My father is the most devoted father ever to exist. He calls me daily, he showers me with praise and presents, he relishes my successes and bails me out when I inevitably fuck up. So today, on his 58th birthday, I will tell you my favorite story about my dad.
When I turned 10, I had 13 of my best girlfriends over for a slumber party. After burgers and cake, talent contests and make-overs, we pulled out our sleeping bags and set up 14 little beds in the living room. By 2am, we were still up, giggling and telling ghost stories by the huge crackling fireplace.
It is at this time that my father decides to come downstairs to get something from the kitchen, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and tighty whities. The kitchen can be accessed without going through the living room, so I guess his plan was to sneak in and sneak out, grabbing some water, some cookies, or some brandy, depending on his mood.
Having no idea my father was in the kitchen, we snuggled around the living room, regaling each other with the most disgusting and gory tales our pre-teen adolescent minds could muster. My parent’s house is pretty scary anyway, an old wooden beast perched on top of a mountain, surrounded by swaying redwoods and emitting mysterious creaks and moans at random. But, when you’re ten, surrounded by every girl you know, in a creepy old house in the middle of the night, we’d really worked ourselves into a nervous giggling frenzy.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, my father has decided to silently attempt to clean, 409-ing the counters and putting bills away at my mother’s desk. He opens the top desk drawer and to his apparent dismay, finds a mouse.
Back in the living room, in the midst decapitation and slasher stories, 14 girls suddenly hear hysterical screams coming from the kitchen. Hoots and hollers, cookbooks flying, pots and pans smashing to the floor, expletives and loud grunting all suddenly erupt from within the kitchen. All of us immediately begin screaming at the top of our lungs and collectively yet hesitantly run into the kitchen, terrified and convinced we were being attacked by satanic serial killers.
There we find my father- in his underwear- attempting to beat a mouse to death with the serrated side of a Saran Wrap box.