An Ideal Dad
Ever since my dad left sixteen years ago to “get a pack of smokes” from Sheetz, I always wondered what it would be like to have a paternal figure at my side. Not to be confused with someone who has Daddy Issues, (ya can’t have em if ya never knew ya dad in the first place, am I right?) I used to lie awake at night, all tuckered out from my fatherless day, and dream about what I would want my dad to be. Here is an excerpt from my journal as a 21-year-old explaining my hopes and dreams! Happy Father’s Day!
1.14.2016
Above all else, he would be there for me when I need him the most.
Imagine eerily-happy circus music reminiscent of a jack-in-the-box, but a little bit happier. The smells of fresh peanuts and popcorn, intertwined with a sweet hint of cotton candy and various fried foods, fill the air. Litter is on the street because apparently no one in America understands what it means to throw their trash away, let alone recycle. My shoe gets stuck on a pink wad of gum. I look down, “Oh, look! A quarter!” I exclaim. It must be my lucky day. I suddenly look up, and there he is. A clown. God clowns are creepy. But behind that clown, is the man I’ve been waiting for all this time. “Dad?!” I question excitedly as I furiously rip my shoe away from that sticky substance beneath my foot. He’s holding the pierogies of my people. My favorite. All those years of my anger at his alcoholism fade. El fin.
He would be the “Cool Dad.”
And by this, he would only drink craft beer and listen to chill indie music while strumming along on his guitar. His long hair would flow in the California ocean breeze, sunlight streaming upon his face and the uber cool tattoos on his arms of cat memes, geometric shapes, and Jesus on the cross in honor of his dead cousin, Josh. Then he would whip out his surfboard and we would ride some sick waves together into the sunset.
He wouldn’t be my silent stepdad (too real?), or my stepdad really trying to pretend like he is my biological father (stop helping me with my math homework, Not-Dad!) (still too real?)
He would always tell the best jokes.
Like this one:
One cheese walks into a bar and sees his cheese friend (side note for context: this is set in Butte des Morts, Wisconsin, population 962).
Cheese 1: “Hey, how’s it goin’ bud?”
Cheese 2: (sighs) “I’m gouda, but I could be feta”
Cheese 1: “Awe, sorry to hear you’re not grate, what’s up?” Cheese 2: “I feel kinda bleu, my wife just left me, and now I’m provolone. Never trust a cheddar”
Make promises and keep them.
Remember when you said for my tenth birthday you would get me a Chinchilla named Mr. Magic Kazoo Pants? Well that never happened because you weren’t around. Thanks a lot.