Dad Abuse

How ’bout this little tidbit of dialogue between me and my eight-year-old daughter last night, off-loading her and her sister out of the Impala in front of the Shop N Save for some last minute “cookies for school.” I’m more than a little frustrated, having to constantly get their attention and keep them focused on whatever task is at hand. Oh, and more than a fair share of chop-busting, as you will see:



ME: Keep it up, girls – the jail is just across the street.

LITTLE ONE: Were you ever in jail?

ME: (in the spookiest, scariest, Snake Plissken voice I can conjure up) Yeahhhhhhh … I rotted away in a prison cell fer ten years … fer killin’ a man in cold blood …

LITTLE ONE: Uh, Dad, you might want to pull up your pants a little. I can see your underwear.



Okay, for the record, my pants were just fine. I do know how to keep myself presentable out in public. What she saw was my white button-up dress shirt when I bent over and my brown fall jacket rode up a bit.

Anyway, you see what I have to put up with, day in and day out?