 Be careful what you wish for, it just might come true. Like take my Father's Day wish a few years back, for example. All I wanted was to have a day all to myself. Not all by myself, mind you, just all to myself. I still wanted others around to pamper me, to fetch for me, to shower me with cards and gifts.
I should have just asked for a tie.
But my wish was for a day without responsibilities and worries. Without problems to solve, without meetings to attend, without lawns to mow, without dishes to wash ...
"Yeah, like he's ever washed a dish in his life!"
Hey, who the heck was that? It was my wife, wasn't it! This was my wish, and she was sticking her big nose in it! Who invited her?
Anyway, a day just for me and the TV set ... a baseball game would be nice ... maybe the Giants. And I'd be in complete control of the remote in case I wanted to click over to, I don't know, maybe an old John Wayne movie.
"Oh, now I know what day you're talking about. We call it Sunday."
Don't pay any attention to her!
You know what would be great ... a nice cigar ... a big ol' Havana (I forgot, is it politically correct to smoke Cuban cigars?) ... and I could just flick the ashes on the table for someone else to clean up.
"You don't even smoke."
Details, she was always bringing up details!
And how about a beer ... just one very cold beer ... a domestic would be fine.
"Yeah, like he's ever had just one beer!"
OK, that's it! I'd heard enough from my wife. It was Father's Day, and I deserved a little special treatment!
"Why, you're not my father."
Ouch! Seems like I might have heard someone make a similar statement right around Mother's Day that year.
But, hey, I didn't need her ... I had my two boys. And more than 20 years of being the All-American dad—coaching the baseball teams, rushing home from work to attend all the school functions, slipping them a 10 here and a 20 there for movies and video games, buying each of them a car—I knew they wouldn't forget the ol' man on his one special day of the year.
Or so I thought.
"Be back after while," said the oldest as he swept out the front door.
"Hold it!" I screamed. "It's Father's Day!"
"I know," he said, "that's why I'm in such a hurry. We're taking Nicole's dad out for breakfast. I'll be home in time for dinner."
Blood may well be thicker than water, but there's a certain coagulation that occurs in the father-son relationship when a girlfriend enters the family circulatory system.
So the oldest disappeared, but then the youngest came through.
"What do you want for Father's Day?" he asked. What a great kid.
"Oh, I don't know," I stammered. "How about a hammock? But not one of those cheap ones. And it's got to be green to match the rest of the outdoor furniture."
He just stared at me blankly, no doubt adding up the numbers.
"Uh, well," he said, "I was thinking more like a card and the latest issue of Sport Illustrated . They're only about two and half bucks, right?"
Oh, well, so I wouldn't be lounging in a hammock. At least I could spend the day on the couch with the youngest there to wait on me.
Just then a blur passed before my eyes, and I heard, "Goin' to the park to play some ball ... see ya."
So there I was—alone on the couch with my TV, my remote and my Sports Illustrated , and no boys to bring me food, beer or cigars. I cast a pathetic look at my wife.
"Don't even think about it!"
This year I think I just want a tie.
Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.
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