My dad... My Mikey Dad... is The Effing Man! He is. I have two kinds of proof now, to prove that he's The Effing Man. Before receiving proof that this Mikey Dad is the Effing Man, he was just the Effing Dad. Big difference.
About two weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I received a phone call. "Hi Rabid. We're doing something special for your dad tonight. Can you come to the banquet where we plan to do something special for your dad?"
I said, "Why sure."
That phone call seems like an official invite, doesn't it? It is official, but it came as a result of some begging and pleading on my part, for I received wind of this special something, and dropped an "Oh lemme come! Please, please, PPPPLEEASE?! Can I come?"
You see, my dad, who many call "Mikey," works for a ski resort, and has for 41 years. In ski resort years, that's a lotta years. A few months ago, a gent named Al pulled me aside and said, "Your dad is quite a person, and he has helped a lot of people around here. We're working to do something really nice for him." I replied with an "Oh yeah?" or something. Al continued. "We're going to name a run after him. I'm working with general management to get a run called Mikey's."
I believe I dropped one of those NO SH*T jaws. (The assterisk was added so that when people google "shit," they won't end up here, even though "shit" is among my most treasured of swears.)
Not many people on this planet have ski runs named after them. I dare say that there are more stars named after folks than ski runs. Having your own ski run is a big deal. After Al had delivered his teary-eyed "Your dad is so special, we're gonna name a run after him and present it at the year-end party," I was all over finding a way to crash that party.
Turns out I didn't need to crash that party, 'cause Al called and extended an invite. Technically, we did crash that party, because as was mentioned earlier, I dropped by to beg and plead and whine and demand that we be invited. I was going to be at that party. Come green or double-black-diamond, I was going to see them tell my dad about that run called Mikey's.
The plan for Spouse and me was to show up late. We'd sneak in on the sly, sit in the back, and watch the events. There was a slight flaw in this plan, however, because I forgot about something called the cocktail hour. I forgot that the cocktail "hour" normally turns into cocktail "hours," and we arrived way early. Too early, for Mikey became suspicious. So much for sneaking in on the sly.
Even though we did arrive early, we still arrived late enough that the majority of his ski resort cronies were pickled and saucy. The younger ones more so than the olders. It was a drunken fest of relaxed yet professional ski bums.
We had dinner, which included the best tiramisu I've ever tasted. We listened to awards. We watched hooting and hollering, with brotherly love and slurpy "I love you man"s. It was a joyous occasion. At the end, Al, dressed in his finest Hawaiian button-down, announced that Mikey would join the likes of Picabo Street and Phil Jones, because the resort planned to name a run after him. "Lower Single Jack will now be called Mikey's," said Al. Then there was more hooting and hollering, with brotherly love and slurpy "I love you man"s.
The party broke up, and everyone started to wander out. Spouse, me, and a few others were standing in a half circle chatting, when a blond, early-20-something bloke in a home-made beanie stumbled on up to me -- rather close, I might add -- and with droopy eyes, said "Hey!"
I said "Hey!" back.
I said "Hey!" back.
This little punk had thick, blond lashes, and clear blue eyes. He was wearing his best khakis with a pair of muddy boots, and his hands were cradling a giant white purse. With the back of his hand, he roughed out his mouth, threw his head back in slow motion, and looked around at us strangers. "I...." he said, "I... believe I've wandered into the wrong conversation."
"That's all right," I said. "My name's Rabid, what's yours?"
"Tony." We shook hands.
"Hi Tony. Who's purse you got?" I inquired.
Big grin. "Oh." Bigger grin. "That's Brooke's."
"Tell Brooke she has a nice purse."
"I will... How are you asssosssociatted here?" Tony asked.
"I'm Mikey's daughter."
Tony stepped back. He placed his hand on his heart, that same hand with Brooke's dangling purse, then said, "Mikey?! Mikey's The Effing* Man!"
And that is when Mikey, The Effing Dad, became The Effing Man.
*"Effing" is not the exact word, but you all knew that, right? Can't say the real thing, 'cause this is an Effing Family Blog.