My dad is a generous man. He delivers as much food to his clothing as he does to his mouth. For this reason, I’ve been on his case, throughout my stay, about eating on the living room furniture. I just don’t like it. Miles will attest that I do not tolerate that in our home, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been rebelling with me not there. Insufferable.
Last night, I was eating an individual-sized pack of yogurt. I was pacing while I ate it, and pacing through the living room in front of my father no less. I think my brain took a momentary hiatus on that one. He was quick to sneer, “Are you eating in the living room?” in a sandpapery, grating, irritating imitation of yours truly—if that’s what he thinks my voice actually sounds like, I’m seriously offended!
My brain was still off sipping margaritas on the beach while I was grunting by way of come back. Eventually, I thought to point at his sweatshirt, comprised with the stains of dinners past and present. I said, “I don’t have a single shirt in my wardrobe that looks so stained! I practice hand-to-mouth coordination!”
Dad, sensing that my brain was 3 sheets to the wind and too busy learning the limbo to win this battle, declared, “These are job-related stains!”
My brain came back to me then, but it was hung over and of poor humor. Happily, Charlie came to my rescue: “Yep. Belly down in the pizza patch. It’ll do it to ya every time.”
Oh! I almost forgot! I unearthed a picture of Mom and me from Christmastime: