Daddy Dearest

My dad opened the door of my car at Norfolk Airport, and immediately noticed the smell. I’ll admit, even I notice it. He told me I should get a carwash. Oh, and I should wash my face, since I’m starting to break out. We drove off.

It didn’t take long for him to make his first phone call. Obnoxiously loud, he consistently fails to realize the microphone is, in fact, right near his mouth. He may have trouble hearing, as even my softest music seems to disturb his calls. So I sit there, dumbfounded, as he attempts to verbally overpower his opponent in a contest the other person never entered. And I’m only hearing his half.

We hit up the Nauticus Aquarium and Naval Academy that day, the boat tour of the naval yards that night, the Richmond Battlefields and Confederacy museums the next day, and the International Spy museum on our third. In all instances, his thick New York voice resonated down the halls. He’d make an awful spy.

A few more reasons he’d make a terrible spy: Give him two drinks and he can’t keep a secret. I learned he’s dating a woman he REALLY REALLY shouldn’t be dating (and not just because she’s still married), and he probably cheated on my mother.

He has an aggravating obsession with my cleanliness. Every few minutes he’d mention my need to do laundry, or wash my clothes, or buy socks without holes in them. Mind you, I see the virtue of his points, but I could see them clearly enough without them. I wanted to just deck him after awhile. It’s like a compulsion for him. At one point he even rooted around my luggage to pick out dirty clothes to wash. I barely stopped him in time to not find the Aneros.

A quick history of the Aneros: It was a gag gift from someone who told me I needed to “learn to enjoy the other side”, and I’ve never really been comfortable with it in my possession. I thought I boxed it when I cleaned out my apartment, but when my roommate asked me to check my desk one last time for him, I discovered I had left it sitting in the middle drawer. I hastily shoved it to the bottom of my luggage to take with me cross-country, never expecting it to see the light of day.

Did I mention the Aneros is a dildo?

While we’re on the subject of un-heterosexual behavior, my father still believes I’m faking bisexuality just to rile him up. Which admittedly is something I’d totally do, but I’m not this time. I don’t know what to do. I answered any question he asked (even the ones I really wished he didn’t), I linked him to various internet articles, I promised/threatened to take him to a gay club, I shamelessly flirted with any gay waiter I could find, coming off especially strong for his sake. It seems nothing will satisfy him, but ultimately, I suppose its not my problem what he believes. Depending on who I end up with, either he’ll take smug satisfaction in thinking he’s right or he’ll eat his words.

Anyway, point is I lost track of how many times my father and I clashed. He simply couldn’t cope with my lifestyle. My dirty clothes, my smelly car, my ambiguous sexuality, these are just concrete things he can latch onto. Really, his problem is with my attitude. Case in point, I passed up a gas station or two when I thought I didn’t need it, then later cruised around town for 20 minutes when I did. I thought it was a great excuse to explore a new part of town; he thought we were lost, wasting time, and rapidly running out of gas. He was right, of course, but it’s all a matter of how you choose to perceive the world.

I tried to teach him with a simple lesson. After breakfast in Richmond, I still had some chocolate milk left. It was in a small plastic container with a loose pop-on lid. I threw the bottle high in the air, much to my father’s horror, but managed to catch it. “What would happen if I dropped it?”

I lobbed it up again, and a third and fourth time, easily catching it. I caught it the fifth time too, but the inertia of the liquid inside caused the cap to pop off and the milk to spray all over my shirt and pants. I laughed and continued walking as he silently exploded behind me. Why bother? After all, no use crying over spilled milk.

My father isn’t your average crotchety old man. Sure, he’s grumpy, but he’s also frequently immature, making loud pubic crabs jokes in a seafood place, laughing at his own farts, and telling waitresses they have nice asses. But underneath, I think the grumpiness, the immaturity, and the compulsiveness are all merely manifestations of how he deals with stress. He needs to control everything, and when he doesn’t, he wigs out. I on the other hand view uncertainty as exciting, problems as interesting, and life as adventure. Who’s enjoying it more?