What I Did On Father's Day

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
1

I woke up to the alarm going off a little earlier than I’d hoped. “Done sleeping! Done sleeping! Done sleeping!” I tried to engage the “snooze” function, “It’s too early! Go back to sleep!”, but it didn’t take. “Done sleeping NOW!” I don’t think Katcha’s really my kid. He keeps getting up early.

Since Father’s Day is on Sunday, we had pancakes for breakfast. We have pancakes for breakfast every Sunday. Except those Sundays we don’t. But the Sundays we don’t have pancakes for breakfast are far outnumbered by the Sundays we do. If the Sundays we don’t have pancakes even got into a big fight with the Sundays we do have pancakes, the Sundays we don’t have pancakes would be pretty much screwed. So they’d better watch their steps if they know what’s good for them.

After breakfast I scored my Father’s Day loot. You know it’s a good day when you get pancakes and loot. Every day should start like that. Why, there are only one or two things that would be better than that, but modesty forbids me from mentioning what they would be. You could probably figure it out on your own anyway. My Father’s Day loot was a really cool hand-crafted mug. It’s nice. Professionally hand crafted and dishwasher safe. Katcha has nice taste in gifts, even if he won’t stay asleep. Soupo got me a key chain/ zipper pull thingy. It has a little compass built in and a thermometer. In both Fahrenheit and Celsius. Or Centigrade, one of the two. It even has a windchill chart on the back. It’s very nice, and Soupo picked it out all by himself. I also got a new dining fly for camping and to put over the boys’ pool when it warms back up and we fill it back up and they get to get in it again. Only I had to pick it out myself and put it in the cart and then pretend I forgot all about it. Sort of a gift from me to me.

Dad got a gift from him to him this year too. Only he didn’t get a dining fly for camping. He doesn’t camp. He got a brand spankin’ new Honda Goldwing. It still has the new motorcycle smell. Only since it’s a motorcycle and all, you got to get real close to smell the new motorcycle smell. But it’s there, trust me.

We, the kids, got him, Dad, the last 30 years of National Geographic on CD ROM. Now he can throw a few of them away. (Yeah, that’s going to happen. But it does make up for that one that got cut up for a school report.) I think it’s almost as good as his new motorcycle. OK, it’s not even close, but it’s the thought that counts. Really, it’s the thought.

After breakfast and my loot, I girded my loins and prepared to do battle with my floral nemesis. (Actually, technically my loins were already girded. You can’t have breakfast with ungirted loins with kids around. Although there would be more pancakes for me that way. Hmmm… No, no you can’t do that.) (And that got me thinking. Right now, I was just thinking: If it’s my floral nemesis, that would be “floral” from “flora” meaning “plants”, but if it were just one plant, would it be “florum”?)

The backyard backs up into woods. This is nice in that we have a good place to dump our leaves in the Fall. Since my mower is a mulcher, I don’t have to throw the grass clippings anywhere, but if I needed to, you know where they’d go. It’s OK, it’s called “organic composting”. Really. But the downside to the woods thing is there are some 1,000 year old wild grape vines growing back there. They grow over the shrubby trees and smack me in the face when I mow. This is not to be stood for, so I don’t. I take my 3" bypass loppers (that’s what it said on the tag when we bought them, but they’re really like 3 feet long) and lop off and bastard grape vine in face-smacking distance. Then, just to teach the evil grape vine a lesson, I cut some more off.

If I wanted to do a thorough job of it (and I do, I really do), I’d take a chainsaw and a flamethrower back into the woods and get the bastard wild grape vines at their roots. But to do that, I’d need a bucket of DDT too, because there are some big, ugly assed bugs back there. (Their faces are pretty ugly too, if you were wondering.) But hey! I’d have the flamethrower… that’s way more environmentally sound than DDT. Hmmm…

I know what I’m asking for next year for Father’s Day. A flamethrower. And it’s good all year long. In the summer you can use it for gardening and keeping away pesky bugs. In the winter you can use it to clear the snow from your driveway. I’ll have to start dropping subtle hints now.
-Rue.

2

A flamethrower? Can I be there when you run this idea past the Little Woman? Please?!?!?

My dad got a phone call for Father’s Day. My FIL got an afternoon on the boat (dang, it was HOT on the water yesterday) Hubby got nothing - the Less-Than-PerfectChild forgot all about it. :eek:

3

Great! Now I have this picture in my head of Rue naked, sitting on a Harley and looking up a bug’s ass. Ok, the naked, sitting on a Harley picture is kind of a turn on but the bug’s ass, well, that’s just gonna haunt me! :eek:

4

Dang telemarketers! Can’t leave you alone for even one day! Oh wait… you meant YOU called your Dad. Oh. Well, that’s different.

And not a Harley, swampy. The leather you have to wear on a Harley makes me break out. (But I’d be naked so… no, no, no, mustn’t give in to the Dark Side…) Just a Honda, a big ol’ Honda.
-Rue.

5

Well that’s certainly the nicest present I’ve heard of yet… at least until next year’s wish comes true. Don’t forget that flamethrowers are especially nice for dove season as well.

6

Happy Father’s Day, Rue! I got a book of noodle recipes (I think that I’m supposed to make them?) and a package of raisinettes and microwave popcorn. Also some cards and pictures of the kids. All at 7:30 am, which was okay because I was up to open the cards anyway.

7

Happy Father’s Day, Rue. My old man got a gift card to Blockbuster, and the FIL and grandfather got cards. I threw a couple of instant lottery tickets into the card for the FIL, since he likes to play the lottery. I’m hoping that if he wins the $25,000 big prize he’ll remember who gave him the ticket.

Oh yeah, they all got phone calls too. Not FairyChatMom’s phone call, because they don’t know her, and phone calls from strange women probably wouldn’t have gone over very well. I learned that after the infamous Strip-A-Gram Incident of 1998. Nope, I called the guys to wish 'em a happy Father’s Day.

Although a phone call from Snickers would have probably made their day. I know it would have made mine. But no, they didn’t get a call from her. I didn’t get a call from her, either. But then, I wasn’t expecting one.

8

What I appreciate most was that my son actually put quite a lot of himself into my gift this father’s day.

Not that it was really much of a surprise. My wife and I had been looking at them for a while now, and she made sure I had shown her which ones I would like, and which I wouldn’t. So I knew, in a general sort of way, what was coming.

Still, I was amused when I came home Thursday night to find a sign on the door from the hallway to the garage. Jotted in the careless scrawl of a twelve year old: “Do Not Enter! (This means YOU, Dad!)

What was really surprising, though, was that he wasn’t watching Cartoon Network or playing video games. He was working on something in the garage. As were, apparently, a goodly portion of my tools. “Hey, anyone know where a flathead screwdriver is?” “They’re in the garage.” “ALL of them?” “You stay here, I’ll get you one.” Eventually, he had to come in for dinner, and go to bed.

Friday morning, dropping him off at school, I remarked that while he was camping this weekend, I would need to get such-and-so critical item out of the garage. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his eyes that wide. “That is, if you’re going to be done with the garage, of course.” “I’ll try, Dad.”

I didn’t make it home from work before he left with his troop for the camping trip, which I had expected. The sign was still on the door. My wife confided that if I got anything out of the garage, I was supposed to tell my son that SHE got it. Also, Father’s Day couldn’t officially start Sunday until he was back from camping and could “finish” his project. “Does it have the - ” “Don’t worry, it’s perfect.” (I respected the sanctity of my son’s work area, and found everything I needed without trespassing. Kind of difficult, given that my wife wanted me to install a new light fixture in the dining room.)

Saturday night, he came back early – it seems that the camping area was flooding, so after they finished their activities, they elected to skip sleeping there the last night. (That was good – I needed his flashlight for the attic. All the others we own are stuck safely away in some unknown box somewhere that I can’t find.) After he showered off the mud and cold, he was back working on it again. One time while he was out of the garage, I commented that I needed to take trash out, and was the garage available? “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll take all the trash out.” And he did. My in-laws were visiting for the weekend, and MIL remarks, “A voluntary shower, and now taking out the trash? Who replaced your son with pod people?”

Sunday morning I sleep late. (Hey, it’s Father’s Day, if I can’t sleep late then, when can I?) My son is still doggedly working at the Manhattan project. My wife is still after me about that light fixture. I ask my son if I can borrow back the flashlight that he took back from me that I had borrowed from him after he took it from me for camping. (I swear, if I don’t find the box soon, I’m going to buy another 3 flashlights. And save the receipts. Then I’ll find the box, and I can return the flashlights.) “You know, I looked in the attic for this. The far side. Where you have to wiggle across.” “You mean where I was working yesterday? Why? I put it back in the hall when I was done.” “Oh, yeah, NOW you tell me.” “You could have asked.” “You were ASLEEP! I didn’t want to wake you on Father’s Day!” “Oh. Well… uh… thanks.”

“I’m finished now!” “Great! Does that mean I can have the garage back?” “Uh… no, not really.” “OK. Well, I need this saw and that drill and, oh, could you see if we have some 3 conductor wire on the shelf in the garage?” “Just a minute, Dad.” I wait. I fidget. I look for something else to do, so I go to repot the plant my wife was bugging me about before she thought of the light fixture. I know there’s a bag of potting soil on the side of the house, I can bypass the garage altogether. After I bring it in, my son comes in, huffs, and puffs, and sits himself down. “The garage is free now, Dad.” “Thanks. Why so tired?” “You’ll understand later, but I had to go UP the stairs from the garage to the backyard.” Knowing more than he realized, I thought what a feat that must have been. “I, uh, don’t know what you were moving, but why didn’t you go through the garage door into the driveway and around the side?” “Because SOMEBODY was out there potting a PLANT.” “Oops. Sorry. You could have asked me to move.”

I walk toward the garage. The hall curtains are drawn, and I ignore the wooden shelf that I can see through the window sticking out from behind the garage. I go into the garage, start looking for my tools. I realize that one of them is in a box underneath the empty box and scattered wrappings that my son has left out. My wife was right – they got the perfect one. I wonder how my son would feel if he walked into the garage as I was picking up his box to get to mine. I suddenly feel thirsty, and decide to go to the kitchen for a soda.

My son meets me at the door. “Daaaad… how far did you go in the garage?” I hear, in his best “sweet, innocent” voice. “Not far, just to get this. I’m getting a drink now, but I’ll be right back.” “That’s good. I just realized I forgot something.” I return when the all-clear is given, and try not to notice that the shelf I saw outside earlier now has the box next to it in full view. I do my business in the garage and get out.

Later, it’s the official “Father’s Day” loot-giving. As a guest, my FIL gets his first, and I wait. I ask if there might be anything for me. My son says “Yes, it’s in a gift bag, and wrapped.” At the right time, he comes out, and presents…

A paint drop-cloth with a bow. I recognize the drop-cloth as the one I saw him putting up earlier, that we had used when painting the dining room the previous week. I open it up. “See, Dad, you’ve been bad, so all you get is lumps of coal.” Sure enough, in the drop cloth is a bag of Kingsford Charcoal. “See? That’s the gift bag. Happy Father’s Day! Oh, yeah, and there’s something to put it in. Come here.” He’s grown quite large over the years, and yanks me out of my seat and drags me out the back door to show me my new barbecue grill. “Open it up, there’s tools inside.” “Yes there are. Very nice. I didn’t know Martha Stewart made BBQ tools. Doesn’t seem like it would be her thing.” “The grill is from Mom, the tools, the charcoal, and the labor are from me.” “The tools are very nice, just perfect, and you did a great job of putting it together.” “You… might want to check that the screws are tight.”

I’m sure they’re just fine. I hope everyone else had a Happy Father’s Day.

I know I did.

9

Well, Zap, apart from the fact that you’re not my father, and further that you’re younger than I am making said paternity impossible, there’s also the little detail of me not having your phone number, so even if I did wanna stalk you by phone, I couldn’t… Not to say that I wanna stalk you by phone. I can wait till Oct when I find out where you live…

hehehehehe :smiley:

10

Hey FCM, you can stalk me any time you want! :smiley:

11

I mourned my Daddy’s absence,

12

I worked AND got a phonecall—Drachillix called me at work and asked if I wanted to celebrate Father’s Day with a ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ Day instead.
God, I am SO going to marry this man!

13

Hey NE Texan! Watch those long, rambling stories! And your spelling! We don’t cotton to poor spelling around here! (That would be, like, a joke.)

Hi Shibb! Welcome home. What’s a book of noodle recipes? It must be real short.

  1. Take noodles out of the box.
  2. Put the unboxed noodles in boiling water.
  3. Boil unboxed noodles.
  4. When noodles are al denté (boiled), drain outt the water somehow and eat them. They’re better with some sort of sauce.

Repeat with the next kind of noodle you find.

No, really, it sounds real nice. Not a flamethrower, but still nice.

I’m sorry for your loss, MonkeyMensch.
-Rue.

14

Actually, I think that noodle recipes are for making the noodles themselves.

  1. Take some flour.
  2. Add water.
  3. Mix.
  4. Knead
  5. Let sit.
  6. Stretch.

But I do like your midwestern definition of al dente.

15

Thanks, Rue. (If I have to worry too much about spelling, I should perhaps stop posting altogether. Which I will, right after everyone else in the same boat does.)

Sorry to say, that only after I posted my story did I realize what a massive hijack that was of your OP. I looked back at it later and realized that it wasn’t necessarily an invitation for all to post their Father’s Day stories. If I barged in on your thread inappropriately, I am sorry. It was really nice to read your story. (I would say I was warmed by it, if you had actually received the flamethrower.)

16

NE Texan, I think I speak for myself when I say: Don’t worry about hijacking Rue’s threads! He lives for that kinda stuff! Try it. Next time he talks about some cute thing his kids did, post something about sports.

Of course, he might get all bent outta shape. Maybe I’m the only one who can get away with that kinda thing since I’m his Number One Special Friend. Or maybe not… come to think of it, he hasn’t sent his semi-monthly token of affection. Oh dear - am I losing Special Friend status??

Anyway, I liked your Father’s Day story - it was very sweet and touching, and the lumps of coal cracked me up!

17

That’s right folks! (And NE Texan in particular!) Just a reminder:

Rue’s threads = Hijack-O-Rama!

What am I gonna do? Get in a snit and sulk? Now, that is a way to go, but, eh, too much effort.

And spelling is optional. Just use Big Letters when you can. It makes me Happy.

Father’s Day Update:
This morning I put up my fly and stuck the boys’ wading pool under it. So they had some shade and all so they don’t get real crispy. It’s kinda hot today. It, the fly, works nicely.
-Rue.

Oh yeah!
Snickers, check your mail. You never know what you’ll find in there. It’s like the driers at the laundromat. And if you find something you like, yeah, it’s from me. No mateer whose name is on the outside. Heck! Look in your neighbors’ mailboxes. Maybe I put the wrong name on it. You never can tell.
-Still Rue.

Oh yeah again!
Shibb, maybe you should stretch before you make the noodles. Don’t wanna cramp up in the middle of your noodle-making. It could be embarrassing. And e-mail Sophie, she’s worried about you.

-Again, Rue. (for the last time in this post.)

Oh man! I could have made each one of them a different post and padded out my count to make up for the posts I lost in the Winter of Our Missed Content.
-I ain’t sayin’, 'cause I said I wouldn’t.

18

I Like Cheese. Especially cheeses Like Cheddar, Swiss and Gruyere.

There. I used Big Letters and Hijacked.

But Rue didn’t Send me Anything.

Zap!

19

I had Cheese last night. Gruyere actually. It was in a Fritatta that I made. Also with Basil and Green Onions from my Garden. Note that it’s not the Booker T kind of Green Onions. Just the ordinary Garden Variety Green Onions. Ha!

So There.

20

Don’t fret, Zap, he didn’t send me anything either. It was a ruse. A Rue ruse. A Rude Rue ruse. OK, I’ll stop now.

<note to self - visit Zap and take cheese>

:smiley: