"I think you're off the deep end."

"The deep end of what?" I ask my dad.

"I don't know what. But there's something really wrong with you."

Ah. I'll try to get that fixed right away, then—that thing he can't quite diagnose or even articulate. That nonspecific thing. I'll claw my way right out of the deep end of [static, mumble mumble, vague paternal disapproval].

I wonder if he got that from his first wife, to whom he hasn't been married in four decades. Because it certainly sounded . . . familiar.

In point of fact, the discussion shouldn't have upset me in the least, because it has nothing to do with me: rather, it was a moment of payback to wives #1-3. Which is another way of saying that the whole encounter was about my grandmother, but since she's gone deaf—I guess I have to hear it.

It also served as notice that, for the first time in my life, my father doesn't just require tolerance and patience from me, but Actual Handling. Like any 70-somethng parent.

I've always wanted to be part of a real family! See?—we're normal after all, in our own way! Pinocchio finally gets his wish . . .

Posted by: Attila Girl at 08:28 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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