Ponies and Poisoned Holiday Chex Mix

I totally should not be eating this holiday Chex mix from my dad because it was given to him by one of the tenants at his building. But it’s that time of the month when it becomes of mortal imperative that I eat something salty followed by something chocolate followed by something salty. The safety of my digestive system is of no concern.

Normally food items from the father unit are TSA approved, but my dad is to being a Resident Manager as the Grinch is to Christmas.  He is unfortunately one of those people who uses what little opportunities of power life gives him to enforce things like guest parking passes with Stalinesque authority.   

How do I know this seemingly innocent Chex Mix was not made by someone who unfortunately had their car towed because they just had to run into their apartment because they forgot their wallet and it won't be longer than 10 seconds so they don't need to find a guest past to hang in their rear view mirror? Maybe this tenant, while getting their wallet, realized they had to go to the bathroom yet again for the 100th excruciating time which is why they were in a hurry to leave and get to the hospital - until they finally get to their car only to see it has been towed? How do I know it was not from that tenant?

This may make my dad sound cruel and harsh, but I assure you he’s really quite lovable in his normal non-power positions in life.

He’s also quite deranged when it comes to gift giving. My dad has always been obsessed with getting credit for giving the best gifts. This is in fact how I learned at a young age that Santa was not real. “Santa” would leave a great big giant present under the Christmas tree. But when I opened the giant gift that could only have been a clear sign from Santa that I had indeed been an exceptional child that year, my dad would always say “You know I’m the one who really got you that, right?”

Now that he has grandkids, he not only has to out do Santa, but he has to out do parents too. It’s now a tradition that after all the presents are opened on Christmas morning, Grandpa is going to show up with the uber-gift, like a huge train set, or the Guiness Book Of Records Most Gigantic Nerf Machine Gun complete with 1,000 stupid foam darts. He even bought a life-sized fake pony one year. I’m afraid this year our kids might get Air Force One.

I think it’s pretty funny and I know the kids love it. But I think it gets under the Spouse’s skin like some primordial instinct to be the best male figure in the eyes of their offspring.

Happy Holidays.