Monday, December 30, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part Three)

Merry Christmas to me!
     Ho, ho, ho, and all that jolly old elf stuff.
     An empty house is not a happy place, in and of itself. No, it takes a family to make that house a home, to fill all the nooks and crannies with Christmas joy. For me, my family is what makes my house the happiest place on earth. Even happier than Disneyland.
     And they're all here. At home. At least for one night.
     Everyone is talking and laughing. The grandkids are running around, laughing, and eating, with the dogs eating what the kids drop on the floor. All of this is what makes life worth living.
     As some of us get older, some of us get smarter. Don't sweat the small stuff, because it's all small stuff. And, while you're at it, don't sweat the big stuff either.
     When I ask some people how they're doing, not that I really care, some will respond with a big sigh.
     "Oh, I take it one day at a time," they'll tell me. "One day at a time."
     Heck, isn't that what we all do?
     My Dad once asked me, "Do you know how the world champion potato peeler won the world championship?"
     What did I know, I was just a dumb kid at the time.
     "By peeling one potato at a time," he answered.
     So, I've taught myself how to live one day at a time. I can  plan for tomorrow, but when it comes to living...
     ...I live for today. Which brings us to...
     Christmas Eve and it's time to eat. My wife has put out a spread that would feed a Weight Watchers convention, and still have enough left over for Jenny Craig.
     My wife serves my Dad a plate that could feed eight Rosie O'Donnells, with, maybe, a Rosanne thrown in to clean up the scraps. That plate of food would have cost my Dad over a hundred bucks at any restaurant owned by a celebrity chef.. To make a long story short, my Dad puts it away faster than Monica Lewinski at a Dunkin Donuts. And that's after telling my wife that she served him too much.
     "You always serve me too much," he says, and then is nothing but a blur of silverware for the next half-hour. I once got too close to my Dad when he was chowing down one of my wife's holiday feasts, and the sparks from his knife and fork blinded me for three days. Those three days were the only time I was able to sit and watch baseball with him.
     After he's done, my wife heats some peppermint tea and places it on the little table next to my favorite chair. A chair my Dad quickly sits in. It's his favorite chair, too, you see. Then she asked him the Big Question. The question I've been waiting since yesterday for her to ask. She asks, "Are you ready for your pumpkin pie?"
     "Ahhh... hmmm... well..." my Dad says.
     "I also bought some whipped cream."
     "Weeell, hee hee hee..." Click, click, click! Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhh..."
     My wife waits for his answer patiently. She's married to me, so she's learned patience.
     "A small slice?" she helpfully encourages him. "Maybe without the whipped cream."
     "Hee, hee, hee..." he hee-hee-hees.
     My wife is starting to read the writing on the wall. Myself, I read it in yesterday's newspaper.
     "Are you too full?" she asks him finally, giving him an honorable way out. Like Nixon in Viet Nam.
     "Wellllll... hmmm... ahhhh..."
     I know exactly what's coming. Exactly.
     "Ahhh, yeah... I'm pretty full," he tells her. "You always serve me too much."
     I'm sure I don't have to point this out to you, but while my wife does the serving, it's my Dad who does the eating.
     My Dad shakes his head.
     "Yeah, I'm just too full," he kind of, but not really, apologizes. "Hoo-boy, yeah... too full."
     "Okay, Dad," she tells him.
     My wife pretends she's not, but I can see her looking at me from the corner of her eye. As she starts her walk of shame back to the kitchen, my dad stops her.
     "Is there any fudge?"
     What can I say? Now we have 10 pounds of pumpkin pie we didn't want.
     If I could send it via Federal Express to my brother I would, but with Federal Express being so tardy delivering everybody's Christmas gifts... I guess I'll keep it.
     Two days later, my Dad still hasn't even touched the pie.
      Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
 
 
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Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part Two)

Ah, Christmas.
     I remember when it would cost me under $100. It would be enough to buy enough gifts for everyone, and I'm talking about nice gifts. Not like the kind my brother gives. He once gave me a shirt that was from a very expensive store, and when I went to return it, the sales person hemmed and hawed and then told me that the shirt was from last season, and they could only give me the sale price, which ended up with ME owing THEM money. But I don't hold grudges.
     Anyway...
     Then the cost of Christmas warp-speeded into the hundreds. It seems like it was just a few years ago that I could still keep everything under a thousand... now it runs over a thousand. Why? Don't ask me, I just earn the cash and sign the checks. 
     Well, now that I have taken my parent's place within my family, the cost of Christmas continues to make the jump to hyper-drive. Especially when certain kinfolk requested certain eats without contributing to a certain pot.
     My wife is busy putting a feast together that would put a Las Vegas-type buffet to shame. All you can eat. If it's not there, then it's not food. My wife has a serious sweet tooth, so the desserts are varied and delicious. She makes them herself, but this time decided against pumpkin and pecan pies because 1) we just had them for Thanksgiving, and 2) she wanted a more original selection to choose from.
     I can hear her getting everything ready, and then I hear: smack, Smack, SMACK!
     "Ahh... hmm..." my Dad says. Click, click, click.! Smack, smack, smack! My Dad still has all his choppers, so I don't know why he makes those clicking and smacking noises.
     Anyway...
     "Wooweee, are you having pumpkin pie? Yeah, boy, I like pumpkin pie."
     My Dad gets out of his--my--favorite chair and walks over to where his daughter-in-law is standing. He looks around all the kitchen counters making a big show of looking for the pie.
     "Where is it?" he asks.
     "Weeell," my wife says slowly to the wrench in her carefully-planned works, "I wasn't planning on making any pumpkin pie. We just had it for Thanksgiving. Remember how I had to throw most of it away because no one was eating it?"
     She was trying to be diplomatic, but diplomacy is the not-so-irresistible force to my Dad's immovable object (his head). He's Hitler to Britain's Neville Chamberlain. He's Iran to Obama's John Kerry. He's pumpkin pie to my wife's dessert menu.
     "We have so many other desserts..." (and we do) "...that I wasn't planning on getting pumpkin pie."
     "Did you say pumpkin pie? Where is it? I don't see it."
     My Dad is conveniently hard of hearing when he wants to be.
     "Yeah, I like pumpkin pie," he goes on. "Great googly- moogly, I sure do like pumpkin pie."
     He didn't really say "googly-moogly," but he might as well have.
     Anyway...
     My wife looks at me. I'm no help. Remember that smile she gave me when I was trying to buff the floors? I give it back to her.
     "Well," she gives in, finally. My Dad has a way of wearing you down. "Do you reeeally want pumpkin pie?"
     "Welllll, ahhhhh, sure" my Dad says. "As long as you're asking, sure you should make one."
     Make one?
     Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhhhh..." Click, click, click! "Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?"
     I don't know what this being Christmas has to do with buying a pumpkin pie, but it really doesn't matter.
     He walks back to his--my--favorite chair. His work is done.
     Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "If you want a pumpkin pie, how about offering to pay for it? Take out your wallet. Pull out a few shekels." Even if he did offered to pay, my wife wouldn't let him (heck, I wouldn't either), but it's the courtesy behind the offer that would count.
     So, yesterday, Dec. 24, we went out, fought all the holiday traffic, fought the crowds, fought the jerks in the parking lot, and parked two football fields away from the store...
     ...and bought my Dad his pumpkin pie.
     My Dad, who will probably have only one thin slice ("Don't serve me a big slice. You always make it too big.), and he probably won't even finish that. We'll probably end up throwing it away, like we did with the Thanksgiving pie he didn't eat.
     Meanwhile, we already have a cornucopia of delicious desserts for tomorrow. From dozens of different kinds of cookies and pastries, to fudge, popcorn, pudding, pumpkin empanadas (fold-overs), and carrot cake. Not to mention candy, candy, and even more candy. On and on.
     And now we have a pumpkin pie so large it can feed 20 people, because we couldn't find one any smaller. All because of my Dad.
     And all at my expense.
 
 
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Monday, December 23, 2013

Holidaze With Dad (Part One)

     Watch out, folks, Christmas is just a day or two away.
     Myself, I enjoy the holidays. The days are short and cold, and the nights are long and even colder. People are friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to be friendly, and, if they can't accomplish that, they try to appear to be friendly. I'll settle for that. I've always said that I'd rather have someone who hates me, but treats me good, than someone who loves me, but treats me bad. The pretense of gentility is just as good as the real thing, as far as I'm concerned.
     As usual, my wife and I are having the family Christmas dinner at our home. My wife likes to have it at our house because, as she says, we can cook whatever we want and invite whomever we want... it's our house. Our family has grown to the point that we have a lot of grandkids and non-family guests.
     The house is already decorated with Christmas decorations. We began decorating the day after Thanksgiving, and we'll probably keep everything up until after New Years. It's what we usually do.
     My grandson, who's three, helped me decorate his playhouse outside, the trees in the court yard, and the front yard. As long as there are kids, we'll continue to decorate the house inside and out.
     My wife, as usual, goes all out preparing dinner. She always has enough food to send everybody home with doggie bags. There can never be too much food and dessert.
     *sigh*
     But it's also that time of year when I deep clean, polish and buff the oak floor. It seems like I'm always buffing and polishing that floor. It's a two to three day job. If I could just do the job myself, with no interruptions, I can finish it in one. If my grandson helps me, it takes two. If my Dad helps me, it takes three, because his idea of helping is getting in the way. I find myself having to work on the floors when he goes into his room to do whatever it is he does in there.
     So, for three days I'm busting my butt, deep cleaning the floor when my father is not around. As soon as he walks into the house, I stop working. Yesterday, he walked in and sat in his--my--favorite chair, turned on my TV, began drinking a hot cup of tea my wife brought him that my retirement paid for, and helped himself to one of my favorite oatmeal cookies, he tells nobody in particular, "Ahh... hmm... huh..." Smack smack smack! "You know... you know, that polish sure is bothering my eyes."
     "What, Dad?" my wife asks him, because she's nicer than I am.
     "That polish," he says, turning to her and nodding in my direction, "It's tough on my eyes..."
     "The polish, Dad?"
     "...and it's cold in here."
     Cold? I'm on my knees, cleaning the floors with my bare hands, and, man, I'm sweating. My back and knees are killing me. I turn and look at my wife. She gives me a smile that's equal parts compassion and laughing at me.
     "Well, Dad," she tells him, "it'll clear up after he's finished."
     "When he's done?" my Dad says, plaintively.
     "Don't worry, Dad. He's almost finished."
     "Well, let me tell you, it's rough on the eyes." This from a man who spent the majority of his life on Earth smoking. "Mumble mumble... ahhh... that wax is hard... and I'm cold. That wax is making the room cold."
     Okay, I'll kick this dead horse one more time, my Dad has his own little father-in-law apartment built in the front property of our house, and it's fully equipped. It has a large TV, a convertor box, a genuine soft leather recliner, a full bathroom, stereo system, and it's own air condition and heater. He can set the temperature there to any degree he wants. The only thing his apartment doesn't have is a stove and refrigerator, but even if he had one, he wouldn't use it,. Not when he has my wife to make his tea and serve it to him on a silver tray as he sits in his--my-- favorite chair. She'll also serve him cookies, muffins, a piece of cake or pie with his tea. Anything he wants.
     But all this hard work is making me cranky. I get up angrily to my feet and yell, "Why don't you go to your room if you're cold, old man? Can't you see that I'm slaving on this floor?"
     Well...
     ...that's what I feel like doing.
     But, being the good son that I am, I stop working, get up... and go upstairs to decompress until he leaves. I have a weight room upstairs with actual weights. I don't just use them to hang my clothes on, like so many people do. I use them to stay in shape and work out various frustrations.
     Having to do this, however, irks me to no end, because, when I do something, I like to get it over with. I'm not a hard worker by nature, in fact, I'm pretty lazy, but I give the impression of being a hard worker because I work hard at getting something done fast, so I can enjoy the free time it leaves me.
     At 2000 hours (which is eight o'clock at night for you non-military types) I'm able to start again on the floor. Two hours after that, I'm finally done. My, Dad, meanwhile...
     ...is probably sleeping like a baby in his room.
 
 


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Friday, December 20, 2013

What's Easier?

I get home today. All the lights are on.
     In the great room. In the kitchen. The hallway. I can see the path whoever it was took just by looking at their trail of lights. It's so bright, I put on my sunglasses before I burn out my corneas.
     I hear talking, but that's just the TV. It's on with no one watching it. 
     I know my wife is out having her hair done, so who could it have been?
     I then look at my Dad's little father-in-law apartment in the front of my property. It's a separate unit, and its front door faces the entrance to our kitchen. I can see all the lights are on there as well. It's the middle of the day, and yet the outside light over his front door is even on. The lights are on in his room, his closet, his bathroom. Of course, his TV is on, too. Why wouldn't it be?
     What is up with this? Has he, in his old age, grown fearful of the shadows? Has he, in the twilight of his years, become afraid of the dark?
     In the back of my mind I can picture him hiding from me. And laughing. High stepping it and laughing. Always around the next corner from where I am and where I'm looking.
     Is he laughing at me? High stepping it because he left on all the lights?
     I want to ask him, "Dad, what the hell are you doing?"
     I mean, besides driving me nuts. 
     He doesn't pay for any of the bills. Maybe I should start charging him one-third of all the utilities, since there are three of us living here, just like he used to threaten to do to me when I was in high school and he was paying my living expenses. He never followed through on his threats, but I'm less sentimental than he is, so I wouldn't have a problem doing it. In fact, he should pay more because he eats three big meals and several snacks a day, that means more gas to cook the food. Myself, I'm happy with a sandwich. So's he, when it's just me cooking. I'll ask him, "Dad, do you want half of my sandwich?" (I'm watching my weight.) (Aren't we all.)
     "Sure, son," he'll say, and eat it with no complaint.
     With my wife, he'll hem and haw and go back and forth and eventually my wife will hit upon a suggestion that he'll tolerate.
     "Well, if there's nothing else," he'll concede. "I don't want you to go to any trouble."
     A deluxe, four-course meal later, he'll say, "You know what I was really in the mood for? Some soup. It's kind of chilly."
     Kind of chilly?
     Put on your sweater, old man! You know, the same sweater you wear when you go out for your daily walk on a hot summer day. I can't have the heater going on and on full blast because the temperature inside the house has dipped below 90 degrees.
     Besides, I like a cool house.
     Anyway...
     When I finally find my old man, I'm going to jump on him about forgetting to turn off the lights... but, in the end, what's the point? I know his answer: "What?"
     "The lights, Dad. The lights. You've got to remember to turn them off."
     "The lights?"
     "Yes, the lights."
     "You want me to do what with them?"
     "Turn them off, Dad. Turn them off!"
     "You want me to turn off the lights?"
     "Yes, Dad. I want you to turn off the lights."
     And he'll look around. Just to mess with me.
     "But they're already off," he'll point out, calmly.
     "I mean, when you turn them on. When you turn them on, turn them off."
     "But they're already off."
     "I'm saying, when you turn them on."
     "You want me to turn them... on? And then turn them... off? Are you messing with me?"
     Hmm...
     Maybe it's just easier for me to turn the darn things off myself.
 
 
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Monday, December 16, 2013

Just Messing With Me

Last night, as I walked by my Dad's private bedroom in his private little father-in-law house at the front of the main house, I noticed that all of his lights were on. The light on the ceiling. The light on the nightstand. And the light in his closet. The TV was on. The bathroom light was on. And the heater was working overtime.
     Has my Dad, in his old age, become afraid of the dark?
     In fact, now that I think about it, where was my Dad?
     He was in the great room, sitting in his--my--favorite chair.
     (In case you've always wondered why I always refer to his favorite chair as my favorite chair, it's because before my wife and I decided to invite him to live with us, that used to be my chair. He had his chair, back in the house he used to live in when my Mom was still alive, and it went with him to the very nice apartment he moved into after she died. When we were moving his furniture to our house, he decided not to take that chair.
     "I don't need it," he told us. "I'll mostly be staying in my room. Plus, I've always liked sitting on your couch. It's comfortable."
     And I believed him.
     So we sold it in a garage sale where, as I told my wife, he spent thousands to make hundreds.)
     With one eyeball he was trying to watch baseball on the TV, with the other eyeball he was trying to pay as little attention as he could, and still be polite, to my wife, because she was showing him the pair of thermal underwear she had just bought for him. He's always complaining about being cold, and she keeps making the mistake of listening to his complaints.
     My wife had given him a pair of thermals that used to belong to her. He liked them, that is, until she made the mistake of telling him they used to be hers. There's no difference between a man's or a woman's thermal underwear, but, he didn't want them because they were, as he said, "a woman's." It's not like they were pink with pictures of Brad Pitt on them.
     "Who's going to see you in them, Dad?" I asked him. Does he sneak a woman into his house when we all go to bed?
     For an old man who's about ready to shake hands with the century mark, he sure is picky.
     But my wife always makes the  mistake of having a kind heart, so she went out and bought him a new pair. To make a long story short...
     ...he didn't like them either. He told her to give them to someone else.
     Give them to someone else?
     Who else is 5'2" and 110 pounds?
     I have no idea why my Dad gives us such trouble whenever we buy him something new to wear. (Well, my wife buys it. I just pay for it.) My Dad wears a sweater that's practically older than me. He wears t-shirts that he bought when JFK was passing off his female interns to other members of his cabinet.
     And he complains about the new stuff?
     My Dad has a lot of new clothes, but why he doesn't wear them, I have no idea. I guess I was the same way when I was in high school and would only wear my favorite pair of jeans. I'd wear them to school, and then put them in the hamper for my Mom to wash that night so I could wear them the following day. And my Mom always would.
     She had a good heart, too. But back to my Dad...
     I keep telling my wife to quit buying him clothes--"He doesn't wear them," I tell her.-- but she doesn't listen. When we're shopping, she'll always find him something.
     He has a nice new sweater and a nice new jacket to wear for his walks. He has new shirts, new shorts, and new socks. He'll wear the socks, complaining all the time that they're not as comfortable as his old socks, but everything else is as new as the day I paid for them.
     Last week, against her wise husband's better judgement, my wife bought him a pair of pants.
     My Dad: "They're too long."
     "They're not too long, Dad. Try them on." He does.
     My Dad: "They're too short."
     "They're not too short, Dad. Walk around in them."
     My Dad: "They're too tight."
     "They're not too tight, Dad. They look good."
     My Dad: "They're too loose."
     "They're not too loose, Dad. How can they be too tight and too loose at the same time?"
     My Dad: "The material's too thick."
     "The material's not too thick, Dad. It's cold outside. You need a thicker material when the weather turns cold."
     My Dad: "The material's too thin."
     Sometimes I'm almost positive my Dad is just messing with me.
     "So your Dad doesn't like anything you buy him, eh?" my buddy Maloney laughed, when I was complaining to him.
     "Only all the time," I groused.
     And then Maloney told me the following story:
     "The other day I picked up a stick that was in my driveway. As I walked in the house, my mother-in-law asked me, 'What's that?'
     "I don't know if she was just wondering what I was doing with a stick in my hand, or if she was asking me because she couldn't tell what I was carrying. Her eyesight's bad. When she does the dishes, my wife has to do them all over again, because they're never clean or rinsed properly.
     "'It's a stick,' I told her.
     "'A stick?'
     "'Yeah, a stick. I bought it for you.'
     "'For me?'
     "'Yes. For you.'
     "She took the stick, gratefully, and it's now on top of the television set in her room, where she can admire it while she's watching TV. She's from a small town in Mexico, where she grew up poor. Her mother died when she was practically a toddler, and an aunt of hers took her in, and treated her like an unpaid servant. I don't think anyone was ever thoughtful enough to give her a stick before.
     "For Christmas, I'm planning on giving her a rock."
     That Maloney...
     ...sometimes I'm almost positive he's just messing with me.
 
 


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Monday, December 9, 2013

Hang Over Remedies


as submitted to the AARP Bulletin
 

     At 18, you could say I was feeling my oats.
     It was the 70’s, and various states—in their wisdom—had just lowered the drinking age, so my buddies and I thought we’d do our patriotic duty and throw back a few.
     My father only had 2 rules for me: 1) don’t miss my curfew, and 2) don’t drink. Unfortunately, he didn’t add another rule to that short list: 3) don’t be stupid. If he had, I might not have broken the first 2.
     To his credit, my father—whose belt not only held up his pants, but was also in charge of administering justice—didn’t overreact. In fact, he even let me sleep it off.
     When I woke up the next afternoon, hung over didn’t even begin to describe how bad I felt. I didn’t think I was hung over, I thought I was dying. I felt so bad, my teeth even hurt.
     “Hung over?” my Dad asked. He was a man of a few words.
     “Yeah,” I answered, in even fewer.
     “I can cure that.”
     He then took me outside, into our backyard, and handed me a shovel. It was early afternoon, but the day was already hot.
     My Dad told me what he wanted. He wanted me to dig a hole 3 feet wide by three feet long by three feet deep. So I did. I could see he had his belt secured around his waist, and that’s where I wanted it to stay.
     When I was done, he came outside, looked at what I had done, and told me I had dug the hole in the wrong place. So he had me fill it, careful to place the grass back on top, and then dig another hole, 3’ x 3’ x 3’. After doing this same dance several times more, I was tired, sweaty… but no longer hung over.
     “Learned your lesson, son?” my Dad asked me on our last dance.
     “Yes, sir,” I told him, respectfully. I didn’t want to antagonize the man who could keep me blistering my hands into the night.
     “You’re dismissed,” he said, finally. “Go take a shower. You stink.”
     I wasn’t offended. I did stink. How can I be offended by the truth?
     I went inside and took the longest, hottest shower I could get away with.
     My Dad’s 94-years-old now, and lives with my family and I. To this day, every time I get the urge to “throw back” a cold one, if my father’s around, I’ll decide to put what I learned about hang overs remedies to use, and I’ll pass.
 
 


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Monday, December 2, 2013

Even MORE Stupid People

Today I went to Costco to gas up.
     With the gas pumps, there's only one way in and one way out. There are HUGE white arrows painted on the black pavement indicating which way you're supposed to travel. There are numerous signs that read "DO NOT ENTER!" "EXIT!" "EXIT ONLY!" and they're all painted in a bright red. Not even Ray Charles could miss them. And, if I haven't made my point clearly enough already, there are the white signs: "Enter" "Enter For Gas." Again, you could put a blindfold on Stevie Wonder, and he would have had no problems finding the entrance and exit to the gas pumps.
      Costco being where you can get cheap gas, the lines are all long  Except for one. I can do the math, that pump must be broken. But, as I drive closer to the pumps, I notice there's a car there... and it's pointed the WR0NG WAY!
     This driver--a female--had ignored all the signs, the exiting traffic, the long lines of cars all pointed in a particular direction, and she STILL drove in the wrong way to get gas. I parked in front of her, pointed in the right direction. I get out and started to pump my gas. She exits her car, and looks at me funny, as if I'M in the wrong.
     "I don't know if you noticed," I politely inform her, "but you're going the wrong way."
     She is still looking at me.
     "This is a one way," I say, and gesture toward the thirty-plus cars facing her. "ALL the traffic comes this way."
     The young woman smiles--and it's a nice smile--and she tells me, "I know, but my gas cap is on this side," indicating the side facing pump.
     WWJD? He'd think WTF? and let it end there.
      She just stands there, smiling at me.
     Being a guy who's not dead, I couldn't help but notice that she wasn't bad looking. That's probably why she's been able to go through life without having to pay attention to silly little things like which direction she needs to travel in.
     There was an accident on the freeway the other morning around 3am. Sadly, there was one fatality. It seems someone was heading west in the lanes that were supposed to be traveling east, and they caused a major pile-up.
     I wondered where that girl was that day. Anyway...
     I tell her, "So is the gas cap on my car, but the gas hose is long enough to pull around the car. You drove in the wrong way."
     "Yes, but my gas cap is on this side." she patiently explains to me, giving me a poor-you look, and pointing to the side nearest the pump.
     I stand there. Now it's my turn to look at her. Finally, I smile and walk away... not my problem. Besides, what does Maloney always tell me? "You can't help the stupid."
      The gas attendant finally opens her eyes and sees the wrong-way woman--I don't know how she missed her (yes, I do... she was on her cell phone)--and comes over to explain the routine. Being a guy who's not blind, I couldn't help but notice that the female attendant wasn't bad looking. I smile at her, and she smiles back at me.
     Finally, the bozo (make that bozette) gets it. She is asked to back up and drive around and enter correctly. The woman is nice enough not to argue and does as she is told. You know, before I retired, I used to have authority, too. I would speak, and people would listen and do as they were told.
     What happened? Anyway...
     I let my mind wander.
     You know, like I've told Maloney, thank God for stupid women, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten lucky half as often as did.
     Bless old Wrong-Way's heart.
     I needed a second opinion, so I call my buddy Maloney, and he agrees.
     "You can't help the stupid," he says.
     "So... how's it going with your mother-in-law?" I ask him.
     I'm not particularly interested (I've got enough problems of my own), but maybe, if his horror stories are worse than mine, I'll feel better.
     He tells me about how his wife always buys him two gingerbread cookies that are in the shape of a pig when she goes to the bakery on Sunday mornings where she buys menudo.. Menudo is a kind of Mexican stew made with posole (hominy) and tripe (a cow's stomach lining). Trust me, it's delicious. Just ask Andrew Zimmern. Anyway...
     Maloney will eat one on the day she brings them home, and then he'll take the second one with him to work the next day for lunch. It's a regular routine with him. Maloney is a lot of things, and one of those things he is, is a creature of habit.
     The only problem is, when he goes to eat his first gingerbread pig, he sees his mother-in-law already chowing down on it.
     She gives him a big smile.
     "I saved you one," she tells him. Chomp!
     Maloney tells her, "Thank you."
     What else can he say?
     But Maloney can do the math.
     He doesn't see it as his mother-in-law saving him a gingerbread pig. He sees it as his mother-in-law eating a gingerbread pig.
     His gingerbread pig
     You can't help the Maloney.
 
 
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Friday, November 29, 2013

Happy Birthday (Kinda)

My Mom, when she was alive, was amazing.
     With all the kids and grandkids and grandkids she had, she never forgot a birthday. Especially mine. My birthday presents began with the Man From Uncle spy camera that turned into a gun, then, as the years flowed by, they slowly morphed into cash.
     "For a comic book," she told me when I was a boy.
     "For a book," she told me when  was a man.
     If what you love is where your heart is, then she always knew where my heart was.
     When she passed on, that was the end of the toys, the books... the cash. But every ending has a beginning, and that was the beginning of my Dad's coming to live with me and my family. And I haven't seen a birthday present since.
     I sure do miss my Mom.
 
 


Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Happy Birthday! (Sorta)

Tonight my family--that is, my kids and grandkids (the one's that I know of, that is [heh, heh])--are having a surprise birthday dinner for my wife and I. The preparations usually consist of our pretending we don't know about it, and their pretending we don't know about it. But really, my and my wife's birthdays are ten days apart, so any dinner or event we're required to attend at this time of year has to have something to do with our birthdays, 'ja think? It doesn't take Michio Kaku to tell me what time it is. (Heh, heh... I said kaku.)
      My Dad's bad memory only seems to flare up when there's a birthday or anniversary to be celebrated. I'm not saying he's cheap. I'm just saying he doesn't care to spend the money or exert the effort to buy anyone a gift. Me, in particular. That was my mother's job, I guess, and she took it with her to the grave.
     However, there was a time when my Dad would get angry if someone would even beat him to the check at a restaurant. I remember one time my wife and I, before we were married, invited my Dad and Mom to dinner to celebrate our engagement. Since we had invited them, we (mainly my future wife) thought it was only fair to pay for the (very) expensive meal. So, when the waiter brought the check, under the condemning eye of my fiancé, I quickly snatched it up.
     "Give me the check, son."
     "No."
     "Give me the check, son."
     "No."
     My Dad got pissed. He didn't say anything to be rude, but he also didn't say anything to me for the rest of the night.
     Well, that was then, and this is now. These days, he doesn't even pretend to reach for his wallet to pay for anything. Whether we're at a restaurant or at Costco. If I told you the number of different items we have in our refrigerator or pantry or bathroom that my wife has bought for him, that he hasn't eaten or used, you'd call me a liar.
     And I don't cotton to being called a liar.
     So yesterday I tried to hand him a birthday card while explaining that it was his daughter-in-law's birthday on Friday and he should fill it out and give it to her.
     I say "tried," because he acted as if I was trying to serve him a warrant. When he finally takes it, he looks at it like I've just handed him my mortgage bill. He looks at the card, turns it over and looks at the back side. He turns it back around and looks at it again.
      "You say it's what?" he asks me. The words "Happy Birthday" are right in the front. What's not to understand?
      "It's my wife's birthday and it's a card you can give her?" I answer him.
      "Who's birthday?"
      "My wife. Your daughter-in-law. Tomorrow's her birthday."
     My Dad continues to  stare at the card.
     "Mumble, mumble, mumble. Grumble, grumble, grumble," he says. "Ahhhhhhhhhh... what?"
      "It's my wife's birthday tomorrow."
      "You say tomorrow? What's tomorrow?"
      "It's my wife's birthday."
     "It's whose birthday?"
      "Your daughter-in-law's!"
      Now he's acting like he can't hear. This from a man who can hear me whispering to my wife when he is sitting in his--my--favorite chair in the great room watching baseball on TV with the volume knob turned to 11, and my wife and I are in the garage, doors closed, car engine running, our grandkids screaming, and I whisper to her, "Let's go to Costco."
     "What?" he'll yell from where he's at, already getting up, putting on his shoes, and looking for his favorite old, gray sweater. "You're going to Costco? I sure like them cream puffs and corn dogs. Yeah, boy,  I can taste them now," as he ah, ah, ahhs, we, we, wees, and smack, smack, smacks.
     But back to the present...
      "Your wife?" he says, giving me a look like he doesn't know who I'm talking about.
      "Yes! My wife! You know, the person who loves you and cooks for you, gourmet four course meals three times a day! Washes your clothes, pays for the maid to clean your house, and buys you everything you want on my dime! Treats you like a king and serves you like a slave! Blah, blah, blah, and on and on."
     Well, that's what I was thinking, but, being the good son that I am, I held my tongue.
     I stood there. Waiting.
     My Dad stood there. Looking.
     I stood there some more.
     So did my Dad.
     I looked at him.
     He looked at the card in his hands.
     "Birthday, huh?"
     "Yeah, birthday."
     If he thought he was going to out-wait me on this one, he was wrong.
     Like any good salesman, I put the contract in front of him, handed him a pen, and waited for him to sign it. If you wait long enough, and don't say anything, most people will sign just out of awkwardness. You do understand that that's just a metaphor, right?
     Of course you do.
     After several minutes of going back and forth--me looking at him, him looking at the card--he walks away.
     Mumble, mumble, mumble.
     Grumble, grumble, grumble.
     Ahhhhhhhhhh...
     I won!
     Sorta.
 
 
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Friday, November 22, 2013

Yes, Even I Have A Heart

My Dad drives me nuts.
     Today I'm buffing the oak floor. (This is why I retired from my job, so I could spend all my free time buffing the floors.
     "Tell me about it," my wife says as she washes what clothes need washing or makes what beds need making or cooks what foods need cooking. Anyway...)
     The buffer is kind of loud (okay, it's a LOT of loud), and it makes a high pitched sound. A little TOO high-pitched for these old ears, so I wear ear protectors to muffle the sound. You've seen them used in gun ranges, if you're the kind of person who goes to gun ranges. If not, you've probably seen them in movies or TV. If you haven't seen them there, then you need to watch something else besides the Kardashians.
      As I'm buffing the floor, my Dad walks in and sits in his--my--favorite chair. My wife, out of habit, turns the TV on for him. So he sits there, while I buff the floor.
     I know he can't hear the TV but he sits... and sits... and sits.
     Finally, he wins.
     I feel sorry for him, turn off the buffer and...
     ...find something else to do.
 
 


Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
   

Monday, November 18, 2013

More Stoopid People

Are people born stupid or do they grow into stupidity?
     When I watch some of those TV shows geared toward kids, they always potray the kids as being smarter than their parents. Well, let's be honest, smarter than their dads. It would be politically incorrect to have stupid women, but how smart can the women be if they marry such stupid men? Well, that's neither here nor there. Where it is exactly, I couldn't tell you. Why?
     Because I'm stupid.
     Anyway, if these kids on TV or in the movies are so smart, then at some point they must reach an age where their intelligence begins to reverse in direct proportion to the years that are flying by.
      For example, I was at the library not too long ago. I got there early, and saw a small group of people huddled at the door like the yearning masses the Statue of Liberty tells us about. I look at them, then I look at the library hours posted on the glass window to the right of the door, then I look at my watch. Hmm... I was early. So I join the tired and the poor, and wait for the library to open.
     In those fifteen minutes waiting for someone to unlock the doors, a few more people walked up. They see us, then they walk between those of us waiting to enter.
     "Is it locked?" some of them ask.
     "Yeah," some of us answer.
     But they make their way to the door anyway, pull on it, and are still surprised to find it locked.
     Need another example?
     The other day, my son-in-law and I took my grandson--his son (duh!)--to karate. The place opens at 1600 hours. That's 4pm to you non-military types. We get there before anyone, and I pull on the door. It's locked. My son-in-law looks inside. It's empty, so we wait.
      A few minutes later, another dad walks ups with his kid.
     "Is it locked?" he asks us.
     "Yeah, it's locked," I tell him
     "No one's inside," my son-in-law backs me up.
     Now, what does this Disney Dad do after we both tell him the door is locked and the place is empty? He tries to open the door (locked) and looks inside (empty). Then he turns and looks at us with a surprised look on his face.
     I wanted to ask him, "What are you? Stupid?" but I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his kid.
     Actually, I wanted to tell him something more Quentin Tarrantino-esque than that, but as my buddy Maloney once told me, "You can't help the stupid."
     He told me that when he was in the middle of complaining about a girlfriend who was giving him particular amount of trouble. You tell me who's stupider, the stupid girlfriend or the guy who's dating her? Of course that's not what I told him.
     "Yeah, you're right," is what I said. What I was thinking was: "This is more entertaining than reality TV."
     Years later, Maloney finally got married.
     "I gained a wife," he told me, "and I lost my Star Wars collection... to her son."
     The son in question is now in his early twenties and still living at home.
     The lock on Maloney's front door can be opened by key or by pressing a series of numbered buttons. To lock the door you only need to press one button. It's part of his alarm system. After his mother-in-law moved in, I think he got it to keep other in-laws from moving in. But anyway...
     His step-son is getting ready to graduate from college, and yet he can't seem to master the art of pressing that one button to lock the front door when he leaves. He'll say his goodbyes, leaves, and when Maloney checks the door later, it's unlocked. Occasionally, he'll even forget to lock the door when he comes in.
     "What is so hard about locking the door?" Maloney will ask me.
     "What are you asking me for?" I'll ask him back.
     Now, you tell me, who's stupider? The step-son who can't master locking the front door, or the guy who married that step-son's mom?
 
 
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
   

Friday, November 15, 2013

The Price I Pay

I'm in the great room by myself, sitting in my favorite chair, and watching something other than baseball for a change.
     How did I get so lucky? I don't know. My Dad must be taking a nap or something. He's 94-years-old. Maybe I should check on him. But--dang it!--I'm really enjoying myself, because my hitting the trifecta of television-watching is so rare.
     My wife walks in. She gives me a big smile, walks over, and picks up the remote. As she changes the channel, she asks, me "Were you watching this?"
      My answer?
     "Not anymore."
     That's the price I pay for hot coffee in the morning, hot meals three times a day, and the occasional something hot at night. (And I'm not talking about cocoa.)
     I look at my wife. She looks happy watching her reruns of NCIS. I think she has a crush on Mark Harmon.
     Oh, well... as long as it makes her happy.
 
"A happy wife is a happy life."
 
 
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog
@JimDuchene
 

Monday, November 4, 2013

Stoopid People

Today my grandson, who's 3-years-old, and I were at the park.
     As we were leaving the play area I noticed a gray van. In it were a father and his 16-year-old son. The elder was teaching the younger how to parallel park. I didn't think much about it until I noticed the man's other two young sons. One looked about 12 and the other about 14. They were each holding two six foot poles at each end of the limit line, in front of and in back of the van. Their father was using them as parking targets for his 16-year-old. I saw them more as potential fatalities.
     As my grandson and I walk closer I see the driver. He's your typical 16-year-old, but he has a very stressed look on his face. The father is in the passenger side and I can see he's giving the boy advice.
I thought about walking over and expressing my concern over using his kids as targets, because you read tragic stories in the newspaper all the time about kids getting run over. But those are usually accidents. I've never seen a father actively go out of his way to risk having a son or two run over. He must have them insured.
     I mean, the 16-year-old hasn't even mastered the art of switching his foot from the gas to the brake in an emergency without having to think about it yet.
     I once dated a girl (I'll call her Jackie, since that's her name), who's grandfather was too old to be driving. She told me that he would occasionally bump into cars that were parked on the side of the road. She told me this laughing.
     "He can't see," she explained when I didn't join her in her merriment..
     "Shouldn't someone take away his keys?" I asked her.
     Someone should have, but nobody did. I think one of the reasons--perhaps the main reason--was because nobody wanted to be the one who had to drive their grandfather and grandmother around for whatever errands or doctor's appointments they may have.
     I didn't push the issue. I had plans on getting lucky later that night.
     And then one day, her grandparents were coming home from church. As the grandfather pulled up to the driveway and stopped, the grandmother had to get out of the car to open the gate for her husband to drive in. Only, while she was opening the gate, the grandfather got confused about whether he should keep his foot on the brake, because the car suddenly lurched forward, and he ran into his wife--hard--knocking her forward a few feet. He must have had her insured.
     He broke his wife's hip, some of the bones in both of her legs, cracked a vertebrae or two, but instead of calling 911 for an ambulance, he called Jackie's father who spent the next 15 minutes trying to get his elderly--very elderly--father-in-law to call 911.
     "Why didn't you're dad just call 911 himself?" I asked her.
     He should have, but he didn't. One thing I learned about her family was that they sure did spend a lot of time not doing the things they should.
     The grandmother spent the next few weeks in the hospital. And then she spent the next few months in a body cast. Did I feel sorry for her?
     Not really. I mean, she, too, had a responsibility to tell her husband he shouldn't be driving, but she didn't. She didn't care that he was bumping into other people's cars. She--and everybody else--should have known that the old guy was a tragedy waiting to happen. I was just relieved that the geezer didn't kill some poor kid on his way to buy some comic books.
     My girlfriend's father was the one who ended up taking away the car keys from the grandfather, which wasn't really his responsibility. He was only the son-in-law. The rest of the family, as usual, ignoring their responsibility.
     But back to the present...
     As I walked past the car, I called out to the father, "Hey, are you sure that's safe?"
     "Hi!" he yelled back.
    "Are you sure that's safe?" I called out again.
     "I'm teaching my boy to drive," he said. It was like I was talking with my Dad. I wasn't sure whether he couldn't hear me, or he was just ignoring me.
     I pointed to the two of his boys standing on either side of a moving hunk of metal that could kill them.
     "Aren't you afraid your boys might get hurt?" I called out, louder and more forcefully this time.
     "No, no," the man said. "My boy's a good driver."
     The boy behind the wheel gave me a I-REALLY-Don't-Want-To-Be-Doing-This look.
     I stood for a few seconds more. Why the father would use his two young sons as parking targets, I couldn't understand. What I could understand even less was why he was teaching his son to parallel park in a van. I finally decided that the father could have very easily told me to mind my own business, so that's what I decided to do without being told.
     "Have a nice day, dipshit," I said, waving. My grandson waved too. The dipshit father waved back. The 16-year-old gave us a Don't Leave-Me-With-This-Dipshit! look.
     I sure hope I don't read a tragic story about two boys being run over by their brother in tomorrow's newspaper.
     Another father with a degree in stupidity.
_________________________
 
     I asked my buddy Maloney, "Do you get the newspaper delivered to your home?"
     "Yeah, why?" he answered.
     I think about my house. I get the newspaper delivered to my home every morning. Yeah, it's expensive, but it's worth it. At least, it was. You see my Dad likes to read the newspaper. Every morning he beats me to it and has the habit of placing it on the kitchen table in front of him as he's enjoying a nice cup of tea. Sometimes he doesn't even read it. It just sits there as he eats a five-star breakfast courtesy of my wife, served to him at his preferred temperature. Hot.
     He eats, watches the TV in the kitchen, and keeps one hand on the newspaper like it was an old girlfriend's thigh. He reminds me of a predator guarding its kill. Not eating it, but not letting the anyone else have it. There are perks to being the alpha.
     So I'll sit there, on my laptop, patiently waiting, waiting for him to get up and leave. Two cups of coffee later, and I'm still waiting for the newspaper. On the outside, my Dad is drinking his tea. On the inside, I think he's laughing at me. Meanwhile...
     My buddy, Maloney, has no idea how much his life is going to change, with a wife, kids, and now a mother-in-law to contend with.
     "No reason," I tell him.
     No reason at all.
 
 


Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
   

Friday, November 1, 2013

The Top Ten Things My Dad Would Do Before A Date

You know what's scarier than Halloween? Dating. You know what's scarier than dating? Dating when you're older.
     My Dad is 96-years-old, so these would be:

 
The Top Ten Things
My Dad Would Do Before A Date
 
  
10.  Take a nap.
 
9. Wash off the fishy smell of Preparation H.
 
8.  Try to remember who he's taking out.
 
7.  Massage his prostate to ease the swelling.
 
6.  Massage his prostate because it feels good.
 
5.  Shave back, comb eyebrows, trim nostrils, and pluck the hair growing out of his ears.
 
4.  Do stretching exercises so he won't pull a muscle later just in case he... well... you know.
 
3.  Don't forget his Gas-X.
 
2.  Apply acne medication... ON HIS ASS!
  
And the number one thing he'd do before a date is:
  
1.  On his way to pick her up, stop somewhere to take a shit.
 
 
     You know what's scarier than Halloween? Dating. You know what's scarier than Dating? Dating when you're older. Do you know what's scarier than that? Knowing that as much as I might make a joke at my Dad's expense, I know that in him I'm seeing my own future.
     Never mind that, at my age, I've already become acquainted with #1.



 
 
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
   

Monday, October 21, 2013

Do You Know What's Worse?

My Dad's dog needed a check-up and his shots. My Dad knows it, but he acts like he doesn't understand when I tell him. And then tell him again. And again. 
     "Dad," I'll tell him, "we need to take your dog for his shots."
     "Oh, I'm fine," he'll tell me, and nervously change the channel on the television set.
     "Dad," my wife will say, "why don't we take your dog to get his shots today?"
     "No, thanks," he'll say. "I'm not hungry."
     Before you tell me to leave the poor old guy alone, this is the same poor old guy who studies his monthly bank statements for hours, and then, if he doesn't like what he sees, he'll have us take him to the bank so he can argue with somebody for hours more. I swear, when the bank sees him coming, they probably put the janitor in a business suit, and have him handle all of Dad's questions and complaints.
     "Answer him in Spanish. Maybe he'll leave sooner."
     But he doesn't. My Dad isn't interested in any kind of a mutual exchange of words, he's only interested in talking and having somebody listen. Like when he goes to the doctor's office. When he's done or tired or ready for his nap, he'll finally stop and we'll bring him home.
     So guess who ends up taking his dog to the vet? That's right, my wife. Just kidding, I do. My wife does enough when it comes to putting up with my Dad's shenanigans.
     I take his dog to the vet, have an adult conversation that's not about baseball, and I pay for the dog's shots and check-up besides. Believe me, I checked my wallet, but there was none of my Dad's money inside.
     When we get back, my Dad tells me, "Oh, I see you're back."
     "Yeah," I tell him, "we just got back from the vet's."
     "You just got back from the vet?"
     "Yeah, I took your dog. He's over-weight, but healthy. I had him get all his shots."
     "He had to get his shots?"
     "Yes."
     "Who had to get his shots?"
     "Your dog. Your dog had to get his shots."
     "Your dog had to get his shots?"
     "No, your dog."
     "Your dog?"
     "No, your dog. Your dog had to get his shots."
     "That's what I'm saying, your dog."
     My Dad's eyes are starting to bulge the way they do when he's confused or gearing up for a fight. A vein on his neck is starting to make its presence known. He's ready for a tussle. I thought to myself, was it worth trying to straighten out? Was it worth the aggravation? The high blood pressure? Another dizzy spell?
     "That's right, Dad," I said, making my decision. "That's right."
     I couldn't prove it in a court of law, but I think I saw him giving me a yeah,-buddy,-that's-what-I-thought grin. Maybe it was just gas.
     "That's good," my Dad said, turning his attention back to the baseball game on TV. "That's good."
     I checked my wallet. There was still none of my Dad's money in it.
     I better live long enough to spend some of my inheritance.
     I know, I know. I complain and I complain, but do you know what's worse than your 90-something year-old father moving in with you? Your 70-something year-old mother-in-law moving in.
     Oh, I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about a buddy of mine. I'll call him "Maloney," since that's his name. Maloney and I were in the war together.
     "And which war was that?" my wife once asked me.
     "The big one," I answered.
     "World War Two?" she teased.
     Silly girl. That was my Dad's war. The one I was in was way worse that that one.
     "The war between the sexes," I told her. "I lost."
     Ouch! For the weaker sex, she sure can hit hard.
     Of course I was referencing the time when I was single and Maloney was single and we were both ignorantly happy in our singleness. If I was still single and dating, would I have taken in my Dad to live with me? Did I need a loving wife to gently--and sometimes not-so-gently--nudge me in the right direction? Maybe. Maybe not. Truth is, I really don't know.
     I mean, is homelessness really such a bad thing? Once you get used to eating out of restaurant trash bins, the rest is easy. You can travel. You have no responsibilities. As long as you aren't interested in a little thing called lack-of-hygiene, you can even date. I once saw a homeless couple. They seemed happy.
     "Maybe I can start a blog, like you," Maloney told me.
     "You wouldn't like it," I told him. Who needs the competition?
     I think Maloney got married because I got married. Which is to say that if he lives to be a hundred, he stayed single for the first half of his life, and then, in a moment of weakness, he jumped the broom.
     Myself, I got married young. Then I got divorced young. Then I got married again, reasonably young. But this time I did it right. And it was this blissful second marriage that Maloney, with his horse-blinders firmly on, saw. Or maybe he was looking through beer-goggles. Whatever it was that he was looking through, it didn't let him see all the hard work that marriage is. All he saw was the frosting, not the cake.
     I think he thought to himself, "What am I doing with my life? I've got no wife. I've got no family. My parents think I'm gay."
     Years ago, when he first started making noises about getting married, I told him, "All you need is a dog and a maid. A dog for affection, and a maid to cook and clean for you. That way, you can have sex with the maid, and still date."
     He got married instead.
 
 


Raising My Father
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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
   

Monday, October 14, 2013

I Won't Cry... Much

Have you ever heard the old Henny Youngman joke about a man who goes to the doctor? It goes like this:
 

Man:  Doc, it hurts when I do this.
Doctor:  Then don't do that.
 

     Well, for awhile now I've been having dizzy spells when I stand up. I'll be sitting somewhere, feeling good, and the next moment I'll get up and feel dizzy. I have to steady myself for a few seconds before it goes away.
     Like most guys, I figured if I waited long enough it would go away. When it didn't go away, I started to think all kinds of things that might be wrong with me.
     I just finished watching Breaking Bad, and I thought about Walter White, the chemistry teacher turned crystal meth cook, who was dying of lung cancer (Did I spoil anything? Oops!). Let's see, he's got a cough, and I've got a cough. He got dizzy and fainted in the car wash he worked at, and I've gotten dizzy while waiting for my car to be detailed at a car wash. He's got lung cancer, so maybe...
     Nah, it couldn't be lung cancer.
     For one thing, it doesn't run in the family, and, secondly, I've never smoked a day in my life. Although, when you think about it, you could say that I smoked for the first 18 years of my life. You could say that because my Dad smoked, and  he thought nothing about holding his infant son in the crook of one arm, while holding a cigarette in the hand of his other. And blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, besides.
     To be fair to my Dad, this was back in the days when doctors used to advertise for the cigarette companies, saying that smoking was good for you. It relaxed you. Made you calm. Woody Allen made fun of it years later in his movie Sleepers, where he played Miles Monroe, a part owner of The "Happy Carrot" Health-Food Store, who goes into the hospital for a routine exploration of a minor peptic ulcer, and wakes up 200 years later.
     A doctor is giving him a physical after he's woken up, and offers him a cigarette. Allen refuses, because tobacco causes cancer. The doctor just laughs this off.
     "Cancer? Nah," he says. "Cigarettes are one of the healthiest things for your body."
     Or something like that.
     I remember, as a kid, telling myself that I'd never date a girl who smoked. However, when my hormones kicked in, and dating girls went from being a theory to actually being a reality, I rethought my position. I remember thinking, "Why limit my dating potential?"
     If I limited myself to only the girls who didn't smoke, I'd be eliminating an important group of girls, namely the easy ones. I don't know if it's true across the board or not, but girls I dated who smoked never seemed too difficult a challenge, if you get my drift.  Same with drinking. When I was younger, I used to joke to my friends, "Thank God for alcohol, otherwise I wouldn't get lucky half as often as I do."
     But I digress...
     At any rate, I decided it couldn't be lung cancer. 
     Maybe  a brain tumor?  A blood clot? Do I have an aneurysm waiting inside my head like a ticking time bomb? I have a brother-in-law who's on his second stroke. The first stroke paralysed half his face. When he was a little boy I guess he didn't listen to his mother when she told him, "Be careful, or your face will freeze that way."
     When we went to visit him, I remember leaning over and whispering to my wife, "I thought half his face was frozen. He looks the same to me."
     She turned so that my sister couldn't see, and gave me the ugliest look I had ever seen. I wanted to tell her, "Careful, or your face will freeze that way," but I knew I couldn't say it out loud without laughing, so I kept it inside of me. I'd tell her later. When she wasn't giving me such a dirty look. 
     He eventually regained the full use of his face. That is, until his second stroke. Now he's in the same boat as before.
     "You know," I whispered to my wife. "I actually think he looks better. Ow!"
     That came from a quick elbow to my ribs. 
     That look. That look.
     But I'm digressing again...
     I need reading glasses. My hearing's going bad. I feel like I'm losing more brain cells than the average bear. I have a bum ticker that's not pumping enough blood to my brain, and , when my wife is "in the mood," it causes a quarter of that blood to be redirected to another part of my body. Most men would die if they lost that much blood. Well, anyway...
     After several spells, and a few that caused me to sit back down before I fell on my head, I made an appointment to see my doctor.
     At his office, they gave me the usual physical. They tested all my vital organs (and not in the fun way), and checked my vision and hearing. I peed in a plastic cup, and they sent me out for some blood work. Everything came out okay. I would say the only glitch was that I had aged ten years in only one.
     How? You ask.
     Well, on the last physical I had, which was just a year ago, the doctor told me that I was as healthy as a man a decade younger. This time, the doctor told me that I was healthy for a man my age. You do the math.
     After all the tests I had to make an appointment to see my doctor. It's funny, when you're making an appointment, they'll give you one that's weeks--maybe months--in the future, and then when you finally see the doctor he'll tell you, "Why didn't you see me sooner?"
     Anyway, at my appointment, the doctor was reviewing the results of all my test.
     "Looks good, looks good, looks good," he nodded, nodded, nodded, and then looked up. "Remind me why you're here again?"
     "Well, doc," I started, maybe a bit too familiar for my own good. "When I sit for a long time, and then get up suddenly, I get dizzy. Sometimes I have to steady myself so I don't fall down."
     The doctor took this in. I wondered if I had given him enough information, but what else I could tell him? Maybe I could get up and mime what happens. Maybe I would have, but more than I hate mimes, I hate looking foolish.
     He looked at me with that serious look that all doctors and prosecutors have.  Meanwhile, I'm stressing out that perhaps, like Walter White, I might only have a short time to live.
     I'm planning, Just how DO you make crystal meth? I'm wondering, Will Sancho be the one to spend the inheritance I won't live to see? I'm thinking, Ok, doc, I can take it. Give it to me straight. I won't cry.
     Much.
     The doctor gets up to leave--appointment over--and reaches for the door. As he opens it, he tells me "There's nothing wrong with you. Just don't get up so fast."
     And he leaves. My money walking out the door right behind him.
     Meanwhile, I'm still alive.
     I guess he was right.
 
 


Raising My Father
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