I'm still not comfortable with the concept of me being a father. I don't mean "caring for and raising a child"...I'm actually OK with that. It's the concept of "father" as in "Father's Day" that's foreign to me.
I get stuff for my dad on Father's Day. He's part of a fraternity of hard working chaps with pipes in their mouths and a firm but kind lesson to share with Wally and the Beav. What the hell am I doing lined-up with them?
People asked, "What are you doing for Father's Day?" and I never had a response. It just seemed like any other day to me, except that I had to frantically scramble for a card and gift for my dad (again). I'd probably do what I always do: chase Cheeky, watch bad TV, herd dysfunctional goats, and concoct excuses for why I wasn't doing something more productive. My dad lives where Father's Day was invented; I live where chop suey was invented. Again, the application of the title seems ill-fitting.
So when Oodgie asked me a few weeks back what I wanted for Father's Day, I told her I didn't need anything. After all, it's just another day in the life. But she pressed me on it, so I went for the brass ring: The only thing I wanted was Guitar Hero II.
This was a long-shot since this gift neatly encapsulates everything Oodgie hates in the universe:
- video games
- loud, awesome, rocking music
- me ignoring her for long periods of time
So why not? I figured I'd have no chance of getting it, and Oodgie would be off the hook getting me anything else.
But far be it for my wife to deny me anything I truly want. And so it is with a plastic guitar, generously decorated with stickers by Cheeky, that I officially accept the mantle of "father." I've got me a fine woman.
Party at my place, guys. Alice Cooper, Guns & Roses and The Stooges will be your musical guests. Oodgie will likely be somewhere else. Thanks, baby!