Daughter is tall enough to go on the Bumper Cars now because her hips already hit the ceiling. I only wish she inherited my mother-in-law’s stumpy Ukranian troll side now. I’d put that heart shaped blue and yellow sticker on my car if it got me out of witnessing my daughter’s bumper car bust of biblical proportions. I don’t think my daughter completed one full lap. It’s hard to enjoy the Bumper Cars for the 1st time in 35 years, when you have to re-kink your neck every 2 seconds while yelling, “Matilda keep the steering wheel straight. Step on the gas. Stop acting like you’re a city kid who never had to drive a car till that last great escape from Manhattan.”
Watching my daughter struggle to keep her steering wheel straight was brutal. It was like watching Brian Brick make fun of my knock-kneed ass run the three-legged race in Pre-K at the Y all over again.
“Try to stay straight, far from straight Fagala. Pretend a candy ring goes to the winner, clown lips. Why did I have to get paired with the knock-kneed freak? He’s more comfortable on all four’s or in his go to kneeling position anyway.” Brian Brick lives, Challah. Thank you very much.
Worse yet, my father, who rarely sees his granddaughter ever, starts to make fun of her. I didn’t have my daughter repeat the insults because she was so upset afterwards, but he could’ve called my 1st born Susie Wong Eyes for all I know. The same girl, Effortless Magic, my Bashert, Hebrew for soulmate, the big wise, sister I always wanted to overcompensate for being the sloppy second son, who plays my Talent Agent in the Great American Jew Novel to help make my Do It All Dad Year come true, my go to babysitter for her 2 adoring younger brothers while I bang out more sheets of comedy gold getting ten times more flustered upset because my father thinks it’s his domain to bust her balls with his standard tactless, asshole relish is where I draw the fucking line. At the same time, I have the perfect out for not having to buy my daughter a car for another 20 years max, a self-driving scooter maybe.
Afterwards I confront my dad and say, “Matilda isn’t into you anymore, not because she’s getting older. She isn’t into you because you’re being a hypercritical prick dad. Never forget, being an a plus narcissist is the family tradition. But mom has the gall to call my oldest “arrogant”, because she doesn’t require your fucking permission to feel great about herself. Join the fucking club. Every teacher since Pre-K has asked me for permission to clone her. So, A plus arrogance in this case is well earned Dad, similar to me killing it on my final comedy record 121 Last Licks, all done in 13 months flat. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years.”
A plus arrogance lives, Challah. Thank you very much.