Earlier today, my wife has my Dad all set up in the great room, his favorite place to watch TV.
He has a nice little father-in-law house in front of ours, with a very nice TV set of his own, but his favorite place to watch TV is in our house. So he's sitting in his (my) favorite chair, and my wife turned a baseball game on for him. It's not one of his favorite teams, but it's close enough. His favorite team will play later tonight.
The lights are all on, I don't know why that is. I prefer watching TV with the lights off, but I think my Dad gets more enjoyment from the TV-watching experience when he's wasting my money. The game is on, and he has his tea and snacks next to him on a coffee table.
I'm upstairs with my grandson. We go downstairs for a snack, and the lights are all on in the great room, even the kitchen lights are on, and the TV is still blasting away with the game my Dad said he couldn't wait to see.
Where's my Dad? He's MIA. It happens all the time. He'll turn every single light on in the house (I exaggerate, but not by much), and will plop himself down in front of the TV so that no one else can watch anything, and then he'll disappear when no one's watching. Siegfried and Roy wish they could disappear so convincingly.
My grandson and I get our snacks. Yogurt. Well, he sees the big TV and wants to watch cartoons. Spaceghost. Frankenstein Jr. The Banana Splits. Those are cartoons from back when I was a kid, so I know the feeling.
"Pocoyo," my grandson tells me. "Pocoyo."
I'm trying to keep him busy. I tell him to wait for several minutes just in case my Dad comes back. Fifteen minutes later... still no Dad.
"You know what," I tell my grandson, "it's time for Pocoyo."
"Yes," he agrees. "Pocoyo."
I change the channel as he sits down, and I go grab us a few more snacks and drinks, and turn off all the lights we don't need. We're chillin'.
Twenty minutes later, from the corner of my eye, I see the kitchen door open. I see a shadow walk in, and I know who it is. The kitchen light comes on. Yeah, it's my Dad.
I hear some mumbling. A few smacks. Some click, click, clicks. Cough, cough, cough. Sneeze, sneeze. Cough. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Then, "Hunh?"
Dad walks up to the edge of the kitchen and stops. I can tell he's staring at the TV, then at us, then back at the TV. I can almost hear him thinking, "What happened to the baseball game?"
He stands there for about five minutes. I hear ohhh... ahhh... hmmm... mumble, mumble.
"What happened to the baseball game," he finally says. "Is it over?"
My grandson is so glued to the cartoon that he doesn't even notice my Dad has walked in. He looks cute. He's got his bare feet up, and he's drinking a YooHoo.
My Dad coughs to let us know he's there. I act like I didn't hear him. Several more cough, cough, coughs. A few ohhhs. Some ahhhs, and then he slowly walks to his (my) favorite chair--See? I'm not such a jerk.--and sits down.
I keep my eyes on the TV. The last thing I want to do is engage my Dad, or give him an opportunity to ask about the game he's missing. Well, he's not quite missing it. He has a perfectly good TV in his father-in-law house, so, if he misses the game, it's because he chooses to miss the game.
For the next thirty minutes Dad watches the cartoon with us. Maybe he's just waiting for my wife to come downstairs and change the channel for him. After forty minutes, he mumbles something about taking a nap. Ten minutes after that--after some coughing and sneezing and mumbling--he gets up. He gives his nose a good honk, says something about the game, ohhhs and ahhhs and leaves.
Why didn't I change the channel to the game? I can hear you asking. (Man, you're nosey.) Well, I didn't change the channel because he does this ALL THE TIME! He leaves the lights on, the TV on, and sometimes even the refrigerator open... and then LEAVES. Sometimes I'll find out he's gone because I'll come downstairs to see him gone. Sometimes I'll find out he's gone, because the refrigerator will start to buzz, letting me know the door's been left open. He goes to his room, and sometimes he'll return... and sometimes he doesn't.
My grandson also has rights. He's got no money, but he's got rights.
"You like Pocoyo?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says.
And that's why I didn't change the channel.
Raising My Father
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
Monday, April 29, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
Thank God For Lexapro
My Dad has been sick for a week, and what he likes to do when he's sick is sit in the kitchen drinking his tea or sit in the great room watching his baseball, and blow his nose. All day long it's:
Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze!
"I'm sick," he'll enlighten us.
Cough, cough, cough!
"Oh boy, I don't feel so good," and then he'll swallow whatever came up with the cough.
Blow, blow, blow!
"What's for lunch?" he'll ask, as he peeks into his handkerchief.
So much for my lunch.
He'll spend all his time in the common areas coughing and sneezing and complaining. I feel like telling him, "Dad, go to your room," but my wife will remind me, "He's your Dad," so I'll hold my tongue. I like the compassion the new Pope has shown since he's been in office, but my wife's got him beat by a mile.
When I'm sick, I stay in my room until I get better. When my wife is sick, she stays in her room until she gets better. When any of my kids are sick, they stayed in their rooms until they were better. Even our grandson, a toddler, when he's sick, he'll stay in our room sleeping and eating and sleeping some more.
My Dad? Well, let me just say...
Thank God for Lexapro.
Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze!
"I'm sick," he'll enlighten us.
Cough, cough, cough!
"Oh boy, I don't feel so good," and then he'll swallow whatever came up with the cough.
Blow, blow, blow!
"What's for lunch?" he'll ask, as he peeks into his handkerchief.
So much for my lunch.
He'll spend all his time in the common areas coughing and sneezing and complaining. I feel like telling him, "Dad, go to your room," but my wife will remind me, "He's your Dad," so I'll hold my tongue. I like the compassion the new Pope has shown since he's been in office, but my wife's got him beat by a mile.
When I'm sick, I stay in my room until I get better. When my wife is sick, she stays in her room until she gets better. When any of my kids are sick, they stayed in their rooms until they were better. Even our grandson, a toddler, when he's sick, he'll stay in our room sleeping and eating and sleeping some more.
My Dad? Well, let me just say...
Thank God for Lexapro.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
Monday, April 22, 2013
The Meat Has Fat (Part Two)
Today, while shopping at Costco, my wife decides she wants to buy a prime rib.
I pretty much let my wife buy what she wants when it comes to the kitchen, because she's the one who cooks. My wife's a good cook. Not only that, she's a great cook. But she might not be so great if I stuck my nose in her business every time she wanted to buy a toothpick.
The prime rib's not cheap. In fact, it's pretty expensive. I do the math: It costs almost enough for me to have steak and lobster at my favorite steakhouse. I bet I could even wash it all down with several Tecate's besides.
To make a long story short, my wife cooks it, and it's a five-star dinner. It always is. Except for that one time that I swore I'd never mention. (Oops!)
Even my Dad is impressed.
"Boy," he says, "I'm telling you, this meat is good!"
He's sitting in front of the TV, watching his favorite baseball team, the Cleveland Indians, and my wife has her feast served in front of him like he's an Arab Sheik. Sheik Yerbooty. He goes at it like he hasn't eaten in days.
I'll say one thing about my Dad, he's never met a meal he didn't like. Back when my Mom was still alive, if my Dad was sick, he'd still want his three meals, plus snacks.
"You're sick," Mom would tell him. "Why don't you give your stomach a break?"
"Hey," my Dad would answer, his logic irrefutable, "it's not my stomach's fault I'm sick."
I took a bite into my prime rib. Man, it was good. Moist. Tender. Full of flavor. Just like my wife.
"Sweetie," I told her, "this prime rib is good."
She gives me her aw, shucks smile.
"Yeah," my Dad repeats.
He eats some more. Then:
"Look, I can cut it with a fork," he says, cutting it with a fork.
But all good things must come to an end. Just the way Newton's first law of physics is for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, my Dad's first law of compliments is for every compliment there is an equal and opposite kick in your hindquarters.
He eats some more, and then it begins.
Chomp, chomp, chomp!
"I don't even mind the fat."
Fat?
My wife says nothing, but I know she's just taken one to the chops.
"Dad," I tell him, "meat needs fat to give it flavor.
Chew, chew, chew!
"Well, this meat sure does have a lot of flavor," he says.
I don't know how to take what he just said, because I don't know how he meant it.
Munch, munch, munch!
"Oh, yeah, I don't mind the fat at all."
One thing I've noticed during all of his magnanimosity is that my Dad sure hasn't stopped eating. He hasn't even slowed down. I've also noticed that he sure didn't offer to help pay for the prime rib when we were at Costco. And I couldn't help but notice that there was no thank you for my wife for cooking for him, serving him, and treating him like a king.
My wife usually has my Dad all set up in front of the TV so he can eat and watch his game. Which game? My Dad doesn't care, just as long as it's a game. A Lamborghini Veneo-type TV tray sits in front of him. Today, my Dad gets lucky. The Cleveland Indians are playing, and he's watching it on the biggest TV in our house. The one in the great room. He just sits in his (my) favorite chair, while my wife waits on him hand and foot. She serves him his food, his tea, his salad, his bread, and all the trimmings. Later, she'll even send our little grandson, who we watch on occasion, to take him a Mud Pie for dessert.
All I hear from him is his chomping and chewing and smacking and coughing and mumbling and munching as he eats and watches the game.
It's not that my Dad is ungrateful or purposely hurtful. It's just that his idea of being gracious is by saying something ungracious.
One time, when my Mom was still alive, my wife and I treated them to a nice cruise to Ensenada, Mexico. One of the things you could do when the ship docked, was you could ride horses along the beach. That sounded very nice, so that's what we did. My Mom and Dad were younger back then, so they thought it was a good idea, too. There was a whole group of us, and somewhere along the beach, my Dad stopped to take in the beauty of the ocean and the white sand. He looked pretty natural sitting on his steed with the waves crashing behind him.
"You know," he told me, grandly, "I've been to beaches prettier than this one."
"Honey!" my Mom told him angrily.
"What?" my Dad said. "I'm just saying it's pretty."
And that's exactly what he was doing. Only the way my Dad does it is by telling you how something you've given him or done for him doesn't compare to something else he's seen or had or done.
My wife knows this, but I still feel bad for her.
"Sweetheart," I say softly, giving her a gentle nod of my head. "It's good."
She gives me a smile.
"I know, hon," she says.
My Dad is still chomping away, oblivious to the little nuances of human interaction.
"Yeah, boy... this is good."
I pretty much let my wife buy what she wants when it comes to the kitchen, because she's the one who cooks. My wife's a good cook. Not only that, she's a great cook. But she might not be so great if I stuck my nose in her business every time she wanted to buy a toothpick.
The prime rib's not cheap. In fact, it's pretty expensive. I do the math: It costs almost enough for me to have steak and lobster at my favorite steakhouse. I bet I could even wash it all down with several Tecate's besides.
To make a long story short, my wife cooks it, and it's a five-star dinner. It always is. Except for that one time that I swore I'd never mention. (Oops!)
Even my Dad is impressed.
"Boy," he says, "I'm telling you, this meat is good!"
He's sitting in front of the TV, watching his favorite baseball team, the Cleveland Indians, and my wife has her feast served in front of him like he's an Arab Sheik. Sheik Yerbooty. He goes at it like he hasn't eaten in days.
I'll say one thing about my Dad, he's never met a meal he didn't like. Back when my Mom was still alive, if my Dad was sick, he'd still want his three meals, plus snacks.
"You're sick," Mom would tell him. "Why don't you give your stomach a break?"
"Hey," my Dad would answer, his logic irrefutable, "it's not my stomach's fault I'm sick."
I took a bite into my prime rib. Man, it was good. Moist. Tender. Full of flavor. Just like my wife.
"Sweetie," I told her, "this prime rib is good."
She gives me her aw, shucks smile.
"Yeah," my Dad repeats.
He eats some more. Then:
"Look, I can cut it with a fork," he says, cutting it with a fork.
But all good things must come to an end. Just the way Newton's first law of physics is for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, my Dad's first law of compliments is for every compliment there is an equal and opposite kick in your hindquarters.
He eats some more, and then it begins.
Chomp, chomp, chomp!
"I don't even mind the fat."
Fat?
My wife says nothing, but I know she's just taken one to the chops.
"Dad," I tell him, "meat needs fat to give it flavor.
Chew, chew, chew!
"Well, this meat sure does have a lot of flavor," he says.
I don't know how to take what he just said, because I don't know how he meant it.
Munch, munch, munch!
"Oh, yeah, I don't mind the fat at all."
One thing I've noticed during all of his magnanimosity is that my Dad sure hasn't stopped eating. He hasn't even slowed down. I've also noticed that he sure didn't offer to help pay for the prime rib when we were at Costco. And I couldn't help but notice that there was no thank you for my wife for cooking for him, serving him, and treating him like a king.
My wife usually has my Dad all set up in front of the TV so he can eat and watch his game. Which game? My Dad doesn't care, just as long as it's a game. A Lamborghini Veneo-type TV tray sits in front of him. Today, my Dad gets lucky. The Cleveland Indians are playing, and he's watching it on the biggest TV in our house. The one in the great room. He just sits in his (my) favorite chair, while my wife waits on him hand and foot. She serves him his food, his tea, his salad, his bread, and all the trimmings. Later, she'll even send our little grandson, who we watch on occasion, to take him a Mud Pie for dessert.
All I hear from him is his chomping and chewing and smacking and coughing and mumbling and munching as he eats and watches the game.
It's not that my Dad is ungrateful or purposely hurtful. It's just that his idea of being gracious is by saying something ungracious.
One time, when my Mom was still alive, my wife and I treated them to a nice cruise to Ensenada, Mexico. One of the things you could do when the ship docked, was you could ride horses along the beach. That sounded very nice, so that's what we did. My Mom and Dad were younger back then, so they thought it was a good idea, too. There was a whole group of us, and somewhere along the beach, my Dad stopped to take in the beauty of the ocean and the white sand. He looked pretty natural sitting on his steed with the waves crashing behind him.
"You know," he told me, grandly, "I've been to beaches prettier than this one."
"Honey!" my Mom told him angrily.
"What?" my Dad said. "I'm just saying it's pretty."
And that's exactly what he was doing. Only the way my Dad does it is by telling you how something you've given him or done for him doesn't compare to something else he's seen or had or done.
My wife knows this, but I still feel bad for her.
"Sweetheart," I say softly, giving her a gentle nod of my head. "It's good."
She gives me a smile.
"I know, hon," she says.
My Dad is still chomping away, oblivious to the little nuances of human interaction.
"Yeah, boy... this is good."
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
Saturday, April 20, 2013
I Just Get The Credit (Part One)
I bought my Dad the Major League Baseball package again this year.
Well, my wife actually bought it. I just get the credit.
Myself? Well, I'm not really that much into baseball, although I do remember watching it on TV when I was a toddler. Back then, there were only three channels to choose from, and we only had one TV, so what other choice did I have? I also remember watching the soap opera The Edge of Night and Sing Along with Mitch Miller ("Follow the bouncing ball!").
Who cares? I can hear you asking.
I agree.
With the Major League Baseball package my Dad can watch any baseball game being played on that day... LIVE! (Did my capitalizing the word "live," and adding an exclamation point to the end make that sentence more exciting?
I didn't think so.)
His favorite team is the Cleveland Indians, so, like last year, he will watch 182-plus games. It cost me--ME-- $200 for the package. I say "me," because my wife may buy him the package, but I'm the one stuck with the bill.
Yep, it cost me $200, and I don't even watch baseball games. I don't watch them. My wife doesn't watch them. Nobody watches them. Nobody, that is, except my Dad.
"Hey, Dad, we got you the Major League Baseball package," I told him, so that he'd know that it was something we had to buy, not something we got for free along with a bowl of soup.
There was no thank you.
"It cost us over two hundred bucks."
No "Let me help you pay for it," or, better yet, "Let me pay for the whole thing."
All I heard as he watched the Cleveland Indians play today was, "The meat has fat."
Well, my wife actually bought it. I just get the credit.
Myself? Well, I'm not really that much into baseball, although I do remember watching it on TV when I was a toddler. Back then, there were only three channels to choose from, and we only had one TV, so what other choice did I have? I also remember watching the soap opera The Edge of Night and Sing Along with Mitch Miller ("Follow the bouncing ball!").
Who cares? I can hear you asking.
I agree.
With the Major League Baseball package my Dad can watch any baseball game being played on that day... LIVE! (Did my capitalizing the word "live," and adding an exclamation point to the end make that sentence more exciting?
I didn't think so.)
His favorite team is the Cleveland Indians, so, like last year, he will watch 182-plus games. It cost me--ME-- $200 for the package. I say "me," because my wife may buy him the package, but I'm the one stuck with the bill.
Yep, it cost me $200, and I don't even watch baseball games. I don't watch them. My wife doesn't watch them. Nobody watches them. Nobody, that is, except my Dad.
"Hey, Dad, we got you the Major League Baseball package," I told him, so that he'd know that it was something we had to buy, not something we got for free along with a bowl of soup.
There was no thank you.
"It cost us over two hundred bucks."
No "Let me help you pay for it," or, better yet, "Let me pay for the whole thing."
All I heard as he watched the Cleveland Indians play today was, "The meat has fat."
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com
@JimDuchene
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
But What About The Burrito? (Part Three)
As for my burrito? Well, it was hot on the outside and cold on the inside. I ate it anyway.
It wasn't that bad.
It wasn't that bad.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Microwave (Part Two)
When it comes to the microwave, when are they going to invent one that can warm your food even if that food is in a container that has metal in it or on it?
I have a coffee cup that I bought at a 24/7 type of store. I bought it so that I could carry my coffee around with me wherever I go. The only problem with it is that it has a thin strip of metal around it, so, when my coffee gets cold, I can't just pop it into the microwave for a minute or two to heat it back up.
We live in the 21st century. I can live without the flying cars and personal robots we're supposed to have by now. What I can't live without is a hot cup of coffee. Get busy on fixing the microwave, boys.
Since I'm on the subject of kitchen appliances and ruined food, I'd just like to ask: Who's the practical joker who invented the burn-your-toast setting on the toaster?
More than that, what engineering genius thought it would be a good idea to actually ADD that to the settings? Who needs or wants their toast to have the same consistency of a charcoal briquette?
My father--who, at the age of twelve, would fix his uncle's car in exchange for the opportunity to drive it around town--can never get the setting just right, and that's even after my wife has already set it to perfection for the perfectly toasted slice of bread, singed to the perfect shade of brown.
Even with the proper setting already located and set, my Dad still can't get it right. The simple act of placing a slice of bread into the slot will cause that bread to come out either too raw or too burnt.
My Dad swears he doesn't touch, move, or fiddle with the control lever. I don't have the same problem, and neither does my wife, who probably has the digital dexterity to crack a safe, but there it lays.
I don't blame my Dad. I blame the toaster manufacturers who still think that as we dip our toe into the 21st century, the human race should have the option to ruin their food. They don't even temper steel at the temperature the toaster apparently achieves.
Now, the coffee maker is an interesting machine. I remember my mother making a pot for my Dad every morning in one of those old, percolating machines. The coffee was great, but it took forever for the end result to be achieved and enjoyed. A plus was that it made several cups of coffee, none of which I was allowed to partake of because of my youth.
There was a giant leap for mankind in the invention of a coffee maker that made twelve cups of coffee in only minutes. This was the morning beverage equivalent of evolving from sending a monkey into space to landing a man on the moon.
And then, for some reason, the coffee maker devolved. It went from making TWELVE cups of coffee in minutes, to making only ONE cup of coffee. It doesn't matter that it makes its lone cup of coffee in even lesser time, it still only makes one cup of coffee.
One.
On the other hand, they've gone overboard on the blender.
As far as I'm concerned, the blender should only have ONE setting: blend. Do I really need to grate, grind, beat, shred, blend, liquefy, frappe, whip, stir, aerate, puree, crumb, chop, and mix? Do I really need a special Ice Breaker-Pulse switch that I can set to High or Low? And those are just the features I'm reading off of the $24.99 blender I bought at Wal-Mart.
If scientists would put that kind of effort into the toaster, we would all live in a perfect world. A perfect world indeed.
I have a coffee cup that I bought at a 24/7 type of store. I bought it so that I could carry my coffee around with me wherever I go. The only problem with it is that it has a thin strip of metal around it, so, when my coffee gets cold, I can't just pop it into the microwave for a minute or two to heat it back up.
We live in the 21st century. I can live without the flying cars and personal robots we're supposed to have by now. What I can't live without is a hot cup of coffee. Get busy on fixing the microwave, boys.
Since I'm on the subject of kitchen appliances and ruined food, I'd just like to ask: Who's the practical joker who invented the burn-your-toast setting on the toaster?
More than that, what engineering genius thought it would be a good idea to actually ADD that to the settings? Who needs or wants their toast to have the same consistency of a charcoal briquette?
My father--who, at the age of twelve, would fix his uncle's car in exchange for the opportunity to drive it around town--can never get the setting just right, and that's even after my wife has already set it to perfection for the perfectly toasted slice of bread, singed to the perfect shade of brown.
Even with the proper setting already located and set, my Dad still can't get it right. The simple act of placing a slice of bread into the slot will cause that bread to come out either too raw or too burnt.
My Dad swears he doesn't touch, move, or fiddle with the control lever. I don't have the same problem, and neither does my wife, who probably has the digital dexterity to crack a safe, but there it lays.
I don't blame my Dad. I blame the toaster manufacturers who still think that as we dip our toe into the 21st century, the human race should have the option to ruin their food. They don't even temper steel at the temperature the toaster apparently achieves.
Now, the coffee maker is an interesting machine. I remember my mother making a pot for my Dad every morning in one of those old, percolating machines. The coffee was great, but it took forever for the end result to be achieved and enjoyed. A plus was that it made several cups of coffee, none of which I was allowed to partake of because of my youth.
There was a giant leap for mankind in the invention of a coffee maker that made twelve cups of coffee in only minutes. This was the morning beverage equivalent of evolving from sending a monkey into space to landing a man on the moon.
And then, for some reason, the coffee maker devolved. It went from making TWELVE cups of coffee in minutes, to making only ONE cup of coffee. It doesn't matter that it makes its lone cup of coffee in even lesser time, it still only makes one cup of coffee.
One.
On the other hand, they've gone overboard on the blender.
As far as I'm concerned, the blender should only have ONE setting: blend. Do I really need to grate, grind, beat, shred, blend, liquefy, frappe, whip, stir, aerate, puree, crumb, chop, and mix? Do I really need a special Ice Breaker-Pulse switch that I can set to High or Low? And those are just the features I'm reading off of the $24.99 blender I bought at Wal-Mart.
If scientists would put that kind of effort into the toaster, we would all live in a perfect world. A perfect world indeed.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
Friday, April 12, 2013
The Burrito (Part One)
I continue to swear that My Dad has some sort of device that alerts him to when I go downstairs to the kitchen or the great room.
Today, he had been in his room for a couple of hours. I know it was that long, because I have to turn off all TV and lights when he exits my house and enters his. It would take him less than two seconds to turn the TV off, as well as the lamp next to his (my) favorite chair. It would take him no seconds to flip the switch to the kitchen lights as he walks past.
My wife, bless her heart, will leave everything on for him. Me? Well, since I pay the bills, I turn everything off.
So, two hours after I've turned off the TV and all the lights, I go back downstairs to heat myself a frozen burrito from Costco. I grab it from the freezer, toss it into the microwave, and set the timer for two minutes. No sooner do I press the "start" button, than I hear the kitchen door open, and in walks my Dad.
"Hi, Dad," I say.
"Ohhh..." he answers, and walks in, mumbling the usual. I don't know what that "ohhh" means, and he doesn't care to elaborate.
He walks over to his kitchen corner. That's where my wife keeps all the fixings to make his tea. He gets his cup, gets his teabag, gets his honey (Which not only sweetens his tea, but also--he swears--gets rid of his allergies.), and pours some filtered water into his cup. He brings it to the microwave, and sees that something's already percolating inside. He stops for a second. Frozen. Unsure of what to do.
"Ohhh..." he says to nobody in particular, "the microwave is on."
Since he's not really talking to me, I act like I don't hear. It's not that I'm ignoring him, or anything like that, it's just that I've learned the hard way to speak when spoken to. By "the hard way," I just mean he makes me regret engaging him when he hasn't asked for my engagement. By "makes me regret," it might be something as simple as having to repeat myself over and over again, until he finally hears what I'm saying. He has a hearing aid, but he refuses to wear it, because "I don't need it." Meanwhile, I can hear the downstair TV all the way upstairs. And by "upstairs," I mean upstairs IN THE HOUSE DOWN THE BLOCK! But anyway...
He stands in front of the microwave for a few moments more, mumbles a few words, and then opens the door.
"Ohhh... there's something in there."
He looks at me, and shuts the door.
"Is that yours?"
"I'm heating up a burrito," I tell him, and I reach over and press the start button again.
"Costco?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, those are good,"
The microwave buzzer goes off, and I check my lunch. It's warm, but it's also still frozen. You know how it goes. So I turn the burrito around, and put it back in for another minute.
My Dad waits five seconds--FIVE!--and then he takes it out.
"Ummm... ahhh..." smack, smack, smack "It's ready."
This catches me by surprise.
"I just put it in there," I tell him. "It needs another minute."
Click, click! Smack, smack! "No, no... it's ready."
He places it on the counter top right next to the plate I had put down for my feast. Why didn't he put it on the plate?
Hey, YOU ask him.
My dad put in his cup, and set the timer for one minute. He heats his tea in one minute increments, so that he can get it at just the right temperature.
He's looking at the digital timer as he presses the "start" button.
"Your microwave is broken," he tells me.
"What?"
"You're microwave. It's broken. I've been meaning to tell you."
I look at my almost heated burrito. It's not the burrito's fault it wasn't heated properly.
"What do you mean it's broken?"
"The timer," he tells me, and points to the timer as if I don't know where it is. "Every time I press in a hundred, it jumps to fifty-nine."
"It jumps to fifty-nine?" I ask, trying to figure out what he's talking about. And then, once I do figured it out, I immediately wished I hadn't, because the answer made me sad.
"That's because you're pressing in a minute, Dad," I say, gently, "not a hundred."
"A minute?"
"Yeah, Dad. One-oh-oh means one minute. Sixty-seconds. That's why it jumps from one-oh-oh to fifty-nine."
The buzzer went off again. He tested his water. Nope, still too cool. And then set the timer again for a hundred. And watched it jump to fifty-nine. And then I could see the light bulb go off over his head. Sixty, fifty-nine. Sixty, fifty-nine.
"I know," he said. "I just meant, if somebody didn't know it, they might think it was broken."
My Dad. He can never admit not knowing anything.
RaisingMyFather
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Today, he had been in his room for a couple of hours. I know it was that long, because I have to turn off all TV and lights when he exits my house and enters his. It would take him less than two seconds to turn the TV off, as well as the lamp next to his (my) favorite chair. It would take him no seconds to flip the switch to the kitchen lights as he walks past.
My wife, bless her heart, will leave everything on for him. Me? Well, since I pay the bills, I turn everything off.
So, two hours after I've turned off the TV and all the lights, I go back downstairs to heat myself a frozen burrito from Costco. I grab it from the freezer, toss it into the microwave, and set the timer for two minutes. No sooner do I press the "start" button, than I hear the kitchen door open, and in walks my Dad.
"Hi, Dad," I say.
"Ohhh..." he answers, and walks in, mumbling the usual. I don't know what that "ohhh" means, and he doesn't care to elaborate.
He walks over to his kitchen corner. That's where my wife keeps all the fixings to make his tea. He gets his cup, gets his teabag, gets his honey (Which not only sweetens his tea, but also--he swears--gets rid of his allergies.), and pours some filtered water into his cup. He brings it to the microwave, and sees that something's already percolating inside. He stops for a second. Frozen. Unsure of what to do.
"Ohhh..." he says to nobody in particular, "the microwave is on."
Since he's not really talking to me, I act like I don't hear. It's not that I'm ignoring him, or anything like that, it's just that I've learned the hard way to speak when spoken to. By "the hard way," I just mean he makes me regret engaging him when he hasn't asked for my engagement. By "makes me regret," it might be something as simple as having to repeat myself over and over again, until he finally hears what I'm saying. He has a hearing aid, but he refuses to wear it, because "I don't need it." Meanwhile, I can hear the downstair TV all the way upstairs. And by "upstairs," I mean upstairs IN THE HOUSE DOWN THE BLOCK! But anyway...
He stands in front of the microwave for a few moments more, mumbles a few words, and then opens the door.
"Ohhh... there's something in there."
He looks at me, and shuts the door.
"Is that yours?"
"I'm heating up a burrito," I tell him, and I reach over and press the start button again.
"Costco?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, those are good,"
The microwave buzzer goes off, and I check my lunch. It's warm, but it's also still frozen. You know how it goes. So I turn the burrito around, and put it back in for another minute.
My Dad waits five seconds--FIVE!--and then he takes it out.
"Ummm... ahhh..." smack, smack, smack "It's ready."
This catches me by surprise.
"I just put it in there," I tell him. "It needs another minute."
Click, click! Smack, smack! "No, no... it's ready."
He places it on the counter top right next to the plate I had put down for my feast. Why didn't he put it on the plate?
Hey, YOU ask him.
My dad put in his cup, and set the timer for one minute. He heats his tea in one minute increments, so that he can get it at just the right temperature.
He's looking at the digital timer as he presses the "start" button.
"Your microwave is broken," he tells me.
"What?"
"You're microwave. It's broken. I've been meaning to tell you."
I look at my almost heated burrito. It's not the burrito's fault it wasn't heated properly.
"What do you mean it's broken?"
"The timer," he tells me, and points to the timer as if I don't know where it is. "Every time I press in a hundred, it jumps to fifty-nine."
"It jumps to fifty-nine?" I ask, trying to figure out what he's talking about. And then, once I do figured it out, I immediately wished I hadn't, because the answer made me sad.
"That's because you're pressing in a minute, Dad," I say, gently, "not a hundred."
"A minute?"
"Yeah, Dad. One-oh-oh means one minute. Sixty-seconds. That's why it jumps from one-oh-oh to fifty-nine."
The buzzer went off again. He tested his water. Nope, still too cool. And then set the timer again for a hundred. And watched it jump to fifty-nine. And then I could see the light bulb go off over his head. Sixty, fifty-nine. Sixty, fifty-nine.
"I know," he said. "I just meant, if somebody didn't know it, they might think it was broken."
My Dad. He can never admit not knowing anything.
...to be continued...
RaisingMyFather
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Saturday, April 6, 2013
The Variety Pack
The weather has warmed up a bit, and I was in the mood for something cold and sweet. I opened the freezer door, thinking a Popsicle would sure hit the spot.
Hmm, we had plenty of Popsicles... but they were all of the white variety. I don't even know what flavor white is. I grabbed one anyway. Something's better than nothing, I guess. Even if it's something you don't want.
I looked at the plain white wrapper it came in. There wasn't anything on it to indicate what flavor it was either. I opened it anyway, and took a lick...
It tasted like feet!
My wife had the bad judgement to walk in the kitchen at that moment. She saw the look on my face.
"You better finish them," she told me, "because nobody likes those."
Say what? Why's it my job to eat these Popsicles that taste like the bottom of a bird cage? The last time I tasted something that nasty, my ex-wife made it special for my birthday.
"If nobody likes them, then why do you buy them?" I asked her quite reasonably.
First, she gave me The Look, and then SHE said, also quite reasonably, "Your Dad likes them."
I backtracked a bit, and then I asked her another question, I didn't bother being reasonable, "If my Dad likes them, then why doesn't HE eat them?"
"Well..." it was her turn to backtrack, "...he doesn't really like them. He likes me to buy the variety pack, and that's one of the flavors."
"If you buy a variety pack, then where are the cherry Popsicles?"
"He eats those."
"How about the orange?"
"I eat those."
"The grape?"
"We eat those when we run out of cherry and orange."
"But cherry's my favorite."
"It's also your Dad's."
"I also like orange."
"That's my favorite."
"The grape?"
"We eat those when we don't have a choice."
You might think that I was just rambling, but there was a method to my madness.
"If everybody likes cherry and orange, then why don't you buy one box of cherry and one box of orange?"
"Because your Dad likes for me to buy the variety pack."
Let's just say that I felt like I was arguing with my Dad, so I decided to quit while the quitting was good. I'm having surgery on my shoulder later this month, and I didn't want to waste these few remaining days arguing with my wife about how she should improve her Popsicle-buying skills. More than that, I still had high hopes for a romantic evening. I've gotten a lot of things out of sympathy, and, let me tell you, I've enjoyed them all just as much.
But I digress...
What would have been perfect is if my Dad had walked in just then and wanted a Popsicle, but that didn't happen until a few days later.
Cut to a few days later:
As my wife and I sat enjoying our coffee and reading the newspaper late one morning, my Dad went off for his morning walk. The weather was kind of cool. I thought about giving him a head's up about it, but then decided against it. The weather wasn't that cool. In fact, it was heating up quite nicely. But, before I tell you what happened next...
Let me take a moment here to tell you about our coffee maker. It makes a darn good cup of coffee, but--BUT!--it only makes ONE cup of coffee at a time.
We used to have a coffee maker that made TWELVE cups of coffee at a time, but sadly it's been demoted to taking up space in one of the storage shelves in our garage. We still take it out for parties, for company, or for whenever the need arises for making a lot of coffee all at once.
And let me tell you, THAT coffee maker was pretty reasonably priced. It cost us only $24.99 plus tax. Our new coffee maker, the one that only makes ONE cup of coffee at a time, cost us $139.99!
What can I say? My wife wanted it, so I bought it for her. If she didn't get it, she wouldn't be happy. And if my wife's not happy, then nobody's happy. On the other hand, if I'm not happy, nobody cares.
But, once again, I digress...
When my Dad got back, he took his little dog off his leash, and the doggie ran straight for his water dish. My Dad had something else in mind. He took off his walking hat, and I could see a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. I guess despite the cool weather, my Dad had warmed up a bit. Maybe it's that sweater he always wears.
He opened the door to the freezer, and started rummaging around.
"What are you looking for, Dad?" my wife asked him. She's helpful that way.
My Dad didn't answer. Maybe he didn't hear, maybe he did. Who knows? What he did do was continue to rummage around in the freezer.
If there's one thing I can say about my wife, she's not a quitter.
"If you tell me what you're looking for, I can tell you if we have it or not."
That got my Dad's attention.
He looked up, but kept the freezer door open. I swear I could see little dollar signs floating away with the cold mist.
"Don't we have any cherry Popsicles?" he asked her, and I know you know what's coming.
"Sorry, Dad," she told him. "I haven't been to the store, and that's all that's left from the variety pack."
"I swear," my Dad said grumpily, as he finally shut the freezer door, "I don't know why you buy those variety packs. You know I only like cherry."
My Dad didn't raise a fool. I wisely kept my eyes on the Sport's page of my newspaper, but I must admit...
...I had the biggest smile on my face.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
Hmm, we had plenty of Popsicles... but they were all of the white variety. I don't even know what flavor white is. I grabbed one anyway. Something's better than nothing, I guess. Even if it's something you don't want.
I looked at the plain white wrapper it came in. There wasn't anything on it to indicate what flavor it was either. I opened it anyway, and took a lick...
It tasted like feet!
My wife had the bad judgement to walk in the kitchen at that moment. She saw the look on my face.
"You better finish them," she told me, "because nobody likes those."
Say what? Why's it my job to eat these Popsicles that taste like the bottom of a bird cage? The last time I tasted something that nasty, my ex-wife made it special for my birthday.
"If nobody likes them, then why do you buy them?" I asked her quite reasonably.
First, she gave me The Look, and then SHE said, also quite reasonably, "Your Dad likes them."
I backtracked a bit, and then I asked her another question, I didn't bother being reasonable, "If my Dad likes them, then why doesn't HE eat them?"
"Well..." it was her turn to backtrack, "...he doesn't really like them. He likes me to buy the variety pack, and that's one of the flavors."
"If you buy a variety pack, then where are the cherry Popsicles?"
"He eats those."
"How about the orange?"
"I eat those."
"The grape?"
"We eat those when we run out of cherry and orange."
"But cherry's my favorite."
"It's also your Dad's."
"I also like orange."
"That's my favorite."
"The grape?"
"We eat those when we don't have a choice."
You might think that I was just rambling, but there was a method to my madness.
"If everybody likes cherry and orange, then why don't you buy one box of cherry and one box of orange?"
"Because your Dad likes for me to buy the variety pack."
Let's just say that I felt like I was arguing with my Dad, so I decided to quit while the quitting was good. I'm having surgery on my shoulder later this month, and I didn't want to waste these few remaining days arguing with my wife about how she should improve her Popsicle-buying skills. More than that, I still had high hopes for a romantic evening. I've gotten a lot of things out of sympathy, and, let me tell you, I've enjoyed them all just as much.
But I digress...
What would have been perfect is if my Dad had walked in just then and wanted a Popsicle, but that didn't happen until a few days later.
Cut to a few days later:
As my wife and I sat enjoying our coffee and reading the newspaper late one morning, my Dad went off for his morning walk. The weather was kind of cool. I thought about giving him a head's up about it, but then decided against it. The weather wasn't that cool. In fact, it was heating up quite nicely. But, before I tell you what happened next...
Let me take a moment here to tell you about our coffee maker. It makes a darn good cup of coffee, but--BUT!--it only makes ONE cup of coffee at a time.
We used to have a coffee maker that made TWELVE cups of coffee at a time, but sadly it's been demoted to taking up space in one of the storage shelves in our garage. We still take it out for parties, for company, or for whenever the need arises for making a lot of coffee all at once.
And let me tell you, THAT coffee maker was pretty reasonably priced. It cost us only $24.99 plus tax. Our new coffee maker, the one that only makes ONE cup of coffee at a time, cost us $139.99!
What can I say? My wife wanted it, so I bought it for her. If she didn't get it, she wouldn't be happy. And if my wife's not happy, then nobody's happy. On the other hand, if I'm not happy, nobody cares.
But, once again, I digress...
When my Dad got back, he took his little dog off his leash, and the doggie ran straight for his water dish. My Dad had something else in mind. He took off his walking hat, and I could see a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. I guess despite the cool weather, my Dad had warmed up a bit. Maybe it's that sweater he always wears.
He opened the door to the freezer, and started rummaging around.
"What are you looking for, Dad?" my wife asked him. She's helpful that way.
My Dad didn't answer. Maybe he didn't hear, maybe he did. Who knows? What he did do was continue to rummage around in the freezer.
If there's one thing I can say about my wife, she's not a quitter.
"If you tell me what you're looking for, I can tell you if we have it or not."
That got my Dad's attention.
He looked up, but kept the freezer door open. I swear I could see little dollar signs floating away with the cold mist.
"Don't we have any cherry Popsicles?" he asked her, and I know you know what's coming.
"Sorry, Dad," she told him. "I haven't been to the store, and that's all that's left from the variety pack."
"I swear," my Dad said grumpily, as he finally shut the freezer door, "I don't know why you buy those variety packs. You know I only like cherry."
My Dad didn't raise a fool. I wisely kept my eyes on the Sport's page of my newspaper, but I must admit...
...I had the biggest smile on my face.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
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