An Apology“Are you still doing the fatted calf?”
“The calf – you know the thing on the fire with the stick…that spins – you know – the fatted…..calf?” He tried, eyebrows rising into befuddled vegetarian confusion.
“Do you mean the hog roast, Dad?”
“Yes I think so. What about it?”
“You’re still doing that then?”
I leave him to his measured silence for a moment as I’m still recovering from reading one of his wedding blog rants.
“Dad I think you were a bit too eggy in that last oneyou realise you’ll probably never be invited to another wedding again after all this – doesn’t this bother you a tiny bit?”
“No, I’d be absolutely delighted!” he exclaimed.
I feel like I need to offer up some kind of explanation or public apology for Dad’s flow of consciousness, forever tattooed into the ether now, to any one of my friends who believe their
weddings fell into these categories of harrumph.
His rants were missing a crucial caveat which is; YOU DO NOT COUNT.
We all have to bear in mind he’s quite old now and getting grumpier by the nano-second and through years of weddings and ‘functions’ (see Itchy Teeth Word blog) he’s racked up a lot of experience in this field which has resulted in eye rolling and tutting. And blogging.
I think it’s mainly when he feels he’s on the ‘we better had invite’ list.
If in doubt – don’t.
You don’t need to.
Dad is the kind of man who hates going to big parties, but he hates leaving them more.This isn’t an original observation, I heard a chum describe his Dad in this way, but it’s fairly bang on when describing Lord Dangerous.
From invitation stage to walking out of the front door, he’ll huff and puff to within an inch of his life, muttering about how he ‘hasn’t seen them for years’ or ‘why – WHY would I want to go and sit in that bar??’ and ‘where are we ACTUALLY GOING – has anybody even LOOKED AT A MAP?’ pacing around
the hallway and berating the 3 women in his life with cries ‘why isn’t everybody READY?’ while brandishing house keys ominously until we’re all assembled at the front door, at which point he goes AWOL for several minutes while we, then, pace the hallway wondering where he’s got to, and roundabout the time we’ve settled on entertaining ourselves with some meaningless activity while we wait for him, he’ll reappear, dramatically and suddenly, shouting about how we all ‘took so LONG’ that he thought he ‘might as well go send some EMAILS.’ By the time we’re setting off in the car, we are frazzled, exhausted, on edge and no one has even had a drink yet.
But cut to about midnight, and he’ll be the last one haring around the dance-floor, accidentally flinging pop out of his glass while he executes the act of, what we affectionately call, ‘Doing The Dave’.A dance move made up solely of bouncing up and down while lifting alternate arms in the air and twisting his airborne hands while maintaining giddy eye contact with whatever poor soul he’s accosted with his choreography to make sure they know he’s REALLY SERIOUS about it. After a smidge more leaping, he’ll roar with laughter then have sudden and complete muscle failure across his whole body, which leaves his eyebrows slumping into his shoulders before conceding; “I’m tired.”
Mum then, knowing her cue, gently steps in and guides him away from the disco ball suggesting they get a cab, at which point, further berating ensues about how he doesn’t WANT to get a taxi because he’s PAID for a travel card and he wants to USE IT. “Doris, we’re getting the train – come on!” And with that he’ll march off, while mowing down poor Aunty Edna asleep in her chair on his way out the door.My old man joined the ranks of Grumpy Dads Everywhere a while ago, and I know I’m not alone – my best friends and I have share a million stories with each other over the irrational, but mainly hilarious, over-reactions we’ve witnessed from our Dads over the years. But line any one of them up in a crisis and you wouldn’t want anyone else around!
So please raise your glasses to this Father of The Bride. I promise he’ll leave his Grumpy Hat at home this time.