Rossini

I asked my dad for the title tonight. My dad is famous for creating titles. No other writing ever comes after. Just titles. And ideas. He has ideas about a murder that happens on bingo night. Title: I-9. Sequel: B-13. He has ideas about a collection of eulogies. Title: Eulogy.

Rossini is what my dad ordered for dinner. Actually it is what my dad ordered for dinner after my mom pointed it out on the menu. And it is only fair to defend my mother's seemingly controlling nature by explaining that my dad has been known to order things like a bruschetta omelet. His appetite needs a little direction, and Tina is always happy to give it.

My dad didn't spend too much time or energy thinking of the title for tonight, but I couldn't really blame him. They got home last night at midnight after taking their other grandchildren to Mary Poppins in downtown LA. By 5am, they were on the road again, this time to see their grandchildren in the north. They arrived here just before naptime. When they got out of the car, they were both limping. "Are they hurt?" Norm asked. "Just exhausted," I said.

As I am trying to write this, my dad is sitting next to me talking about how he is going to buy me a new laptop for my birthday. I don't like it when my parents buy me things. Never have. I hated back to school shopping and always shopped the clearance rack while my sister Carrie piled up the designer jeans. My dad knows nothing about computers. He frequently tells my mom to "take an email" so I am really not worried about this laptop idea ever coming to fruition. However, he is still talking about it so I have to create a new rule, "No talking to me while I am blogging."

"You blog. I snog," he says as he leans his head back into the cushion of the couch and closes his eyes.

"Now that would have been a good title," I said.