My father just called to tell me he was looking at a picture of Heidi Klum in a mint green VW beetle. I will let you chew on that one for a second while you enjoy said photo of said supermodel in said slug-bug. (We will ignore the fact that this car is more of a spring green, like the belly of a festive cricket or a stalk of celery that’s blushing.)
And now I need to unpack my reaction to this call. I mean, we live in the internet age and such photos pass by our eyeballs in a dizzying digital array. But why did he feel the need to share this particular sighting with me? Let’s consider these points:
First, I was struck by the fact that my father was able to identity Heidi Klum, although this shouldn’t surprise me, since he once gave a speech at my sister’s wedding based around the immortal words of Tim Gunn: MAKE IT WORK.
But why would he connect me with Heidi Klum? Is it because we’re both extremely tall? Or because she’s German and I “studied” German for several years in high school? Of course, I barely remember any of her language, although one of the few phrases that have stuck with me has to do with a nippy hamster called Knusper. He bit one of the stars of our textbook, who said “beiss mich nicht!,” which sounds like the prusso-rodential version of this immortal cry and basically means: NO BITING.
Maybe he’s connecting this image with me because I also drive a new beetle? Or perhaps it’s because we had a 1973 orange slug-bug growing up that we all learned to drive on, which was not as much fun as it sounds, since dad has the gift of glower and could cause a stall with his eyebrows alone. I’m still haunted by his immortal command as I piloted us down the busiest street in Lincoln: STOP WAFFLING.
Could this be a lesson in optics and economics, wherein our super-rich supermodel is showcasing her super-fun, super-frugal nature (surely known as “thriftenshriftfest” in her mother tongue)? Is he saying I should I follow La Klum’s example by settling down and appreciating my poor paid-for beetle, even though I do not look all shiny like Heidi and my car does not look all gleaming and new like her convertible? Maybe my dad is sending that immortal message: TOUGH IT OUT.
Of course, he knows my car has been a black maw of expense lately, needing massive repairs while on road trips and suffering grievous attacks on her backside by chain-wielding—I don’t know—vandals? Marauders? Drunk fucks who need a boot to the groin? (And seriously, beiss mein arsch, mahfockas!) My dad also knows I can’t afford to replace the bug this year, so he may be sharing some immortal fatherly wisdom and telling me to: GET OVER IT.
But probably he’s just saying that he loves me and that he wants the large length of chain those human-Knuspers left in my trunk.
Love you, Q. It’s all yours…