What is it with men when they marry and become fathers, that they become repetitive and predictable in so many irritating ways?
Our children to this day know that any trip to a certain area of Queensland’s Sunshine Coast will result in a Mr FD nature lecture on the sundews that grow in the area. Every beach holiday he would go on and on about looking for sundews with the children, and each holiday he would be shouted down. No child wants to wander the damp boggy sites when the beach beckons!
Finally, in their teenage years a child, or two agreed to go search. They couldn’t find any sundews, though Mr FD was confident they were in the right area. Touché, Mother Nature, touché!
He doesn’t mention the plant species anymore, and all anyone has to do now is mention the word “sundews” for the entire family, minus Mr FD strangely, to share a Big Jolly Moment.
Many of Mr FD most irritating moments are connected to cars. Any sighting of a motor bike rider while trapped in a car with Mr FD with result in an anthropological explanation of the cultural differences between “bikee” and “biker”. It also results in piercing headaches for those forced to participate for yet the millionth time!
Not all predictable irritations are vehicular however. Another one that Mr FD has honed over the years is exhibited when I ask Mr FD not to mention something to a relative or friend, for he has no stop or pause button. For example if I said “There is no need to mention XYZ to your sister” and he thinks it is HILARIOUS (no, it isn’t and never will be) to announce as soon as we arrive “FD said not to mention XYZ” and of course sister then asks “What about XYZ?” and it goes down from there.
Today’s particular transgression did however relate to a car. Mr FD’s car in fact. Mr FD drives a Subaru Forester (4WD). I drive a Honda Civic Hybrid. Daughter2 borrowed my car to visit her Beau and meet his parents over the weekend. So, I drove Mr FD’s car to the supermarket today. I don’t drive it often, but I do when I need too. I needed to today.
Not long after my return, after we had unpacked the groceries and Mr FD had parked the car back in the garage (I refuse to back it out, or park in the garage due to the obstacle course of boxes and tools in the garage); Mr FD launched into his routine.
“Did you drive a very nice car today?” he asks as though he is speaking to a small child or simpleton. (Be careful which description you choose to visualise)
“Yes, I did.” In my head I hear this subservient voice answering, “Yes I did, Daddy Sir.
“It drives very well doesn’t it? It drives better than other cars doesn’t it?”
Now, Mr FD has had his car about 3 years now, and I am pleased that he appreciates it. Heavens knows we are still making repayments on the damn thing! But this was the time that broke the camels back.
I looked out of the window and imagined impaling Mr FD on the neighbour’s rooster wind vane and letting him bake and spin. I might even pray to the Big Whatever for an unseasonal westerly gale to spin him all the faster, I thought.
“No I didn’t” I snapped. “It was horrible! In fact it was the worst car I ever drove.” I walked from the room and stood on the patio for a moment.
Returning I tried to calm down. “Let’s just say that we own three very nice cars (including Sons in the tally) and we appreciate then all. Let’s leave it at that!” Deep breath. Three deep breaths. Five deep breaths and a sigh…
And the voice in my head continued, “but if you ever say that again I am going to rip your arms and legs off, toss them onto the driveway and drive back and forth until they are mush. In your car!”
I took a nap.