You learn a lot of things about your parents when you become an adult—stories untold. I was visiting my parents last month and I heard some doozies.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with my father when he told me about an experience he had while in London. He and my mom were walking down Fleet Street, the high-brow, financial section of town—all tailored suits and fancy shoes. They saw this well-dressed banker type drunk as a skunk weaving down the street.
As if this wasn’t alarming enough, as my father so aptly put it, “With his dink hanging out his fly catching a breeze and I’m not talking just having the barn door open, I mean the whole horse was hanging out.”
“I think she’s got the point, dear,” my mother said.
“Oh, my, that must have been a sight,” I said, trying frantically to bat this visual out of my brain.
“Well, it gets better,” my mother said.
“We could’ve been on the evening news except…” my mother said.
“We must’ve looked like tourists, because he stopped us. He asked, “What was the most remarkable thing we’d seen so far,” my father continued.
“You’ll never guess what he told them,” my mother said.
“He didn’t,” I said. Even I wouldn’t do that, I hoped.
“Sure did. That guy over there with his dink hanging out,” I told him and I pointed. “I’m pretty sure the camera man got a good shot.”
I think my social faux pas might be genetic. Nurture only goes so far. Nature gave me a big dose of what-not-to-say because I would have done the same thing if the opportunity had arisen . Yet another example of I am my father’s daughter.
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