Samson and Goliath

I previously mentioned that someone asked Daddy to substitute teach his Sunday school class for a couple weeks. I later realized the man who requested Daddy to cover for him took over the class that Daddy led for several years. (Daddy didn’t feel comfortable instructing anymore after his Alzheimer’s diagnosis.) I worried that Daddy would have trouble studying the lessons and retaining the information, but apparently both sessions went really well. When Mother inquired what one of the lessons was about, Daddy said, “Samson and Goliath. I mean Samson and Delilah.”

Mother and I are overjoyed that he corrected himself.

“Cool, so what was the lesson about?” I asked Mother on the phone.

“I told you. Samson and Delilah.”

“But what was the overarching theme? What was the point?”

“I don’t know. I drifted off. You’d have to ask your Daddy.”

“Ugh,” I sighed. All Daddy could remember is that Delilah cut Samson’s hair.

Mother’s inattention reminds me of my own difficulty to remain focused, and the imbalance of listening that occurs between Ryan and me. Ryan is such a wonderful listener that many women flock to him for a patient ear, while I am easily distracted by my cat licking himself in the corner, fruit flies and other simultaneously occurring thoughts, to name a few external stimuli.

The other night Ryan’s band Spines performed for the first time in eight months and played several new songs. However, I knew a lot of the show attendees, many of whom greeted and chatted with me during the set.

“What did you think about our new songs?” Ryan later asked, eager for my feedback.

“Well I didn’t really pay attention…”

“What?”

“Sorry, people were talking to me! It’s not my fault!”

“Whatever.”

“That girl from Beach Day was hot, though,” I said, commenting on the lead singer of another band sharing the bill.

“Of course you noticed that.”

After Daddy provided a limited synopsis of his latest Sunday school lesson, he put Mother back on the phone. In an effort to raise our spirits, I suggested we play the “What’s Your Porn Star Name?” game. My colleague J stopped by my office to tell me hers: Fluffy Davis, calculated by joining the name of her first pet with her mother’s maiden name.

“Mother, let’s figure out what your porn star name is.”

“What?”

“Your porn star name. You put together your first pet’s name with your mother’s maiden name. Mine is Squirrel Chambers. Isn’t that gross?”

Silence.

“Let’s see… yours would be Bozo Edwards, right?”

“Well. Bozo is the first dog I remember.”

“HAHAHA! Bozo Edwards.”

Mother finally chuckled before hanging up the phone.