I propose Happy Hour be renamed Confusing Conversation Hour after this.

Actual excerpt from an email to sj Saturday evening:

I’m debating whether or not to blog Drunken Amy’s Dad Stories, which have the subtitles of “Amy’s Dad Talks about Ecstasy” and “Amy’s Dad Discusses Penis Sizes in Various Countries” and “Amy’s Dad Saw a UFO over the Ocean Talking to Whales, Maybe” and “Amy’s Dad Thinks All the Hollywood Stars Live in the White House Right Now for Some Reason” and “Amy’s Dad Went to an Island but When Amy Questioned That, He Yelled, ‘It Was Just the Name of the Store, Not a Real Island, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TONIGHT?'”

Obviously, my debate ended with the devil on my shoulder shouting down the angel on my OTHER shoulder.

I should backtrack a little or this isn’t going to make sense.

Dad’s in Florida until the end of the month. His cousin P. (my second cousin) is staying with him until Monday. I love P. She is one of the most intelligent people I know. She’s also HYSTERICAL. She makes me laugh until I cry. She also listens with her whole self when you’re talking to her. And gives the most thoughtful advice. She’s kind of the best.

So P. is staying with Dad for the week in his swinging mirrored condo. Apparently this means they go out for happy hour a lot, and he calls me late and is…a tad overserved. And says “IS THIS SO LATE FOR CALLING YOU?” and it’s not like it’s 1am, it’s like 10pm, so that’s not SO late. Then he tells me that P. has FORCED him, AGAIN, to go out for drinks, and what a bad influence she is, and in the background she is saying, “NO ONE FORCED YOU TO GO OUT YOU GRUMPY SO AND SO.” They get along very well. She doesn’t put up with his nonsense. And she makes him laugh the hardest. Didn’t I tell you she was kind of the best? She totally is.

So tonight he was supposed to call me at 6:30, but, no. And then I called him at 9. Not home. (SIDE NOTE! He’s staying at a condo and the owner’s name is Bob…something, I don’t even remember. I make up things when I can’t remember. Let’s say Bob McGillicutty. So my caller ID, when he calls, says “Bob McGillicutty.” And when I answer, I say, “Well! Hello, Bob!” or “Bob! Why are you calling so late?” or “Bob! I could totally be dead and you wouldn’t even know because you’re calling me like 4 hours late.” And he always laughs and says, “Bob here!” in a cheerful tone every time. Hee, “Bob here” is my new favorite.)

So he called me at a little after 10. And Dad had been imbibing with P. And also with Aunt G. and Uncle P.

“AMY!” Dad (also known as Bob) said. “Did you know that there are some places where after a certain time, LADIES DRINK FREE?”

What's a ladys? Is it like someone's name? Like Gladys? Does Gladys drink free?

What’s a ladys? Is it like someone’s name? Like Gladys? Does Gladys drink free? Is it a type of drink? Like a Long Island Iced Tea or something? This is a perplexing sign.

“I’ve heard of such things,” I said solemnly. “I have never attended one, because there tend to be people there. People who are drinking. And that leads to people who are shovey and way too loud, and someone usually spills cheap beer on your nice purse.”

“I had to pay. I am not a lady. But G. and P. did not have to pay! LADIES DRINK FREE!”

“You should have worn a muumuu. Maybe you could have had free drinks.”


Apparently Homer is not a man-person.

Apparently Homer is not a man-person.

So, since sj exhorted me to PLEASE PLEASE blog about what Drunken Dad says about the state of the world, I bring you excerpts from our conversation. Perhaps you will be as confused as I was. It’s ok. It was a confusing phone call.


Dad: P. and I saw a UFO.
Me: What? You did? Where did you see this?
Dad: Over the ocean. She didn’t even take a picture, can you imagine?
Me: You saw a UFO. Over the ocean? What did it do? How do you know it wasn’t a plane? Sometimes they’re planes.
Dad: NO. It was ROUND and then it ZIPPED and LIGHTS WENT ALL AROUND and then it DISAPPEARED.

Ooh, look, Dad, I found a photo for you!

Ooh, look, Dad, I found a photo for you!

Me: Well. That does sound like an alien encounter, for sure.
Dad: If we had a photo, we could send it to that guy you watch on TV.
Me: What guy do I watch on TV that likes aliens?
Dad: That guy that you call a douche.
Me: The Ghost Douche?

Dad: Yes, that one. We would be famous.
Me: Well, the flaw in your plan is that he investigates ghosts? So probably wouldn’t care about UFOs.
Dad: Also, remember that time he thought he was possessed by a girl ghost? Do you think he would think he was possessed by an alien?
Me: Yes. Probably a girl alien.
Dad: I wouldn’t like to watch that.
Me: No one would. Ooh, maybe the UFO was talking to whales, because they’re so intelligent.
Dad: That’s what the government wants you to believe.
Me: That whales are intelligent or that UFOs would talk to them or that UFOs are over the ocean?
Dad: Yes.


Dad: Today we went to buy teeshirts and the best mother ever bought a teeshirt for her daughter.
Me: OK. That’s nice, right?
Dad: You know all the things. You will know about this.
Me: I don’t even know half of the things, but go ahead. What do I know?
Dad: The teeshirt said “Molly is my homegirl.” CAN YOU IMAGINE? (In the background, P. is saying, “MOLLY IS MY HOMEGIRL!” in a jolly fashion. I love her.)

Me: No. Who’s Molly? Molly Weasley? I’d wear that.

Dad: Weasel? No. MOLLY, Amy!
Me: I don’t know what that means. Who’s Molly?
Dad: AMY!
Me: I don’t…is there something I’m missing here?
(I quickly Googled what this meant; it’s apparently a thing with the kids today and some sort of rap lyric referring to ecstasy.)
Me: So P. bought this for her daughter? That seems unlike her. Did J. want that shirt? (SIDE NOTE: J. is my most wonderful third cousin, who I want to adopt. She is a junior in high school and is just utter sunshine. She has a giggle that fills you up with carbonated fizzies. She’s one of my favorite humans.)
Dad: P. has iron balls. She said, “What is Molly?” TO STRANGERS! In the STORE! And no one would tell her.
Me: She bought a shirt but didn’t know what it meant? How did she even know J. wanted it? I don’t think J. does ecstasy. She’s perfection. She wouldn’t do that.
Me: I guess I am just confused why P. would buy her daughter a drug shirt? Isn’t she mad you’re talking about her right now? I can hear her right there in the room with you.
Dad: P. didn’t buy a drug shirt!
Me: What? Who are we talking about, then?
Dad: Some WOMAN! At the store! Not P.!
Me: This conversation is as confusing as talking to Gramma when she says “the old guy came to visit me” and that could refer to, like, anyone she knows, and she expects you to psychically know who she means.
Dad: It makes perfect sense to me. Is there something wrong with you tonight?
Me: I’m beginning to wonder.
Dad: Did you know people make drugs in their houses and sometimes the houses explode? P. read that on the internet.

Ka-BOOM. Goodbye, house.

Ka-BOOM. Goodbye, house.

Me: Yes. Not ecstasy, though, I don’t think. That’s meth. That’s a whole different thing.
Dad: Why do you know about meth?
Me: Well, you know me. I run with a shady crew. Always exploding their meth labs.


Dad: So what are you doing tonight?
Me: It’s like 10:30. I think I’m doing exactly what I’ll be doing for the rest of the night: nothing. I’m tired.
Dad: Good. If you go out that’s when the killers get you.
Me: I have to write a blog about penis sizes in various countries.
Dad: (chokes on something he’s drinking) I think I heard you incorrectly.
Me: I have this map of penis sizes in various countries and I’m pretty sure I need to blog about it but I haven’t decided how to do it yet.

Dad: Who tells their father something like this?
Me: I do. I do something like that. Don’t you find that fascinating? Someone took the time to make this map.
Dad: That is porn.
Me: No. There aren’t PHOTOS of the penises. Just a map with colors on it saying who has the biggest penises.
Dad: P. could find that map on her phone, you know. She’s very good with that phone.
Me: People with smartphones often are. Plus the phones are very smart. Hence the name. Did you know Canada has larger penises than America?
Dad: No. I didn’t want to know that. Also, I’m pretty sure it’s not true.
Me: I’m pretty sure it is. This seems like a very sciency map.
Dad: It’s probably because of the government.
Me: Our lack of penis size is a government conspiracy? Wow, this is wide-reaching, this conspiracy. Also, I’m very excited about my trip to Finland next year, because they are ALSO better than America, penis-size-wise, so you know I’m bound to totally have a very good time.
Dad: I don’t think you tell your father such things. Also, that’s not why you’re going to the land of Finns.
Me: No, but it’s like an interesting perk I’ve just discovered right now. China and India lose. This must make them so sad.
Dad: Are we still talking about this?
Me: Yes. It is SCIENCE! Science is INTERESTING! And AWESOME!

Dad: I hope you didn’t tell your mother about this. You cannot talk to you mother about things like this.
Me: NO. I don’t mention penises to Mom. When I do she starts muttering prayers under her breath. I worry she’s going to get a young priest and an old priest and they’re going to show up at my door for an impromptu exorcism. NICE YOUNG LADIES DON’T TALK ABOUT DING-DONGS, AMY!
Dad: No one ever said you were nice. Your mother knows you’re not nice. It’s the bane of her existence. However, I like it the most. Wait til I tell P. what you are talking about. She is not going to believe this.
Me: I think she’ll find it hilarious. She loves me. I make her laugh. Plus, I think she’ll want to look it up because it’s good to be prepared.
Dad: I don’t want to think about either you or P. being prepared for such a thing in random countries. WE ARE CHANGING THE SUBJECT NOW.
Me: Fine, but I’m just saying, if you ever want to send me to Venezuela, that seems to be the place to go. Yowza.


Dad: Did you see what your President did now?
Me: Oh, it’s hard to tell. What now?
Dad: He sent that guy to Cuba, but if we went to Cuba, we’d be arrested.
Me: Oh, that guy. Of course. If I ask what guy, are you going to yell at me?
Dad: Some rippety rapper. (The internet tells me it was Jay-Z and he and Beyoncé went there for their anniversary? I could research this more but I don’t even care that much. Unless it’s Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” I don’t care at all.)

Aw, how cute are they? Like a little honeymooning couple. With the little polo shirt and the tropical-print dress. ADORABLE.

Aw, how cute are they? Like a little vacationing couple. With the little polo shirt and the tropical-print dress. ADORABLE.

Me: OK, then.
Dad: The White House belongs to US and now all the people in Hollywood live there.
Me: I don’t…huh. What?
Dad: Why when I tell you a thing do you never believe me?
Me: Mostly because the things you tell me sound like crazytalk.
Me: Uh-huh. The real news told you that all the Hollywood stars live in the White House with the president.
Dad: YES.
Me: Do you think maybe that’s an exaggeration?
Dad: NO.
Me: I think maybe he knows some Hollywood people and maybe some have visited.
Me: Actually, that’s the President’s house, and I think he’s allowed to have houseguests if he pleases. I’m sure Ronald Reagan had Hollywood people visit. And I’m MORE than sure JFK did.



Me: Nah. We have houses. Mine’s here and it has cats in it; yours is there and it’s got trees in the backyard. We don’t need the president’s house.
Dad: If you keep your head in the sand about these things eventually you’re going to suffocate.
Me: I’ll put a straw in the sand like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I’ll be fine.


Dad: When we were at (mumble mumble) island today, P. spent way too much money. I wouldn’t do that.
Amy: How come when I was there, we didn’t go to an island?
Dad: What? There are no islands.
Amy: I’m pretty sure, even though you were being a Mumble Mumblerton, you just said you went to an island.
Dad: THAT IS THE NAME OF THE SOUVENIR SHOP. Seriously, are you ok? You’re not getting it tonight. Do you have a head injury?
Amy: Yes. This is most definitely my fault for being slow on the uptake. Maybe the cats stole my breath when I was sleeping last night.
Dad: I keep TELLING you those cats are going to steal your breath. They’re killer cats. You never listen to me and soon it will be too late. BECAUSE YOU WILL BE DEAD. WITH NO BREATH.

Soon P. will be on her way back to the lovely Capital District of New York State (she lives about half an hour from me) and Dad will be ALL ALONE so his liver can detox, I suppose. I think our phone conversations will be quieter. Much less shouting. Fewer non-sequiturs. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Drunken Dad! I will miss you and your shoutery. I raise my store-brand sugar-free fruit-punch to you. And pour some out for my dead homiez, yo. That’s what I learned you do by watching rippety rappers who live in the White House. See, Dad? I totally learn things from watching teevee. I’m not even a disappointment.

About lucysfootball

I'm not the girl with the most cake. Someday. SOMEDAY. View all posts by lucysfootball

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