My father has a Facebook page. So do most people, you say. So does everyone, I say. Which is why I am taking the time to elaborate on the severe and serious issue I am taking up with my FATHER, the man who had to have me save a document on his computer and then re-open it for him every time he needed it. My, “ how the hell do you work this goddamn piece of shit laptop oh there it is thanks honey how did you learn how to do that” father has a Facebook page.

 How did this come to be?

My friends and loved ones, that is not what’s important.

What matters is that now, as his oldest daughter, I feel obliged to express my bewilderment and will do so with examples from my childhood, shedding the light on all of the reasons one would not- could not- imagine my dad on any social networking site.

My dad failed typing. Typing? Yes, in high school. He subsequently had to graduate in the summer instead of with his class because of this little mishap. That is not to say that he hasn’t learned how to hunt and peck his way through a keyboard; he certainly knows where the letters are in some capacity, and I could go out on a limb and say that he may have even composed electronic mail once or twice. But we are talking about a man who, since learning how to “save” documents, has “saved” every document with the same heading. He has 87,000 documents all labeled DavidMilks. Who does this?

My dad, who is on Facebook.

When my sister and I were little kids, his idea of going out to lunch was a family trip to Costco. “Go try that sample, Meg,” he would assert. Every aisle would be another bite for me and my sister, and we didn’t think anything was wrong with that. I still don’t.

When we would misbehave and drive our mom to drink- this was before the influx of prescription drugs  for sibling rivalry became the cure-all- my dad would threaten and follow through with long boring trips to The Home Depot. I can’t explain why he chose this store in particular. Maybe because, as a general contractor, he needed to go there anyway? It doesn’t matter. He’d drag us there and spend hours fixated on drill bits and two-by-fours, all while scratching his head, I am assuming wondering how many more aisles he’d need to wander to suck the life out of me and Meg.

I will never forget how he’d always top the tortuous trips to Home Depot with a stop at Dairy Queen, and let us get whatever we wanted. Maybe because he knew in twenty years, he’d do something so defiant and inexplicable, like Facebooking.

My sister found a passion for magic sometime around 8 years old. It was a short lived career choice, but she definitely exercised her right to practice being the next David Copperfield on every member in our household, namely our dad. After a bout of hypnotism, she ordered him to skip around the neighborhood. He did it. The only problem with this command was that my dad was apparently born before skipping was taught on your average playground, and so he missed the lesson. Picture a three-legged horse attempting to gallop, with only two fully functioning legs because the third one has suffered a pull in the Achilles tendon, provided horses have Achilles tendons. That was my dad, likely three or eight beers in, for the entire neighborhood to see.

Recently, my parents, my cousin and I decided to go to D.C. for a rally. Yes, we are liberals, and yes, I am aware I might lose some readers with this newfound information. I also, however, might gain some. As we were standing in the subway station on the WRONG side of the subway (we were first time riders, relax) my dad was eating a half dozen Krispy Kreme donuts right out of the box. I was unaware that we were on the wrong side of the tracks until a nice couple that we’d made small talk with, asked where we were staying. When we told them, they told us we needed to be “over there”. At the last minute when the train came screeching to a halt and everyone got on, we sort of looked around before making our way North. Apparently we did not move fast enough because as we stood there and the train roared past us, the wind it kicked up in its wake also stirred up the flakes from the Krispy Kremes and three seconds and six donuts later, we were covered in donut residue. I looked at him with annoyance, and he just casually brushed the sugar flakes off of his shirt, probably ate them, and made his way to the other side.

This is what I am talking about. He does not need to be on Facebook.

My dad came home from the doctor the other day. He had a check up, where he was informed that he was “the picture” of health. He tells me this as he is standing over the counter, eating my mom’s homemade banana bread out of the bread tin, slicing and eating, repeat necessary and often. I respond, “So the twelve chocolate chip cookies a day, Honey Smacks at night, and McFlurry every Tuesday is working out for you?” He says, “Yes, it keeps it all flowing. Apparently I didn’t have to get my papers in order so soon. Looks like I got another six months, at least!” This, from a man who had a stroke a few years ago and the next morning answered his hospital room phone, “Dick Clark’s room, hello?”  He is ruthless. Unstoppable.

My dad says he joined Facebook to keep in touch with his brother. I don’t understand how this is going to help him keep in touch with him. He refused to give in the Compact Disc player until cassette tapes became almost obsolete. How is he supposed to stay connected with wall posts, comments, notifications, and RSS feedbacks? I can’t sit here and show him how to do all of this. I will not have him “friending” fan clubs and “liking” people’s posts. This goes against nature.

We are going to have to have a discussion. It’d be like me living in Century Village. Or taking advantage of the Early Bird special at local restaurants. Or moving to Stuart, Florida. It cannot be done. There are age-appropriate activities and my dad joining Facebook is not in the manual.

What’s next? Twitter?

Of all the memories I have of my dad that make me laugh, however recent or age-old, I remember every age and stage being overshadowed with fun. Perhaps this is just one more stint of his to add to my collection of hilarity and legendary humor. Maybe he purposely did this so I can look back on this a week from now, when I have gone on his computer and deleted his page, unbeknownst to him, and have one more memory painted colorfully in my mind, and laugh line etched in my skin.