Tubby

Tubby is what I call my dad. I know it probably sounds disrespectful for me to call him that, but I do and so does my brother. In our defense, he often called himself Tubby, The Little Fat Man, The Irate Fat Man, or when we were teenagers, The Asshole of Ashford Lane. I should mention, also to defend myself, that he has called me Booger for 40 years, so I think I'm entitled.

I'm very proud of my dad. He's an honorably discharged veteran of all four branches of the U.S. military and a highly decorated Vietnam Vet, he waited till he was on solid financial ground before he had kids, he always provided everything we needed and most of what we wanted, and he stressed the importance of education from day one (although he did sit in the car during my high school graduation because "it was hot in that goddamn gym and little fat guys sweat a lot"). For all his outstanding qualities, though, he can be somewhat difficult. He is not now, nor has he ever been, politically correct. He calls it as he sees it, and everyone is entitled to his opinion.

When my brother and I were growing up, Tubby had a cast of characters that served as examples of people not to be emulated. If you were working on a school project that was due the next day, you were Last Minute Louie. Didn't fully wrap the aluminum foil around a leftover? Half Ass Hannah. Not working like you should and you were Jonathan Jack Off. And you certainly were not going to school looking like Joe Shit the Rag Man. When my brother went through Army basic training, he didn't worry much about what the drill instructors had to say. Some of his fellow platoon members were amazed at how the DIs didn't bother him and one day they asked him about it, wanting to know how he kept the DIs from getting to him. My brother's response was, "I heard worse at the dinner table".

For my thirtieth birthday, I decided to get a tatoo. This was something I had wanted to do for a long time, and I got something I think is tasteful in an area that is totally covered by any clothing I choose to wear. For years I had mentioned it and for years Tubby told me I couldn't take the pain and would wuss out, so I was waiting for the right moment to tell him. It turns out my brother, allegedly accidentally, beat me to it. I am so sorry I missed what turned out to be a 20 minute, multi-room fit. It started in the garage where Judas, I mean my brother, broke the news. Tubby then ran into the kitchen and yelled ala Frank Costanza to my stepmother, "Booger has gotten a goddamn tatoo!" My stepmother replies, "I know, I saw it right after she got it". Tubby stalks back to the garage, still muttering about how I have ruined everyone's lives, wears himself out, comes back inside and announces, "there's nothing we can do about it now"! To this my stepmom replies, "I could have told you that 20 minutes ago". (On a side note, do you see why it's easier to tell her things???)

One autumn, I announced that my BFF would be in New York in December for business and she had suggested that since she was flying in a couple of days early we should meet and hang out. This is when she lived in Europe and I hadn't seen her in ages, so I quickly accepted and booked my flight. Here's how that conversation went down:

me: I'm going to New York to meet Joy.
Tubs: Absolutely not.
me: That wasn't a question.
Tubs: You'll get knocked in the head and mugged. What if Joy doesn't show up?
me: I'm not going to get mugged. I'll be careful. Joy will be there and if she isn't, I know how to book a hotel room. I'll just stay near the airport till it's time to come home. Everything will be fine. Try to look on the positive side of things.
Tubs: At least that goddamn tatoo will make it easier to identify your body!
me: That's exactly what I meant when I said to think positively. Thank you, Daddy.