Grumpasaurus Parentus
Two posts within a 24-hour span! Wild!
Aforementioned cleaning/sorting spree had the unintended consequence of putting the parental unit in a peevish mood. "What are you doing?" dad said, in a tone of irritation trying hard to pass for mere curiosity.
"Nothing much," I replied. "Just sorting through mum's things. I'm putting her sewing things in this drawer, and her diving things in this one, and..."
"Don't throw away anything!" he said. I'm not, I said. See above, I'm -just sorting-.
"Because I might use some of those things later," he said quickly, a bit defensive. "It's okay* if you're just sorting but don't throw anything away."
[*OBVIOUS LIE]
Um, I said, you can't use her diving things. You don't even know how to swim.
"I might learn," he said. "I've been thinking about it."
You're 55, I said. And anyway, it's not like I'm throwing any of it out. And you don't sew either.
"I might learn," he said. "I've been thinking about it. I might need to learn, for buttons and things."
And the rest of the morning he came up with a string of excuses to get me away from the scene of the crime. "Come here, help me figure out this computer thing," he said to me, looking distinctly disgruntled when my sister leaped up and offered to help instead. "Take these empty coffee mugs downstairs," he barked. "Are you ready to go out for lunch? Get ready, we're leaving in five! You can't go in your board shorts! Change into khakis!"
Barely had we clipped our seatbelts on, than he sped out, frightening the one-eared cat lurking outside the gate. He sped up the hill, he sped down the hill, he sped around the corner. The windows were down and my hair, in a Guevara-esque bandanna (all I needed was some strategically placed facial hair to complete the look) came flying out like the contents of Pandora's box, hell bent on wreaking havoc on all humankind. Of course, the trouble is that the pop-mobile isn't really built for Alonso-type acrobatics. Its defining qualifier is 'sedate'... it looks the part, boxy, tin-coloured, inexorably staid. It is not meant for whipping around hairpin bends and frightening the cows.
We knew better than to say anything, though.
My phone rang -- it was our aunt. She has the cheeriest voice on the planet. "Hi!" she said. "How are you kids? Are you eating well? I hope you haven't gotten any skinnier. You were too skinny the last time I saw you. Is Poppy well? Is she eating well? When is everyone coming to visit? Papa hasn't said anything to you, has he?"
Like a hostage sending a cleverly coded message on the phone while the kidnapper is listening in the background, I said, "No... nothing."
"Oh," she said, in a tone of instant comprehension. "Papa's in a bad mood, is he? I'd better wait and talk to him tomorrow, then."
"Yes, yes," I said. "I'll have it good and ready by tomorrow, don't worry."
Lunch promised to be a silent affair. Dad was armed with the newspaper, determined to bulwark himself from the universe. I was so bored I actually counted my ravioli as I ate them. [There were seventeen, they were square with serrated edges, which made them look like swollen postage stamps.]
The ice-cream did the trick.
My dad ordered a three-scoop plate of ice-cream topped with toasted almonds and whipped cream. He ate the toppings first, and proceeded to ground level and worked his way through the chocolate scoop, the strawberry scoop, and the vanilla scoop, and then tilted the plate slightly and collected all the melted ice-cream in his last spoonful. When he was done, a smile twitched on the corners of his moustache, and his eyes acquired the benevolent gleam of a Buddha.
"I've been thinking," he said. "Maybe you should help out while you're here, sort through mother's stuff, you know? ...But don't throw anything away."
Aforementioned cleaning/sorting spree had the unintended consequence of putting the parental unit in a peevish mood. "What are you doing?" dad said, in a tone of irritation trying hard to pass for mere curiosity.
"Nothing much," I replied. "Just sorting through mum's things. I'm putting her sewing things in this drawer, and her diving things in this one, and..."
"Don't throw away anything!" he said. I'm not, I said. See above, I'm -just sorting-.
"Because I might use some of those things later," he said quickly, a bit defensive. "It's okay* if you're just sorting but don't throw anything away."
[*OBVIOUS LIE]
Um, I said, you can't use her diving things. You don't even know how to swim.
"I might learn," he said. "I've been thinking about it."
You're 55, I said. And anyway, it's not like I'm throwing any of it out. And you don't sew either.
"I might learn," he said. "I've been thinking about it. I might need to learn, for buttons and things."
And the rest of the morning he came up with a string of excuses to get me away from the scene of the crime. "Come here, help me figure out this computer thing," he said to me, looking distinctly disgruntled when my sister leaped up and offered to help instead. "Take these empty coffee mugs downstairs," he barked. "Are you ready to go out for lunch? Get ready, we're leaving in five! You can't go in your board shorts! Change into khakis!"
Barely had we clipped our seatbelts on, than he sped out, frightening the one-eared cat lurking outside the gate. He sped up the hill, he sped down the hill, he sped around the corner. The windows were down and my hair, in a Guevara-esque bandanna (all I needed was some strategically placed facial hair to complete the look) came flying out like the contents of Pandora's box, hell bent on wreaking havoc on all humankind. Of course, the trouble is that the pop-mobile isn't really built for Alonso-type acrobatics. Its defining qualifier is 'sedate'... it looks the part, boxy, tin-coloured, inexorably staid. It is not meant for whipping around hairpin bends and frightening the cows.
We knew better than to say anything, though.
My phone rang -- it was our aunt. She has the cheeriest voice on the planet. "Hi!" she said. "How are you kids? Are you eating well? I hope you haven't gotten any skinnier. You were too skinny the last time I saw you. Is Poppy well? Is she eating well? When is everyone coming to visit? Papa hasn't said anything to you, has he?"
Like a hostage sending a cleverly coded message on the phone while the kidnapper is listening in the background, I said, "No... nothing."
"Oh," she said, in a tone of instant comprehension. "Papa's in a bad mood, is he? I'd better wait and talk to him tomorrow, then."
"Yes, yes," I said. "I'll have it good and ready by tomorrow, don't worry."
Lunch promised to be a silent affair. Dad was armed with the newspaper, determined to bulwark himself from the universe. I was so bored I actually counted my ravioli as I ate them. [There were seventeen, they were square with serrated edges, which made them look like swollen postage stamps.]
The ice-cream did the trick.
My dad ordered a three-scoop plate of ice-cream topped with toasted almonds and whipped cream. He ate the toppings first, and proceeded to ground level and worked his way through the chocolate scoop, the strawberry scoop, and the vanilla scoop, and then tilted the plate slightly and collected all the melted ice-cream in his last spoonful. When he was done, a smile twitched on the corners of his moustache, and his eyes acquired the benevolent gleam of a Buddha.
"I've been thinking," he said. "Maybe you should help out while you're here, sort through mother's stuff, you know? ...But don't throw anything away."
