This morning I'm working my tail off, cleaning and polishing the oak floor. If I knew getting wood floors was going to be this much work, I would have gotten a divorce, instead.
Just kidding.
Maybe I would have just poured concrete and gone for a more industrial look. That's what I would have done, but I didn't. My wife had other ideas. So instead we went with the wood floors. Actually, she went with the wood floors. I just went along.
Wood floors.
Throughout the house.
Throughout the ENTIRE house.
Man, I must really love my wife.
And, while I'm hard at work doing the kind of manual labor I swore when I was a teenager I would never do, guess who's sitting in the great room watching TV?
Yeah.
My Dad.
And I have to work around him.
He now has an expensive, brand new, high-definition television set, courtesy of his hard-working son with the apparently bottomless bank account, but he always has to watch the TV set in the great room, just like I told my wife he would, but she wouldn't listen. She only listens to people who are not her husband. Anyway...
I'm busy, my wife is busy, and, like a cat, he has to place himself right in the middle of everything. I have to use the Vacuum and polisher, but my wife has vetoed that idea. They make too much noise. And that would disrupt something important. Like my Dad watching a baseball game. E pluribus unum. One of many.
"Who's playing, Dad?" I ask him, pretending an interest I didn't really have. What I have is a desire to finish with the floors as quickly as possible.
Doing something you'd rather not do is easier to take when you get it over with quickly. But, since I can't get the work over with quickly, I'll try to make things pleasant between my Dad and I instead. You see, when you pretend to have a certain emotion, your mind tends to believe the lie, and starts to actually feel the way you're pretending to feel.
"What?" my Dad answers his usual answer.
"Who's playing?"
"Who's playing?"
"Yeah. Who's playing?"
"Are you asking me who's playing?"
"Yes. That's what I'm asking you."
"That's what I thought."
Pause.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Who's playing?
"Oh, who's playing?"
Another pause. I don't know why I start these things.
"Well," my Dad says, thinking to himself, "I don't really know. I just turned on the TV, and there was a game on, so I started watching it."
See what I mean?
Just kidding.
Maybe I would have just poured concrete and gone for a more industrial look. That's what I would have done, but I didn't. My wife had other ideas. So instead we went with the wood floors. Actually, she went with the wood floors. I just went along.
Wood floors.
Throughout the house.
Throughout the ENTIRE house.
Man, I must really love my wife.
And, while I'm hard at work doing the kind of manual labor I swore when I was a teenager I would never do, guess who's sitting in the great room watching TV?
Yeah.
My Dad.
And I have to work around him.
He now has an expensive, brand new, high-definition television set, courtesy of his hard-working son with the apparently bottomless bank account, but he always has to watch the TV set in the great room, just like I told my wife he would, but she wouldn't listen. She only listens to people who are not her husband. Anyway...
I'm busy, my wife is busy, and, like a cat, he has to place himself right in the middle of everything. I have to use the Vacuum and polisher, but my wife has vetoed that idea. They make too much noise. And that would disrupt something important. Like my Dad watching a baseball game. E pluribus unum. One of many.
"Who's playing, Dad?" I ask him, pretending an interest I didn't really have. What I have is a desire to finish with the floors as quickly as possible.
Doing something you'd rather not do is easier to take when you get it over with quickly. But, since I can't get the work over with quickly, I'll try to make things pleasant between my Dad and I instead. You see, when you pretend to have a certain emotion, your mind tends to believe the lie, and starts to actually feel the way you're pretending to feel.
"What?" my Dad answers his usual answer.
"Who's playing?"
"Who's playing?"
"Yeah. Who's playing?"
"Are you asking me who's playing?"
"Yes. That's what I'm asking you."
"That's what I thought."
Pause.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Who's playing?
"Oh, who's playing?"
Another pause. I don't know why I start these things.
"Well," my Dad says, thinking to himself, "I don't really know. I just turned on the TV, and there was a game on, so I started watching it."
See what I mean?
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
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