For the past year, my dad has been begging me to give him a Facebook tutorial. I think it’s finally time. A conversation from earlier today:
Dad: Tina, what is this Cityville?
Me: It’s a Facebook game.
Dad: Well, Angie* keeps inviting me to play. I don’t want to play.
Me: You can block the invites.
Dad: But I don’t want to not be her friend! What if I offend her?!
Me: Dad, she won’t even know.
Dad: I don’t understand Facebook! I don’t want to play on somebody’s farm. Is it like The Sims? Remember when your cousin Cara was little and she was really into those Sims characters? I thought that was silly. Cityville is like that, right?
Me: I don’t know. I don’t play Cityville.
Dad: Well, I want Angie to stop sending me these things, but I don’t want to upset her. Does she send you Cityville invites?
Me: No. But I’m not friends with Angie.
Dad: I’m going to have her friend request you, so you can get them, too!
Me: No! I don’t want to be Angie’s friend! I’ll help you block the application. I will come over tomorrow and tell you how to use Facebook.
Dad: Thank you. Just make sure Angie doesn’t find out we’re doing this because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
Me: Don’t worry, Dad.
*Names have been changed to protect those who use lame Facebook applications.
“Your mother and I found out you’ve been blogging. We don’t know what that means, but we’d like you to stop.” That damn “What People Think I Do” spoof is the latest Internet meme making the rounds. I couldn’t find a decent one for “Blogger,” so I made this graphic in the hopes that my dad will understand, well, what it is that I do. He still has dreams of me reporting in Afghanistan or writing the Great American Novel. Sorry to disappoint, Pop.
Just because I am a writer, my dad seems to think I am this amazing walking Dictionary/Thesaurus combo. He will call me just to ask how to spell “unnecessary.” I don’t mind so much, though I am still trying to teach him about Google and how if you type in any word, it will generally spell it correctly for you. I think I am just going to have to file this along with the complexities of “copy and paste.”
Dad: I bet you’re really good at Scrabble.
Me: Not really.
Dad: But you’re really good at spelling!
Me: Yea, but I don’t know all the words in the Dictionary.
Dad: But you’d know all the words in a Little Dictionary.
Perhaps, Dad. Perhaps.
My dad came over tonight for Chipotle and a friendly game of Rummy. When we play Rummy, we play for a dime a point. When one of us hits 500 points, the game ends. Tonight I won $12.50.
Towards the end of the night, I asked my dad if he wanted to help me fold clothes. I hate laundry. Hate it. I thought I would enjoy it now that I don’t have to lug it five blocks to the laundromat, but nope. Being the helpful guy that he is, of course he assisted me with this horrid chore. Immediately, I realized this was a mistake. I quickly gathered all of my undergarments and stuffed them in their respective drawers. My dad felt the need to inspect every item very closely. The white bleach spots on my 2003 Sigma Chi Assault Ball T-shirt. The perma-stains on the bottom of my workout socks. My lone pair of black panty hose that I failed to grab. Ooooh, fuuuuudge. As he turned the feet inside out, he tangled them around his neck and began to strike various poses like he was about to go into battle with the Karate Kid. “Please give me my tights back,” I begged. “Please.” And then he saw that little bit of extra fabric that all pairs of tights and panty hose have in the, um, groin area.
Dad: What the f*ck is this little area?
Me: I don’t know! All tights have it. Just give them back to me.
Dad: Why do girls’ panties have that bit of extra fabric there? Guys don’t have that in their tighty whities!
Me: I don’t know why!
Dad: What, is it to help the stench? To stop leakage? Did the panty-hose makers just have extra rags lying around and they thought they’d slap them in the crotch?
Me: Dad. Give me back my tights.
Before leaving my apartment, my dad used the restroom. Upon his return, of course he just had to comment on my lady products.
Dad: That’s some top-shelf deodorant you have in there!
Dad: That Chanel Number 5? It smells real good on my pits!
Me: DAD! You can go home now.
Dad: Why do you have so many shampoos?
Me: I like to switch it up. Shine-enhancing shampoo one day, full body the next.
Dad: Well that’s stupid.
Me: I don’t care.
Dad: I had Oprah over here for lunch yesterday, and she said that was stupid. Her friend Gayle, too.
What is most concerning is that my father even knows who Gayle is.
I wrote a funnyish photo gallery for truTV.com called “12 Dumbest Things About Moving Back In With Your Parents.” You can read it here. It features real-life experiences about my dad. He even comments via Facebook on some of the slides. Sometimes I wish I’d never taught The Ol’ Man how to use Facebook. That is all.
Today I opened the freezer at my dad’s house and found 10 Stouffer’s frozen dinners and five Cool Whip containers filled with water, also frozen.
Me: Why do you have five Cool Whip tubs filled with water in the freezer?
Dad: Because I don’t have any ice cube trays.
Dad: Let me show you how it’s done.
He dumps each tub of ice into a large plastic bin and proceeds to break up the ice spheres with a small rusty hammer. He then puts the bin of “crushed ice” back in the freezer for beverages.