MY FATHER: I would like you to read these instructions to me. [He proffers a 4-inch-wide technical sheet printed in 3-point type. When he flicks his wrist, it unfurls to approximately 17 inches long.]
ME: Oh hell no.
MY FATHER [patiently]: I need to know how to operate my new ‘electronic’ thermometer, and I would like you to read these instructions to me.
ME: I can’t read those. They’re too small. You want to know how to work your thermometer? Push the button. . . .
MY FATHER: Which button?
ME: There’s only one button, and I can see you’ve already got your thumb over it. Don’t play coy with me.
MY FATHER: This button? [The thermometer beeps.]
ME: Now put the thermometer in your mouth.
MY FATHER: How about you read the instructions. . . .
ME: PUT THE THERMOMETER IN YOUR MOUTH.
MY FATHER: Mmmmf phmmmf mmmm?
ME: Keep your mouth shut. And silent. [The thermometer beeps.] Now take it out. What’s it say?
MY FATHER: Ninety-eight point eight.
ME: And there we go. That’s how you work your thermometer.
MY FATHER: Why don’t you read me. . . .
ME: I’m not going to read these incredibly tiny instructions to you. What more do you need to do than what we just went over?
MY FATHER [suspiciously]: So I just push the button and when it beeps. . . .
ME: Put it into your mouth . . . yes, just like that. . . .
MY FATHER: Phhmmmf mmmm. . . .
ME: Keep your mouth shut until it beeps again . . . and what’s it say?
MY FATHER: Ninety-eight point eight.
ME: We are done. You don’t need the instructions.
MY FATHER: But if you don’t read to me the instructions, how am I supposed to know . . . if the end result . . . if it’s an additive . . . whether the temperature I’m seeing is the actual temperature, or whether. . . .
ME: You think a modern medical device is going to give you a fake temperature reading?
MY FATHER: Well, that’s the question, isn’t it, if the end result isn’t really the result of my actual temperature, but the results of being the temperature it was when my temperature was what it was before.
ME: I know you’re speaking English words, but none of them make sense together.
MY FATHER: A real thermometer, you have to shake down. . . .
ME: Oh. This is a real thermometer. But it’s not relying on mercury. It has no moving component. You don’t have to shake down an electronic thermometer. You take your temperature, wash it after, and that’s it. Every reading is a new reading.
MY FATHER: I don’t know if I can trust it, if I don’t have to shake it down.
ME: Then feel free to shake it down. It won’t accomplish anything, and you’ll look like a fool doing it, but hey. It’s your thermometer.
MY FATHER [peering with increasing suspicion at the thermometer]: It still says ninety-eight point eight.
ME: And?
MY FATHER: How do I turn it off?
ME: It will turn itself off after a minute.
MY FATHER: Why don’t you read the instructions, and see. . . .
ME: The instructions say The thermometer will turn itself off after a minute.
MY FATHER: You didn’t read that from the instructions.
ME: I don’t have to. It’s how these things work. It will turn itself off.
MY FATHER: If you don’t read instructions, how do you know?
ME: Look at the thermometer. Look at it. It’s been about a minute. Is it off now?
MY FATHER: Well, yes.
ME: It shut itself off. See?
MY FATHER: My doctor says I need to be able to read my temperature, and if I don’t know how to work the thermometer, I can’t do that. It could be a life or death situation.
ME: I just taught you how to use the thermometer. What kind of life or death situation are we talking about exactly?
MY FATHER: Because I do not have a spleen, my immune system is compromised, and my doctor has told me that if I have a temperature of one hundred and five, I need to send him an email and he will prescribe an antibiotic that I can pick up at the pharmacy the next day.
ME: An email? Jesus, if you have a temperature of one hundred and five, you sure as hell had better get to the emergency room.
MY FATHER: How am I supposed to know if I have a temperature of one hundred and five if I don’t know how to work the thermometer because you won’t read the instructions to me?
ME: You would know if you had a temperature of one hundred and five.
MY FATHER: How?
ME: If your temperature is one hundred and five, you would be feverish, flushed, probably delirious . . . you’d feel like you were on fire.
MY FATHER: I’ve had many temperatures of one hundred and five before, and never knew.
ME: When did you have many temperatures of a hundred and five?
MY FATHER: Wait a minute. One hundred and five? Maybe I mean one hundred point five. Yes, the doctor wants me to email him if I have a temperature of one hundred point five.
ME: Christ. Of course you mean one hundred point five.
MY FATHER: So why don’t you read. . . .
ME: Listen. Why do you do this to me? You ask for my expertise. Then you refuse to believe me when I share it with you. Every single time.
MY FATHER: I don’t. . . .
ME: You ask me to help you with your passwords, and you don’t believe me when I tell you that your password is correct and that you’re making mistakes when you’re typing it. You argue with me about it. You ask me to show you how to use your thermometer, and I do, twice. Then you refuse to believe I’ve shown you how it works, and you argue some more. If you want me to help, I will help. But you have to trust my assistance when I do.
MY FATHER: I don’t argue. . . .
ME: You’re arguing now! If you want my help, I have to insist that you accept my help, and do so gracefully. Do you hear? Do you?
MY FATHER [mumbling]: I understand.
ME: Do you understand how to work your thermometer? You push the button. You put it in your mouth. You read it when it beeps. You understand, right?
MY FATHER [grudgingly]: I guess.
ME: Okay then.
MY FATHER: But if you’d read me these instructions, just in case. . . .
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Thursday, May 17, 2018
Conversations with My Father: Passwords Ampersand Porn Edition
MY FATHER: If you have a few minutes, maybe we could look at my iPad. . . .
ME: Oh, god.
MY FATHER: Now, why are you acting like that?
ME: I’m not acting like anything . . . yet. What’s the matter with your iPad?
MY FATHER: Earlier this week I was trying to purchase some very important media items and the iPad would not accept my password. . . .
ME: . . . Because you were typing it wrong.
MY FATHER: I was not typing it wrong. I must have typed it twenty times.
ME: Incorrectly.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: You realize I’ve actually witnessed you stab your stubby fingers at the iPad before.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: Give me your iPad. Okay. I’m signing into the Apple Store. What’s your password?
MY FATHER: I’ll have to go to the kitchen to see. [He gets to his feet, stumbles into the kitchen, peers at a piece of paper taped to a cabinet door.] It’s . . . um . . . gawrsh. This writing is so small. . . .
ME: Isn’t it your writing?
MY FATHER: Yes, but. . . . gawrsh, but this is small.
ME: I mean, if it’s your list, don’t you have the option to write it as large as you want?
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. All right. My password is . . . capital M, a, d, d, o, x, 1, 7, 7, 4. . . .
ME: Okay, thank. . . .
MY FATHER: Capital M again, a, t, t. . . .
ME: Hold up, hold up.
MY FATHER: . . . a, p, o, n, i.
ME: Jesus. Could this password be any longer?
MY FATHER: 3, 3, 2.
ME: Is that it? No pi to the hundredth decimal or anything?
MY FATHER: Pi? To the hundredth decimal? What are you talking about?
ME: Never mind. I typed in your lengthy password and the store seemed to take it.
MY FATHER: It couldn’t have.
ME: Well, it did. What movie were you trying to purchase?
MY FATHER: Um. I don’t remember?
ME: The only way I can really make sure it worked is to see if it will let me purchase something. So what movie. . . .
MY FATHER: I don’t recall.
ME: How can you not recall? You said you were trying to buy something just earlier this week.
MY FATHER: The title eludes me.
ME: Wait. Was this something, you know . . . personal?
MY FATHER: What do you mean by personal?
ME: Porn. I mean porn. Was it porn?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: It was porn, wasn’t it. Porn’s fine. You’re a big boy. You can buy porn.
MY FATHER [flustered]: Gawrsh, it wasn’t porn! I wasn’t buying porn! Stop saying porn! Buy Army Wives.
ME: I bet it was p. . . .
MY FATHER [loudly]: Just buy the first episode of Army Wives.
ME: Uh-huh. Let’s just. . . . All right. The first episode of Army Wives is downloading onto your iPad. You were typing your password wrong.
MY FATHER: I wasn’t typing my password wrong.
ME: You were typing your password wrong. It’s like, three hundred characters long. You typed it . . .
MY FATHER: I didn’t type my password wrong.
ME: . . . wrong. You realize there’s no other explanation, right? I didn’t do anything except type in your password and hit the purchase button. You need to be more careful when you’re tapping the screen.
MY FATHER: I did not . . . you’re in error, but all right. Now I’m going to want you to figure out what’s happening with my magazine app. When I try to log in. . . .
ME [under my breath]: I bet you’re typing the password wrong.
MY FATHER: . . . I can hear you.
ME: All right. Your magazine app is asking for—guess what?—your password.
MY FATHER [lumbering up]: I have to go to the kitchen.
ME: Of course. I’ll wait.
MY FATHER [from afar]: Gawrsh, this writing is small.
ME: Mmm-hmmm.
MY FATHER: All right. Capital A, m, o, s, and . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. A, m, o, s, and.
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. And, like an and.
ME: Whuh? And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And what?
MY FATHER: A-m-o-s-and-a-n-d. . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: I honestly think my brain is about to melt.
MY FATHER: When I say and, I mean ampersand.
ME: At this point I no longer remember what an ampersand is.
MY FATHER: It’s an and.
ME: I wish I drank.
MY FATHER: The password is supposed to be Amos and Andy, with an ampersand between the names.
ME: Oh my god. Why didn’t you just say that?
MY FATHER: I did, several times, but you. . . .
ME [loudly]: Capital A-m-o-s-AMPERSAND-a-n-d-y.
MY FATHER: 1-9-2-2.
ME: Of course there’s more. 1-9-2-2.
MY FATHER: Capital B-l-y-t-h-e. . . .
ME: Christ.
MY FATHER: Exclamation point.
ME: Anything else? Couple of hexadecimal strings or a smattering of old zip codes or something?
MY FATHER: That’s it. Now, if you tell me. . . .
ME: There. Opened your magazine app.
MY FATHER: But how could you. . . .
ME: You were typing your password wrong. I know you don’t want to believe it, and I’m sorry to say it, but you were. When one types your password correctly, as I did, the app magically opens.
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. I don’t understand.
ME: I understand. You pick the most tortuous passwords and store them in tiny handwriting in an adjacent room, and then you make mistakes with them. Stop protesting your innocence and just enjoy your porn.
MY FATHER: ARMY WIVES.
ME: Army Wives still kind of sounds like porn.
ME: Oh, god.
MY FATHER: Now, why are you acting like that?
ME: I’m not acting like anything . . . yet. What’s the matter with your iPad?
MY FATHER: Earlier this week I was trying to purchase some very important media items and the iPad would not accept my password. . . .
ME: . . . Because you were typing it wrong.
MY FATHER: I was not typing it wrong. I must have typed it twenty times.
ME: Incorrectly.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: You realize I’ve actually witnessed you stab your stubby fingers at the iPad before.
MY FATHER: I was not. . . .
ME: Give me your iPad. Okay. I’m signing into the Apple Store. What’s your password?
MY FATHER: I’ll have to go to the kitchen to see. [He gets to his feet, stumbles into the kitchen, peers at a piece of paper taped to a cabinet door.] It’s . . . um . . . gawrsh. This writing is so small. . . .
ME: Isn’t it your writing?
MY FATHER: Yes, but. . . . gawrsh, but this is small.
ME: I mean, if it’s your list, don’t you have the option to write it as large as you want?
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. All right. My password is . . . capital M, a, d, d, o, x, 1, 7, 7, 4. . . .
ME: Okay, thank. . . .
MY FATHER: Capital M again, a, t, t. . . .
ME: Hold up, hold up.
MY FATHER: . . . a, p, o, n, i.
ME: Jesus. Could this password be any longer?
MY FATHER: 3, 3, 2.
ME: Is that it? No pi to the hundredth decimal or anything?
MY FATHER: Pi? To the hundredth decimal? What are you talking about?
ME: Never mind. I typed in your lengthy password and the store seemed to take it.
MY FATHER: It couldn’t have.
ME: Well, it did. What movie were you trying to purchase?
MY FATHER: Um. I don’t remember?
ME: The only way I can really make sure it worked is to see if it will let me purchase something. So what movie. . . .
MY FATHER: I don’t recall.
ME: How can you not recall? You said you were trying to buy something just earlier this week.
MY FATHER: The title eludes me.
ME: Wait. Was this something, you know . . . personal?
MY FATHER: What do you mean by personal?
ME: Porn. I mean porn. Was it porn?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: It was porn, wasn’t it. Porn’s fine. You’re a big boy. You can buy porn.
MY FATHER [flustered]: Gawrsh, it wasn’t porn! I wasn’t buying porn! Stop saying porn! Buy Army Wives.
ME: I bet it was p. . . .
MY FATHER [loudly]: Just buy the first episode of Army Wives.
ME: Uh-huh. Let’s just. . . . All right. The first episode of Army Wives is downloading onto your iPad. You were typing your password wrong.
MY FATHER: I wasn’t typing my password wrong.
ME: You were typing your password wrong. It’s like, three hundred characters long. You typed it . . .
MY FATHER: I didn’t type my password wrong.
ME: . . . wrong. You realize there’s no other explanation, right? I didn’t do anything except type in your password and hit the purchase button. You need to be more careful when you’re tapping the screen.
MY FATHER: I did not . . . you’re in error, but all right. Now I’m going to want you to figure out what’s happening with my magazine app. When I try to log in. . . .
ME [under my breath]: I bet you’re typing the password wrong.
MY FATHER: . . . I can hear you.
ME: All right. Your magazine app is asking for—guess what?—your password.
MY FATHER [lumbering up]: I have to go to the kitchen.
ME: Of course. I’ll wait.
MY FATHER [from afar]: Gawrsh, this writing is small.
ME: Mmm-hmmm.
MY FATHER: All right. Capital A, m, o, s, and . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. A, m, o, s, and.
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No. And, like an and.
ME: Whuh? And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And?
MY FATHER: And.
ME: And what?
MY FATHER: A-m-o-s-and-a-n-d. . . .
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: A-m-o-s-a-n-d-a-n-d?
MY FATHER: No!
ME: I honestly think my brain is about to melt.
MY FATHER: When I say and, I mean ampersand.
ME: At this point I no longer remember what an ampersand is.
MY FATHER: It’s an and.
ME: I wish I drank.
MY FATHER: The password is supposed to be Amos and Andy, with an ampersand between the names.
ME: Oh my god. Why didn’t you just say that?
MY FATHER: I did, several times, but you. . . .
ME [loudly]: Capital A-m-o-s-AMPERSAND-a-n-d-y.
MY FATHER: 1-9-2-2.
ME: Of course there’s more. 1-9-2-2.
MY FATHER: Capital B-l-y-t-h-e. . . .
ME: Christ.
MY FATHER: Exclamation point.
ME: Anything else? Couple of hexadecimal strings or a smattering of old zip codes or something?
MY FATHER: That’s it. Now, if you tell me. . . .
ME: There. Opened your magazine app.
MY FATHER: But how could you. . . .
ME: You were typing your password wrong. I know you don’t want to believe it, and I’m sorry to say it, but you were. When one types your password correctly, as I did, the app magically opens.
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. I don’t understand.
ME: I understand. You pick the most tortuous passwords and store them in tiny handwriting in an adjacent room, and then you make mistakes with them. Stop protesting your innocence and just enjoy your porn.
MY FATHER: ARMY WIVES.
ME: Army Wives still kind of sounds like porn.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Conversations with My Father: Six Feet Under Edition
MY FATHER: I know you think you’re finished gardening for the day, but I have one more task for you.
ME: All right. What’s that?
MY FATHER: Do you have the trowel?
ME: Right here.
MY FATHER: Let me just. . . . [Begins grappling with the periwinkle at the edge of the patio]
ME: Are you trying to back those vines?
MY FATHER: Noooo . . . I’m just trying to find the edge. . . .
ME: Do you want me to trim the periwinkle to the edge? I mean, there’s two feet of growth over the concrete.
MY FATHER: Noooo . . . I want you to dig . . . there.
ME [peering at a patch of parched dirt that’s hard as sandstone]: Why?
MY FATHER: Because I told you to.
ME: Listen. That didn’t work on me when I was fifteen, and it’s certainly not going to. . . .
MY FATHER [ignoring me and regarding a patch of dirt a foot away]: No. There. Dig there.
ME [suspiciously]: What is this all about?
MY FATHER: Forty-six years ago, in 1972. . . .
ME: Oh god, it’s a history lesson.
MY FATHER: . . . the first thing your mother and I did, after the movers picked up all our furniture from the old apartment on Waldo lane was to stop at the pharmacy in Lakeside. . . .
ME: Where they sold those antacid tablets you couldn’t find anywhere else.
MY FATHER: . . . and picked up a box of the antacids you couldn’t find anywhere else. . . .
ME: I just said that.
MY FATHER: You mother loved those antacids. I still have a tube of them upstairs.
ME: You keep a package of antacids that’s decades old? Why? It’s not good any more.
MY FATHER: I keep it for sentimental reasons.
ME: You know that you’re the only person not on a hoarders reality show who keeps antacids for sentimental reasons, right?
MY FATHER: Anyway. The next thing we did was to go to the little hardware store next door and make a copy of the deadbolt key to the back door. And what do you think I did with that?
ME: No.
MY FATHER: I—wait, do you mean no, you’re not going to guess?
ME: I mean I figured it out, and no.
MY FATHER: I buried it, right there, and now you’re going to dig—wait, is that what you’re saying no about?
ME: Now you’re all caught up.
MY FATHER: It’s not more than a foot down!
ME: Listen. So far you’ve pointed to there and there and now there. Three spots. You don’t actually know where that key is buried, do you?
MY FATHER: I know it’s somewhere along the edge of the patio.
ME: The patio is eighteen feet long. I’m not digging an eighteen-foot trench.
MY FATHER: Oh, don’t be so . . . besides, I know I didn’t bury it at the end, so you only have to dig maybe a twelve-foot trench.
ME: No.
MY FATHER: Dig for forty minutes, then, and if we don’t find it. . . .
ME: No. Any key that’s been buried for forty-eight years is at this point going to be corroded and unusable.
MY FATHER: That’s nonsense. I buried it in a container.
ME: What kind of container?
MY FATHER: A soup can.
ME: A metal soup can. The kind that rusts.
MY FATHER: I filled it with tissue!
ME: No. What we are going to do is go to the hardware store and make another key, and we will find a magnetic key hiding box that you can attach to a metal object, like the far bottom side of the air conditioner condenser. . . .
MY FATHER [with scorn]: The far bottom side of the air conditioner condenser is the first place a thief would look.
ME: Or we can go to Lowe’s and get a key holder that’s shaped like a fake rock, with a hollow space inside, and we can hide it anywhere in the yard you like. But that’s what we’re doing.
MY FATHER: A . . . fake . . . rock?
ME: It’s a weatherproof manmade material, textured like a rock, that will blend in with its surroundings. It won’t cost more than a few dollars. Get your spare key. Let’s go to the hardware store.
MY FATHER [stalling]: So if there’s an emergency situation, and I need to go to the bathroom, or answer the telephone, or get inside to grab some medicine, and I’m locked out, I have to go hunting around the yard for a fake rock?
ME: If there’s an emergency situation and you need to go to the bathroom, or answer the telephone, or evade terrorists, what would you rather do? Grab a shovel and dig a twelve-foot trench in solid dry earth, or simply pick up a fake rock that you’ve placed in a convenient and easily-remembered spot to retrieve your spare key?
MY FATHER: How about you dig for ten minutes?
ME: Good god, man, but you are stubborn.
ME: All right. What’s that?
MY FATHER: Do you have the trowel?
ME: Right here.
MY FATHER: Let me just. . . . [Begins grappling with the periwinkle at the edge of the patio]
ME: Are you trying to back those vines?
MY FATHER: Noooo . . . I’m just trying to find the edge. . . .
ME: Do you want me to trim the periwinkle to the edge? I mean, there’s two feet of growth over the concrete.
MY FATHER: Noooo . . . I want you to dig . . . there.
ME [peering at a patch of parched dirt that’s hard as sandstone]: Why?
MY FATHER: Because I told you to.
ME: Listen. That didn’t work on me when I was fifteen, and it’s certainly not going to. . . .
MY FATHER [ignoring me and regarding a patch of dirt a foot away]: No. There. Dig there.
ME [suspiciously]: What is this all about?
MY FATHER: Forty-six years ago, in 1972. . . .
ME: Oh god, it’s a history lesson.
MY FATHER: . . . the first thing your mother and I did, after the movers picked up all our furniture from the old apartment on Waldo lane was to stop at the pharmacy in Lakeside. . . .
ME: Where they sold those antacid tablets you couldn’t find anywhere else.
MY FATHER: . . . and picked up a box of the antacids you couldn’t find anywhere else. . . .
ME: I just said that.
MY FATHER: You mother loved those antacids. I still have a tube of them upstairs.
ME: You keep a package of antacids that’s decades old? Why? It’s not good any more.
MY FATHER: I keep it for sentimental reasons.
ME: You know that you’re the only person not on a hoarders reality show who keeps antacids for sentimental reasons, right?
MY FATHER: Anyway. The next thing we did was to go to the little hardware store next door and make a copy of the deadbolt key to the back door. And what do you think I did with that?
ME: No.
MY FATHER: I—wait, do you mean no, you’re not going to guess?
ME: I mean I figured it out, and no.
MY FATHER: I buried it, right there, and now you’re going to dig—wait, is that what you’re saying no about?
ME: Now you’re all caught up.
MY FATHER: It’s not more than a foot down!
ME: Listen. So far you’ve pointed to there and there and now there. Three spots. You don’t actually know where that key is buried, do you?
MY FATHER: I know it’s somewhere along the edge of the patio.
ME: The patio is eighteen feet long. I’m not digging an eighteen-foot trench.
MY FATHER: Oh, don’t be so . . . besides, I know I didn’t bury it at the end, so you only have to dig maybe a twelve-foot trench.
ME: No.
MY FATHER: Dig for forty minutes, then, and if we don’t find it. . . .
ME: No. Any key that’s been buried for forty-eight years is at this point going to be corroded and unusable.
MY FATHER: That’s nonsense. I buried it in a container.
ME: What kind of container?
MY FATHER: A soup can.
ME: A metal soup can. The kind that rusts.
MY FATHER: I filled it with tissue!
ME: No. What we are going to do is go to the hardware store and make another key, and we will find a magnetic key hiding box that you can attach to a metal object, like the far bottom side of the air conditioner condenser. . . .
MY FATHER [with scorn]: The far bottom side of the air conditioner condenser is the first place a thief would look.
ME: Or we can go to Lowe’s and get a key holder that’s shaped like a fake rock, with a hollow space inside, and we can hide it anywhere in the yard you like. But that’s what we’re doing.
MY FATHER: A . . . fake . . . rock?
ME: It’s a weatherproof manmade material, textured like a rock, that will blend in with its surroundings. It won’t cost more than a few dollars. Get your spare key. Let’s go to the hardware store.
MY FATHER [stalling]: So if there’s an emergency situation, and I need to go to the bathroom, or answer the telephone, or get inside to grab some medicine, and I’m locked out, I have to go hunting around the yard for a fake rock?
ME: If there’s an emergency situation and you need to go to the bathroom, or answer the telephone, or evade terrorists, what would you rather do? Grab a shovel and dig a twelve-foot trench in solid dry earth, or simply pick up a fake rock that you’ve placed in a convenient and easily-remembered spot to retrieve your spare key?
MY FATHER: How about you dig for ten minutes?
ME: Good god, man, but you are stubborn.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)