Hey, Dad! I’m back and I’m taking over

“HOW about I write your column?” I tell my dad.

“What column?” he says.

“That thing you do for the paper,” I explain.

“What paper?” he says.

So here I am writing my dad’s column for him again while he goes off to some dopey softball tournament with my little sister. You can probably tell it’s me, since the column is already better than usual. A lot livelier. More sophisticated verbs. I just know more words than he does, that’s all. When we play Scrabble, I almost always win.

I’m home now, in case you haven’t heard. Last month, I finished college and moved all my stuff back home to our little one-room cabin on the outskirts of Los Angeles. You should see what they’ve done with the place while I was gone. Basically nothing.

“We left your room exactly the way it was,” my mom explained proudly.

“Thanks, Mom,” I lied.

It’s like a museum, my room. My parents think it’s some memorial to my semi-happy childhood. It’s full of old teen magazines and outdated electronics. I honestly don’t know where they expect me to put all my shot glasses.

Believe me, it’s going to take awhile to make this place livable. I’ve still got crates of shoes by the front door. A couple of bean bag chairs and this humongous exercise machine. I mean, where am I supposed to put my foosball table?

My dad just walks around, tripping over things and cussing. I think he figured that after he paid for four years of college, I’d go right out and get a job or something.

I had to explain to him that no one gets jobs right out of college anymore. Usually, what they do is travel through Europe awhile, or move back home with their parents for, like, 10 or 15 years. That’s what all my friends are doing. You should’ve seen his face.

“Fifteen years?”

“That’s what Newsweek said,” I told him.

“Fifteen years?” he gasped.

Did I tell you that I had to rent a U-Haul to get all my stuff home? Seriously, you should’ve seen my dad and brother loading up the van. My dad kept wiping his forehead with his forearm, on account of all the boxes. He’d carry something to the van, hike up his pants, then stare off at the horizon like he was awaiting a train.

“Call 911,” he told me at one point.

“Dad, why?”

“Because I’m about to take a match to all this junk,” he said.

My dad didn’t understand why I had to spend $200 on a rental van “just to move 35 bucks worth of tequila-stained IKEA furniture back to our tiny tequila-stained house.” Those are his words, almost exactly.

I said, “Dad, you drink tequila?”

And he said, “Pretty much anything now.”

“Hey, we finally have something in common!” I said and handed him another box.

You should see my dad. He’s a lot more mellow since he started having that midlife crisis. He doesn’t worry about things like mowing the lawn or going to work.

Last week, he fell asleep in the third inning of the Dodger game. The third inning! Used to be, he waited till at least the fifth. Every once in a while, he’ll wake up screaming, “They traded Lo Duca? They traded Lo Duca?”

I swear, I should make a video.

My mom says that this is the fourth midlife crisis my dad has had since they’ve been married and that he’s milking these midlife crises “to justify his ridiculous and indulgent frat boy behavior.”

Dad says that since she’s counting, he’s had way more than four midlife crises. Fourteen, maybe. Or even 20.

“Hey, how about a glass of wine?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“I was talking to your mother,” he explains.

“I know,” I say.

Then they sip their Trader Joe’s chardonnay and talk about a network news report about the fattest man in Britain, or some other significant current event.

“I sure hope that never happens to you,” my mom says.

“That I turn British?” Dad asks.

“That you get fat,” she explains.

“Better fat than British,” he says, and they laugh and open up another $4 bottle.

As you can see, it’s not the best place to live. It’s sort of like being the adult child of alien invaders, which was on a bumper sticker I saw the other day. I mean, I could totally relate.

But, I figure if I wait it out here long enough, I’ll maybe get dibs on the house. How much longer can they last this way? Like, two years? Five? From what I hear, no one in L.A. lives much past 40. The only thing that ages gracefully here is the real estate, which I hear can be pretty pricey.

So congratulations, Daddy-O. My house is your house. Stay as long as you like.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.