I honestly cannot think of anyone who has met my father and doesn't find him endlessly entertaining.
Except for that one friend who thought he was a bank robber because he tends to dress in suspicious black clothing all the time . . . But aside from her, people tend to think my dad is both crazy and hilarious. Because he is. (Though he's usually more crazy than he is hilarious when you have to live with him 24/7 . . .)
My best friend Rachael and I are so humored by his everyday weirdness that, for her birthday one year, I bought her a bag of personalized M&M's that had a picture of his face on them. My mom thought it was a little strange, but Rachael totally got it. She refused to eat them so she can keep them forever.
You see, my dad sort of lives in his own little world. For one, he doesn't really like to have friends. His mantra in this regard, as Groucho Marx (and later Woody Allen) put it, is "I don't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." So most friends are out of the question because who would want to be friends with him? (The real answer is everybody, but I'm not sure he's aware of that.)
Since he therefore doesn't really have anyone else to chat with, he tends to talk to himself. Like, a lot. As I have once quoted him saying, "Yeah, I talk to myself. At least I listen!" At any given time he's usually mumbling something incoherent under his breath--that, or if he's at home, actually blatantly talking out loud. I used to ask him what he was saying, but I've come to realize over the years that I would probably rather not know.
His favorite place to talk to himself is in the shower. This is where he whistles (and he is actually a darn good whistler--like, we're talking professional quality whistling here), sings (usually songs that he's made up on his own--"Half Drank Sodas for Sale" is a classic, as his major pet peeve is when we open a Coke and only take a few sips out of it), and talks to himself, sometimes as different characters. I listened in on a shower conversation he was having with Charlie the Tuna once: "Sorry, Charlie, but there's only room enough in this town for one of us!" I have literally no idea what he was talking about, but I'm sure it was completely rational in his mind. Sometimes my whole family will just camp out outside the bathroom door and listen to him--it always promises to be a rollicking good laugh.
When Daddy does talk to people, it's usually to complain. He is one for ranting, that's for sure. (If you'd like an example, take a look at the quotes section on my Facebook. It will not disappoint.) Driving aggravates him. Going to stores aggravates him. Watching TV aggravates him. But when it comes down to it, he's all bark and no bite. "That guy cut me off! If you weren't in the car, I'd stalk his ass down and brandish a baseball bat out of the window!" "Right, sure you would, Dad." I've never seen him so much as get attitude with a cashier or a waiter--nothin'. He's like the little chihuahua that thinks it can take down the pitbull across the street: sometimes a little loud and snappy, but mostly just cute and harmless.
He likes to complain about work too, as everyone does. But he's worked for thirty years (or something crazy like that) on third shift. Third shift. I mean, you couldn't pay me enough to work third shift for three decades. Him working third shift helped mine and my brother's childhood flow almost perfectly, though: mom works during the day and entertains the youngsters/drives them to activities in the evening, we all get to have dinner together, dad works at night and picks us up from school/goes on field trips/takes care of sick children during the day. I remember it working so well as a child that it never occurred to me that other families didn't operate like that. But Daddy always took care of us, no matter if he'd had four hours of sleep or forty minutes of sleep. My mom always describes him as a good provider, and I think that's an apt description--he's always there when we need him.
Most of my friends tend to think he's some kind of CIA spy or FBI official or something, though. And there is some evidence to support this theory. No one in the family has ever been to his current place of business. I couldn't even tell you what he does; his title is "Operations Analyst," as if that isn't the most dubious thing ever. His last place of business I went to a couple of times as a kid, but all I remember is an endless row of tape slots . . . and all I remember him doing is taking tapes out of certain slots and placing them into different ones. Thinking about it now, it sounds like some serious sorcery. Also, there is the fact that my dad has supposedly worked with "computers" for 20+ years now, and yet he still types with two fingers, like a chicken pecking mercilessly on the keyboard. He also can't figure out iTunes to save his life (although with this new version, who really can). So, with these pieces of evidence in hand, as well as the fact that he is super stealthy always, I think FBI agent is probably a good guess.
Outside of work and taking care of the chilluns (pets included), my dad has few major hobbies. He likes to watch TV (with Duck Dynasty and Redneck Island being two of his favorite current shows, Seinfeld being his all-time favorite show). We often joke that if he likes a show, it's going to get cancelled, because his taste in TV is usually pretty strange. He also likes NASCAR (if you've ever seen our garage, you couldn't have missed the wall-sized mural of Tony Stewart's bright orange #20 car) and a plethora of other sports. He enjoys cooking--he almost always made the dinners during my childhood, and the guy could open up shop in his own restaurant tomorrow and make millions of dollars as the next Bobby Flay/Anthony Bourdain hybrid. But mostly, these days, he likes to run.
A couple of weekends ago, he ran his first marathon. And not just any old marathon: a trail marathon. Like creekbeds and rocks and mud and stuff. Now, this may not seem that daunting considering I told you that he likes to run; however, it helps to know that up until that point, he had never run more than maybe 15 or so miles. Definitely never 26 (point two, for you technical ones). And definitely not on trails. Needless to say, my mother and I were a bit worried that he might not make it through. We showed up to support him at the finish line, and we waited well past the time he'd ballparked that he'd be done.
He had told us that if you didn't reach the 20-mile marker by a certain time, they'd pick you up and drive you to the finish line. My mom and I sat there, anxiously hoping we wouldn't see him ride-of-shaming it in some windowless van to meet us at the end. Each time I saw a runner come into view around the last bend, I'd strain my eyes, hoping and praying it'd be him. Finally, after a total run time of about 6 hours and 45 minutes, I saw him come trucking down the road in his signature gait, one arm pumping steadily along, the other flopping awkwardly against his chest. We cheered for him as he crossed the finish line with a look of triumph. The marathon people then handed him a mini Louisville Slugger that said "Back of the Pack": he had come in dead last.
But honestly, I couldn't have been more proud of my father that day. He did something a lot of people--me included--could never do, and he did it with more perseverance than I could ever fathom. And he did it in his own way, in his own time, as he does everything else in his life. He inspired me to continue running a few times a week, even though sometimes I hate it and sometimes it's awful. He inspires me a lot in that way--always working hard, and always staying true to himself.
My dad used to be the party man, hanging out with my brother and his friends, downing mint juleps at Derby. Now he has to wear readers to look at a menu and he enjoys his "robe time" on the couch snuggling with our dog more than most things he could probably think of. But he'll always be the fun, the funny, the freak: my father. And for that, I will always love him dearly.
Happy Father's Day, ya'll!
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| Doing the Steve Zissou |
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