I Miss My Girls
It's funny how the most routine daily stuff will get the ol' tear ducts working.
Like every time I go to the fridge to get myself a vodka martini (stirred, not shaken thank-you - as if I give a damn, Ha-ha,) and there they are. Snap-shots of them on the refrigerator door. Reminders of what was and is and always will be.
It's worse at this time of year because the American Thanksgiving holiday season always has that effect on me. When they were in school, I'd let them stay home for the day so we could sit down as a family, gather round our friend Mr. Television and watch the Macy's parade live from N.Y.C.
And wonder if this would be the year that the 'Underdog' balloon would be cancelled. Irregardless of the popularity of Wally Cox, just how long can you keep a parade-attraction going long after his TV show has been off the air for decades - regardless of the fact that it's a perennial crowd favorite?
I don't know if they'll be coming over for the traditional American Thanksgiving fest this Thursday. After all, you can only eat so many marshmellow-candied yams and Jimmy Dean's turkey rolls between our Thanksgiving and Christmas - and what with them having real jobs now and it being an American holiday and all, well ...
It's kind of strange. This used to be a Venus-dominated house. A mom, two daughters and at one point four cats - all females.And a father who uses 'Uncle Charlie' from 'My Three Sons' (a maid in any other 60s sitcom,) as his professional and personal role-model. Sure I may be gruff but loveable, but my only fault is that I care too much.
But since the birth of the Gnut some 12 years ago, this house has become more balanced and now that the girls have moved out and an old dog has come here to retire, the testosterone level has reversed the way things were not too long ago.
For one thing, these days I don't do no work around the house. No, not nuthin'. That may come as a bit of a shock to anyone who knows me but I figure if I work nights and I'm being paid to spend my entire shift dusting and cleaning and cooking and dealing with other people's personality quirks and then picking up dog shit - why would I want to do the same thing when I come home? So I don't. I watch TV, listen to the radio and read.
But it's different only having one woman in the house. They'll only tolerate so much sloth - so you have to keep a step ahead of the game just to give the impression that it looks like you're trying to make an effort. And that you care.
But I don't care. And I don't know if that's some sort of latent sign of becoming a man or what but ever since turning 50, I 've come to the conclusion that I don't really give a shit about all that stuff. Who cares if the place hasn't been dusted in two days? Who cares if the dirty breakfast dishes are still in the sink before lunch? Who cares if the plants don't get watered daily? Who cares if I don't change my underwear on a weekly basis?
These are all life lessons I hope to pass on to the boy. I'm only sorry that I hadn't experienced this kind of revelation in time earlier so's I could teach by example the same practices and principles to my girls.
But I don't worry too much. I raised them as best I could. And only relied on their mother for about seventy per-cent of their good upbringing. I have no worries there.
Just as I have no worries about spending the American Thanksgiving alone since Mona has to work and the Gnut has already made plans to skip school that day. Because whether it is snowing, raining or the buses are running late due to regularly-scheduled incompetance, I know those girls will be here on Thursday morning to watch the Macy's parade with me and then pop 'Miracle on 34 Street' into the ol' VCR.
And they come not because the house has been recently dusted, and not just so I can do their laundry for them. And not just because of the marshmello-candied yams.
They come because they want to. They come because they are always welcome and have their own keys and don't have to ring the bell. They come because I really do make the best marshmello-candied yams in the world. And they come because no matter where they may have an apartment lease-agreement, this is home.
You know, I have a feeling that this is going to be the best American Thanksgiving Day ever!
Like every time I go to the fridge to get myself a vodka martini (stirred, not shaken thank-you - as if I give a damn, Ha-ha,) and there they are. Snap-shots of them on the refrigerator door. Reminders of what was and is and always will be.
It's worse at this time of year because the American Thanksgiving holiday season always has that effect on me. When they were in school, I'd let them stay home for the day so we could sit down as a family, gather round our friend Mr. Television and watch the Macy's parade live from N.Y.C.
And wonder if this would be the year that the 'Underdog' balloon would be cancelled. Irregardless of the popularity of Wally Cox, just how long can you keep a parade-attraction going long after his TV show has been off the air for decades - regardless of the fact that it's a perennial crowd favorite?
I don't know if they'll be coming over for the traditional American Thanksgiving fest this Thursday. After all, you can only eat so many marshmellow-candied yams and Jimmy Dean's turkey rolls between our Thanksgiving and Christmas - and what with them having real jobs now and it being an American holiday and all, well ...
It's kind of strange. This used to be a Venus-dominated house. A mom, two daughters and at one point four cats - all females.And a father who uses 'Uncle Charlie' from 'My Three Sons' (a maid in any other 60s sitcom,) as his professional and personal role-model. Sure I may be gruff but loveable, but my only fault is that I care too much.
But since the birth of the Gnut some 12 years ago, this house has become more balanced and now that the girls have moved out and an old dog has come here to retire, the testosterone level has reversed the way things were not too long ago.
For one thing, these days I don't do no work around the house. No, not nuthin'. That may come as a bit of a shock to anyone who knows me but I figure if I work nights and I'm being paid to spend my entire shift dusting and cleaning and cooking and dealing with other people's personality quirks and then picking up dog shit - why would I want to do the same thing when I come home? So I don't. I watch TV, listen to the radio and read.
But it's different only having one woman in the house. They'll only tolerate so much sloth - so you have to keep a step ahead of the game just to give the impression that it looks like you're trying to make an effort. And that you care.
But I don't care. And I don't know if that's some sort of latent sign of becoming a man or what but ever since turning 50, I 've come to the conclusion that I don't really give a shit about all that stuff. Who cares if the place hasn't been dusted in two days? Who cares if the dirty breakfast dishes are still in the sink before lunch? Who cares if the plants don't get watered daily? Who cares if I don't change my underwear on a weekly basis?
These are all life lessons I hope to pass on to the boy. I'm only sorry that I hadn't experienced this kind of revelation in time earlier so's I could teach by example the same practices and principles to my girls.
But I don't worry too much. I raised them as best I could. And only relied on their mother for about seventy per-cent of their good upbringing. I have no worries there.
Just as I have no worries about spending the American Thanksgiving alone since Mona has to work and the Gnut has already made plans to skip school that day. Because whether it is snowing, raining or the buses are running late due to regularly-scheduled incompetance, I know those girls will be here on Thursday morning to watch the Macy's parade with me and then pop 'Miracle on 34 Street' into the ol' VCR.
And they come not because the house has been recently dusted, and not just so I can do their laundry for them. And not just because of the marshmello-candied yams.
They come because they want to. They come because they are always welcome and have their own keys and don't have to ring the bell. They come because I really do make the best marshmello-candied yams in the world. And they come because no matter where they may have an apartment lease-agreement, this is home.
You know, I have a feeling that this is going to be the best American Thanksgiving Day ever!
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 6:07 AM
11 Comments:
Thanks H.P. - you've obviously been there.
Sorry about getting all sentimental and all.
But I've been hangin with Jen (she's a Windsor gal, ya know) over to the Free Press blog thing lately and she reminds me of times long past that I'll never experience again
- unless I do an 'Anthony Quinn' and 'accidently' get Mona pregnant.
On second thought ...
hey this is mr.t im just to lazy to log off and go on mine but sonny i agree with H.P. it was really nice
Yo - thanks Mr. T. ... Do I know you?
Hey Suzy, I remember you. Even tho we never met. Hope all is going well out there. Calgary, eh?
Hey L.L.O. - you got mail here. Including a big letter from Fwd. Hse. You know where I am.
Hey Suzy, I remember you. Even tho we never met. Hope all is going well out there. Calgary, eh?
A perfectly lovely ode to being a Dad once and forever. Thanks!
Well done, Sonny. That was great.
Wow, thanks boys. I'm honored.
Yes, I'm not ashamed to admit that us rugged James Bond/Batman types do have our soft sensitive side.
Christ, Sonny, as the PR agent for your blog, I have to say that I'm in line for a raise in pay.
Suzy Burge? All the way from Alberta?
Nothing I liked better than watching Suzy and the news. Now that TV station (what do they call it this week?) has gone straight into the toilet.
Yep, Suzy's A-okay, Butch. Me and 'Pops' went to St. Thomas about three years ago to see The Beatles (or was it The Caverners? I always get those two bands mixed up) and Suzy was the Master of Ceremonies. Sadly, being the couple of awkward stump-kickers we are, we felt too shy to say 'hello' - even tho we were from London too.
Butch - you get me Al MacGregor or Jessica Simpson on this blog and I promise you 15 per-cent of all my blog income. Oh what the hell, you get me Johnny Depp on here and I'll make it 20 per cent. That guy makes me cry.
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