(Yeah, I’m back-posting this for yesterday. I was going to post it, and got busy. But it still counts, dammit. Plus, the post is about yesterday, so there you go.
Okay, okay — so really, the post is about me being a frigging cluebag. But only as it applies to yesterday — or rather, not yesterday. Look, maybe you should just read the thing. All this explanation shit is only going to confuse you.)
Never trust a mother-in-law, folks.
Like you need me to tell you that, right? For most people, ‘in-laws’ are right up there with ‘lawyers’, ‘telemarketers’, and ‘Charles Manson’ on the list of people you wouldn’t take candy from. But I’m not that way — no, really. I’m an easygoing sort. Amiable. Trusting.
Yeah. ‘Gullible‘. Screw you, too. I’m tellin’ a story, here.
Anyway, here’s the thing — my mother-in-law was planning on coming to town this past weekend. Only, a couple of weeks ago, she left us a message saying that she can’t make it until next weekend, instead. So far, so boring, right? Stick with me — we’re getting there.
So, in her message, she said the following:
‘Getting a ticket for the 10th was just crazy — Father’s Day traffic must be screwing it up — so I’ll be up on the 16th, instead.‘
Fine. Different weekend. No problem. But heeeeey… that’s right. Fathers Day is coming up. Nice catch. I’ll remember that.
And I did. I tucked that little tidbit away from two weeks, and on Thursday — at the last possible moment, really — I ordered a gift to be sent to my dad. Go, me — not forgetting Fathers Day. For a guy like me, that’s a personal frigging accomplishment. I put it on my resume, even.
Only — and this is the part all of you already know, of course — Fathers Day wasn’t this week. It’s next week. Something else entirely must’ve been screwing the air traffic pooch this weekend, and I was foiled — again, albeit accidentally — by the mother-in-law. I even gave ol’ Dad a call Sunday afternoon, just to say… ‘What the fuck? It’s not Fathers Day? Oh. Talk to you next week, then. And don’t open any packages until next weekend. Damn.‘
So, I got a bit of ‘gentle ribbing’. Not gentle enough, though — see how he likes it next year, when I poop in a box, and send him that. Oh, it’ll show up the right week, though. Then we’ll see how funny it is that I can’t read a calendar. Try wearing that around your neck, pops.Permalink | 1 Comment