Thursday, May 23, 2013
The Human Autocorrect
Me: “Dad, where’s the fly swatter?”
Dad: “What? Ya want a glass of ice water?”
Me: “Hey Dad! I brought home some quesadillas for you!”
Dad: “What? A case of beer?” It always seemed like a challenge trying to get something across, especially if you were in the other room, which was maddening. He was a pain in the ass trying to communicate with you from another room in the house. All you’d hear was this really loud voice screaming, “Hey Deb!” I would answer back, “Yeah Dad?” ----Then silence --- This was his way of drumming up your curiosity in order to get you to come to him. And once you were in his man cave, there was no escaping. It was usually about some “true picture” he saw or some bizarre documentary. The stories were long and the plumes of smoke from his non-filtered cigarette would suffocate you. Every personal story of his started off with, “This is the troot’,” or “picture dis’.” As soon as those sentences came out of his mouth, it was like a flight or fight reaction -- or, just a “flight”. Mom used to say, “Hurry past him if you’re leaving. He’s very chatty today.”
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