So here’s my dad for you: Due to work commitments, he’s physically at home two weeks a month on average, and mentally at home for about 2 hours a year. When I was little, whenever he would come home from work, I thought he was visiting instead of actually returning home. But that’s what you call a great work ethic and as they would say in Portuguese – RESPEITU. And so here’s my dad for you: he thinks I have no idea when his birthday is. I do. When I asked him when my birthday was, he confidently says, “28th December 1982” (RING BUZZER) Wrong date, wrong year and worse of all wrong kid. Not only was I offended, my sister was quite pissed off too –Dad had assigned her birthday to me. And does being the youngest entail hand-me-down birthdays too?
So here’s my dad for you: Go on holiday with him and you find yourself stuck with his friends and their kids while he goes missing in action. At dinner (with his friends), you’ll be encumbered with “Where’s your Dad?” questions to which you will shrug and proceed to receive sympathetic looks from the rest of the dinner table. But, fear not, you will be reunited with Dad an hour before check out time when he will hound you to get your stuff packed despite the fact that it already is. And you’d have to call reception to tell them that you’re checking out late because Dad hasn’t finished packing his things.
So here’s my dad for you: He’s a middle aged man who owns a fuchsia colored car and a pearl pink suitcase. Once, while picking me up from a gay friend’s party, a friend of mine whom he clearly knows is gay, in aforementioned fuchsia car, he showed up wearing a ridiculously tight t-shirt. Like tiiiiiiggghhht. And yes, he uses more beauty products than my mother and I combined. And the gay friend said, “Your Dad’s hot. Are you sure he’s straight?” YES, shithead, he’s been married for nearly three decades with 5 kids. He’s just way ahead of his generation. Honey, my dad did the whole metrosexual thing long before the term became trés chic. Hey man, if Mia Tyler can borrow eyeliner from her dad, Steven (yes, of Aerosmith), than I can nick eye cream and Honey Butter Spa Hand Lotion from my dad because we’re a rock and roll family in that way. So here’s my “rockin” dad for you: I was heading out to a rave once and he asked if he could come along. “I like music and dancing too!” he said. Great, Dad, maybe next time. If there’s an underage rule to these things, shouldn’t there be an overage rule?
My Dad’s one piece of advice for when I start bitching about things not going my way is: “Well, Maryam, Life like that.” “No, Daddy, Life’s like that.” “Yes, life like that.” Yes, this is the guy who pronounces ‘Charles’ as ‘Cha-less’, ‘Ian’ as ‘Yan”. Nevermind the fact that he has friends with these names. And he has this habit of pronouncing every English word ending with –tion or –ience with a French accent. He’s not French.
And here’s the difference between my mom, my siblings and my dad: Sometimes, those rare times when I feel in need of affection and affirmation that I am loved, I would pull that really annoying “Do you love me?” question out of my ass, to which my mom will answer, “Maryam, would I put up with all your nonsense if I didn’t love you???!! I think you’re the one that doesn’t love me!” and my siblings will answer, “Yeah, sure, whatever, man” and my dad will answer, “Maryam, there’s something wrong with my computer, can you fix it and while you’re at it can you check my emails?” Gee, thanks Dad.
So here’s my dad for you among other things: He gets on my nerves. He pisses me off. He doesn’t exactly rate a 10 on the sensitivity scale. He’s not around that often and when he is, he spends all day watching golf on TV. He has a habit of treating family members like employees at times. He has dubious taste in clothes. He thinks he’s French. He’s a space cadet when it comes to matters regarding your life. He can’t dance, can’t sing but insists on doing so when he’s in a good mood. He gives asinine, not to mention grammatically incorrect life advice. But all in all, I can’t hold it against him. Well, I can but not on every occasion.
Take tonight for example:
Dad: Maryam, what are you doing?
Me: Frying an omelet for myself.
Dad: I’m hungry (sigh) Did Mama cook anything for dinner?
Me: No, because you told her you didn’t want dinner.
Dad: (sigh) I’m hungry.
Me: Daddy, do you want me to fry you an omelet?
Dad: Yes.
Me: What do you want in your omelet?
Dad: Just a touch of love!
See what I mean?
Dad: Oh, and some onions.
