Over the years I’ve jotted down conversations I’ve had with my father as they happen, saving them in a long, multi-page Google doc. I do this so I won’t forget them, and so that if I ever have to kill him I’ll be able to show them to the judge and jury as evidence. They will then acquit me without charge.
I thought I’d share a few here. These conversations took place over the last couple of years and are in no particular order.
~Dad, headed out to a dinner with his friends: This will be the second drink I've had in 40 days.
~Me: You're kidding. Why's that?
~Dad: Turns out that apnea is affected by weight, and booze socks on weight.
~Me: This is true. How's it going?
~Dad: It's been over a month, and I've lost about 3 pounds.
~Me: ...
~Dad: Yeah, fuck it.
The next day
~Dad: So it turns out the other thing that affects weight is not sleeping.
~Me: Booze helps you sleep.
~Dad: I always said you should have been a doctor.
~ Me: Hey dad, you need to get outside today. It’s beautiful out.
~ Dad, grumpy and depressed cause he’s in atrial fibrillation, a condition he’s had since he was thirty, but that wipes him out when it occurs: Maybe.
~ Me: Get your ass outside. It’s good for the soul. Not that you have one.
~ Dad: I’m too busy working on my patent.
~ Me: I’m sorry, did you just say you were “too busy?”
~ Dad: I have this patent idea for syncing closed captioning to live audio. I’ve looked and I can’t find an existing patent for it. It shouldn’t be too hard, and it’s terrible the way it’s out of sync.
~ Me: This tells me two things.
~ Dad: What’s that?
~ Me: You’re watching way too much TV, and you didn’t look on Google. It must exist.
~ Dad: I looked on Google! Well, maybe not a thorough search. I need you to do more looking for me.
~ Me: I can literally do not one more thing right now. Why don’t you victimize your other relatives. I bet (cousin) Luke and (his son) Ray would love to do this.
~ Dad: Oooo! That’s a good idea! I bet they would!
~ Me: So for right now, go outside.
~ Dad: Are you coming over to take me out?
~ Me: I can’t. I’m busy trying to explain science I barely understand to the internet.
~ Dad: How long could that take? You should have paid more attention in school. You never were a good student.
~ Dad: Why are we going to this doctor’s appointment?
~ Me: Because you asked me to make it.
~ Dad: Oh. I still think you’re being ridiculous.
Check into the hospital’s general medicine clinic, get COVID screened, he gets a yellow sticker, I get a green sticker.
~ Dad: What do these stickers say?
~ Me, pointing to his: “Wrong.”
~ Me, pointing to mine: “Right.”
~ Dad, to doctor: I’m just feeling so weak and tired.
~ Doctor: Well, you had COVID, and now shingles/zoster virus. That’s a lot for anyone in 3 months, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, especially at your age.
~ Dad: COVID was nothing. I was just a little tired for about two days.
~ Me: Dad, you had a fever for days, a deep cough, you described it as “an incredibly bad cold, or maybe the flu,” and you were really sick for a week.
~ Dad, scornfully: Oh bullshit.
~ Me, looks at doctor for help
~ Doctor, won’t make eye contact: Well you know Doctor Alonso, even on its own zoster can be really debilitating, and blindness can be associated with it in the eye. You’re not in danger of that now, I don’t think, with the treatment you’re getting, but the treatment is also tough on you.
~ Dad: COVID was nothing. Maybe two days of being tired.
~ Me: I swear to fucking god I’m going to kill you.
~ Doctor: So is there anything else you’d like to discuss?
Dad starts to get dressed.
~ Doctor: He’s doing pretty well!
~ Me: He’s a tough old bat.
~ Doctor: I have so many elderly patients with no one taking care of them.
~ Dad, who won’t wear his hearing aids: What?
~ Me: He said I should leave you by the side of the road unless you agree to wear your hearing aids.
~ Doctor: Walks away
~ Dad, tired and suddenly grumpy, looking to pick a fight: Why do you carry that stupid big bag? All you need is a wallet.
~ Me (he's referring to my new/used bougie Louis Vuitton Neverfull I love): Because it annoys you, and that makes me happy.
~ Dad: What?
~ Me, louder: Because it annoys you, and that makes me happy. Very, very happy.
~ Dad: It’s not about volume. It’s that nothing is clear.
~ Me (this is an ongoing fight about his hearing aids): And yet you hear better when you wear them.
~ Dad: True
~ Me: But instead I have to say everything three or four times.
~ Dad: Yes.
~ Me: And that’s why I carry this big bag.
~ Me: Hello dad.
~ Dad: Hello. Well. (sigh)
~ Me: How are you, Dad?
~ Dad: Well, good and bad.
~ Me: Let me guess which you called to talk about.
~ Dad: Well, there is good news, too. But first the bad.
~ Me: Obviously.
~ Dad: My phone discharged completely. So I guess the charging stand you gave me didn't work.
~ Me: Haven't you been using that same stand for months now?
~ Dad: Yes. But last night it didn't work.
~ Me: Or maybe you didn't put it on the stand correctly?
~ Dad: Sure. Blame the victim. I thought we weren't doing that any more.
~ Me: But you're talking to me on your phone. So it's charged now?
~ Dad: Yes. But no thanks to that stand.
~ Me: How did you charge it?
~ Dad: Well I fiddled with the fucking thing and put it on the stand.
~ Me: …
~ Dad: But the good news is, that food in the soft bowl you left me for lunch was really good!
~ Me: That food in the... the taco salad?
~ Dad: Yes. Really good!
That he identified a food and praised it is a big deal. When I was a kid my mother would call me and my sister over to the kitchen door to watch him dunk his bread in the roasting pan that was soaking with soap and water.
~Me: Dad, we have to talk about you and the bitch button.
~Dad: The ditch button?
~Me: The bitch button.
~Dad: The ditch button? What's the ditch button?
~Me: No, the B-itch button - the one you keep hitting every time I call you at your request to call you.
~Dad: What's a ditch button?
~Me: NO, the fucking BITCH button - the one you hit when someone calls you and you immediately send it to voicemail.
~Dad: Like digging? That kind of ditch?
~Me: Not digging. Like a female dog. Like Anna Wintour. Like The Trollop.
~Dad: Ohh, BITCH button!
~Me: Yes. You need to stop hitting it when I call you.
~Dad: I haven't been hitting it when you call me.
~Me: Yes, you have. You text me to call you, so I do, and it rings and then goes to voicemail.
~Dad: Well, that's probably Apple.
~Me: So you think Apple is arranging for you to bitch button me inadvertently.
~Dad: Well...
~Me: Hi Dad
~Dad: Hi Marj. Are you back?
~Me: Yes. I'm pretty tired.
~Dad: Want to go out to dinner?
~Me: No thanks, Dad. I'm pretty tired.
~Dad: Are you tired?
~Me: Why would you say that?
~Dad: Anyway, I thought I'd fill you in.
~Me: On what?
~Dad: Oh you know, all the things.
~Me: I see. Are all the things OK?
~Dad: I had a good weekend on the Cape. Also, I'm going to get another sleep test, because I refused to use that C-pap thing, but it turns out you breathe better if you do.
~Me: Yes, I've heard that. So dad, you OK? Can we talk tomorrow?
~Dad: You sound tired. Where were you again?
~Me: My conference, dad. I put on a conference. The one where you texted me urgently to tell me something was wrong with the car, but that it was now OK.
~Dad: Why would you do that in California?
~Me: It's a conference, dad. We move around.
~Dad: But doesn't working in California make you tired?
~Me: You're a fucking rocket scientist. I'm going to let you ponder that one.
~Dad: Did I tell you about my toenails?
~Me: If I say yes, will you not tell me now?
~Dad: But I was going to tell you about three things! One was the the Cape, let's see.... one was the Cape, OH YES! My hip. I don't think I'm going to get my hip replaced. Also the sleep study.
~Me: Well that's good, then. I'm glad you're not getting your hip replaced. Could we talk about it more tomorrow?
~Dad: But what was the third thing?
~Me: That is three things. I want to hang up now.
~Dad: My toenails! That was the other thing!
~Me: You know, other people's fathers don't call them to tell them about their toenails.
~Dad: You sound tired. You should get some rest.
And from last week’s New Year’s lunch together:
~Me: Happy new year, Geezer
~Dad: Happy new year, daughter.
Tears up
~Dad: I miss your mother.
~Me: I know you do, Dad. I’m sorry. All I can do about that is make you suffer the way she would have.
~Dad, starts choking laughing: Well you’re good at it. Do you miss her?
~Me: Well, I get along with her much better now that she’s dead, I’ll say that.
~Dad, starts choking laughing again. Brings his fists together: Crash.
~Me: Exactly. But we understood that, so it was fine.
~Dad: Well happy new year. You’re doing a good job tormenting me in her honor.
~Me: Well, I try
Morning Teaistisms
It was a certain beagle’s first snow today.
I’m here in Wellfleet, taking care of about a quarter of the million details that need taking care of before I rent the house for the first time to strangers, and let me tell you, a house turned upside down with everything pulled out from cabinets and closets is either a nightmare or a dream for a beagle puppy, depending on who you’re asking.
Ask her, it’s a dream.
Ask me, a certain kind of dream, sure. The kind you can’t wait to wake up from.
So kibble thrown onto the deck for her to scrounge keeps her on ice, so to speak, with all the digging and eating and sniffing her little heart desires, without coming up with organic matter or critters in the process.
And I, with my trusty mug of Irish Breakfast tea, can enjoy the sun bouncing off the snow and in through the windows here on the bay.
Marjie, you must write more of your conversations with Dad here! They are all hysterical! I love that guy!!!!!!
I had conversations just like this with my mother.