Welcome to My Quarter-Life Crisis

Yes, that’s Elvis on YouTube. And for the record, this was an “unauthorized photograph” taken of my Dad.

To commemorate father’s day, and because he recently told me that I need to update the blog more often, I thought I’d write a little ode to my Daddy, just so everyone knows why he is the best, and hands down funniest, Dad in the world.  His methoods may have sometimes been ummm, let’s call them “unconventional”, but I’ve learned some of life’s most important lessons from my Dad.  Here are a few of my favorites.    

When my brother, K.B., and I were little, Dad used to drive from Louisville to Atlanta every other weekend to see us.  Since we were still too little to be left to our own devices, the three of us would stay in CONNECTING hotel rooms so that Dad could keep a close enough eye on us to tuck us in, make sure we weren’t accidentally renting anything on Spanktravision, and – as we got older – make sure we weren’t breaking into the minibar.  Well, during one of these visits and when we were still kiddos, some genius Marriott employee made the silly mistake of confusing “adjoining” and “connecting” hotel rooms.  This was the employee’s “silly” mistake.  Her STUPID mistake was telling my Dad that there were no other rooms available and then starting an uneducated argument with him about the definitions of “adjoining” and “connecting”.  I remember thinking, “Jeez Dad is so smart!”  I also remember him making absolutely no progress in his argument with the glazed over moron behind the check-in counter.  Dad said, “No.  No, no, no.  It’s NOT the same thing.  Adjoining means they’re just next to each other.  Connecting means they connect.  One has a DOOR.  A way to get THROUGH to the other room.”  And in return he got a blank stare.  Their verbal exchange got heated and before I knew it, K.B. and I were loaded back up in the car.  We headed back to our house and Dad went straight for the dictionary.  He flipped to the “A’s”…  riiiiiiiiiip.  He flipped to the “C’s”……  riiiiiiip.  And back to the hotel we went.  By the time he was done presenting the entire front desk staff with the Webster’s Dictionary pages containing the EXACT definitions of “adjoining” and “connecting”, I’m pretty sure they all understood the difference.  And I can’t really remember if it was at that particular hotel or not (I’m pretty sure it was), but I know we had connecting rooms to sleep in that night.   No Spanktravision, but a good lesson learned:  The squeaky wheel always gets the grease.     

K.B. and I learned this next lesson from Dad with the help of a little Michael Jackson tape.  Dad is a huge music fan.  LOVES it.  And he has the most random taste ever.  I can remember my friends in sixth grade thinking he was the coolest Dad EVER because he was listening to Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me” on a parent chaperoned trip to Six Flags or something.  You just never know what’s gonna be in his tape deck, or I guess his CD changer or i-pod nowadays.  (K.B. I know this is where you get your ecclectic taste in music!).  But long before the days of “Freak Like Me”, there was a little M.J. tape that some of you might remember – I think it was “Man in the Mirror”.  Or it may have been whatever album “Do You Remember the Time” was on…  either way, we were listening to it in the tape deck as we were cruising around in Dad’s Mercedes one weekend.  We were jammin’ and life was good, and then Dad went to turn off the car.  The car turned off, but, for whatever reason, Michael Jackson did not.    We were confused.  Dad pressed the eject button.  Nothing.  MJ still blaring.  Fast forward, rewind, eject, stop, car on, car off…  nothing worked and the King of Pop kept on.  Dad was becoming more and more frustrated.  His face was turning red and he was getting a little sweaty and he started grumbling about how the “effin possessed cassette was gonna run down the battery in the damn car”, all the while K.B. and I were cracking up.  We pulled into the service section of the Mercedes lot and Dad got to work.  He was pressing combinations of buttons, banging on the tape deck, flipping the little tape trap door back and forth.  The cussing increased, along with me and my brother’s laughter, and then it hit him.  Dad removed the keys from the ignition and shoved the longest one forcefully into the tape deck.  Little chunks of plastic were breaking off of the tape as he stabbed it back and forth, and FINALLY Dad broke the tape free of the deck.  VICTORY!  But was this enough?  HELL NO.  Dad opened his door, flung the tape out onto the ground, and proceeded to stomp it into about 7,000 tiny pieces as K.B. and I watched in disbelief.  We peeled out of there, leaving a cloud of exhaust and about three miles of the ribbon from inside the cassette tape blowing in the breeze.  Lesson learned:  Persistance pays off.   

Disney World.  It’s gotta be every parent’s dream nightmare.  I’m sure that my Dad felt the same way when he took me and K.B. when we were still little tykes.  I remember our trip there, but my telling of this incident will be more because I’ve heard my Dad tell the story a hundred times.  And with good reason.  It was our first big day at the theme park, and of course it was hotter than the surface of the sun outside.  According to my Dad’s version of the story, we had barely gotten through the front gate when K.B. and I started whining about being thirsty.  Dad towed us through the crowds to the nearest concession stand and asked what we wanted to order.  “I want a Coke, Daddy!”, I said.  When he asked what size I naturally replied, “I want the BIG one Daddy!”  So the big one it was.  Seriously this coke was bigger than my head at the time.  It was at least a gallon and probably cost about $10.25.  We had just parked it at a table to enjoy our refreshing beverages when, in all my Cinderella excitement, I flung one of my chubby kid arms into the tower of syrupy soda.  It was as if a dam had broken on my side of the table…  a tidal wave of coke flew towards my Dad, splashed directly into his lap, and ran like sugary rivers down into his socks and tennis shoes.  The entire restaurant collectively cringed a “that poor bastard” cringe, but Daddy assured me that it was ok and that he knew it was an accident.  If he were telling the story now, he would say, “and for the rest of the day, out in 1,000 degree heat, I squished around with Coke in my shoes and my toes stuck together, swatting bees away from my dick.”  But from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to Space Mountain, he never made me feel bad about it.  He was just bein’ a Dad.  Lesson learned:  Patience is a virtue. 

That story reminds me of another Coke incident.  Once again at a hotel, when K.B. and I were still young cubs, we had been out with Dad laaaaate.  We were sleepy and cranky and Dad was doing his damndest to get us to bed.  We went into the hotel – and this was not a Holiday Inn, friends – this was a swanky Doubletree with a baby grand piano in the lobby.  It was fancy.  So we go to check-in and, after a less than pleasant exchange, the oh-so helpful front desk manager informed Dad that our reservation had been lost in the fray, that there was a convention in town, and there were no rooms to be had.  This was not the news that Papa Bear, two sleepy cubs in tow, wanted to hear.  They argued for a few more minutes and when Dad could see that he was fighting a losing battle, he instructed us to head back to the car.  As the three of us were making our way out of the lobby, Dad casually took a sip of the very full Big Gulp fountain Coke that he had carried in with him, and then, ever so gracefully, he sailed it right across the luxurious lobby.  I am pretty sure that, in addition to the coke, Dad tossed a few choice phrases regarding  just exactly how he felt about the situation, in case he had left any room for doubt amidst the soaking wet oriental rugs and dripping marble stairs.  K.B. and I once again watched in disbelief, as we tottered on to the car.  WHOA – Dad means business!  Really was a pisser when Dad realized on the way out of the hotel parking lot that he had left his credit card at the front desk…  Lesson learned though:  Don’t fuck with the cubs.   

There are countless other stories that I could tell…  humor was, and continues to be, his best teaching tool.  When I got caught sneaking out in high school my official nickname until I graduated was “Midnight Rider”.  When I was little and some mean boy on the playground told me that I had a big head, Dad called me “Hydro” – that’s short for hydrocephalic – and he used to take my hats and sneakily move them over a notch or two and watch me struggle to put them back on.  When I got a HUGE speeding ticket a few years ago he called me “Danica Patrick” for months.  All that being said, the man who made up all these nicknames is the same Daddy who gave little miss “Midnight Rider” the Mercedes with the posessed tape deck for my first car when I turned 16.  He’s the same protective Father who may or may not have broken a bone or two when he shook the hand of the bully who told me I had a big head.  And he’s the same supportive Dad who helped lead-foot “Danica” pay that big, huge speeding ticket.    

My brother and I would not have the incredibly blessed, priviledged, and student-loan-free lives that we enjoy now if had not been for Dad’s love, support, and hard work.  I guess as you grow up you begin to realize that your invincible, perfect parents are human just like everyone else, faults and all.  But Dad, I hope that you know every day - and especially on Father’s day – that you’ll always be Superman to me.  I love you – Happy Father’s Day.  

Dad, me, & Grammy