Each morning for the past week, I've awoken to a whirring sound in my living room--a room that has recently been re-named "great domestic air space." See, my father has been operating this remote control helicopter in our house all week long:
How nice of him to bring a toy for his grandson, you might be thinking. And although he is nice and does bring plenty of toys for his grandson, this wasn't one of them. This was my dad's toy. He traveled 5,000 miles with it, and each evening he parks it on the helipad known as my kitchen island so it can recharge for the morning's daring flight missions across the upper level of our split-level home.
He's actually a pretty good pilot, deftly navigating the helicopter across ceiling fans, bookcases, and other terrain. But even good aviators make mistakes, and so it was that I learned the hard way that a remote control helicopter unexpectedly smacking you in the side of your face is a little bit of a bad feeling.
A friend of mine was over and we were enjoying a cup of coffee together. (Not the same actual single cup of coffee; that would be weird. We each had our own cup). Anyway, we were drinking our coffee and minding our own, when all of a sudden I was literally blind-sided by a sharp, stinging propeller against the right side of my head.
"WHAT THE FUCKOVER DAD?!?!?" I yelled, as a little bit of precious wakey-juice spilled over the top of my Kodiak High School thrift store mug. "Sorry bunny rabbit!," he exclaimed, rushing over to see if I was hurt, and using an endearing diminutive from my childhood to engender good will.
There was no permanent damage and my cheek only smarted for a minute, though I have to say that a propeller to the head--even a small one--is a jarring way to start your day. Still, I'm thinking about making remote-control-helicopter-crashing-into-my-head a regular part of my morning routine, after face-washing and tooth-brushing. Because although it didn't feel great, I also think it could be a pretty useful snap into reality each morning.