My Dad is great. Really. I love him very much. But he is … different. Nowadays, he’d be classified as Asperger’s syndrome or as a high functioning autistic, because he is as brilliant, but has the social and practical life skills of a wombat on crack. He’s a physician, and he pulls miracles out of his ass routinely. Since he was a resident, other docs in the ER would have him “take a look” at the strange things, and Dad would nail it. He’s like the lead character on House, but instead of being a genius, socially inept, asshat, my Dad is a genius, socially inept, dork.
This is a man who is so smart you can actually see his brain throb, who saves lives with relative ease, but if you let him drive the store, the parking lot defeats him. He will drive around, uncertain of where to park, waiting for my mom to pick the spot. He is a man who can perform delicate surgeries, but cannot put together a sandwich.
Then there is the social thing. Dear God, how there is the social thing.
Now, I am not the best person at a formal social gathering myself. Informal? I’m your girl. But I have no innate sense of what NOT to say at “classy” events. I am beyond gauche; I go right up into “mentally deficient”. But compared to my Dad, I am smoother than glass.
My mom is much more of a social creature than Dad, but she also has a nasty habit of speaking her mind on any topic no matter the setting. She is usually speaking the truth, yet that doesn’t comfort anyone. It just adds to the shell-shock.
For example, I took my parents to meet my priest, Rev. Gerri, before my wedding. I wanted to make sure they weren’t going to faint at the sight a female priest, and I thought it would a chance for them to get any questions about the ceremony answered. I had converted to Episcopalian, and as life-long Baptists my parents had never seen an Episcopalian service.
So there we were, standing in an otherwise empty church on Friday morning, looking at the alter and talking to Gerri about flower placements. That’s when it happened. My Dad just reached over and started casually feeling my mom’s ass. My Mom, elegance personified that she is, slapped his hand away and said, “Stop it, you big pervert.” Then she leans in a little toward Gerri and says, confidentially, “You’ll have to excuse him. Churches turn him on.” Ever-unflappable, Gerri makes a polite response, like “I see,” or something. I couldn’t hear real well because I was busy planning on how to crash through a stain glass window and escape. Then, the icing on the cake, mom chirps in a perky little voice, “I’m thinking about getting a pew for the bedroom.”
I seriously contemplated trying to drown myself in the baptismal font.
Stand up, stand up for Jesus!
Is this the appropriate time to shout YES AMEN?
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.
So that’s what makes a Fokker. *Makes note.
My dad came from a long line of butt-fondlers. You’d see the family at a family event where there was dancing, such as a wedding, and there would be the men, patting the butt of the woman they were dancing with. Who was usually another family member. But there was once my dad patted the ass of a family friend. Luckily the friend, and her husband, had a very good sense of humor. Really would have looked bad, dragging my dad the cop into court for molesting a woman.
Cheers to your dad, Fokker! It’s nice to know there are people who have my level of social ineptness out there, operating at least on a functional level.
Okay. I’ve been staring at this screen with TEARS running down my cheeks for minutes. Tried several times to put my fingers to the keys, but found myself unable because I was re-taken (yes, I made up a word) with such ineffable joy and rapture (and laughter) over and over and over that I just couldn’t type.
I’ve known a man like your father. He was the father of the boy I liked in high school. He was the music director at our church. And he single-handedly helped me *understand* Physics. He was, at the time, the head physicist for Shell Oil Company. He had masters degrees in 4 different subjects (physics, music, chemistry, and one other I can’t remember right now). He and his wife had 11 children. Yes, 11. He’d frequently show up to work wearing “Titties” (remember those flip-flop-sandal-thingies made of rubber tubing?) and overalls. That’s it. No shirt. No tie. And they “allowed” this, because he was brilliant. Instead of a kitchen table, they put 2 picnic tables, end-to-end, in their kitchen. But what an intelligent man.
I think sometimes that intelligence pushes far beyond the envelope. It surpasses social graces or common sense.
He will always be right up there as one of the most influential men in my life. Thanks for the reminder. I need to go in search of him and find out if he’s still kicking up his hairy feet.
One more note. Hold onto your wonderful dad. Mine left the earth almost 4 years ago (at his own hand). So I’m going to live vicariously through your words about *your* father.
Ah, Stormy, my sympathies. That’s hard. I’m glad you can get vicarious dad-ness from Fokker’s post. I do the same with other people’s brothers.
Excellent! There’s a woman who knows what’s what. After all parents live to embarass their kids – don’t they?!! Your kids – if you’ve done your job right ( and you’re lucky ) leave you. But your partner needs to be encouraged (!) to stay.
Oh my Lord, that is funny. Like your mother, my mama spoke her mind no matter the consequences or surprized look from on-lookers.
Thanks for the huge bout of laughter.
Oh. My. Gawd.
I love your parents.
As you know, or maybe you don’t because I may have not mentioned in the past few minutes, but I boycott MalWart. I have, however, recently found the wonders that are MalWart People, the photos on line taken, usually with someone’s phone, of folks shopping their happy little hearts out. Way too many of these sneaky shots are of guys hands on gals butts. My own Beloved does this ALL THE DAMN TIME! To me. I have finally taken to reminding him “remember the MalWart People! Someone behind us might have a camera!” His response? “Let them get their own. I have mine.” Followed by, yet another, butt fondle. In public. Daily.
Hearing about your father only shows me my future.
Julie
(who does know how lucky she is, really, she does…)
“MalWart”!
Love it!
(We are blessed, we don’t have WalMart in Oz. Plenty of its cousins, but I’ve never seen anything quite like the “People of WalMart” out here.)
Oh lord, this is hilarious! I love your parents too.
oh, thank you, fokker, I needed a belly laugh tonight. I know I’m late but just had to pass on my gratitude. I am also a former Baptist who went on to be an Episcopalian (but then went on to other things after that), so can totally relate to parents who don’t quite get it. Not long after I started going to an Episcopal church, my beloved younger sister asked me, “But, are you still a Christian?”
ummmm, yes. Well, at least, then I was. loved today’s post, too, and already am looking forward to the next one.
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