June 21, 2005
Father's Day-ja Vu
Late Sunday afternoon, after lounging around the house in my boxers and bunny slippers for most of the day, I finally decided to venture out of the house to do a few errands. This in itself was a major feat - after years on the road, I've become a major homebody, often making it through the entire weekend without leaving the abode at all. Life in the fast lane, indeed.
At any rate, I was in excellent spirits as I got in my car and turned on my cell phone. Unlike most people, my cell phone is NOT umbilically attached to me at all times - it lives in my car, and I only turn it on when I'm out and about in the sleek and powerful Hell Toupeemobile. But back to the story. Shortly after I pulled out of my driveway, my phone began to make obnoxious chirping noises that I've learned indicate that it wants to tell me something. Apparently I had a voicemail waiting for me.
I pressed the requisite buttons, and soon was listening to the voice of my ex, aka The Mother Of My Child. She and I are great friends, having long ago realized that although we sucked as a couple, we're a decent pair of parents. So we've kept the family together, agreeing to both reside in the same town until our daughter was 18, sharing the ups and downs of raising her on an equal basis. It's a system that has worked well for us.
Anyway, I listened as the voice of my ex said, "Hi Keith - I just called to wish you a happy Father's Day. You're a great dad, and--"
Happy Father's Day?!? Suddenly my heart sunk. Or sank - I've never fully grasped the conjugative subtleties of that verb. In short, my good mood evaporated. I felt an imminent funk on the horizon.
It was Father's Day. It was late in the day on Father's Day. And my daughter hadn't so much as called me.
My daughter had forgotten me on Father's Day.
Ouch.
She had NEVER done that before. Not even during the rocky years of her early teens, when she barely tolerated my existence. Even then I could count on a new shirt, a necktie, or something.
Not this time. This time, nada. Zilch. To throw salt in the wound, I realized that I had spoken to her on the phone earlier in the morning, chatting casually about college registration and such. Not a word about Father's Day. Double ouch.
I felt like virus-laden poo. Quickly I examined the situation, looking for loopholes. Looking for mistakes. Looking for anything that wouldn't make me feel so patently crappy.
First of all, was it really Father's Day? I guess it had to be. I'm not much for reading newspapers or watching the news, so frankly I had no clue. This started to make me feel better. I mean, hell, if *I* didn't know it was Father's Day, how could I get upset with my daughter about not knowing, either? Then I started rationalizing. After all, I'd had a pleasant evening with her just the night before, taking her to see some friends of mine performing in a jazz trio. We'd had a delightful time - why not just call that our Father's Day celebration? And she'd been doing so well in school, and had been so caught up in the college application process - with so much on her mind, surely she could be forgiven for forgetting the holiday.
Over the course of the next couple of hours, I completed my errands, going through an entire emotional cycle: first devastated, then bummed, then rationalizing, then finally okay with the whole thing, and actually feeling bad in advance for how mortified my daughter would be when she became aware of her gaffe. I didn't want to rub it in, and started trying to come up with strategies for softening the blow.
Who wanted another lousy necktie, anyway?
By the time I got home, I had resigned myself to this Father's Day being a write-off. I greeted my betrothed, and told her she should call her dad to wish him happy Father's Day, having presumed correctly that she too had been unaware of the date.
But wait a minute. Not only was she unaware of it, she was pretty sure it wasn't Fathers' Day. No, she was pretty sure Fathers' Day was next week.
Up to the highly sophisticated Hell Toupee Computer Lab we raced, where we Googled and Yahooed and Outlooked, and - lo and behold - it wasn't Father's Day after all. (I neglected to mention at the beginning of this post that the Sunday afternoon in question was that of June 12, which - even by Rocky Mountain Standard Time - was nowhere near Father's Day.)
My well-meaning ex had just put me through an intense emotional rollercoaster ride, all for naught. And not even intentionally. Not even in a War of the Roses way from which she could draw some perverse satisfaction - we're really not like that, much to the consternation of most of our divorced friends. We genuinely like each other - perhaps partially due to the lack of calendar awareness we apparently both have in common.
As for my daughter, she thought the whole thing was hilarious, and orchestrated a marvelous - and chronologically accurate - Father's Day celebration a week later.
And yesterday morning on my way to work (again after a homebound weekend), my cell phone began chirping. Sure enough, it was my ex. She had called on Sunday to wish me a happy Father's Day - once again, with feeling.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Redux
More first lines of unwritten novels from the mind no literary agent has yet dared to embrace:
In Other News
Keep an eye out for the next Sharper Image catalog. Now that scientists have determined that a device called a brain scanner can determine whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm, I suspect that soon every self-respecting bachelor living in a black-leather-and chrome-appointed swinging bachelor apartment will own one of these devices, making the brain scanner an appliance every bit as crucial to the bachelor lifestyle as the all-important stereo system or plasma TV. Remember, you heard it here first.
The Daily Haiku
A poem about self-imposed ignorance:
Recommended Reading
The Moment She Was Gone - Evan Hunter
A chilling account of mental illness, showing a depth and a darkness you may not expect from this author. This ain't the 87th Precinct. But it's a great read.
At any rate, I was in excellent spirits as I got in my car and turned on my cell phone. Unlike most people, my cell phone is NOT umbilically attached to me at all times - it lives in my car, and I only turn it on when I'm out and about in the sleek and powerful Hell Toupeemobile. But back to the story. Shortly after I pulled out of my driveway, my phone began to make obnoxious chirping noises that I've learned indicate that it wants to tell me something. Apparently I had a voicemail waiting for me.
I pressed the requisite buttons, and soon was listening to the voice of my ex, aka The Mother Of My Child. She and I are great friends, having long ago realized that although we sucked as a couple, we're a decent pair of parents. So we've kept the family together, agreeing to both reside in the same town until our daughter was 18, sharing the ups and downs of raising her on an equal basis. It's a system that has worked well for us.
Anyway, I listened as the voice of my ex said, "Hi Keith - I just called to wish you a happy Father's Day. You're a great dad, and--"
Happy Father's Day?!? Suddenly my heart sunk. Or sank - I've never fully grasped the conjugative subtleties of that verb. In short, my good mood evaporated. I felt an imminent funk on the horizon.
It was Father's Day. It was late in the day on Father's Day. And my daughter hadn't so much as called me.
My daughter had forgotten me on Father's Day.
Ouch.
She had NEVER done that before. Not even during the rocky years of her early teens, when she barely tolerated my existence. Even then I could count on a new shirt, a necktie, or something.
Not this time. This time, nada. Zilch. To throw salt in the wound, I realized that I had spoken to her on the phone earlier in the morning, chatting casually about college registration and such. Not a word about Father's Day. Double ouch.
I felt like virus-laden poo. Quickly I examined the situation, looking for loopholes. Looking for mistakes. Looking for anything that wouldn't make me feel so patently crappy.
First of all, was it really Father's Day? I guess it had to be. I'm not much for reading newspapers or watching the news, so frankly I had no clue. This started to make me feel better. I mean, hell, if *I* didn't know it was Father's Day, how could I get upset with my daughter about not knowing, either? Then I started rationalizing. After all, I'd had a pleasant evening with her just the night before, taking her to see some friends of mine performing in a jazz trio. We'd had a delightful time - why not just call that our Father's Day celebration? And she'd been doing so well in school, and had been so caught up in the college application process - with so much on her mind, surely she could be forgiven for forgetting the holiday.
Over the course of the next couple of hours, I completed my errands, going through an entire emotional cycle: first devastated, then bummed, then rationalizing, then finally okay with the whole thing, and actually feeling bad in advance for how mortified my daughter would be when she became aware of her gaffe. I didn't want to rub it in, and started trying to come up with strategies for softening the blow.
Who wanted another lousy necktie, anyway?
By the time I got home, I had resigned myself to this Father's Day being a write-off. I greeted my betrothed, and told her she should call her dad to wish him happy Father's Day, having presumed correctly that she too had been unaware of the date.
But wait a minute. Not only was she unaware of it, she was pretty sure it wasn't Fathers' Day. No, she was pretty sure Fathers' Day was next week.
Up to the highly sophisticated Hell Toupee Computer Lab we raced, where we Googled and Yahooed and Outlooked, and - lo and behold - it wasn't Father's Day after all. (I neglected to mention at the beginning of this post that the Sunday afternoon in question was that of June 12, which - even by Rocky Mountain Standard Time - was nowhere near Father's Day.)
My well-meaning ex had just put me through an intense emotional rollercoaster ride, all for naught. And not even intentionally. Not even in a War of the Roses way from which she could draw some perverse satisfaction - we're really not like that, much to the consternation of most of our divorced friends. We genuinely like each other - perhaps partially due to the lack of calendar awareness we apparently both have in common.
As for my daughter, she thought the whole thing was hilarious, and orchestrated a marvelous - and chronologically accurate - Father's Day celebration a week later.
And yesterday morning on my way to work (again after a homebound weekend), my cell phone began chirping. Sure enough, it was my ex. She had called on Sunday to wish me a happy Father's Day - once again, with feeling.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Redux
More first lines of unwritten novels from the mind no literary agent has yet dared to embrace:
After one too many tacos, Major Jackson was surprised to learn that projectile vomiting could be used as a form of propulsion in the zero-gravity environment of the space station.
* * *
I remember it like it was yesterday, although I was drunk most of the day yesterday, so I don't really remember much about that day other than at one point I threw up on the patio - which was gross, but at least it was outdoors - but anyway, this thing I remember so well doesn't involve any vomiting, and is vivid enough in my mind that it's safe to say I remember it like it was, say, the day before yesterday, the greater portion of which I remained sober, so I remember it pretty well.
* * *
As Lyle stood up to greet the IRS auditor, he watched as her eyes drifted downwards, and cursed himself again for getting his Viagra and his allergy medicine mixed up.
* * *
After a quick glance at the dead literary agent's body, the detective skimmed the letter he had found, and said to his partner, "Apparently the last thing this guy saw before he killed himself was this letter that's addressed to him, from some guy who wants him to read his fiction novel."
In Other News
Keep an eye out for the next Sharper Image catalog. Now that scientists have determined that a device called a brain scanner can determine whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm, I suspect that soon every self-respecting bachelor living in a black-leather-and chrome-appointed swinging bachelor apartment will own one of these devices, making the brain scanner an appliance every bit as crucial to the bachelor lifestyle as the all-important stereo system or plasma TV. Remember, you heard it here first.
The Daily Haiku
A poem about self-imposed ignorance:
On Why I Don't Watch the News
Suicide bombers.
Paris Hilton. Oh, and now
Tom Cruise is in love.
Recommended Reading
The Moment She Was Gone - Evan Hunter
A chilling account of mental illness, showing a depth and a darkness you may not expect from this author. This ain't the 87th Precinct. But it's a great read.
