Filed under: Musings of a Random Nature
My father has a den, the purpose of which is for him to freely revel in manly things. Or in his case, old-manly things, because he mainly sits with his feet up and watches documentaries such as The History of Great Britain with the dog in his lap. (The History of Great Britain is a real documentary, and my father actually paid for it, or rather I paid for it, because he put it on his Christmas list one year. Meet my dad, and try to contain your excitement.)
Whenever he heads to his den, he usually does so equipped with a diet coke and a jar of peanuts, which I totally support. I love peanuts. The dog loves peanuts. We all love peanuts. He usually has Planters cocktail peanuts, but he also enjoys Planters Spanish redskin peanuts, which are covered in this sort of weird shell that vaguely resembles exoskeleton. It’s not a hard shell that you have to crack; it’s literally a red skin over the peanut. Hence the name.
I went into his den the other day to chat, see how Great Britain is doing, make sure he hadn’t died of boredom, etc. I nearly had a heart attack because on the carpet next to his chair was what I can only describe as the aftermath of an invasion of locusts who simultaneously dropped their outer bugskins before flying off. I literally gasped and backed out of the room, thinking it was some kind of bug infestation, and tried to figure out how I could successfully remove the dog from the room without him or I having to touch or be touched by insects. Then I realized they were not bugs, but Spanish peanut redskins, in a little pile, on the floor, next to my 62 year old father.
At that point I became worried in a different way, specifically that my father had, overnight, reached that point in old age where he can no longer efficiently feed himself. So I calmly asked him what the fuck was going on.
“You know I don’t eat the skins.”
Yes, I did know that. But what I didn’t know was how they had all ended up ON THE FLOOR.
My father looked at me like I was crazy and explained that the skins needed to go somewhere and it was too difficult to save them on a napkin.
Then I called my mother into the room.
My father went on to explain that he had every intention of cleaning up the peanuts when he was done with the jar. Which was over half full. In other words, my father intended to let the peanut skins sit on the carpeted floor for a day or two, and in fact, already had been letting them sit there, the pile just wasn’t big enough the day before for me to notice. Apparently the house became one of those eateries where you get free peanuts while you wait for the real food and throw the shells on the floor when I wasn’t paying attention.
My mother called my father a feeble old man (to his face) and vaccumed up the peanut skin and I suddenly understood, with striking clarity, why I can’t keep my car clean and organized to save my life. When my mother finished cleaning and left, my father turned to me and said, “Well, it is MY den.”
Touche Dad, touche.
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