You Wood Not Understand

, , , , , | Related | February 21, 2020

(I’m out shopping with my dad for lumber and supplies for a bookshelf he’s helping me build. We’ve already picked out the wood — the only part my dad cares about — so he’s making a complete nuisance of himself now while I try to decide between paint and stain.)

Me: *holding different colors of stain in each hand* “Hmm…”

Dad: “The color will be darker than it looks when you stain it.”

Me: “Yes, thank you.” *puts stain back and reads a bit of the provided guide aloud* “So, I should get this sealant…”

Dad: “Don’t ask me; I don’t know anything about this!”

Me: “I wasn’t asking you! Go away before I hit you with a board! I think I’m just gonna go with paint. It’ll be easier.”

Dad: *now stretching his back on one of the building’s support beams* “Well, hurry up. I need to be somewhere by five.”

Me: “What time is it now?”

Dad: “It’s three o’clock.”

Me: “We’ll be done soon. And if it gets too late, we can just start on this another day.”

Dad: *now grinning* “We have plenty of time. It’s only one.”

(I roll my eyes and snap back before asking an employee about paint. She helpfully offers to try coloring one of the reject paints for me to save some money, and she comes back with the dip sample.)

Me: “Hmm… No, thank you so much for trying, but that’s not dark enough. I need black to match my existing furniture.”

Dad: *leaning over me* “What do you mean? That’s black!”

Me: “No, it’s not; it’s dark gray.”

Dad: “Oh, well, I can’t tell. It looks black to me!”

(I hand the employee a quart of paint I’d picked up earlier to mix for me and thank her again for her trouble — I’m cutting out a lot of back-and-forth here — before turning back to my dad.)

Me: “So you’re color blind and tone blind?”

Dad: *proudly* “And tone deaf!”

Me: “Do any of your senses work properly?”

(The employee comes back with my mixed paint now and hands it to me. I thank her again but before we leave she speaks up, looking very somber.)

Employee: “You know, you really should cherish the time you have with your father while he’s with you.”

(My dad and I go quiet and quickly side-eye each other before I embarrassedly rush out the first explanation I can think of.)

Me: “Oh, no! We’re not actually arguing! We’re Italian!”

(We hustled off towards the checkout before she could say anything back. I’m so sorry for making you think we were fighting, nice paint lady!)

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