Mrs. Tambourine Man

You know I’m starting to notice that I’m not getting a hell of alot of respect around the house. Not even a hell of a little. It dawned on me last night when I found myself sitting alone at the dinner table, still eating the delicious meal I had painstakingly prepared…a family favorite, mind you…and nevermind that I did so with a raging sinus infection, but such is my devotion. There is a mathematical equation that can be used to determine how many minutes my family will sit together at the dinner table and eat. The amount of time it takes me to prepare the meal divided by the time it takes me to clean up,
equals the amount of minutes they sit and eat. So like last night, we were seated for all of ten minutes. I had just sat down to eat my first serving, after refilling the serving platter and my wine glass, when the mass exodus began. Even though I felt snubbed, I decided to enjoy the solitude and thank goodness for my dog, who sat by my side so I wouldn’t be lonely. I suppose it’s more likely that she was hoping to get a piece of my meatball, but I’ll go with the “man’s best friend” theory here.

You’re probably thinking, “D. Parker, you are being too sensitive!” And if being left alone at the table were the only incident, I’d say you were right. But there’s more.

Maverick just admitted that he doesn’t listen to me. I know you are not surprised, lots of husbands don’t listen to their wives, right? But what’s different about Maverick is that he has perfected this thing where he can respond as if he is paying close attention. So he tricks me into thinking he is listening, and then later accuses me of not telling him something important. Imagine a conversation something like this:

D. Parker: I forgot to tell you that I am having a liver transplant on Wednesday.

Mav: Wow, I am really sorry, that really sucks. Is there anything I can do?

D. Parker: Well, I could use a ride to the hospital.

Mav: Oh sure, I can give you a ride to the hospital.

Wednesday arrives, I end up calling a cab because Mav is on the ice playing hockey and isn’t answering his phone. When I get out of surgery there is a message on my phone.

Mav: D. Parker, where the hell are you? Charles is trying to reach you because he forgot his lunch.

I call him back.

D. Parker: I can’t bring the lunch to school I am in the hospital recovering from a liver transplant.

Mav: Why didn’t you tell me, I could have given you a ride.  So, I was right about you drinking too much.

Sure this is an exaggeration, and in the real conversation we were having before he admitted his lying ways, I was telling him about the one hundred-year-old lady twins that have dressed alike their entire lives and for their birthday party they had on the cutest little old-lady outfits and how witty they were and how tiny, and did he think that was from osteoporosis or maybe they were always petite? and as I’m probably going to live to be at least one hundred years as well, did he think that I would also get shorter, despite the weight training and all the milk I drank as a child and the new drugs like Boniva, and if so how much shorter, because maybe I should start practicing walking in heels now.  And without looking up at me, he said “that’s really something,” and “sure, that can happen,” and “you might as well start now.”  So I said, “Start what? Practicing walking in heels, or taking Boniva?”

That’s when he looked me square in the eye and said, “I wasn’t really listening to anything you just said.”

Son of a bitch.

But what really put the icing on the cake was the video Charles made as part of his math project. He played a character billed in the credits as “Abusive Mother” and although he was very funny, I got a sinking feeling that my son was mocking his real-life mother. I know he was trying to throw me off by wearing an enormous stuffed bra as part of his costume, but as I remind my kids frequently, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I guess the best way to describe what I saw, is what I can only imagine as my son’s perception of me: a cross between a character on The Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

That little bastard.

Then I got to thinking, and I recalled that several weeks ago, when Bianca told me she was doing an “imitation” of me at the lunch table, I had taken it as a compliment. She’s always been rather dramatic and apparently her friends thought she was a riot, that she had nailed me perfectly. Isn’t imitation the greatest form of a compliment? But now that I’ve had this glimpse of the dark side of my family, I’m starting to wonder.

Don’t get me wrong, I can certainly laugh at myself. I do it all the time.  But are they laughing with me or at me?  I think I’m starting have a new understanding and appreciation for Rodney Dangerfield.

Clearly I need to sort things out, so I’m picking up my tamborine and taking my act on the road for a few days.  Maybe when I’m not around to not listen to, and not around to act as fodder for their junior high math videos and scintillating conversations at the high school lunch table, they will come up with some reason to have just a little bit of respect for D. Parker.  And then, if they ask me very nicely, I will regale them with the stories of my Tambourine Adventures.