Puzzling over the contents of the deep freeze, fridge, and pantry, I announced to Mom and Dad, “I think I’ll bake your favorite crispy butterfly shrimp tonight. Okay?”  Mom nodded her smile.  “Yes!” Dad exclaimed.  “With rice!”  I had thought to steam cabbage and slice cucumbers, I told him, and he called back, “Whatever.”  What does “whatever” even mean?  His “whatever” sounded to me like a passive-aggressive wishing for rice, which I would feel guilty for not cooking, and would, of course, now cook.  But what did I care what “whatever” meant?  I cooked his rice and steamed cabbage and soaked cucumber slices in salted vinegar.  Dad met his plate with his standard sincerity, “What a beautiful-looking dinner, Roger!”    When I arrived home from work at 7:00 p.m. that evening, he held a personal mirror in one hand and a tiny scissor in the other.  As I cooked his rice, I heard him inform Mom, “I can’t see any more nose hairs in the mirror,” indicating he thought he was done.  “Well, they’re there!” Mom called back gruffly, indicating she thought he was not.  He guessed he would have to look again, he confessed meekly.  I did not want to know about his nose hairs.  Whatever.