Tag Archives: bad parents

FLASHBACK: DAD’S STUPID SOCKS

This is a repost:

Parts where you should giggle shall be in blue.  You may not know that these things are funny to me now; therefore, I feel compelled to point them out to you.

OK, this is a weird blog.  Especially as it’s a “flashback”.  These are particularly difficult to make funny to everyone else.  You all may think they are horrible and miserable and OMGs, but in reality, where I am now, my husband, kids, Goose and her boys all laugh at these type of things.  We have to.  It’s Darwinian.

After writing the blog from yesterday, about Elaine in a dead-end job having to purchase tube socks for her boss that were “just the right height”, it “triggered” a flashback.  Back in the earlier days of my marriage, this would have been a nightmarish trigger; now, it’s ridiculously funny to me.

One day, Dad came home, had his four or so martinis (to start), and picked me for the lucky one to argue with.  The five of us (mom and four kids) would usually duck and cover and hope it wasn’t us, but at the same time, we’d feel sorry for the person who was picked by him.

This particular argument of his with me has to be the most absurd, therefore funny to us all.  I hope you can see the humor in it.  He came home, drank, and confronted me in my bedroom while studying (a lot of good the studying did, I was a B- student all through high school).  He barged (stumbled?)  in my room, I turned around, frightened by the intrusion, and he said, “What did you do for me today?“

I was stunned.  ”Huh?”  I was 16 or so.  I thought to myself, “Crap, I didn’t do anything for Dad today, was I supposed to? ….I went to school, went to gymnastics practice, went to work for three hours, came home, and now I’m studying; now what do I say?”

So I said, “Nuthin, I was busy at school and work”.

BZZZZZZZTTT…   WRONG ANSWER.  I knew it was, my sarcasm started early.

Dad:  Did you at least pray for me?
Me: …ummm, no.  (Pray for you?  I don’t even like you.  You’re mean.)
Me:….but I didn’t pray for anyone.
Dad:  Did you do anything for anyone but yourself today?
Me:…No, I don’t think so.
Dad:  Well, then I have a chore for YOU.  Get your butt up and go measure my socks.  You should be doing something for me each and everyday.  You should be thankful there’s a roof over your head.
Me:   Measure your socks?  (Remember, I’m 16, sober, he’s a lot older, and drunk)
Dad:  YES.
Me:  How?
Dad:  Go get the GD yardstick and measure my GD socks.  (This is not said in the pleasurable conversation decibel, this is said at rock-star decibel.)
Me:  Measure them for what?  (eyes are now leaking, scared, quivering, as I’ve never learned quite how to measure socks)
Dad:  I don’t want any socks that are too GD short (s-h-r-i-l-l).

Off I went to the kitchen closet where the yardstick was kept.  I measured each and every pair of his stupid socks.  Hating him as I did so.  Can you believe it?  Who would make their kid measure their socks?  I don’t remember what his exact requirement was, but they had to be “not too short”.  That’s AMBIGUOUS for me, you know.  You all remember I don’t “do” ambiguous, right?

But, the funny part is, I KNOW how stupid it was.   And I knew it then.   And still, until this day, when I see a man cross his legs, and I see his bare leg, I know this poor man did not have a daughter who measured his socks for him.  And I have to laugh.  I laugh at my father’s absurd drunken request that I measure his stupid socks.

So the next time you see a bare leg on a man who crosses his legs, will you at least giggle for me?  And I wonder what would have happened if I wasn’t truthful – if I had lied and said, “why, of course, I prayed for you mightily today?”  Probably short socks on men wouldn’t be a trigger for me, nor would yardsticks.

Cheers,
Sarah

P.S.  Please, oh, please, laugh at the absurdity

FLASHBACK: NO WHISTLING OR TICKLING, PLEASE

There are quite a few “triggers” that immediately bring bile, fury, exasperation, etc. to me.  We (my family) can actually laugh sometimes about them now.  Tickling and whistling are both triggers for me – isn’t that a bummer?

While most families enjoy a little bit of good old-fashioned fun with a little sly tickling here and there, it’s nightmarish to me.  My  father used to think he was oh so funny by tickling me to the point where I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath.  His face betrayed his enjoyment of control.  I would try to kick and writhe my way out of his grip but to no avail.

So for something as simple as tickling, it’s a shame it’s never, ever been allowed in my house!  Our kids have missed out on it.  Or have they?

Whistling is another no-no in our house.  When my father would start whistling, the rest of us (four kids and Mom), would look at each other with knowing-wide eyes and run like the wind for cover.  ”Time for bed,” we’d all say.  Lights out!  Because this meant he was on the war path – he’d always whistle some song “Living on Jacks and  Queens”?  Marty tells me it was the theme song to “Maverick”.  This meant he was in a good mood.  But this good drunken mood would change so fast, which is why we’d run for bed, even if it was just 7 pm!

So you can imagine when I’m in a bookstore, the grocery store, THWIV, or the airport, and somebody starts whistling –  I cringe.  I think it’s rude, actually.  It’s sort of like smoking in my space.  Don’t whistle in my space, man.  You might even go so far as to say I “flip out” a little.   If Chris, Andrea, or Marty forget, and give a little whistle,  I scream, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  Then they feel awful.  It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to me.  You should pay attention while you’re out and about, you’d be surprised how many people freakin’ whistle. I think I actually hear it almost every day somewhere.

So while my dear father left me these things to remember him by, these freaky triggers, I have oh so many fun things for my kids to remember me by, right?  I’m hoping the word “blog” will be a trigger for them.  Hence, this year-plus-long blog.  I have made them promise to read some funny ones at my eulogy (along with other specific directions, such as to bury me upside down so the world can kiss my ass).

I hope I haven’t left them with any fingernails-on-the-chalkboard-triggers….hmmmmmm.  Scary thought.  I think Stromboli will haunt Chris forever.  Or rolls of hockey tape.  (I’ve been known to throw them at him in fits of anger.)  Maybe my cupcake with a bite-out-of-it hairdo (late 80s – early 90s that her friends mocked) will haunt Andrea forever.  Who knows.

But it won’t be tickling, and it won’t be whistling!

Cheers,
Sarah