Sunday, August 31, 2008

Fip & Fluck

It seems fitting that on Labor Day weekend, I would be laboring instead of comfortably stretched out on some fancy Better homes & Gardens lawn furniture looking every bit like a beached whale enjoying the afternoon with friends and family. Instead of sipping on an icy cold Rolling Rock ("33") or maybe even a Sam Adams cooled just right and watching someone else busily burning meat on the grill, I was a beast of burden today. All anyone wanted me for was my body. And it wasn't for fun and games.

The fantasy day that would end with me picking my designated driver because I had eaten 5 juicy rare cheeseburgers with blue cheese and raw Spanish onions with generous amounts of mayo, then washing them down with 6 beers was rudely replaced by me wishing I had a designated driver simply because I was drained, toasted, and beat. No juicy cheeseburgers. No 6 beers. Just seriously sore dogs and 45 miles to drive home before I could collapse. Moving my daughter to a very tall second story walk up near Portland,Maine definitely spanked me hard today.

Memories of my days as a mover humping furniture around Charm City came flooding back like some evil flashback. I had done this before. Many times before. I just do not remember having the bottoms of my feet hurt so much and that left knee never felt like that at the end of the day. That I did it 5 days a week for basically 8 years amazed me when I contemplated my current condition on the drive home. Took 2 mugs of coffee to go and a large Frappachino to keep my eyes open and my pick up between the ditches.

It would not have been so bad had we just dumped all her furniture and 400 boxes of shoes, clothes and books in the right room and then skated. Noooo. Of course we couldn't do that.

Just how does a 25 year old woman of limited resources accumulate so much junk in such a short span of years? Lis did say she had pared down her shoe collection from 75 pairs to around 60. That hardly made up for the mass of boxes containing every book she ever had or contemplated having. Raising a child who loves to read does actually have a downside I guess.

The apartment was not quite ready. Brian, the dirty kid from Maine, had not fulfilled his obligations as landlord. No stove yet. No hood for the stove yet. Bobbi Ann, my wonderful spouse was still painting as we moved in. So every box went up an additional floor to an empty room on the 3rd floor. Have I mentioned how high the ceilings were. Seems there was an extra story crammed in there somewhere for all the steps it took to get up to the attic.

But it's done now and the rest is up to the girls. I don't paint. I don't do curtains, and I definitely do not suggest where anything goes. Let those two duke it out. This beast of burden is looking for the next barco lounger available.

What about the Title of the post Mike? Whazup wid Dat?

A father sends his innocent young daughter away to college. He knows she will conduct herself like a lady and steer clear of the loser Joe college gnarly dudes who would only want to take her virtue and leave her broken hearted and sadly looking out of her dorm window afraid to come home for fear of destroying the image she had taken so many years to cultivate for her dad who she worships more than Life itself. I left my kid knowing she had what it took to avoid all of those nasty college pits I fell into when I went. Yeah right.

I am told it is for the sanity of the family that dads are kept in the dark about what really goes on in college. Especially dads with daughters in college. For some reason, other family members feel the need to protect us dads from the ugly truths of college existence. If I had not gone to college myself, I might agree. Had I not been exactly one of those loser Joe college gnarly dude types dads just love to hate, I might see the sense in keeping the truth hidden. But I did go and hiding the truth only makes it worse when it finally comes out.

At the end of Lis' Freshman year, I packed this odd triangular cushiony thing into the truck. I did not remember bringing it from home in the Fall and I asked Lis what it was. "Oh, that's a portable sleepover cushion for when one of my friends spends the weekend. I also take it with me when I visit other friends." A sensible answer, so I forgot about it.

Today I was answering my wife's query about what exactly was left in the storage space in south Sanford. I told her just some stuff to come home and that odd triangular sleepover cushion.

"You mean that "Flip & F*ck?"

I thought I had not heard her right. My wife doesn't use that word. Well I guess she does, but it always surprises me when she does. So I asked, "Fip & Fluck?"

"No, Flip & F*ck. That's what the kids call them. Don't you wish they were around when you were in college?"

"Fip & Fluck", I repeated. I was bone weary and when that happens, my mouth has trouble with certain combinations of words. Today it was the combo, Fip & Fluck. "That's not what Lis called it back when she was a freshman. It was a sleep over ....... Ah, I get it." Being so tired had me seriously slow on the uptake.

"Do you think you would have wanted the truth when she was a freshman", my wife asked?

I was quiet for a moment. More because I was still slow processing because of fatigue. But I focused everything I had, thought about it and finally said, "Uh, probably not. Deluding me was most likely the wise choice."

Fluckin College kids.



Dawn on MDI said...

Ah yes, the flip & f*uck. Uncomfortable for actual sleeping, and the fact that they are really nothing more than foam rummer sponges covered with cheap cotton fabric and utterly impossible to clean upsets my inner germ-phobia tremendously, but they are an essential in a college dorm room.

For when guests visit. Overnight guests.

How thoughtful of her!

Anonymous said...

Fun post, Crummy.

Next time someone fips me the bird, I'll tell 'em to go fluck themselves.

Do ya think people would if they could? I mean, I wouldn't even want to date me. Never mind fluck myself.

MRMacrum said...

Having been told more than a few times to go fluck myself over the years, I would assume I should be a desirable catch for myself. I never thought so, but well, there it is.