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People tell me that my father is a really charming old man. He's so quiet! they tell me.
They have never seen him, two hours before a lawn party, his baseball cap perched upon his bald head, his polo shirt wrinkled from anxiety, his eyes bugging behind Buddy Holly glasses, his eyebrows three-fourths of the way up a forehead glistening with sweat, wringing his hands while kneeling on the floor with a sponge of tile wax, shouting in tones of near-hysteria, "We don't have a melon baller! How can we make a fruit salad without a melon baller? Soujin, how many males are coming? I need to know how much beer to chill! Are the steps vacuumed? My gosh, why is the melon baller missing? Maria, you've got to buy ice! What? You don't have any money of your own? I suppose I can spare ten dollars. We need lots! Kay, have you finished washing the toilet? I've got to scrub the porch once I'm finished here! I can't believe the melon baller is gone!" in all likelihood having eaten and drunk nothing all day, his anemia kicking in, his hands quivering. "I'll have to make the fruit salad with a tablespoon!"
And then, in a piercing shriek, he calls out, "Maria!" He sounds as though he may burst into tears.
My sister has just eaten a piece of watermelon out of the fruit salad. A single piece.
Yes, people. A charming, quiet old man. Who is secretly Martha Stewart, except more OCD. And that is why, now that I'm done vacuuming the steps, I am planning to hide in my room and watch X-Files. I enjoy cleaning the kitchen as much as the next girl, but I draw the line at repotting all the plants in the living room just because the cat urinated in one when we weren't looking.
They have never seen him, two hours before a lawn party, his baseball cap perched upon his bald head, his polo shirt wrinkled from anxiety, his eyes bugging behind Buddy Holly glasses, his eyebrows three-fourths of the way up a forehead glistening with sweat, wringing his hands while kneeling on the floor with a sponge of tile wax, shouting in tones of near-hysteria, "We don't have a melon baller! How can we make a fruit salad without a melon baller? Soujin, how many males are coming? I need to know how much beer to chill! Are the steps vacuumed? My gosh, why is the melon baller missing? Maria, you've got to buy ice! What? You don't have any money of your own? I suppose I can spare ten dollars. We need lots! Kay, have you finished washing the toilet? I've got to scrub the porch once I'm finished here! I can't believe the melon baller is gone!" in all likelihood having eaten and drunk nothing all day, his anemia kicking in, his hands quivering. "I'll have to make the fruit salad with a tablespoon!"
And then, in a piercing shriek, he calls out, "Maria!" He sounds as though he may burst into tears.
My sister has just eaten a piece of watermelon out of the fruit salad. A single piece.
Yes, people. A charming, quiet old man. Who is secretly Martha Stewart, except more OCD. And that is why, now that I'm done vacuuming the steps, I am planning to hide in my room and watch X-Files. I enjoy cleaning the kitchen as much as the next girl, but I draw the line at repotting all the plants in the living room just because the cat urinated in one when we weren't looking.
