my former student: Is Mr. Pin there?

me: Nope, sorry. He's out of town until Monday.

my former student: But we've got a basketball game tomorrow morning! He's been telling us we've got this game for ages!

me: Um. Well, I'm sorry, but he didn't leave me any kind of message about that, and he's definitely not going to be back until Monday. Unless the principal or any of the teachers -

my former student: Well.

*he hangs up, then calls back a minute later*

my former student: How about you take us to the game! You can be coach!

me: Yeah, no. I cannot do that. I can't even really drive safely right now.

my former student: Well. Guess we'll just - go to Sunday school, then!

me: Good idea!

my former student: Guys, no game, we're all going to Sunday school tomorrow!

other kids: *chorus of complaints and sarcastic cheers*

me: Okay, enjoy yourselves.

my former student: We will!

Dec. 26th, 2014 02:40 pm
Dad: Sarah! North Korea has done a cyber-attack on our house.

me: …

Dad: It’s because of the movie.

Mom: The internet’s just being slow, dear.

Dec. 26th, 2014 02:38 pm
Trying to talk my Dad out of watching The Interview is like trying to talk the ocean out of watching The Interview.

the ocean: No, I’m not just watching it out of a form of childish pseudo-rebellion against a genuinely dangerous political actor whom I view as a sort of cartoon villain for a lot of fucked-up reasons I need to examine - I mean, Seth Rogen’s a really good actor -

me: Which is why you never mentioned the movie before the hacking - it was all just, like, washing against the sand, evaporating to form clouds, concealing giant squids. Not one mention of this movie about which you’re suddenly so enthusiastic -

the ocean: I did mention it! I did, maybe not to you, but I - and anyway Seth Rogen’s a really good actor.

me: He’s not! He’s not.

(I know, I know - I shouldn’t even bother talking to the ocean.)
Mom has forbidden him from bringing home any more animals, so he's trying to get me to adopt some for him to play with. Earlier today, I for probably the dozenth time explained to him that I think Dubiety the Cat needs to be a lone cat, given that he is terrified of Tragedy the Cat - who is seventeen years old, half his weight, badly arthritic, deaf, and going blind.

So he comes over to the house this evening, sits there playing with Dubiety for a while, and then asks me hopefully, "do you think he'd like a friend?"

I gave him the cookies I fucked up. I don't think he noticed they tasted funny.
Dad: [name] is sitting over there! He ordered ice cream. Should I go talk to him?

Me: He's suing you. Are you allowed to talk to him directly?

Dad: But he's still working for me! He's working for me on the X case and suing me over the Y case.

Me: How is he supposed to get you his report? Like he sends it via counsel?

Dad: I got it in the mail. Should I go over and say hi? What's the protocol, honey?

Mom: *heavy sigh*

Dad: I'm going to go talk to him. *leaves*

Me: If Dad grabs a spoonful of his ice cream and then runs away, we'll know the conversation's gone badly.

Mom: Let's just leave. We came in separate cars, anyway.
Dad: You know that big house in town? It's for sale.

Me: What would you do with this house?

Dad: It'll be a new satellite law office -

Me: Like twenty yards from your current one?

Dad: I'm going to go into business doing social security law, I want to be like local hero Eric C. Conn!

Me: Okay, then.

Dad: It's a nice house, though, Sarah, have you seen it?

Me: I thought you were going to retire to a house in Florida on the intracoastal waterway. I thought that was your house fantasy.

Dad: Do you want it?

Me: Sure, Dad, just up and buy me a house.

Dad: Well, [employee] needs a place to live. So does [friend]. I could buy the house and you three could live in it. And maybe other people.

Me: This is a very radical idea, buying a house and letting people live in it. Are you sure you're not a communist?

Dad, sulkily: I am a liberal democrat.

Mar. 28th, 2014 06:46 pm
Dad: So this guy who's getting arraigned tomorrow, he's completely deaf.

Mom: Do you have an interpreter?

Dad: No, but I learned sign language. I do this and it means "plea," this and it means "guilty," and there's this gesture like this where I wave my arms and it means "waive your constitutional rights." It's called a swim.

Mom: They have to give you guys an interpreter.

Dad: No! I know sign language!

Mar. 27th, 2014 04:38 pm
Me: So Dad the doctor said that you had to be the one to bring my stool samples back in.

Mom: He did say that. You specifically.

Dad: No.

Me: No, you have to. He said they won't be right somehow if it's someone else.

Dad: NoooOoo. No. No.

Mom: Dear, this is your daughter's health at stake.

Dad: That's why she has a good mother -

Mom: I don't think you're treating this situation with the gravity which it deserves.

Mom: *Ursula the Sea Witch cackle* you deleted it.
Dad: Sarah! Emergency! Help! Help!

Me: With what?

Dad: Emergency! Emergency! Very bad! Help!

Me: Did the dogs do something?

Dad: Help me!

Me: What did the dogs do? Oh, they found another carcass.

Dad: No, honey, it's really bad, it's an emergency -

Me: Yeah, that's a jawbone, they've brought back three of those -

Dad: It's a jawbone! It's got teeth on it! It's very bad, where did they get it?!

Me: From a discarded skull from someone dressing deer, maybe! It's not like this is the first time they've done this!

Dad: Where are they finding them, is someone just cutting deer up in the hills?! Oh, no!

Me: Please do not put the jawbone in the kitchen garbage. Don't throw the bloody towel agh!

*He throws the bloody towel at me.*
Dark-colored coffee cup covered in pale, highly-visible streaks of dried-out improperly-incorporated instant cappuccino, sitting innocuously alongside several other ostensibly "clean" dishes.

I have informed Dad that he is not even allowed near the sink anymore. Put your dishes in the dishwasher and back away slowly.
Dad: I'm not going to do it! I'm not! I'm not going!

Me: Once I had to get an upper GI series done, Dad? I had to fast, and then I went in they made me put on a robe and drink a big cup of barium, and I heaved some of it up on the robe and had to change and then drink even more. I didn't get to be asleep for this, they didn't put it into me with a tube down my throat, I had to consciously chug that barium. Whereas you are going to be asleep -

Dad: You know, in ancient civilizations, they didn't have colonoscopies. And they were fine!

Me: Dead by forty.

Dad: Maybe it was better that way.


Dad: I'm not doing it! No!

Mom: Dear, you are going, or I am never going to humor another complaint about your stomach again. All right? You will sit there whining, and I will simply ignore your suffering.
At the age of almost-60, my father still believes that running cold water over a dish for a couple seconds means that it is clean, and that all that is necessary to clean pet urine off of a surface upon which people eat is to wipe it down with a dry dishtowel.
Dad: I'm going to write a book about all the times I go to Starbucks. It'll be called "Adventures in Coffee."

Me: You don't even finish reading books. You do not have the attention span to write one.

Dad: I have an iPad!

Me: That doesn't solve the problem.

Dad: It's easy, it'll just be a description of all my trips to Starbucks, I'll write them all down and I'll have a book.

Me: Nobody wants to read that book. That's not even a book, it's more like a blog. Do you want me to set you up a blog.

Dad: No, I'll use my trips to Starbucks as like, pivot points, like "what has happened in the world since I was last in a Starbucks."

Me: "Nothing, it's only been twenty minutes, I go to Starbucks way too much."

Dad: I think it's a great idea! "Adventures in Coffee!"

Me: How about instead I start a blog where I just post all the absurd things you say - "Dad Says Stuff" - and when it gets a million readers for no good reason we turn it into a book.

Dad: Okay. It's called "Adventures in Coffee!"

Dec. 24th, 2013 08:06 pm
Also Dad came in yelling for me to wrap all his presents, including my own.

I said I'd do it if he'd change the sheets on my siblings' beds. He took the sheets off one, then put the quilt back on it, then put the top sheet on the quilt. I don't know why. I also found the fitted sheet in a pile of dog food. He told me he was going to die soon and went to bed.

I wrapped all his presents in pillowcases. He got me a picture frame specifically for dog pictures.

Dec. 23rd, 2013 08:28 pm
Dad: Hey, someone posted in Hebrew on my Facebook.

Mom: Can you read it?

Dad: Yeah, it says "I hear you have new dogs." They're Jewish dogs.

Me: I don't think they are. I feel pretty confident that they would eat ham, were they permitted to do so.

Dad: Oh, I eat ham, it's fine.

Me: You're not really Jewish!

Dad: Yes, I am! When Jesus people proselytize me, I'm extremely Jewish.
Dad: Mr. N has such an effeminate dog...

Mom: Dear! "Effeminate dog?" Jesus.

Me: What?

Mom: Oh, your father's been calling Mr. N's little terrier an "effeminate" dog. He's ridiculous.

Dad: He had it all dressed up.

Me: You put a pink sweater on my dog! Without my permission.

Dad: She's a girl. It's just effeminate.

Me: You know, I'm noticing a similarity between the way you use that word and the way certain high school kids use "gay." Are you a homophobe, Dad?

Dad: No, you just shouldn't make a boy dog dress like that -

Me: I don't know how I feel about having a homophobic dad! I think I'm going to have to send you away to be re-trained.

Mom: Fine with me.

Dad, petulantly: Fine! I'm dying anyway, I'll be dead soon.
Dad: [says stuff in Hebrew] - oh look the Mets are doing good, the Mets are going to win!

Me: Did you just interrupt your Kaddish so you could talk to the TV.

Dad: Yes.
Mom: Your Dad and I watched part of Les Miserables? And that was the most depressing thing.

thegeekgene: Yep!

Me: It's Les Miserables, Mom, that's the title.

Mom: Well, I mean, I knew that, but it's just - he's starving and he steals the bread and everything's awful and he goes to jail and -

thegeekgene: Mom, I've seen the play twice, I know.

(Why did she go to see the play twice? Why?)

I actually had to read the whole unabridged book in high school French (though mostly in English). I recall mainly 1) interminable descriptions of personal woe, 2) digressions into interminable descriptions of unrelated woe for reasons of "context," 3) revolutionaries acting like the Ouran High School Host Club, and 4) me crying a whole lot when Jean died.

Dad's been pronouncing it "Laz Miz-Rabbles" just to mess with me. He's the one who decided to send me to high school with the state's most intense French program, so I don't think it appropriate that he makes fun of me for twitching about that.

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The contents of this blog and all comments I make are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike License. I hope that name is long enough. I could add some stuff. It could also be a Bring Me A Sandwich License.

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