And then he made this bizarre finger flail move that I think was meant to signify typing.
Luckily, I had been prepared for this, and I'd already started setting up a blog for Dad. And I have a great method for this whole enterprise, because I know full well that he won't be able to post a blog any more than he can copy and paste things. My plan is to set up the blog, give him an ID, and have HIM give ME his post in a Word document. Then, I will take what he wrote and copy and paste it into Blogger. I will then publish it.
So I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. "You mean you want to start a blog, right Dad?" I said.
"Okay," I told him. Now came the hard part. "So what you need to do is go here," I scribbled down the web address for Blogger. "Then make yourself an ID, so you can have a blog. Don't do anything else. Just make an ID."
"Good. I'll do that now," he told me. He had his laptop.
Naively, I thought he'd have no problem. I mean, all you do to set up an account is, what, type in your name and your e-mail? That's not so hard, is it?
When the time came for me to eat dinner, I left the library. I didn't see Dad anymore, so I assumed he'd left. He hadn't.
At about 4:34p.m. EST, I heard the Doctor Who theme, so I answered my phone. (Yeah, that's right. My phone rings with the Doctor Who theme. I am just that cool.)
"Hey," Dad said. "Where are you?"
"Wendy's," I said. "Where are you?"
"I was at the library," he replied. "But then you weren't there, so I thought I'd find you."
Lots of our conversations seem to follow this pattern.
"I'll be here for another fifteen minutes," I said.
"I'll come meet you," he told me. Then we hung up.
Moments later, he was there with a vanilla Frosty.
What is the purpose of a vanilla Frosty? Frosties should only come in chocolate. All other flavors, and those stupid MIX-INS are an affront to God and Nature. They lower the Frosty to the level of milk-shake. It's appalling.
Dad started eating his "Frosty."
"I couldn't get that Blogger thing to happen," he said. "I filled out the forms but it kept telling me something was wrong, but I looked for red marks and there weren't any more of them, so I don't know what happened."
That's right. My dad found a way to screw up typing in his contact information. Oh, yeah.
"Well, do you have a username?"
"I have a password."
"Okay, do you have a username?"
"I got a password. I didn't get a username yet, though."
"You get them at the same time, Dad," I replied. "If you have a password, you have a username."
"Oh," he said. "Then it has to be my e-mail, then."
"Write it down for me," I said. He scribbled down an e-mail and his password. "Good," I told him. "Now I will see what happened and try to fix it."
"It just kept taking me to this place called Blogspot," Dad said. "Whistlin' for Him at Blogspot."
Let me pause for a moment while you all cringe inwardly, the way I did.
Because Blogger and Blogspot are THE SAME THING.
"You know how you have to take continuing education classes?" I said calmly.
"Yeah," Dad said.
"I really think you need to start taking computer classes," I said. "Because I can tell from this conversation that me as your computer teacher is not working. I know everything, but I clearly am not teaching you the way you need to be taught."
Dad looked at me, brow furrowed. "I think I need to take an intro to computers class," he said.
"Yes." I said. "I completely agree with you."
When I looked at the comments on my last post, I saw a comment. It was from Pastor Kelly. He said:
As my darling daughter Laura's "Dad," I would like to remind her millions of readers that blogging is like political commentary, in that the commentator uses only those facts that support his position. As the discerning reader I'm sure you are, you will therefore not want to take all these facts at face value. Just sayin'. --"Dad"
Pastor Kelly. Which means Dad has a user profile. Which means he has a username. Which is Pastor Kelly.