Dad and Danny show off their dancing skills by dancing to Michael Jackson’s Bad on Wii.
Dad Dances to Bad by MJ from Angela Norlen on Vimeo.
Dad tries his hand at Computer Programming
11/12/2010
Dad has grown quite fond of my Ipad and I use it to show him a portfolio I made for my roommate. While browsing through her work a message alerts him of new facebook notifications. “Amanda and Jessica commented on your status,” dad says and instantly hits view.
Curiosity rouses mom from her spot on the floor and she peers eagerly over dad’s shoulder, “Oh cause you’re in a relationship, right!?” as though this is a new event I’ve just posted on facebook. “No!” dad screams, “C’mon!”
“Oh that’s right, relationship status is in the sidebar,” mom says, the light dawning.
“Dad doesn’t even have facebook and he knows!” I say laughing.
“Well he got laughed at!” mom points out.
Meanwhile dad has realized he can utilize facebook as a tool to stalk all my friends and acquaintances. He begins reading statuses, browsing pictures and attempting to comment, only in hopes of securing a reaction from me. “Jill is out deer hunting,” he reads aloud. “How did you find that out!” mom demands.
“He’s stalking me!” I say.
“I’m becoming quite good at this,” dad says smugly. I allow him to peruse my profile without censor and show mom tidbits of the code it takes to create a site.
I tell her this is the new language I’ve been learning. “Oh!” she says in recognition, “Jpeg! That’s the one you’ve been wanting to learn.” I barely contain myself, “JavaScript. Jpeg is an image file” I correct her. “Close enough,” mom says dismissively. I show her a few more lines of code.
“Oh, I’d scream!” mom says her eyes widening incredulously.
“That’s what I used to say back when I was programming,” dad says without glancing up from his new toy. I burst out laughing. “What are you talking about?” I demand, assuming this is another one of his ploys for attention.
“Back in 1975 I was making computer programs; It took pages and pages just to make something work.” Mom takes this as her cue to chime in, “I took a computer programming class too,” she says.
“I got a C cause I never went to class.” I stare at the duo dumbfounded. “I mean NEVER,” mom says her eyes wide as she stresses this very important fact.
“So why did you stop?” I ask dad curiously. “He can’t even learn to navigate the computer!” mom answers nodding towards dad who is angrily jabbing at the screen in hopes it will move. “I figured I’d leave it for my kids,” dad says, as though he has given me some great gift. Gauging from his limited computer skills, I’d say this was a wise decision.
Mom goes Greek
06/27/2010
Mom comes down this weekend and we join my aunt and cousin for dinner at the Mall of America. As soon as the meal concludes she becomes paranoid about making a movie we haven’t even decided on. I tell her I’m going to stop at Charlotte Russe quick while they pay and to call me when they leave the restaurant. She spots me just as I’m about to try on a dress.. A concerned panic washes over her face, “Angela, we’re going to miss the movie! What are you doing?”
“I’ll meet you there,” I call over my shoulder as I disappear into the changing room.
I stare in horror at my reflection and instantly realize why the little dress was on clearance. I quickly return the merchandise to the sale rack and rush out of the store. I spot Steph on my way to the elevator and tell her that we’re meeting our moms at the theater.
I call mom as we’re waiting for the elevator. “Who is this,” she asks suspiciously. “What are you talking about? Where are you you?” I say in annoyance.
“Oh!” she says suddenly, “they’re locking us in!”
“I thought I was meeting you there,” I say in exasperation. “We were sitting in the store waiting for you,” she says, “I don’t know how you made it past me!”
“Well, meet us at the elevator,” I tell her. A few minutes later I see them book it around the corner and I begin to motion wildly shouting hurry. Mom breaks into a sprint and dives in just as the elevator is closing. She immediately starts jabbering about how the store closed on them, “Oh that was so scary,” she breathes, “they just started closing the gate with us inside!”
It seems we make an entire loop around the mall before we find the theater. Mom keeps shouting at Steph and I to “go ahead,” even though we are walking as fast as humanly possible. The only movie that starts around ten and looks mildly interesting is Get him to the Greek. Steph and I convince the moms to take us to this movie. I’m terrified the movie will shatter mom’s innocence. I have no clue what the movie is about–only having heard that it was funny– but I’m certain it’s chalked full of sexual innuendos, profanity, and college humor.
Mom and Robby follow us blindly into the theater where the ticket girl tells me I must either throw away my take home, eat it, or return it to my car. “I have nowhere to put it,” I gush in annoyance. “I’m sorry,” she says firmly, “but it’s a liability.” “Ya,” mom says, “you could have drugs in it or something.” Highly unlikely.
The opening credits feature a man grinding and singing a song entitled African Child which is intended to be extremely offensive and ridiculous. “Is this it?” mom gasps in horror. Now I’m absolutely certain this movie with scar her for life. I laugh nervously. I finally relax when P. Diddy comes on camera and tells Jonah Hill it’s all about mind fucking, “Do you feel my dick in your head? I’m mind fucking you right now.” Jonah Hill stares nervously at P. Diddy and says, “I hope you’re wearing a condom, cause I have a dirty mind.” Mom snorts and bursts out laughing, “That was a good one,” she says happily. I’m shocked. Perhaps I’ve underestimated her.
The show continues on its parade of ridiculousness and mom seems to be enjoying herself. “That was funny,” mom says as we leave the theater. She dances a little jig on the way down the escalator and continues her hysteria all the way to the car. Clearly it’s past her bed time.
I figure I will continue the mood and blare my rap music in the car. She instantly throws up her hands to cover her ears, “You’re hurting me!” she screams in agony. “I can already feel the muscles in my neck tightening!” “You’re fine,” I say turning the volume up a notch in defiance. “Please Angela!” mom begs from the backseat. Apparently she has had all the fun she can handle for one night.
Mom plays with the Dough Boy
06/21/2010
Mom and dad show me pictures of their trip down south on the camera I borrowed them. Actually they haven’t seen any of them either since they have no idea how to review them without my help. Mom finds a picture of dad and busts out laughing, “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything about this one!” mom shouts jabbing at the camera screen. She’s referring to a particularly unflattering photo of dad. “He looks so chubby!” Dad grumbles and pulls himself off the floor, “Let me see that!” he says grabbing the camera out of mom’s hands. “When mom goes on a diet I have to eat everything else,” dad explains sadly sauntering into the kitchen.
A few minutes later mom corners dad in the kitchen and starts poking at his stomach. Dad squeals in protest, “She likes to play with the dough boy!” dad says rolling his eyes as he desperately tries to fend off mom’s pokes.
“C’mon show her!” mom says punching playfully at dad’s little ponch. “Stop it!” dad cries helplessly as mom continues to antagonize him. Finally dad shoves air into his stomach making him resemble a pregnant dough boy. Mom claps in triumph.
The next day mom contemplates making a second rhubarb cake, ‘only because she has so much rhubarb.’ Dad groans his disapproval, “Look at her turn us into blimps in one weekend!” he exclaims. Mom’s jaw drops, “I turn you into a blimp? What about the Dairy Queen treats you’ve been picking up for yourself? and the popcorn at the movie theatre?”
Dad shoves his last spoonfool of heath blizzard into his mouth and stalks off to play poker. It seems a dose of reality is a little more than he can bare.
Dad Assumes role of Air Traffic Controller
03/25/2010
Mom and dad drive down to the cities to attend my Graduate Portfolio Show and I come to learn, like any doting father, my dad has no idea what my website is, let alone seen it.
I hand him a postcard, “I’m handing these out at the show,” I say smugly. Mom comes up behind him and peers over his shoulder, “Oh, you’re handing that out at the show? That’s nice!” she exclaims. “It’s about you,” I say referencing the blog. “Oh…” her voice trails off in realization.
I ask if he’s read my Paris blog to which he looks at me and says no. Then I ask him if he’s seen my portfolio site to which he also responds no. Mom rolls her eyes.
I decide it’s time for dad to view my website and give him the daunting task of testing the usability. “He’s the perfect guinea pig!” mom squeals in excitement. “Why do you say that?” I question. “Because he’s clueless,” she says.
I set dad out in front of my laptop and outfit him with a headset I’m not even sure works. Mom cackles happily in the corner, “He looks like an air traffic controller!”
Dad has no idea how to use my laptop which has a scrollpad instead of a mouse or keys. He hovers tentatively over the arrow keys before he starts hitting them incessantly. “How do I do this?” he cries in frustration as a million programs begin appearing on my screen, “It won’t scroll!”
After demonstrating how to navigate, he attempts and fails miserably. I rummage through my room and finally find him a mouse. At home, dad’s only encounter with the internet is online poker. He has a large monitor and comfy chair, complete with an attached armrest that holds his mouse comfortably at his fingertips. I realize I must proceed with extreme caution when introducing him to the outside world.
The Plant Killer
02/15/2010
Mom and dad roadtrip to the cities this weekend to take my boyfriend and I out to lunch.
When they arrive, mom heads straight for my collection of dying plants.
She pauses briefly to assess the damage before reaching her hand up to stroke a leaf, “Not the bamboo Angela! You promised!” she cries.
“I should never have let you have it,” she says shaking her head.
Suddenly, her gaze turns towards my armoire where she spots the shriveled spider plant she gave me, its yellow leaves hanging limply down the side of the dresser. “Angela! This is the easiest plant to take care of! Go get me some water; all they need is water!”
It isn’t my intention to starve the plants, it just sort of happens. I watch them slowly turn yellow and make a mental note to water them more often, but it never seems to happen. By this time, dad has decided to start cleaning house. He’s running around emptying garbage pails and consolidating recycling.
He’s making quite a ruckus in the kitchen when I hear him shout, “Do you need this coupon?”
“What is he doing?” I ask mom in annoyance. “Oh just leave him be,” mom says, “he likes this. It gives him something to do.”
“Now,” she says pacing back and forth, “I need some scissors.” I find her a pair and she immediately begins snipping away at my plants, handing me handfuls of crispy, yellow leaves and asking me to dispose of them. “It’s like abusing an animal,” mom says sadly. “No, it’s not,” I protest. “Yes it is Angela. Plants are living things,” she says. When she’s finished my room seems to have sprung back to life.
Mom steps back to admire her handiwork. “Jim, why don’t you take this plant outside somewhere and dump it,” mom says gesturing towards the giant palm tree I’ve managed to completely destroy. ” Dad saunters back into my room and looks at the plant, “Well no wonder it’s dead,” he says, “you have it by the radiator!” It seems even dad knows more about keeping plants alive than I do.
Mom mourns 2pac
01/27/2010
Today my car is finally done after months of false hopes and unprecedented anticipation. Around noon I meet mom at a local restaurant to grab lunch and exchange cars. I comment on her recent barrage of messages on facebook. “Oh ya,” she says shoveling her mouth full of steamed beets, “I’m getting braver.” It seems she can only digest small amounts of technology at a time.
“Well I see you learned how to write on my wall and comment on my status,” I say. “Ya! Did you see what I wrote about your speakers? That was so cute what that Curtis Montgomery said, calling me Mrs. Norlen and everything.”
“Ya, do you agree with them about my music? That you don’t like it?” I question.
She pauses to savor her salmon before setting down her fork. “I like that 2pac!” she says. I give her an odd look, “what?”
“Ya I listened to that link on your wall! He’s very good looking. He really is,” she pauses, nodding, “I didn’t think he needed to smoke, but he sings well…there’s no doubt about that.”
I laugh. She leans in across our tiny two-top and whispers, “Don’t write this down, but,” she says, her voice barely audible, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.” I confirm laughing. She instantly straightens herself and returns to her normal posture, “That’s what I thought,” she says sadly. She shakes her head as though she is speaking fondly of an old friend, “it’s too bad…I don’t like the swearing, but I liked 2pac.”