I joke with my Sister that the butt part is why he’s such a great Dad – if he didn’t care so much, he wouldn’t bother being a pain.
Sure, there are times when we could do with a little less caring, but you take the bad (butt pain) with the good (greatness).
More than half a century together, though, and Dad still doesn’t get some things about me…
Dad’s opinions of my writing are the stuff of legend. I even led off with his most famous “dis” of me as question number one on my FAQ page.
Once he finally accepted the inevitable, he changed his tune (slightly). As with other parts of my non-understandable behavior, he looks at my writing as a commodity.
So, when I went on my GNABRT, he kept badgering me to find someone to sponsor my blog during the trip and/or sell the book I would write about the trip. (I preferred to have people buy my books; my blog is free and no, I never wrote a book about my trip).
He also can’t understand why I don’t write articles for all sorts of magazines. For money, of course.
I write when I want to write and what I want to write and that’s the short of it.
It’s not that I still read comics, that doesn’t bother him all that much since he still enjoys the newspaper funnies.
Nope, what Dad can’t understand is why I still have thousands of comics in my home that are worth money and I am not selling them.
Now, granted, book value of my comics is over $60K. Not all that much, but certainly plenty for a few Costco runs.
Actual value is substantially less. Or, if I wanted to come close, the time and effort associated with going to conventions and online sales would decimate my blissfully lazy life.
Plus, what would I stuff all those Halloween goody bags with if I didn’t have any comics left?
The second most irritating trait I have that Dad can’t understand.
Now that I am no longer “semi” retired, I do more driving of Dad and my Stepmom. Usually a couple of times a week or more.
Dad sits up front with me and my Stepmom behind him in the back. During those travels, I make Dad wear his seat belt all the time (so the car doesn’t beep) and I drive the speed limit.
A tale of two pasts:
– Dad was Sales Manager for the entire state of Florida (and some islands) for years and years. Getting from point A to point B in those days of faster speed limits and less population meant hitting the pedal on the floor hard.
– After I retired from Corporate America, I worked on my attitude to be a happy, conscientious and accepting person. I found that relaxing on the road was as simple as setting the cruise control on speed limit (even inside the city) and letting everyone else fret about racing up to red lights.
So, it’s no wonder Dad still has his need for speed. I can almost hear his teeth gnashing when I drive sanely. It gives me a wicked pleasure, I must admit.
This is the one that drives Dad bonkers. He can’t understand why I laugh all the time. Or so robustly.
First, let me say Dad has a terrific sense of humor. His jokes, though, are Depression era. Still, I gained a great appreciation for humor listening to his comedy records during weekend visits as a wee lad (33’s back then).
He had some classic comedy (“When you’re in love, the whole world is Jewish”) and some classy comedians (George Carlin). From there, my sense of humor took off (books, TV and movies).
Now, sprinkle in almost eight years of laid back South Florida retirement and that aforementioned happy attitude and I can find something funny in just about anything around me.
And I’m just as happy to show it. Call it PDL, public display of laughter. I’ve got no shame and it’s absolutely the one time I also have no self-consciousness. I love laughing.
Even if, like many other things about me, my Dad doesn’t get why.