You’ll forgive me if I’m a little terse right now. I’m recovering from an attack of Irritable Dad Syndrome. Although you may not have heard of IDS before, it is a serious problem in this country. IDS afflicts virtually all fathers at some point. Fully half of the fathers in America suffer it at least once a week with a few unfortunate souls finding themselves afflicted daily.
Attacks of IDS are triggered by things in the environment which frustrate or annoy dads. For example, someone — let’s pick a hypothetical person at random, say an adolescent male — might put a milk jug back in the refrigerator with a scant sixteenth-of-an-inch of liquid remaining. Technically speaking, this isn’t really a quantity of milk as much as it is a film of milk! If it spilled there’d be no need to cry over it because the whole mess could be easily cleaned up with a medium-sized cotton ball. Now why would anyone do something like that? Why not drink the rest of the milk? Why entomb it like a Holy Relic? WHY! TELL ME WHY!
Sorry. I got a little carried away there.
Virtually all high-level IDS attacks are preceded by low-level incidents of FDS (Frustrated Dad Syndrome) or ADS (Annoyed Dad Syndrome). These incidents aren’t hard to predict and follow regular, established patterns. A typical case might involve the unexpected absence of toilet paper in the bathroom. Dad’s sitting there, when he suddenly realizes that the current roll of toilet paper is a single layer of tissue wrapped around a crumpled paper tube. Not yet panicked, Dad checks the strategic toilet-paper reserves in the bathroom and finds them empty. Why would anyone do that to Dad? How many times have I … I mean “he” … said “When you put the last roll on the holder bring up more toilet paper from the basement?” Is that so hard? It’s not like ROCKET SCIENCE FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD. I MEAN…
Sorry.
Got carried away again.
Some attacks of IDS are quite sudden. There is little or no warning…
COULD SOMEONE PLEASE CLOSE THAT DOOR? I’M NOT PAYING TO AIR-CONDITION THE WHOLE STATE!
Oops.
Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. I promise.
IDS isn’t a particularly new condition. In fact, anyone who has a dad has probably witnessed it. Dad will be going along doing his thing – say using a snowblower, or fixing the transmission on a ’79 Camero, or negotiating a peace settlement between warring nations. Some part of the process will veer off in an unexpected direction.
The snowblower dies with a dramatic cough worthy of any Academy Award winning actor and then just sits, immobile and unresponsive. The transmission falls out, right in front of Dad’s unbelieving eyes, and spontaneously converts itself into a pile of useless junk. One of the warring nations launches a sneak attack on Dad’s country.
Then – BANG – Dad experiences IDS.
Often IDS manifests itself in the use of language which is normally associated with sea folk or members of particularly disreputable motorcycle gangs. This may be the first time that Dad’s children are exposed to the full extent of his vocabulary. Given that these same children will grow up to be teenagers, it’s certainly not the last.
Dad may also begin to ask rhetorical questions. He’ll do this even if he’s alone at the time of the attack. Researchers aren’t certain as to the reasoning behind these questions, but they feel that understanding and answering these questions may be the key to cracking the IDS riddle.
My own personal experience with IDS goes back to childhood when my father seemed to be obsessed with the location of his tools. If I borrowed something – a hammer, a screwdriver, a table-mounted reciprocating saw – he expected me to put it back exactly where it came from. And I mean exactly. Across the garage wasn’t good enough for him. If it came out of the toolbox, he wanted it back in the toolbox. If it came off the peg-board on the wall, he wanted it put back right on top of its spray-painted silhouette. He failed to see the humor when I traded the rubber mallet and the sledge hammer.
“Do you think tools put themselves away?” he asked, locked full in the grip of an IDS attack.
Well no, I thought, but it’d be cool if they did.
On days that I felt like testing the limits of his vocabulary, I’d say something like that. Most of the time I kept my mouth shut.
And I started to put the tools back just the way he wanted.
Fortunately, my early exposure to IDS has inoculated me and I’m not a sufferer. I don’t get frustrated or annoyed by…
WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE SHUT THAT DOOR! THIS IS THE SECOND TIME I’VE ASKED. IS IT TOO MUCH TO EXPECT A LITTLE HELP FROM ANYONE AROUND THIS HOUSE? MIGHT IT BE POSSIBLE FOR ONE OF YOU TO SHOW SOME INITIATIVE AND CLOSE THE &*#$%^$# DOOR!
Sorry. Sorry. Just a momentary lapse. I won’t let it happen again.
There is no cure for IDS. However, there are effective treatments. Removing the possible triggers from Dad’s environment has been shown to be very effective. If people would just be a little considerate around here, things would go a lot better. Have you looked in the microwave lately? It looks like something exploded in there! What were you doing, nuking a critter made of pizza? What is this dripping from the top? Cheese? Cheese stalagmites? That’s disgusting…whaddya mean stalactites? Don’t get smart with me! Just clean the darn microwave when you use it! Do you think other people want to see that mess? HOW CAN YOU EVEN EAT FOOD THAT CAME OUT OF THERE?
Sorry.
Sadly there’s no real hope for suffers of IDS. Which means – even more sadly – there’s no hope for the rest of you either.
