For migrainegirl, some more Father Stories.

Now, my father was both a lovely and crappy dad. There were the times that he tried to kill himself, and the times he lost all our money, and the fact that after I hit puberty he sort of removed himself from my life. And more recently, his threats to do things like sign me up for a "Distance Head Healing".

But there's also the fact that he loves me very much, and I know that. And that he would do anything for me, if he could. The fact that when I was born, he looked at my deliriously tired mother and said, "I know what I am now. I'm a father." Which is both psycho and sweet. And the fact that he used to shave the sides of my mohawk for me.

There was the Couch Story.

I was living here, in Brooklyn, same apartment. My ex-Boy had just moved out, and I was sorely in need of furniture. So I bought this couch from one of the Ex's coworkers for $200. I have an excellent sense of spatial relationships, and so I thought I knew that couch would fit.

An inch, it turns out, makes a great deal of difference. I had three boys trying *really* hard to get that couch up my many stairs. They got it almost all the way up, and it just would NOT go through the last doorway into the apartment. I'm looking at it, and looking at it, and finally must conclude that it is Not To Be. So I do the only thing that made any sense, which was to call my father, who still lived in Connecticut, and ask him to please come get the couch in.

Granted, I had to live with a couch on my landing for 4 days. But I knew that if anyone could get that couch inside, it was my papa. And sure enough, 4 days later he drives down 3 hours to my house, removes the moldings, and gets that goddamn couch inside. Hung out for a little bit, and turned around and drove back home.

He came and built 3 walls of bookshelves with my Boy (who was mostly standing there and holding the planks while he sawed) in exchange for a couple beers and a pizza.

Another of my favorites, which also illustrates his latent weirdness.

Somewhere around age 12, I thought it would be a brilliant and hilarious idea to have the headboard of my bed be a headstone (like a gravestone) engraved with my name. Granite or marble or something.

I mentioned this to my father. He considered for a moment, and said, "You know........for about $50 I know someone who could get one for you."

I looked at him for a minute or two, processing that, and finally said, "Dad! I don't want a USED one!"

He told me about his out-of-body experiences. Which made me feel less freakish about my own.

When I was four years old, I had 1 soldering iron, 1 hot glue gun, 1 woodburning iron, 1 giant magnifying glass used to start fires, and 1 full box set of X-acto knives and blades, all courtesy of Pops. It's a miracle that a., I didn't burn something down, and b., I remained largely intact.

My father taught me to drive. Another thing that was likely both a plus and a minus. I was driving us down one of the very twisty roads near our house, going the speed limit -- 35 mph. He asks, why are you going so slow? I say, "Um, it's the speed limit?" My ever-so-wise father says, "Oh. Forget the speed limit, go at whatever speed you're comfortable with." I was most comfortable, I decided, at NINETY.

Oh! Oh! I nearly forgot about this one, and this has achieved legendary status in my family. I don't remember it personally, but I've heard it enough.

When I was somewhere between 1 and 2, I was, as was normal, being taught and learning all the parts of my body. Head, leg, elbow, etc.

I learned those, just fine. But my father decided also to teach me the names of the BONES. He would take me to the park, and I'd play in the (likely piss-riddled) sandbox with the other babies. Other mommies and daddies would sit there, asking their little Bobbies and Marys and Jimmies, Bobby, where's your HEAD? And little obedient Bobby would smack his head.

And my father, smirking, would go, "Onehanded, where's your PATELLA?" And obedient me, would smack my knee. And so on. "Where's your CLAVICLE? Where's your TIBIA?" Ha-ha, funny baby.

Entertainingly, to this day I remember all the names of my bones.

I was a bit of the trick pony for my parents for a long time, not just my dad. Between my large and largely misunderstood vocabulary and my inability to relate to children my age, leading to me desperately trying to curry favor with the grown-ups, I was an endless source of amusement.

But I was telling father stories. One more, not really a story, just a thing. From the time I was 6 months old until much later, my father would drive me around on a motorcycle. I loved that. I still love motorcycles. Another reason my mom wanted to kill him, but hell, I'm alive.

Oh, this one's really the last one. During one of the hurricanes, I forget which one, we were right in the eye of it. That was when he chose to take me for a walk. We both thought it was wild. We nearly got hit by several trees, and my mother was in hysterics, but we had a helluva time. We went to the 7-11 down the street that was inexplicably open, and walked back home through the hurricane drinking Slurpees.

onehanded