Mum took a spontaneous trip to New Orleans this past week, which means that Dad has been home all alone.

Now, Mum normally gets the brunt of the memoir/sledge-hammer, but I really think that’s mostly because she’s a much more exuberant personality. Dad, on the other hand, is a quiet force, soldiering on beneath the radar.

In addition to being the Vancouver Canucks’ first win of the Stanley Cup finals, last night was also Dad’s birthday. Naturally, it was up to the pub for hockey and drinks, then back to the house for whiskey and Game of Thrones (Dad is much more of a geek when he feels he doesn’t need to look cool in front of Mum).

I ended up just staying over, which had the happy result of us going through our morning routines in each other’s presence. Neither of us are morning people.

The following is the conversation that took place between him and I at 7.30 this morning, yelling across the house from the kitchen to the living room:

Dad: I made you a salad.

Me: Oh, thanks, that’s awesome.

Dad: Do you want some yoghurt too?

Me: Sure!

Dad: *rustle rustle, fridge opening* Okay, but it’s expired.

Me: …

Dad: Smells a little weird, too.

Me: …

Dad: Tastes okay, though.

Me: When did it expire?

Dad: Um… May.

Me: Like May 31 or like May 1? That’s a big difference in the world of expired dairy products.

Dad: Hang on, let me get my glasses. *rustle rustle* Okay, May… twenty… something.

Me: *thinks about this* Ah, sure. Go on then. I’ll have some yoghurt.

I am more like my dad than I have previously accepted.


UPDATE: (Lunchtime) I have eaten the yoghurt. I am still alive.