-in-law writes his entire email in all caps, because he “can read it better.” The all caps= yelling thing has been explained to him, but to no avail. Luckily, all his email correspondence is with either his progeny or similarly minded men of a similar age.
DAD oversleeps. By the time he wakes up, the sun has already crested the horizon, the newspaper has already been delivered, and the coffee has already been made. Not only is his day shot to hell, but now he cannot tell anybody how he wakes up so early that he has to wait for the paper.
As my dad would say in that situation, “the day’s half over!”
“We’re burning daylight here!”
YES I came down here just to add “burning daylight.”
DAD explains old tv shows to rapt adult daughters. Sleeps more soundly than he has in years.
DAD notices that the check engine light is on in the car. The rest of the FAMILY suggests that he take it in to a MECHANIC, but he assures them he is perfectly capable of handling this himself. He gives the whole vehicle a once-over and determines that the trouble is that the gas cap is loose. He goes to the auto parts store and purchases a new gas cap for $3. He starts the car back up, but the check engine light is still on. (It sometimes takes it a while to go off again.) He waits on it for a few days; it’s still on. Just take it in to a MECHANIC, the FAMILY says. As if the MECHANIC would know something DAD does not. Then it hits him: the car’s mileage has been down. He had thought that maybe he’d been doing the division wrong in his head, but no, it all makes sense now, and it all points to one thing: the mass airflow sensor. Of course, this is a bit unexpected, since he has been changing the air filter regularly, but it’s entirely possible the last filter he installed was faulty, which caused the sensor to fail. Whoever manufactured that filter won’t be getting DAD’s business any more, that’s for sure. He goes back to the auto parts store and purchases a new filter for $40 and a new mass airflow sensor for $369.99. After a considerable time spent in the garage, the new filter and sensor are installed. But, even after a few more days, the check engine light does not turn off. Aghast, DAD secretly takes the car in to a MECHANIC, who determines in five minutes that the problem was with the oxygen sensor. There was nothing wrong with the gas cap or the mass airflow sensor. If this had only been discovered earlier, the catalytic converter could have been saved. But it must be replaced, and it costs thousands of dollars. DAD wakes, shaking with dread and mortification. He quietly goes downstairs to the garage to check on the car, just in case.
Alternatively, the check engine light is on in his Daughter’s car. DAD tells her to go fix it, she says it’s no big deal and keeps driving with it on.
DAD calls his in-laws. Voluntarily.
DAD can find socks but not sandals. DAD can find sandals but not socks.
Daughter pays someone to fix a broken thing at her house.
The TV is on. President Obama appears on the screen and announces he is officially making the United States a “socialist, communist, gun-free police state.” He stares through the screen and adds, “Unless there is someone watching at home, who could speak up right now against me. If they just yelled it right out at me – I would reconsider my position.” He pauses, and stares fixedly into the camera. “Anyone?”
DAD is frozen in his recliner, mute. He cannot move a muscle. His fingertips quiver.
President Obama sighs. “Well, I guess that’s that.”
The first one. The first one. Except really he prefers books about Hitler. Or Stalin.
SOPHIA: How is that book about WW2?
DAD: It’s not bad.
SOPHIA: Are you learning ANYTHING about WW2 you didn’t already know?
DAD: …no.
SOPHIA: Dad, what was Hitler’s shoe size?
DAD: … hmm… I think … I don’t know?
SOPHIA: Well there’s still that mystery, I guess.
Someone wants to catch a train. They insist on leaving themselves only fifteen minutes to get to the station (which is ten minutes away) rather than half an hour or better still forty minutes. They catch the train but they did not have to stand about in the cold at the station for ages. Everything is terrible.
Someone wants to catch a train. They use the WRONG website to check its departure time.
I am a mom, and in my house, I am the driver. I am the driver. My husband rides in the passenger seat and deals with the kids. I am the driver.
I love this.
‘Did I let Sue put my Lee Iacocca bio in the garage sale?? Oh wait… I have another copy.’
DAD call daughter about latest iOS update, learns daughter has already downloaded it without his help, on her iPad that is newer and better than his.