My Dad likes me to visit him. Or I should say he likes to have visitors and I’m not dead. He says all his friends are dead (in addition to his three wives—but they weren’t exactly friends at the end). He says no one comes over. He’s bored out of his tree—his peach tree, lemon tree, avocado, Mineola, kumquat, apple, apricot, lime, and fig trees. I guess there is only so much daily backyard gardening one can do to amuse oneself.
I call my Dad every Sunday morning to see how he is doing. He tells me the same things over and over. I listen until I cannot take one more negative molecule bombarding my positive shield. (You try listening to that stuff for an hour!) After exposure to my Dad—as Carrie Fisher would say—I need to have my DNA fumigated.
My Dad always says, “When are you coming down?” When are you coming down?” “When are you coming down?” (He thinks he’s asked me once.)
Honestly, I don’t want to visit. But like a parent who tires of listening to a kid say, “Can I have ice cream?” “Can I have ice cream!” “CAN I HAVE ICE CREAM!” I give in.
My last visit was in January. My Dad was having problems with his Home Owner’s Association. The Board of Directors had implemented a special monetary assessment to have all the roofs replaced in their gated community. It was costing my Dad a whopping $33,000 to have his 2,000 sq. ft. house done. Holy Toledo somebody is ripping off the old folks! I had to investigate this corruption and scream at the appropriate people (which I’m actually pretty good at—and it doesn’t even have to be the appropriate people. Sometimes any ol’ people will do.)
I ended up screaming at my Dad more than anyone else. (That Fellini out-take will be an upcoming blog.)
Now it’s November and I did promise I would attend the annual HOA meeting this week to make sure there were no more special assessments. I hemmed and hawed about when I was coming to visit. It was hard to commit to a confirmed itinerary. But I finally did.
The day after I made my plane reservations (the cheapy-non-refundable upon penalty of losing your eyeballs—and your favorite shoes), I found out about an appearance by John Irving at a Northern California bookstore. Oh shoot! John Irving is my literary idol. I have pined to attend one of his book readings. But his appearance date was conflicting with the time I was supposed to be at my Dad’s. I seriously considered blowing off my Dad’s visit. What would you do?
Here’s the dilemma: Do you see John Irving at a rare bookstore appearance or do you visit your Dad? Do you partake of a literary giant or do you get pummeled by a giant curmudgeon?
Do you take advantage of the good fortune of having John Irving (who I think is only making four appearances nationwide for his new book) at a place sort of close to where you live? Or do you go to your Dad’s place—in the Netherlands of Orange County, a galaxy far far away teeming alien OC-aliens?
Let’s discuss:
If I attend the book reading, John Irving—“America’s Charles Dickens”—could impart words of writing wisdom that might propel me in the stratosphere of writing ecstasy. Maybe he will utter something that would be the impetus to turn my writing career from at-home blogger/self-publisher into an author that hosts a Ball Gown Book Tour.
If I go to Orange County, my Dad will impart words such as:
“Did you see my tomatoes?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Say, did you see my tomatoes?”
“Yes, Dad!”
“Hey, Toni, did you see my tomatoes?”
“YES, DAD!!”
At the John Irving book reading, there might be a profound incident that I can blog about.
At my Dad’s house, the type of profound incident would be something like him cooking me breakfast.
“You want eggs?”
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t want eggs?”
“No, Dad, I don’t eat eggs.”
“Two eggs?”
“DAD, I’VE HATED EGGS ALL MY LIFE.”
“What kind of eggs do you want?”
“DAD, NO EGGS!”
“I’ll make scrambled eggs. You’ll like them.”
At a John Irving book reading he might provide an insight about the writing life that I can share with other writers that in the same boat as me: The Writing Career Ship—that is docked off-shore and we are frantically swimming out to it to try to climb aboard.
At my Dad’s, I’m gaining insight into the aging process. Not inspiring. More like horrifying. I live in fear that I am witnessing my future. Then I have to listen to his increasingly caustic rantings about everyone and everything (from “Hot Air” Obama to crappy football coaching to cigarette smoke) as he follows me around every minute of every hour—including opening the bathroom door a crack to keep talking about Nancy “She’s soooo bad” Pelosi while I’m on the toilet. (Note to self: Remember to lock the door!)
At a John Irving book reading I might hear about how JI wrote Last Night in Twisted River. What was his inspiration? I especially am curious about author’s writing habits. When do they write? How long do they write for? How do they handle doubts? I’d love to know about when and how do authors edit themselves. How does the “professional editor” interact in the writing and publishing process? How long does it take him/her to write a 400-page book? I can never hear enough writing tidbits.
At my Dad’s I’ll hear about the white flies on the grapefruit, the “busty Mexican gals” on the Spanish TV station, the raccoons digging holes in the yard, the fish salad he bought at Trader Joe’s, the neighbor lady who told him not come over anymore (I have my theory.), the lousy Democrats, the stupid ________ (fill in a racial slur), how lazy my brother is, how women are supposed to get married and have babies because “that’s what they do.”
Let’s recap. Fun or Family?
Oh poo, I’m in Orange County.
(Besides, I couldn’t bear to part with my favorite shoes.)
