I went to a 40th anniversary party this past weekend for one of my dad’s brothers and oh, there was so much blog fodder! It shall keep me busy and entertained for weeks! But while I mull it over in my brain, I have yet another My Dad story for you in the mean time.

(As to what’s up with me lately, HECK IF I KNOW. This blog now belongs to my dad.)

My parents live on a hill and at the bottom of the hill in their front yard sits a huge rock which we referred to as kids as ‘The Rock’ or ‘The Bowlda’, which is Long Island speak for ‘The Boulder’.)

I don’t know if it’s actually considered a boulder. What is the definition of boulder? It’s just a big hunkin’ thing left by the ice age. Or a glacier. Or at least that’s what we used to say. I will just come out and say right now that I do not know much about the ice age or glaciers or how this big ass thing got on my front lawn but last week I heard on NPR that not only was there a woolly mammoth long ago, there was also actually a WOOLLY RHINO!!!! Doesn’t that blow your mind? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN LOOK LIKE? COME BACK FROM EXTINCTION, WOOLLY RHINO! LEMME SEE YOUR FACE!

Anyway.

Sometimes we would climb on the rock and pretend we were under attack but that got old quickly as we soon realized we were playing on…a large rock. That gets old fast. Mostly we just tried to avoid it while sleigh riding down the hill in the winter because damn, if you slammed into that bowlda, your sled was probably wrecked and you were probably headed to the ER for multiple fractures.

THIS IS A BIG ROCK WE ARE TALKING ABOUT.

The point of this story is that my dad called up my mom at work last week and was all WIFFEY, I HAVE HAD A DAY.

I think I have pointed this out before, but my parents call each other ‘Hubby and ‘Wiffey’ except it’s not WIFE-y, it’s pronounced wiffey like ‘whiffy’ and hell if I know how THAT EVEN HAPPENED but they do not refer to each other by their first names.

Ever.

I think I’ve heard my mom call my dad ‘Paul’ maybe twice in my entire life. (That’s his name, you know.)

So anyway, Hubby called Wiffey and was all I HAVE HAD A DAY.

And Wiffey was all WHAT HAPPENED?

Let’s just say dad was outside mowing da lawn.

I SHOULD JUST INTERJECT RIGHT HERE AND SAY THAT SHOULD NOT BE HAPPENING.

Dude broke his hip and almost died and now that he’s back to normal with barely a limp, he’s outside all day mowing the lawn and chopping firewood and being generally reckless, IF YOU ASK ME, for a 66 year old person who is prone to injury.

DAD – HIRE SOME GUY TO MOW THE LAWN.

But he hasn’t yet.

So he was outside, mowin’ da lawn, as he says, when he discovered that he ran over the hose with the mower.

Now, this is comedy enough for me that my dad was so intent on…who even knows…that he didn’t realize that his huge lawn mower (from 1994) was headed straight over an enormous coil of garden hose but eh, I’m not one to judge someone who daydreams and gets themselves into predicaments.

Ahem.

It should be said that for a Brooklyn boy, my father loves the outdoors. LOVES LOVES LOVES! When New York gets cold and dreary and everyone is like OH MY HELL WHERE IS THE SPRING, my dad is hanging outside in a flannel shirt with a puffy vest shoveling snow in the middle of a blizzard, talking to himself about how wonderful life is and how God is in nature and my mother is like THAT IS FINE, I AGREE WITH YOU BUT PLEASE SHUT THE DAMN DOOR, YOU ARE GETTING SNOW INSIDE THE HOUSE. And my dad just gives her this huge thumbs up like ISN’T WINTER AWESOME? And all of us inside are just like, nope.

So I imagine my dad was mowing da lawn and dreaming about God and how Jesus is in the blades of grass that he was murdering with his mower and he wasn’t really paying attention to the garden hose which, let’s be honest, is also green and maybe blended in a little bit with his surroundings?

At this point in the story, my mom interrupted him and reassured him that it was fine that he punctured the hose with his lawnmower.

WE NEED A NEW HOSE ANYWAY! she said brightly. IT’S JUST A HOSE! YOU CAN GO TO HOME DEPOT FOR A NEW ONE! YOU LIKE HOME DEPOT!

DAT’S NOT ALL THOUGH, said my father.

He sighed heavily.

I STOPPED THE MOWA FOR A SECOND SO I COULD INSPECT DA DAMAGE TO DA HOSE AND BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, THAT MOWA WAS ROLLIN’ DOWN THE HILL AND SMASHED INTO THE BOWLDA.

…

Yes, ladies and gentleman. In a true sitcom of errors, my father turned his back on the lawnmower only to turn around too late to realize it was steadily rolling down the front hill, picking up speed before slamming mightily into the huge ass rock that has been hanging out down there since woolly rhinos roamed Long Island.

IT WAS AN OLD MOWER ANYWAY! my mom chirped, eager to let my dad know that it was alright.

I KNOW I KNOW, he moaned. I WANTED TO RUN AFTER IT BUT WIT MY HIP AND EVERYTING, I CAN’T RUN DOWN HILLS AFTER LAWNMOWAS ANYMORE.

And that is a fact, you guys.

Once you break a hip and almost die, it’s probably a good idea not to go running down hills after lawnmowers as you did so many times in your youth.

And that is the story of Hubby and how he “HAD A DAY”.

Just when I think my dad can’t get more awesome, he does.

How is this possible?