OK, so as you know, I’ve been very very busy. And my hours are never the same. Some days I’ll work days and the next day I’ll work nights and the next day I’ll work in the middle of the day. It’s like I’m the Sybil of the workaday world. And some nights, I have theater in the evenings (or something else, but mostly theater, I don’t have much of a life outside of theater or work) so the days get kind of long.
The people that suffer the most from this are:
- me, because often I don’t know when I’m coming or going, and I overbook myself and say I’ll be in two places at once, and also I don’t always get enough sleep so I feel like I’m something scraped off the bottom of a really gross person’s shoe
- Dumbcat, who makes the MOST SAD NOISES when I come home, like “mreoooooouuuuioooo!” and then attaches himself to my leg like he is a lamprey or perhaps a remora and I don’t have the heart to shake him off
- and Dad, who enjoys talking to me and also enjoys me having a regular schedule, and often gets confused when I call him in the middle of the day and says “what is happening, WHAT IS HAPPENING, is it dinnertime?” because I usually call him at dinnertime.
So some days I don’t get to talk to Dad and that makes BOTH of us sadface. I enjoy talking to my dad more than anyone. He always makes me laugh. Well, except when we’re shouting about politics, but since the election we barely talk about that because he just sighs deeply. You see, WHAT HAPPENED THAT DAY WAS ALL MY FAULT. (You’re all welcome.)
But over the past week I’ve collected some very important Amy’s Dad-isms for you all because I know you probably have missed them.
WHAT DAD THINKS ABOUT THE PETRAEUS SCANDAL
Dad: What do you think about what your government has done now?
Me: Um. I’ve been working a lot, not really sure what you’re referring to. Is this about Elmo? The only news I know about is Elmo.
Dad: What? What’s an Elmo?
Me: Oh, the puppeteer that controls Elmo the Muppet apparently had a thing with an underage boy or something, I don’t know the whole shebang. I’m lucky I know a little of the shebang. Or, maybe unlucky, it’s all very scandalous and a little icky.
Dad: I DON’T CARE ABOUT MUPPET PUPPETS.
Me: Oh. OK. What do we care about today, then?
Dad: General Petraeus’ sex scandal. SURELY you heard about that.
Me: I don’t know who that is.
Dad: Sometimes I wonder whose daughter you are.
Me: Well, sometimes I wonder whose FATHER you are. How do you like THAT turnabout, mister?
Dad: I do not.
Me: Thought you wouldn’t.
Dad: Blah blah General Petraeus runs the CIA or something blah blah some sort of fancy military guy blah blah had an affair and wrote eleventy-billion emails to his lover blah blah she threatened some woman she thought was moving in on him but really that woman was just a family friend blah blah and then some other military guy was dragged into it blah blah then it all came out. (I didn’t pay a lot of attention to this. Sex scandals make me sad. Also bored. WHY CAN’T YOU PEOPLE KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS. Also, if you are married, why don’t you take that shit seriously? That makes me angry. When Dad starts ranting about things like this I hear Charlie Brown’s teacher.)
Me: I don’t see how this is my government’s fault. This guy couldn’t keep his little MacArthur in his pants, I don’t know how that has anything to do with the White House. Also, what’s up with all those emails? They’re like teenagers. How old were these people? Were they using company email? That’s just stupid.
Dad: You don’t ever ask the right questions when I tell you things.
Me: There are right questions?
Dad: YES. The RIGHT question is WHY DID THIS HAPPEN RIGHT BEFORE PETRAEUS WAS SUPPOSED TO TESTIFY ABOUT THE LIBYAN TERRORIST ATTACKS.
Me: Um. I don’t…I don’t know?
Dad: IT’S A GOVERNMENT COVERUP.
Me: Of what? Sounds like this Petraeus guy was the one that needed to cover up. That was a good one.
Dad: It negates a good one if you say “that was a good one.”
Me: Nothing negates a good one. And that was a VERY good one.
Dad: You really need to think more about what your government is doing in order to hide their actions.
Me: I’m too busy for that. Can I just think about something nice, like kittens or rainbows or maybe eggnog? It’s totally eggnog season, you know.
Dad: I’ll worry about it enough for the both of us.
Me: That’ll have to do. Thanks for taking one for the team, Dad.
WHAT DAD THINKS ABOUT MY MICHIGAN SAUCE POST
Me: I was trying to call you for like an hour earlier. You were on the computer, weren’t you? SIGH DAD. We have got to get you real internet and not dialup.
Dad: I wanted to read that post about Michigan sauce you said you posted.
Me: I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you correctly. You were reading my blog? YOU were reading MY blog? My “this is too long and life is too short and also sometimes you cuss and tell people too much about yourself I am never reading this again DO YOU HEAR ME NEVER AGAIN” blog?
Dad: Well, it was about Michigans.
Me: So? Did you like it?
Dad: We need to talk about this.
(In the background, Mom said “He was laughing a LOT, Amy. Don’t you even let him scare you.” That made me giggle. Also, Dad doesn’t scare me. He’s all bark and no bite. Well, to me anyway. I’m his beloved daughter, after all.)
Me: OK. Did you like it?
Dad: You said too many things. TOO MANY THINGS.
Me: I always say a lot of things. You know that.
Dad: You told people that you had rickets. You can’t tell people you have rickets. The government will come arrest you.
Me: For having rickets? I don’t think they will.
Dad: You don’t know. The government went after Petraeus for having sex. Rickets are like sex.
Me: I’m fairly sure rickets are nothing like sex. That seems faulty.
Dad: ALSO, you told people our secret sauce recipe.
Me: I did NOT tell them that. I said it was beef in spicy sauce. How are they going to make our sauce with that recipe?
Dad: You told them FINELY GROUND BEEF. They don’t need to know that. Also, they don’t need to know it’s spicy.
Me: What was I supposed to say to describe it, “it’s unidentified meat in some sort of liquid?” That makes it sound pretty appetizing, Dad.
Dad: Also, you said I said the paper misspelled Albany. I didn’t even say that but your mother said I said that and I didn’t AND she wasn’t even home when we were talking about it.
Me: No. What you ACTUALLY said was “there are typos all in this article” and I made up the rest. To make it funnier.
Dad: Oh. Well, that’s alright then. Funny is alright. (yelling to Mom) I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T SAY ABLANY WOMAN. (Mom: “Whatever.”) Also, you said there was never a Jake. I TOLD YOU THERE WAS A JAKE.
Me: You told me there was a Jake THREE DAYS AFTER I PUBLISHED THE POST. How the hell am I supposed to go back in time and change that?
(To my loyal readers: there was a Jake. It was my great-uncle Gerald. His nickname was Jake. He actually was the one who created the recipe, then my great-grandmother perfected it or continued to make it or something like that. He died very young in a car accident and it makes my dad sad to talk about it.)
Me: Good grief, Dad, did you like it at ALL?
Dad: ALSO, you said “who the hell is Pecore.” I don’t think Pecore will like that you said that.
Me: Wait. Wait. YOU KNOW PECORE? Well? Who the hell IS Pecore?
Dad: It’s some lawyer. He’s fancy. He has your aunt make him ten gallons of sauce every year for that golf tournament.
Me: So the sauce at that tournament really IS our sauce?
Dad: Of course it is. Everyone knows that.
Me: I like that you think I know about things that I would have no way of knowing about. Why would I know that she makes sauce for some golf tournament every year? It’s not like I LIVE there, Dad. Or hang out with this fancy lawyery Pecore.
Dad: You know what was smart?
Me: Something was smart? Well, that’s pleasing, I thought we were going to tear the whole thing apart until there was nothing left. What was smart?
Dad: I liked that you said we are too poor to afford a safe. We really are. We can’t afford things like safes.
Me: I know we can’t. I’m glad you approve.
Dad: But I’m pretty sure after reading this people are going to come to your house and kill you even more than I used to think they were.
Me: Oh, probably not. But thanks for your concern.
Dad: You should probably save up for a safe! Then lock yourself in it. Ooh, or a SAFE ROOM. Like in that movie with Josie Foster.
Me: Yes. Yes, that good old Josie Foster. I’ll get right on that.
WHAT DAD THINKS ABOUT EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE
Me: So I watched the saddest movie ever. You like sad. You should get this.
Dad: I got rid of Netflix because I had seen every movie ever so I’m never watching another movie again.
Me: Hmm. You know they make new movies all the time, right? They’re not finite.
Dad: I got tired of “very long wait” for new movies. Netflix is dead to me.
Me: OK. This movie was about 9/11 and had Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock and was super-sad and there was this whole part about phone calls coming from people inside the towers and…
Dad: I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE.
Me: Um. OK?
Dad: NETFLIX AND MOVIES ARE DEAD TO ME.
Me: This is a worrisome development, Dad.
Dad: I’m an old man and I’m going to go watch The Big Wheel now.
Me: You can call it Wheel of Fortune, you know.
Dad: Could. Won’t, though. It’s a very big wheel. It’s an apt description.
WHAT DAD THINKS ABOUT DUMBCAT
Dad: What was that oof. Are you dying?
Me: The cat just jumped on my chest.
Dad: Well, you have COPD now.
Me: What? The cat is not giving me COPD. That’s not how COPD happens.
Dad: No, I saw it on a commercial. An elephant sat on someone’s chest and gave him COPD.
Me: OK, first, I think it was a METAPHOR for how the COPD made the person FEEL. And second, Dumbcat is not an elephant. He’s a cat. He’s a hefty cat, but a cat nonetheless.
Dad: You’ve got to get rid of that cat.
Me: Aw, no. That’s my good boy. He’s not going anywhere. I love him.
Dad: HE IS GIVING YOU COPD AND ALSO WILL STEAL YOUR BREATH.
Me: He’s not really going to steal my breath. He only sits on my face when I’m sleeping once a week, tops. That’s a loss less than he used to.
Dad: KILLER CAT.
Me: No. Just a spatially impaired cat. And very sweet. And soft. And filled with purrs. OW DUMBCAT I THINK THAT’S MY LIVER MY SWEET BOY.
Dad: TRYING TO MURDER YOU.
There you go! All the Dad-thoughts. PAGES of them.
(When I told him I was writing this he was all, “DON’T YOU WRITE A POST ABOUT ME. That internet will come and murder me in my sleep.” But I assured him that no, you would all not murder him in his sleep. So don’t make me a liar, internet. Don’t murder my dad in his sleep. If he’s dead, there would be a lot less hilarity in the world.)