First of all, I can’t say for certain why, but my dad has been known to occasionally stretch the truth. For instance, after a Scotch or two he may tell people that he was quarterback for the University of Tennessee football team. Not only have I never seen my Dad do anything sporty aside from golf (and, really? Golf? C’mon), he never even went to college, he went to Vietnam instead. But when he tells people this it really makes my mom mad, which may be the reason why he does it.
He also swears that he and another fellow, T.W. Ford, wrote the lyrics to the George Jones song “I’ll Share My World With You” and sold it to a record industry-type in a bar in Connecticut for two hundred dollars. There are so many reasons why this is probably not true (among them being that “T.W. Ford” is way too cool of a name to be a given to an actual person), yet I don’t ask too many questions because it’s a good song and I kind of like the idea.
But the real reason my dad is so full of shit he squishes when he walks (his term, not mine) comes from his tragically inflated confidence in my abilities, both creatively and, I think, as a human being. I told him I was going to try to write for money and he (in a roundabout way) told me I could be like Thomas Friedman of the New York Times.
Let me clear a few things up: I love Thomas Friedman just as much as the next person, but I’m not lining up any time soon to be a Middle Eastern foreign correspondent. The closest I’ll ever get to Lebanon is Lebanon County. Because that’s where my brother lives, and he makes really good stuffed mushrooms and doesn’t cheap out on the beer. But even if I had a hankering to walk around reporting on the desert I still wouldn’t be like Tom Friedman. Why? Oh, I don’t know... maybe because I have zero experience? That, and I can be kind of mean (and not in an insightful way).
And this brings me to my main point here: Can I reallybe blamed for my inflated sense of awesomeness? It was clearly given to me by my dad, who apparently thinks I can do just about anything. My mom thinks I can do anything, too, with a few exceptions. For instance, she may think I could be a foreign correspondent as well, but would suggest that I cut my hair first. See, she believes ladies past a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Period. I once pointed out to her that Demi Moore has long hair and she replied, “Well, dear, you’re no Demi Moore.” Anyway, I don’t think I’ll ever be Tom Friedman. But until I come close I can harass him on Twitter if I want.
He also swears that he and another fellow, T.W. Ford, wrote the lyrics to the George Jones song “I’ll Share My World With You” and sold it to a record industry-type in a bar in Connecticut for two hundred dollars. There are so many reasons why this is probably not true (among them being that “T.W. Ford” is way too cool of a name to be a given to an actual person), yet I don’t ask too many questions because it’s a good song and I kind of like the idea.
But the real reason my dad is so full of shit he squishes when he walks (his term, not mine) comes from his tragically inflated confidence in my abilities, both creatively and, I think, as a human being. I told him I was going to try to write for money and he (in a roundabout way) told me I could be like Thomas Friedman of the New York Times.
Let me clear a few things up: I love Thomas Friedman just as much as the next person, but I’m not lining up any time soon to be a Middle Eastern foreign correspondent. The closest I’ll ever get to Lebanon is Lebanon County. Because that’s where my brother lives, and he makes really good stuffed mushrooms and doesn’t cheap out on the beer. But even if I had a hankering to walk around reporting on the desert I still wouldn’t be like Tom Friedman. Why? Oh, I don’t know... maybe because I have zero experience? That, and I can be kind of mean (and not in an insightful way).
And this brings me to my main point here: Can I reallybe blamed for my inflated sense of awesomeness? It was clearly given to me by my dad, who apparently thinks I can do just about anything. My mom thinks I can do anything, too, with a few exceptions. For instance, she may think I could be a foreign correspondent as well, but would suggest that I cut my hair first. See, she believes ladies past a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Period. I once pointed out to her that Demi Moore has long hair and she replied, “Well, dear, you’re no Demi Moore.” Anyway, I don’t think I’ll ever be Tom Friedman. But until I come close I can harass him on Twitter if I want.
