Just Another Day

Okay:

My Father's Day was relatively uneventful.

New technology has turned this sadly overlooked holiday into something bordering on pathetic. Instead of phone calls from well-wishers, I received twenty or so text messages.

They varied from the standard: "Happy Father's Day"

To the more interesting:

"Today fellas u r not bitch ass niggas, no good mother fuckers, or trifling dogs. Today u r great dads. HAPPY FATHERS DAY. But tomorrow u go back 2 bitch ass niggas..."

It's good to know that people are thinking about you and all that you do on this special day, an after thought as it were.

"Hey, the mothers got their own day. What are we? Chop liver?"

But enough with the pity party.

I spent this morning cleaning a pair of sneakers I bought for my daughter a month ago. A pair of yellow and green Chuck Taylors that she dirtied up on "Water Day", which apparently also involved mud and what appeared to be tar of some sort.

It wasn't until my shoulders got sore from the scrubbing that I realized that canvas shoes can go in the washing machine. It was the kind of a-ha moment that leaves you feeling weak and stupid.

Voila!

Almost as good as new. I even let the laces soak a bit.

I spent most of this weekend doing things that brought home the reality of single parenthood with a special kind of poignancy.

Friday night, we watched High School Musical together. Now, quiet as kept, I am huge fan of musicals. I realize it's a little gay, but I can't help it. Grease. The Wiz. Little Shop of Horrors. I actually own these DVDs and know all the songs by heart.

I was, however, fully expecting to be bored stupid by the newest addition to the ridiculously successful Disney youth entertainment franchise. But low and behold, for what it was, I was thoroughly entertained. The songs themselves were far from memorable, but the story was engaging and at some point I found myself telling my daughter in a decidedly harsh tone to "Sit down and be quiet for one doggone minute!"

I was sitting on the edge of my seat, sincerely vested in whether or not Troy and Gabriella were going to be able to pull it off in spite of that bitch Sharpay's constant meddling.

This afternoon, I was washing a pair of Dora panties in the sink.

Then I spent forty minutes braiding hair. Only for my mother to later on to exclaim, "Sweetie, who did you hair this way and why did they do it?"

Then my stepfather jumped in, "You look like a little pickaninnie."

He sang a little song, "Pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie, pick-a-ninnie."

Then they started dancing.

Then my daughter and my mother ran upstairs and when they came back down, her hair was different.

Oh well.

Yes, I've come a very long way.

There's a kind of duality involved in all this.

But it's better than being a pure bachelor, I think.

I didn't get any presents or cards. But my sister says there's something in the mail. Still, this is the irony of Father's Day. For 24 hours, we get to celebrate exactly how unappreciated we are. But if we were celebrated on the level the mothers are, it would take all the zip out of fatherhood. We're supposed to be in the background, barely noticed, us knowing full well that none of it would be possible without us, but because we're men, we don't need all the fuss.

It's better that way. Not martyrdom. More like anonymous philanthropy.

I did, in case you were wondering, have lunch with my father. There were about eight of us. We ran up a $200 bill at Olive Garden, celebrating the old man and myself and all that we do and have done. But when the bill came everyone started pulling out cash, trying to divvy it up. "How many glasses of wine did you have?" and so on. So I handed my father my debit card and said, "Why don't we put 50% on my card and 50% on your card."

He smiled proudly and said, "I think that's a good idea."

Happy Father's Day.


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Factoid: I received a grand total of 15 Happy Father's Day text messages. If you sent one of them, thank you.