Typical father, visits from gods

After working an 11-hour shift, I couldn't wait; I busted out the DDR mat as soon as my brothers came in from playing basketball. So we're playing, and my father is hanging around in the living room. I'm sitting, resting a bit, while watching one of my brothers tackles a hard song.

Me: "Oh, Darryl, you better get ready to suck up the dance floor."

Dad: "He doesn't play that much? He needs to. He needs to get into the jumping. It'll help his basketball game."

Me: eyeroll

We continue watching another brother dance dance revolutionary-like.

Dad: "See, [Fredericks], that's what you need to do. When you're dancing you're not moving your upper body. You've got to move your upper body, like he is. You've got to jump, you know. You act like you're scared."

Mind you, he's not played this game. Ever.

Me: "Dad, none of my songs were as hard as his is. I didn't have to jump that much."

Dad: "Yes, but you still have to move your upper body!"

Me: exasperated "You haven't played this game. Ever. Why do you need to criticize me??"

Dad: "See, I'm not criticizing you. I'm just telling you to move like you're into it."
He drinks deeply from his cup. Contents are a mystery to me. Maybe Coke.

Me: to God, brothers, whoever the fuck "Why does he have to ruin an activity that's fun?"

Because he always does. Always. You can't ever do anything simple with that man around. Play the clarinet, cook, leave to go to work, leave to go out at all, play basketball, baseball, run, walk...you name it, he has to sap all the enjoyment out of it. You always need to do this better, or look at this, or improve to the level of this person. I wonder what he thinks when we all disappear from the living room when he comes home. Or when we're elated that he's going out. Does he ever think maybe he's a fucking prick? Does he think that's the way things are supposed to be? I'm honestly curious.
**

Was reading John Tierney's parody The Best Case Scenario Handbook, and came across a section that made me laugh so loudly I startled myself. I felt that made it worthy enough to be cited in my journal.

How to receive a divine visitation
1.Do not look directly into your Visitor's eyes
Some deities consider this "not done," and a few respond quite badly.

2.Ascertain that it really is God.
Discreetly ask questions that only a deity could answer, but do not be rudely confrontational (e.g., "Okay, Mr. Omniscient, tell me what number I'm thinking of").
Be leery of indirect manifestations. Many bleeding statues and crying Madonnas have been traced to leaky roofs. Before concluding that the sound emanating from the basement is the "Voice of the Whirlwind," check your furnace.

3.Wait patiently for the deity to reveal the purpose of the visit
Do not ask for money, personal favors, or tricks- mowing your lawn with a sweep of the hand, levitating the toaster oven, and so on. This is God, not a Bewitched rerun.

4. Be accommodating but not slavish.
Politely but firmly decline if asked to sacrifice your eldest son.
If you are a woman and the deity appears in the form of a swan, close the door and dial 911. [THAT was the line that made me laugh the loudest and hardest. Major brownie points if you know why. I love Greek myth bits.]

5. Take notes!
You *will* be writing a book. And you don't want it to say, "Then God promised to send a rain of fire and frogs and something else-hubcaps, maybe-over a great sinful city. Either L.A. or Bombay. Or Adelaide. I forget which, but He was really, really mad."

6. Ask for a memento.
Ask God if He or She would mind leaving a little "souvenir" of the occasion, like a healing spring or roses that bloom in winter.

There's a tad more in that section, but my drive to transcribe is at an end.

For you can be my white whale...

or, "Swimming Lesson, Part Two

This week's trek for my lesson started out similar to the last. I got to the Y disgustingly early again, so I spent the better part of an hour and a half sitting outside the pool area (glass separator) reading my new great find, Alex Robinson's Box Office Poison, and observing the adult lappers. It seemed so effortless, the swimming thing, and I felt confident, even after last sessions debacle, that I could tame this beast. Yes, I wanted to take this pool like it was Season One Beecher.

I get dressed, headed to the pool, and jumped in in an attempt to get acclimated to the water. The sign said the temperature was 83 degrees Fahrenheit. That sign LIED. Even then I just felt different, like I really *could* kick and go somewhere. The instructor's direction to "keep [my] legs straight and point [my] toies [sic]" weren't cutting it for me. I visualized a movement in my head that didn't consist of me keeping my legs rigidly straight, which is what I'd been trying to do last week.

I didn't realize how well the visualization worked until we were well into the class. The progression this week was the same as last, which was somewhat comforting. Same steps, same progression. Only thing this week the instructor seemed to have less patience with us. Her heart's in the right place, but, yeah, she's really bad at helping you determine what the hell you're doing wrong. We got to a point in class where the instructor asked us to swim the length of the pool with arm movements and kicks without breathing. I ended up going first, thinking I'd go nowhere and embarrass myself (again). When I finally did stop to take a breath, I realized I'd made it more than halfway down the pool without using only my arms and (apparently) in excellent form. I got applause from the class! Me to the pool at that point - "Yeah, prag, and what?"

It was the later stuff, the coordinating of breathing and arm movements, that did me in. No one in the class was able to fully get it today. I ended up taking a wee bit too much water into my mouth and nasal cavity. But when I got out of the pool I was happy. I learned something, and I don't have "weak legs", I just needed to figure out what worked for me. Ha, pool, I have harpooned you!

Heh. With all the Oz, "harpooning", and Moby Dick thoughts that were running through my head, the inevitable crossed my mind as I stood in the shower, trying to wash the taste and smell of the pool from my mouth and hair: didn't the damned whale kill Ahab when all was said and done? Who exactly is whose bitch right about now? And what damned gutter did my brain crawl out of tonight?