With Father’s Day coming up Sunday, I’ve braced myself for the usual picture-perfect ads featuring the man of the house. Firing up the grill with lots of new equipment. Sporting a new golf shirt. Brandishing a new power saw.
With our man of the house gone just over a month, I expected to wince at the commercial reminders of what I’d be missing. But I haven’t. I miss him, all right. But what I miss has nothing to do with grilling, golfing or grout.
Instead, it’s the mundane, running banter. It’s “Don’t forget to take out the recycling.” And “Can you believe a doctor’s office would actually send a bill for 37 cents?” It’s “Do you think you could possibly remember to turn off your alarm clock?” And “Guess how much they’re charging for regular down at the BP?”
Oh, there were a few riveting conversations about the Middle East, an occasional gift that hit a homerun, and I miss those. But someone used to know just how I like my toast. I miss that more.
