Last night my family did its annual “special Father’s Day thing.” Every year, my wife starts asking about a week before Father’s Day, “What do you want to DO?” She tries her darnedest to make Father’s Day Sunday different from all the other Sundays of the year, when it’s pretty much a joke for me to suggest doing something I want to DO, because those days are reserved for me to do her honey DO’s.
On Father’s Day, because I never know what I want to DO, the situation becomes highly pressurized, as she continues to ask, and ask, and ask.
It’s not easy, because in my family, the thing I want to DO still has to involve the kids. This Father’s Day, I only had two teenagers to not tick off. (No. 3 son, age 19, was at a sort of music festival, called Bonaroo, his ticket a birthday gift from me and my wife.) This didn’t really alleviate my anxiety, because No. 4 son (age 17) and No. 5 son (age 13) are even fussier than No. 3 about spending time with dad.
Finally, two nights ago, I was flipping through the newspaper (for you younger readers, a “newspaper” is a collection of oversized pieces of paper, on which words have been printed, and organized together to tell you about stuff that has happened while you were texting, playing Flappy Birds and taking selfies.) I spotted a blurb about an event that I knew would rate only about an 8.9 on the 11-point scale of “Seething Resentment Toward a Parent with Whom a Teenager Must DO Something.” (11 points, of course, means ceaseless subjection to “Exorcist”-worthy faces contorted depicting hatred, being bored into the parental skull by said teenagers.)
The event was a “Beatles Tribute Night,” sponsored by a charitable organization called Tosco Music Parties. A variety of different musicians volunteer their time and talent, so that all the ticket proceeds can go to the Tosco charity, which uses the monies to award music scholarships. Each act performs one Beatles number in a sort of revue.