My Dad is a Cat Person

I have a bunch of rules by which I irrationally judge or classify people. Never buy anything from someone who can't tie a decent knot for his tie, or who ties his tie too long. Don't trust a guy who orders his steak cooked to anything past medium. Beware of the one person not drinking at the poker table or blackjack table. Dog people are easier to get along with than cat people are. Don't bake your bread where you make your dough. And, in the words of Coach Finstock from Teen Wolf, "never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city, and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body."

Well, let's just say that my dad is a cat person. He sent me 6 photos today of his Easter present: a misting humidifier that "releases 2 cups of water an hour!" (Update 03/14/06: This morning I received two more photos, this time taken at night. It lights up purple.) The cats were thoroughly amused and proceeded to knock it over, getting the carpet wet. My dad then devised a system to attach it to the wall, using fishing line "that you can hardly see!" In my experience, if my dad says it's hardly visible, it means it sticks out like a sore thumb.

He scans his golf scorecards and sends them to me occasionally, even though he is the master of mulligans and likes to "improve his lie." He claims that he invented "golfing sandals." My dad's 37 is a lot like a one-person scramble: he plays multiple balls but only counts the ones that end up where he wants. Once, when he broke 80, he called me and told me about every single shot--on my answering machine.


The Ricker is an interesting character. I've had hour-long conversations where I've never said a word (sometimes, I even set the phone down for extended periods). He also claims to have invented the skateboard and wrote the second verse to "Louie, Louie." Even though he now denies both, he once said, "I have kids because I can't have slaves" and was the originator of the Rick Shannon: vodka, cranberry juice and Zima. He is often shirtless, and his shorts are so short he occasionally leaves the cake out in the rain. He gave my friends the sex talk and once showed my wife and me his cock ring. I'm pretty sure he used to be a swinger. He has dabbled in art and sculpting, and then invites serious artists over to look at his "work" (he also sends me at least six pictures of these, too). Yet somehow, he was duped by an alcoholic New Mexican into buying counterfeit Santos carvings. When I go home for holidays, he invents projects (this time, it was installing some crap in the gutters) to avoid spending time with the family, but then he makes me come out so I don't see anyone either. I've been driving for 10 years (that he knows about), but he still watches me drive up and down the driveway each time I go home. He makes sure that I don't hit any of his precious pots or trees when I turn around. I've never had a problem, whereas he's slid off quite a few times (and one time actually slid up the hill sideways). My friends: not allowed to go up the driveway. In fact, he'd rather they not even walk on it. And don't even get me started on the grass--he even trained the dog not to walk on the grass. The funny thing is, for all the time he spends on his lawn, we have some of the worst grass I've ever seen. He is obsessed with his yard and his flowers and sumacs. As Ryan says, "aren't sumacs weeds?" Yes. And they can be poisonous. Actually, I'm certain that I've been poisoned at dinner with him, or at least had my food spit in. He's a horrible tipper and horrible guest; the goal of every service encounter is to get the next one for free. He's even had a free weekend at a nice resort (because he complained during his last stay) but managed to find something else wrong--and get another free stay. I think that was his proudest moment. He drives two of the same car: a Cadillac STS. One is a 1992 and the other is a '99. He is convinced that the '92 is better in the snow. On Friday nights, there's nothing he likes better than going to a local restaurant and pretending that the servers are his best friends (he has invited the Filipino guy from the Chinese restaurant over for Christmas and Thanksgiving). After dinner, he returns home, mixes a drink, puts on his boxers (which for some reason he only wears when he's wearing nothing else), lights candles, turns on music and lifts weights. And by weights, I don't mean heavy lifting, but instead moving around a pair of eight-pound dumbbells. I guess he has to keep in shape for pictures like this.



This was taken while my parents were in Spain. Besides scaring me for life, I'm trying to figure out why the bidet is running. Also, I love the fact that there is a can of "The Dry Look" hairspray in the background. When my dad found out that he wasn't able to buy this hairspray in Colorado anymore, he called up the company and ordered cases. He still has enough cans for the apocalypse sitting in our basement.

Finally, beware of this trend.