Read Online Sh*t My Dad Says by Justin Halpern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Justin Halpern
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it. It’s like rubbing alcohol and—I don’t know—shit, I guess.”
Always Put Your Best Foot Forward
“A three-year-old doesn’t have a license to act like an asshole.”
About once a year when I was growing up my family would head to Champaign, Illinois, where several generations of Halperns would congregate at my aunt Naomi’s house. Unlike my dad, his relatives are the mellowest, warmest, most nurturing people I’ve ever meet. Whenever we’d visit them in the Midwest, I felt like I was in a Christmas special; everyone wore bright, multicolored sweaters, and any time I saw an adult relative for the first time, he or she would exclaim, “Look at you! You’re all grown-up and so handsome!” before turning to my mom and dad and saying with a smile, “Isn’t he handsome?” My dad always responded the same exact way, which was to say, “Yeah, I’m waiting for the modeling checks to come in so I can retire,” and then laugh for an awkwardly long period of time, sometimes to the point of wheezing because he was out of breath, while the rest of us stood around in our Technicolor sweaters quietly waiting for his cackling to cease.
At our annual reunion in Illinois in November 1997, we had quite a few of my little cousins running around the house. They were all great kids, but one in particular I found to be especially entertaining: Joey, who was three years old at the time. The last time I had seen Joey was a few months prior, at a cousin’s house in Seattle, on his birthday. He was so excited it was his birthday that he had spent the better part of an hour running around my cousin’s house at full speed, coming to an abrupt stop every minute or so in front of a relative and screaming, “IT’S MY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” He was like a tiny David Lee Roth pumping up the crowd at a Van Halen concert right before he sang “Jump.” Every time Joey stopped in front of me, before he could blurt out his line, I’d egg him on by asking, “Joey’s happy birthday?!” Then his eyes would go wide, as if I’d just levitated in front of him, and he’d shriek, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” We did this probably twenty-five times until my brother Dan came up to me and said, “Dude, fucking stop it.”
Now, a few months later, at this family gathering, I was seeing Joey for the first time since his birthday. The instant he saw me, his face broke out in a huge grin, and he ran up to me and screamed, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” I laughed and told him it was nice to see him, but he didn’t acknowledge my greeting in the slightest. He just kept saying his catch phrase over and over. For the first ten minutes or so, my relatives thought it was cute and smiled at him or affectionately tousled his hair. My dad had been in the bathroom the whole time Joey had been carrying on like a parrot on speed, and when he walked out, he simply said, “Hey there, Joey.”
“JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” Joey screamed before running off.
My dad turned to me. “It’s Joey’s birthday?”
I explained the situation, and in the midst of my explaining, Joey interrupted.
“JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
“He and I need to have a talk,” my dad said matter-of-factly as Joey dashed into another room.
My dad talks to everyone, no matter his or her age, as he would to a forty-five-year-old physicist, so I had a pretty good idea how this was going to go.
“Just let him tire himself out, Dad.”
“He doesn’t want people thinking he’s an idiot, right?” my dad replied.
“He doesn’t even know other people think anything. He’s three.”
“A three-year-old doesn’t have a license to act like an asshole.”
On cue, Joey once again ran full speed into the room and screamed, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTH—”
“No,” my dad said, cutting him off.
Joey paused for a moment. “Joey’s happy birthday?” he said, totally devoid of conviction.
“No, Joey, it’s not your happy birthday. You
Always Put Your Best Foot Forward
“A three-year-old doesn’t have a license to act like an asshole.”
About once a year when I was growing up my family would head to Champaign, Illinois, where several generations of Halperns would congregate at my aunt Naomi’s house. Unlike my dad, his relatives are the mellowest, warmest, most nurturing people I’ve ever meet. Whenever we’d visit them in the Midwest, I felt like I was in a Christmas special; everyone wore bright, multicolored sweaters, and any time I saw an adult relative for the first time, he or she would exclaim, “Look at you! You’re all grown-up and so handsome!” before turning to my mom and dad and saying with a smile, “Isn’t he handsome?” My dad always responded the same exact way, which was to say, “Yeah, I’m waiting for the modeling checks to come in so I can retire,” and then laugh for an awkwardly long period of time, sometimes to the point of wheezing because he was out of breath, while the rest of us stood around in our Technicolor sweaters quietly waiting for his cackling to cease.
At our annual reunion in Illinois in November 1997, we had quite a few of my little cousins running around the house. They were all great kids, but one in particular I found to be especially entertaining: Joey, who was three years old at the time. The last time I had seen Joey was a few months prior, at a cousin’s house in Seattle, on his birthday. He was so excited it was his birthday that he had spent the better part of an hour running around my cousin’s house at full speed, coming to an abrupt stop every minute or so in front of a relative and screaming, “IT’S MY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” He was like a tiny David Lee Roth pumping up the crowd at a Van Halen concert right before he sang “Jump.” Every time Joey stopped in front of me, before he could blurt out his line, I’d egg him on by asking, “Joey’s happy birthday?!” Then his eyes would go wide, as if I’d just levitated in front of him, and he’d shriek, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” We did this probably twenty-five times until my brother Dan came up to me and said, “Dude, fucking stop it.”
Now, a few months later, at this family gathering, I was seeing Joey for the first time since his birthday. The instant he saw me, his face broke out in a huge grin, and he ran up to me and screamed, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” I laughed and told him it was nice to see him, but he didn’t acknowledge my greeting in the slightest. He just kept saying his catch phrase over and over. For the first ten minutes or so, my relatives thought it was cute and smiled at him or affectionately tousled his hair. My dad had been in the bathroom the whole time Joey had been carrying on like a parrot on speed, and when he walked out, he simply said, “Hey there, Joey.”
“JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OH YEAH!” Joey screamed before running off.
My dad turned to me. “It’s Joey’s birthday?”
I explained the situation, and in the midst of my explaining, Joey interrupted.
“JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
“He and I need to have a talk,” my dad said matter-of-factly as Joey dashed into another room.
My dad talks to everyone, no matter his or her age, as he would to a forty-five-year-old physicist, so I had a pretty good idea how this was going to go.
“Just let him tire himself out, Dad.”
“He doesn’t want people thinking he’s an idiot, right?” my dad replied.
“He doesn’t even know other people think anything. He’s three.”
“A three-year-old doesn’t have a license to act like an asshole.”
On cue, Joey once again ran full speed into the room and screamed, “JOEY’S HAPPY BIRTH—”
“No,” my dad said, cutting him off.
Joey paused for a moment. “Joey’s happy birthday?” he said, totally devoid of conviction.
“No, Joey, it’s not your happy birthday. You
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