$#!* My Dad Says

My dear ol' Dad's Birthday recently passed with little fanfare and even less hoopla.  To celebrate his special day, I dedicate this blog to all things "Dad".  Specifically... (To borrow the title of a well-known book and cancelled TV show) ...

$#!* My Dad Says 

Dear Pops is a poet in his own right.  He has a certain way with words.  Note, I didn't say the right way with words, just a certain way with them.  They are usually well intentioned, but are always convoluted and head-scratching.  A modern day Confucius, I'd like to share with you some of my Father's pearls of wisdom throughout the years:

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"It'll Lubricate Your Joints" - As a child growing up in the 1980's, my family was by no means wealthy.  We always had clothes to wear, we never worried about where we were going to sleep, and we always had something to digest.  Herein lies the rub.   

The "food" my father purchased was classified as food only in the vaguest of terms.  It was food-like.  It was no longer moving.  It resembled something similar to meat, without having to follow all of those pesky USDA grades.  In essence, it was cheap. 

The "steak" that my Dad would make (for he was the primary "chef" in the household) was made primarily of bone, fat, gristle and a thin-strip of pinkish meat.  Try as you might, no amount of steak sauce was going to cover up the taste of this travesty.  Cows all over the land hung their head in shame to be labeled in the same category as this substance.   

As the plates were placed before my brother and me, my face would immediately turn in to a grimace and my hands would silently pat my lap to summon the family dog.  I'd cut along the narrow path between the bone, fat, and gristle to slice off the bit of meat that remained. This exercise took precision and readied me for a lucrative career in micro-surgery, should I have chosen to pursue it.   

Pushing the pile of gook to the side, I'd chew my millimeter of "meat" and declare my meal completed.  My father, spendthrift and gourmand that he is, would declare, "Finish what's on your plate or no Muppet Show for you."  To which I would reply, "I have!  The rest is fat." 

To which the famous line was uttered, "Eat the fat.  It'll lubricate your joints!" 

'Cause every 8 year old girl is interested in keeping her joints lubricated. 

 



"Just Try One Bite..." - In staying with the dining theme, my Father was also always big on trying new "delicacies".  I'm not speaking of unique dishes from around the world, or exciting spices that aren't used in typical American fare.  I'm speaking more along the lines of Gross-Out Food.  Such as, cow tongue, pigs knuckles, some sort of brain, pickled whatever's, etc. 

No special meals were cooked in my Parent's house.  It also wasn't a democracy.  For instance, if you didn't like what was cooked, there was no option to say I'm not eating that.  Oh no.  You'll eat what is placed in front of you.  The motto was "Take what I give you and eat what I serve you."  This included cow tongue.

The slab of blech was staring at you from your plate.  The mere thought of what it was, bringing up thoughts that shouldn't be thought of during a dining experience.  Thank God for my Mom.  After awhile she would invariably say, "James.  The kids do not have to eat this."  To which he would ultimately respond, "Just try one bite..."

'Cause every 8 year old really wants to take "just one bite" of another beings tongue. 

 

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"Pipe Down Over There" - My family vacations were usually spent in a car, hauling our trailer to whichever destination my Mom chose.  We had a blast and looking back it was the most fun I ever had.  The stories of my vacations have been well documented in this blog, but there are oh so many more stories to tell.

For the earlier parts of our camping trips, we had a Pop-Up Tent Trailer.  One that flattened down like a pancake, but would rise up with a crank and branch out on opposite ends, to create sleeping spaces. 

Now my mind is a little hazy with this one, regarding the timing of events, however my brother and I must have been laughing at one end of the trailer, with my mom sitting in the middle dining area.  I know my father was stationed at the other end of the trailer, trying to sleep.  I suppose we were having way too much fun and giggling over something inevitably childish and silly. Being as we were children and silly.  Well, the noise just got too much to handle for the old man, and he bellows from the depths of his rounded belly, "Pipe Down Over There!"  My brother and I just about peed in our pants.

'Cause every 8 and 11 year old are told to "pipe down" in 1983.

 

"Goddamn Son of BLEEP Rocks!" - My parents have lived in their house for over 40 years.  It's a beautiful property with a pond, a pool and a large front and backyard.  Every year for as long as I can remember, they have grown a vegetable garden.  And for at least the last 10 years, my Dad and I have decorated their house for various Holidays with blow-up figures or lawn ornaments that stick in to the ground.

Every year, for as long as I can remember, my father has been swearing at the Earth that stands beneath his feet; swearing up a storm of profanities my innocent ears should not bear witness to.  He is confounded.  Truly and utterly befuddled how there are any rocks left on his property.  After years of turning over gardens and placing decorations in generally the same spot, he is still stymied by the rock, stone or boulder.

As I stand outside in the bitter cold, untangling nylon ropes that are to attach into hooks twisted into the ground, my father begins his rant.  As Winnie the Pooh or the 6 foot Polar Bear begin to inflate, so does my Dad's annoyance at his godforsaken land.

"Godamn Son of $#!* Rocks", he explodes.  "[Expletive Deleted]", he swears. "[Expletive Deleted]", he finishes.

'Cause every adult woman loves to see her Pop struggling to put up kiddie Christmas decorations, or a giant inflatable turkey while cursing like a sailor.  Ahh, the Holidays.

***

 

"You're Not THAT Fat" - To emphasize the point that my Father is unique in the words that he chooses, or when he chooses them, I offer you this tidbit of goodness. 

A few years ago, I was chitchatting with my Dad about nothing in particular.  I had put on some weight, to be honest, and wasn't feeling especially pretty.  Now, I should have known better than to go to my Dad for a pep talk about my appearance insecurities.  This, the man who thinks wearing white tube socks pulled up mid-calf with black sneakers and cargo shorts in the epitome of fashion.  This, the man who thinks wearing a button down shirt with a pirate face logo is being "fancy schmancy".  Yet, I confided in my Father about feeling low and uncomfortable in my skin.

His reply was a heartwarming response of, "You're not THAT fat."

'Cause every woman feels just AMAZING after hearing those words. 

 

***

Now, there are so many more Dad-isms that could be shared:  his constant mispronunciation of words (I dare you to ask him to pronounce "Guru" or "Stigmata"), his complete inability to retell a story or relay a message accurately, his love of making us squirm as children by saying he was eating "smoked butt". 

I can say without any hesitation that I know no other man in the world like my father.  He is a one of kind guy.  A guy I am honored to call My Dad.

With Love

Lady Butterfly

xoxo