Boats and Spybot and Porn, Oh My

My 11-year old came home from a trip to my parents today. While mocking my parents with my spouse is fun, listening to my daughter ridicule them is a special kind of karmic reward. She appreciates me more, plus recognizes their idiosyncrasies, proving that I am not insane and it truly is a miracle that I escaped from them unscathed. Or perhaps it proves I’m warping future generations already, but let’s ignore that for now.

Her favorite story revolved around Papa and his boat. My father has owned a succession of boats, each progressively larger, as I’ve aged. When I was young, I was tortured mercilessly, forced to spend weekends in the hot sun, bouncing around a lake on a small runabout. However, when my dad dropped me off at college, only a giant Sea Ray with a bathroom and air-conditioning could replace me. When my parents become empty-nesters, an even larger cruiser took its place. Then another. Then another. Apparently, somewhere along the way, my parents decided to spend their money before giving me a chance to inherit any, which is funny because when I was younger, they told me they couldn’t afford gum in the checkout line, leading me to believe they were poor. But after all these boats, they might be. Perhaps it’s all a grand plan to move in with me when they’re feeble, because they see what an awesome caretaker I am with my children. Shut up. 

But I digress. My father’s boat is his pride and joy. Although I come in 2^nd, above my brother, because my father is an accountant and I was born on December 31, thereby providing him with a tax deduction for the entire year while he only had to support me for one day. I’m the favorite. Sorry, sibling. Better luck when you’re reincarnated next time. 

The boat is the love of my father’s life and all of our vacations with my parents involve time on the lake. However, climbing up from the swim platform after a swim, 11 was greeted with, “Stop! Don’t get the boat wet!” I find it hysterical that the boat is his love and he can’t get it wet. It’s supposed to get wet. It makes me feel kind of sorry for my mom. If you don’t get that joke, you don’t understand me at all.

What moron manufactures a boat for $150k without waterproof carpeting? In my mind, that’s a defective warranty claim, Sea Ray. But my mom confessed that the carpeting is fully water-resistant, only my father’s interpretation of the word water-proof is defective.

I carefully explained to my daughter that Papa, although insane, appreciates his life and works hard for his toys. Due to this strain, he has completely lost his mind. Or maybe I said he is consumed with caring for the boat to the point that he loses the enjoyment in it and tortures the rest of us to maintain its perfection.

Life is a lot like that, isn’t it? At the age of 18, I was content to live in double-occupancy dorm room in East Cleveland if it meant my parents couldn’t drop in for dinner. Hell, the mayor of East Cleveland doesn’t even want to live there. At 20, I lived in an efficiently apartment furnished with milk crates I DID NOT STEAL from behind an elementary school. By 25, I was married, we’d purchased a starter home, and we ceased furnishing our home with finds from the side of the road. Now, at 38, we’re living the dream.

What dream is that? The dream where I spend more time updating my computer than writing on it. The dream where I spend more time balancing my pool chemicals and lifeguarding around my pool than I do swimming in it. The dream where anything new is no longer exciting, but just additional hassle to maintain.

I’m guilty of it too, Dad. No shoes on the white carpet. Don’t sit on the arms of the sofa. Stop surfing porn because I’m tired of cleaning off the viruses. Sorry – that one was a side note to my husband – but maintaining an erection is hard work when you have to wait for Spybot to run, and then he’s just cranky with me later if it doesn’t all work out for him.

So tonight, I’m appreciating my daughter, and my life, a little more. Instead of maintaining the house, I played Battleship with 11 and talked to her. I missed her. 9 is now off visiting my parents, so I can’t wait to hear what tales he comes home with at the end of the week.

As a side note, I’m sorry to ruin your plan, Mom and Dad, but your boat won’t fit in our pool, so I’m pretty sure sibling 2 is a better bet as a long-term housing option. The boat could, however, be modified for one of those burning-at-sea burial rituals in a pinch.

Now you know why I’m always in bed by ten o’clock. Any time after that, I’m verbose and delusional, which is also how I wrote a book, by the way. If you had enough time to read this, you definitely have enough time to read that, too.