TM-challenge: Write about your father
Hank the Great
I think it's usually pretty hard to explain the relationships we have with our parents in, you know -- words. Better to draw a little picture.
So this is me last, week, dragging my tired ass home from this miserable stupid women-in-the-media seminar. I'm bundled up in my coat and hat and scarf because -- February. Boston. And there's a couple girls from the class going to Starbucks, and they actually stop and ask if I want to go with them (they know my name and I think they kind of feel sorry for me because of the way the witch nailed me about the reading which I had done almost all of, but that didn't mean I understood it). But I said thanks, no thanks, I'd been working late -- I'm kind of vague about my job and I think they all think I'm a stripper or I work a late night phone sex line. And the truth is I had been working late, as usual, but I mostly wanted to get home and curl up in my cubbyhole sized apartment, put on a fuzzy sweater, drink some cocoa + eggnog, and watch the figure skating finals from Torino.
And then my pocket started shaking, and it took me forever to find the phone, what with gloves and all, and I finally pushed the button, and said , "Hi, Dad!" and he said, "Hi, Buffy!" and before I can stay anything else, he says, "What do you think about that little Japanese girl getting the gold?"
I guess I kind of screamed. I know I threw the phone. I guess it hung itself up and it was lying there in the half-melted snow and I was just glaring at it. And people were staring at me, and then it lit up and starting playing "Flashdance" and I considered pretending that I didn't belong to it, and walking off and getting a new phone and not telling my father the number. But I decided to be a big girl, and I picked up the phone, and he said, "Sweetie, what's wrong? I was about to call the police."
And was like, "The SPOILER police?" and he was like, "What? I saw it on the news so I thought . ."
And then I had to explain about time zones and how the skating already happened in Italy but some of us in America wanted to wait and find out, and somehow in the process of trying to explain this I sort of ended up sobbing on the phone, there in the middle of the quad. This ended up with Dad falling all over himself to apologize, and somehow now I'm supposed to go to a Billy Joel concert down in Washington in March (and this won't be an excuse for forced quality time with "Trish" or thinly veiled hints about internships I should apply for. Oh no.)
He wouldn't hang up until I said I would forgive him, and there I was crying in the middle of the quad until this guy Bret or Brad or something from my class asked what was wrong and if I wanted to go to Starbucks. So then I went in with him, because it was better than standing in the cold and my TV plans were pretty ruined, anyway. And then the two girls from class gave me dirty looks because they thought I ditched them for Brent, and Brent got to hear the entire pathetic story of Buffy and her lame dad and how much men suck, and let me tell you, he didn't even try to get my phone number after that.
OK, maybe this story doesn't explain much at all. Rewind. Start over. Winter 2002, I'm living in Sunnydale, half-orphan and college dropout, working the late shift at Doublemeat Palace, smack in the middle of the ultimate Bad-Idea relationship (no offense to the, um, Bad-Idea himself. It wasn't you it was me, cookie dough, etc. I feel like I've been down this road already this week). The phone rings and it's Dad calling from Europe, and he wants to ask me what I think of the French judge and what a travesty it was. Up until that point, I didn't even remember there was an Olympics that year. I think we'd had the cable disconnected by that point. I seriously thought he was talking about terrorism or something, seeing as the three calls in the past six months had been about how we needed to buy duct tape and stockpile antibiotics, and maybe move to Spain with him, only take a boat. But no, he thought I might want to talk about figure skating. And then I realized that every, you know, non-functional conversation we'd had since he moved out of the house was about figure-skating. After he and mom split, he used to send me anything he could find with skates on it -- books about skating, and dolls, and posters, and calendars. I thought it was kind of lame, but cute, and at least he remembered something that I liked. Since I got that call last week, though, I'm not so sure. It feels more like -- he walks around forgetting he even has kids. Then suddenly he sees a skate and it triggers his brain -- oooh, hey, Buffy! I have a Buffy! Let me call her and ruin her TV-night!
I don't know, maybe that's not fair. I hate to feel like I'm being unfair to him, and it's pretty easy to run him down because of that long time when I didn't see him at all. But he did offer for me and Dawn to come live with him. I just -- couldn't leave Sunnydale. And he wasn't going to come there. His business is really complicated, I know that. So, sure, he could have been more forthcoming with money, but he said it was always tied up in investments. He's a -- venture capitalist? Is that right? NOT a professional gambler and/or gigolo, despite what Todd likes to speculate. And, to come back to that being fair -- his business is doing pretty well right now, and he's helping me out with school. Which I'm repaying by sucking at school.
God, this is a depressing entry. Sorry. I'll try to come back with more pastry metaphors next time around.
I think it's usually pretty hard to explain the relationships we have with our parents in, you know -- words. Better to draw a little picture.
So this is me last, week, dragging my tired ass home from this miserable stupid women-in-the-media seminar. I'm bundled up in my coat and hat and scarf because -- February. Boston. And there's a couple girls from the class going to Starbucks, and they actually stop and ask if I want to go with them (they know my name and I think they kind of feel sorry for me because of the way the witch nailed me about the reading which I had done almost all of, but that didn't mean I understood it). But I said thanks, no thanks, I'd been working late -- I'm kind of vague about my job and I think they all think I'm a stripper or I work a late night phone sex line. And the truth is I had been working late, as usual, but I mostly wanted to get home and curl up in my cubbyhole sized apartment, put on a fuzzy sweater, drink some cocoa + eggnog, and watch the figure skating finals from Torino.
And then my pocket started shaking, and it took me forever to find the phone, what with gloves and all, and I finally pushed the button, and said , "Hi, Dad!" and he said, "Hi, Buffy!" and before I can stay anything else, he says, "What do you think about that little Japanese girl getting the gold?"
I guess I kind of screamed. I know I threw the phone. I guess it hung itself up and it was lying there in the half-melted snow and I was just glaring at it. And people were staring at me, and then it lit up and starting playing "Flashdance" and I considered pretending that I didn't belong to it, and walking off and getting a new phone and not telling my father the number. But I decided to be a big girl, and I picked up the phone, and he said, "Sweetie, what's wrong? I was about to call the police."
And was like, "The SPOILER police?" and he was like, "What? I saw it on the news so I thought . ."
And then I had to explain about time zones and how the skating already happened in Italy but some of us in America wanted to wait and find out, and somehow in the process of trying to explain this I sort of ended up sobbing on the phone, there in the middle of the quad. This ended up with Dad falling all over himself to apologize, and somehow now I'm supposed to go to a Billy Joel concert down in Washington in March (and this won't be an excuse for forced quality time with "Trish" or thinly veiled hints about internships I should apply for. Oh no.)
He wouldn't hang up until I said I would forgive him, and there I was crying in the middle of the quad until this guy Bret or Brad or something from my class asked what was wrong and if I wanted to go to Starbucks. So then I went in with him, because it was better than standing in the cold and my TV plans were pretty ruined, anyway. And then the two girls from class gave me dirty looks because they thought I ditched them for Brent, and Brent got to hear the entire pathetic story of Buffy and her lame dad and how much men suck, and let me tell you, he didn't even try to get my phone number after that.
OK, maybe this story doesn't explain much at all. Rewind. Start over. Winter 2002, I'm living in Sunnydale, half-orphan and college dropout, working the late shift at Doublemeat Palace, smack in the middle of the ultimate Bad-Idea relationship (no offense to the, um, Bad-Idea himself. It wasn't you it was me, cookie dough, etc. I feel like I've been down this road already this week). The phone rings and it's Dad calling from Europe, and he wants to ask me what I think of the French judge and what a travesty it was. Up until that point, I didn't even remember there was an Olympics that year. I think we'd had the cable disconnected by that point. I seriously thought he was talking about terrorism or something, seeing as the three calls in the past six months had been about how we needed to buy duct tape and stockpile antibiotics, and maybe move to Spain with him, only take a boat. But no, he thought I might want to talk about figure skating. And then I realized that every, you know, non-functional conversation we'd had since he moved out of the house was about figure-skating. After he and mom split, he used to send me anything he could find with skates on it -- books about skating, and dolls, and posters, and calendars. I thought it was kind of lame, but cute, and at least he remembered something that I liked. Since I got that call last week, though, I'm not so sure. It feels more like -- he walks around forgetting he even has kids. Then suddenly he sees a skate and it triggers his brain -- oooh, hey, Buffy! I have a Buffy! Let me call her and ruin her TV-night!
I don't know, maybe that's not fair. I hate to feel like I'm being unfair to him, and it's pretty easy to run him down because of that long time when I didn't see him at all. But he did offer for me and Dawn to come live with him. I just -- couldn't leave Sunnydale. And he wasn't going to come there. His business is really complicated, I know that. So, sure, he could have been more forthcoming with money, but he said it was always tied up in investments. He's a -- venture capitalist? Is that right? NOT a professional gambler and/or gigolo, despite what Todd likes to speculate. And, to come back to that being fair -- his business is doing pretty well right now, and he's helping me out with school. Which I'm repaying by sucking at school.
God, this is a depressing entry. Sorry. I'll try to come back with more pastry metaphors next time around.