Possumblog

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Thursday, June 12, 2003

Father’s Day

The other day, Reba said Jonathan told her conspiratorially, “I know what Daddy wants for Father’s Day!”

What?

“He wants PEACE AND QUIET! But I don’t think he’s gonna get that.”

He’s been reared an honest little boy.

Despite fantastical wishes for various antique cars and watches and books, or for more practical stuff like tools or computer stuff, I don’t really want or need anything like that. A card’s fine, with a big hug. And a room cleaned up without being told—although that borders on fantasy also. In the end, lots of those storebought gifts for dad wind up being more frequently used by the giver anyway—“You think Daddy would like a new pack of Yu-Gi-Oh cards so he could challenge me to a card duel? Well, do you think we could get them for me instead then?”

It’s like that with everything I supposedly own. Just about the only thing I can claim as mine and mine alone are my guns and my underwear. And really I can’t even keep a good grasp on all of my underwear—anytime anyone needs a white tee-shirt to rip to shreds or paint for a school project, one (or several) manages to magically appear out of the Handsome Wooden Drawer Full of White Tee-Shirts That Don’t Belong to Anyone. (Probably one reason why underwear is such a popular gift this time of year.)

But, at least they do leave my briefs alone. Not that I can blame them.

And I don’t have a Mike Bradyesque home office to call my own, either. I think I would settle for a chair in the garage—but it’s so full of other people’s stuff that it resembles a mini-storage unit. Even “my side of the bed” gets used when certain wives of mine decide to assemble big folders full of stuff for work (I won’t tell which one in particular so as to keep her from getting mad at me). I have found that I can have some privacy in the downstairs restroom. I would call it a powder room—it just has a toilet and a sink—but that sounds too girly for such a he-masculine Fortress of Solitude. It’s nice and quiet and no one ever thinks to find me there, sitting all alone with my Fruits of the Loom and firearms. (Quite the mental image there, huh!)

So, a card and a hug is just fine.

posted by Terry at 2:03:00 PM

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