You know what’s sad? A little boy falling out of a helium balloon and going splat against the Colorado landscape. You know what’s not sad? A helium balloon taking off by itself while a little boy hides in an attic.
Move along, people! There’s nothing to see here!
I’m a cold-hearted bastard, though. When Devon told me there was a boy trapped in a balloon and they didn’t know how to get him down, my response was, “Pop it.”
I was sure I had a maternal instinct laying around here somewhere.
My sister and I took Dad to the urologist today for a blood test to see how well his cancer meds are working, and I discovered the rich fantasy life my Dad has. He told his doctor all about the parties with girls, and how he drinks beer all day when he’s not eating cake.
The dude does eat a ton of cake, but I’m pretty sure the rest was bullshit.
Dad may need to get shots that will chemically castrate him. Our conversation, for your entertainment:
Dad: Am I getting a flu shot?
Me: No, Dad, a shot in the balls.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh, come on, it’s been ages since anyone’s touched your balls.
Yeah, I went there.
I don’t normally plug products, but this is So. Fucking. Awesome that I had to give it a shout-out.
I mean, I wouldn’t buy one, because I don’t live in a dorm, but this makes me wish I did so I could decorate my room with giant condom wrappers. But then, if I did live in a dorm, I probably wouldn’t have 50 bucks to spend on a pillow. For 50 bucks, this pillow would have to make me pizza and proofread my papers and rub my feet. And the pizza would have to have mushrooms.
I have a cold.
I know, this is not unprecedented in human history. It isn’t even a bad cold, at least not yet. But my throat is sore and my nose is runny.
A more together woman would have brought tissues on the train, or maybe a nice lace hanky with her monogram in the corner, but I am not one of those women. So I spent the ride sniffling intermittently, which seemed better than letting the snot run down my face and cling to my chin like baby food.
I guess the woman next to me had enough. She said, “Get a tissue! God!” and stormed off to the magical part of the subway car where everyone brings tissues and little plastic bags for proper disposal.
Dear Subway Lady:
I am sorry I was revolting. I did not think to bring a tissue. If it makes you feel any better, I also forgot my lunch bag. I did not mean to have an unplanned-for cold in your presence. A tissue would have been nice. Maybe you could have offered me one, if you had one. That would have been nice, too.
Life in New York City must be very hard for someone with your delicate sensibilities. You are too good for this world.
Love, Tissue-less Dirty Hooker
Having my dad sleep over our apartment is a weird experience — partly because we don’t have a bed set up for him yet, so I end up sleeping with dad and Devon takes the couch.
Dad wakes up, like, every hour on the hour to take a leak. Seriously. His bladder must be the size of a shot glass. I’m so happy I declined the prostate option at conception.
Every hour or so, Dad ambles out of bed and looks for the bathroom, because he forgets where it is every. single. time. The bathroom is 3 feet from the bed. He would see it if he simply turned around. I try to tell him where it is, but he can’t hear me, because his hearing aids are in the change bowl in the living room, so it ends with me gesturing wildly and screaming, “IT’S OVER THERE! THE BATHROOM’S OVER THERE!”
In the semi-darkness, I might as well be a giant mute octopus.
My main concern is that Dad will pee the bed, which is not outside the realm of possibility. That’s why I sleep on Devon’s side and Dad sleeps on my side.
The things I do for love.
With the help of some wine and a bit of a mean streak, Devon and I have decided to quit our jobs to sell Rapture insurance.
Yes, if you are certain you are going to be taken by our good Lord Jesus Christ at the end times, you can shield the selfish, lazy heathens in your family from poverty and starvation with our help. Your life insurance won’t do Jack, since you won’t be dead. You’ll need another way to keep your teenage daughter from whoring herself in front of Home Depot and your husband from performing late-term abortions for spare change.
Don’t let your family suffer in sin when you are given your eternal reward.
And I’m OK with that. It’s important to support each other’s goals. I just wish he’d be open about it. It’s difficult to build a foundation of trust when one person won’t ‘fess up about where he hides the bodies. He keeps insisting he’s not a serial killer, but he probably just thinks I’ll be mad if I find out.
