Off To Costco (Part Three)

     I have no luck getting it to work, and my wife now wants to buy my Dad a new TV.
     Buy him a new TV ?
     "He never watched the old one," I tell my wife when we're back in the kitchen.  "He is always in the great room watching the family set." I say "watching," but what I really mean is "hogging." 
     "He likes to listen to his music," she counters.
     Is she telling me that a thousand bucks have to be spent so my Dad can listen to music on one of the music channels on the TV? There's a cheaper alternative to that: Listen to it on the radio. He already has one of those, and it works pretty good when he doesn't lower the volume and think it's broken. Besides, I know who's going to end up getting stuck paying for my Dad's new TV.

     Today my wife invites me to go to Costco with her.

     "Costco?" my Dad says, his ears perking up. He likes to go to Costco.

     I know what that means, since we just went to Costco yesterday.

     She's buying a new TV set.

     There's no sense arguing or fighting with the boss lady. Just move on. Go with the flow, and today the flow will be taking me to Costco, where I'll enjoy a hot dog and a cold drink... AND buy a new TV. 
     Let me take a quick break here to tell you a hot dog story. My younger brother and I took a trip to Las Vegas. We were seeing the sights, drinking those dollar margaritas, and somewhere along the line we got our hands on a coupon book for a particular casino which shall remain nameless, but only because I can't remember which one it was. With the book we got a free pull on a slot machine, a pack of cards, some dice, and a coupon for a free foot-long hot dog. I don't like hot dogs, but I love FREE hot dogs. We made our way to the concession area, and got in line. I was first, grabbed y hot dog, and gave the cashier my coupon. My brother was behind me, and I assumed he did the same. I put some mustard, ketchup, and relish on my hot dog, and went to find a table to sit down at. I assumed my brother did the same, and would join me. When I sat down, my brother was right behind me with his hot dog in one hand, a smile on his face, and... the coupon for the free hot dog in his other hand!
     HE PAID FIVE BUCKS FOR A FREE HOT DOG!
     "What were you thinking?" I asked him, laughing.
     "I was just so happy to get a free foot-long I forgot to hand him my coupon," he, rather sheepishly, admitted.
     Like a good big brother...
     I'VE NEVER LET HIM FORGET IT.
     But back to Costco...

     To make a long story short, we buy him a new TV. A 36" TV. High definition, but I guess they all come that way nowadays.

     What did I say my TV is? An 18" with NO CONVERTOR. I guess there will be no listening to the music channels for me.

     We get home and my wife tells him that we have bought him a new TV.

     "Ohhhhhh," my Dad says. "A new TV . . . hmmmmmmm . . . I hope it works better then the old one . . . click click click smack smack smack . . . A new TV? Ohhh, ahhh--hee, hee, hee."

     He shakes his head.
     My Dad is nothing but gracious.

     "I don't know," he continues, shaking his head some more with a cat-caught-the-canary on his face. "I hope it works."

     And he walks into the great room to watch his game.

     No "Thank you."

     No "Here's a few bucks to help pay for it."

     No "Thanks, son." . . .

     No "You shouldn't have."

     "Are you hungry?" my wife asks him. She loves that old man.

     "You're busy," my Dad tells her. "Don't worry about me."
     Which means, "Darn tootin' I'm hungry."

     And he walks away into the great room to watch his game.
     Mumbling and clicking and smacking.

    

  

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Another TV? (Part Two)

So I check the TV out.
     ""It just quit working," my Dad is chattering from some place far away.
     Actually, he's only about two feet away, but I'm trying to ignore all the chatter and figure out what the problem is.
     "I didn't do anything to it."
     First things first, I check to make sure the TV is plugged in. I know it is, but, well, you never know. Maybe it's not. But it is.
     "I didn't touch it."
     I ask my wife if she could please go get me two AA batteries. When faced with a problem, it's best to eliminate the easy stuff first.
     "I don't know why it's not working."
     The only thing I know for sure is that, for some reason, the TV has no power.
     "It should work..."
     I look around. Everything that's electrical and should be on, is on. Everything, that is, except the TV.
     "...but it doesn't."
     I pull the plug from the bottom outlet, and plug it into the top one. I press the on-button that's on the TV manually this time. Still no juice.
     "I just don't know."
     I unplug the TV and grab the clock radio. I plug it in the top electrical socket. It works. I plug it in the bottom. It works, too. 
     "Maybe it's the remote."
     By this time, my wife is back, and has brought me the AAs. I change the batteries in the remote control, thinking (hoping) that the problem is as simple as that. I press the on-button... but no dice.
     "Press it again."
     I press the on-button again... hmm, still no dice.
     "TVs, these days," my Dad says, shaking his head sadly.
     I tell my wife that all the connections are good but the TV has no  power. Why doesn't it have power?
     "What about the connections?" my Dad asks.
     I show her, the little remote light on it is off, which means that everything is off. 
     My Dad is craning his neck to see around us.
     I'm keeping one eye on him as he goes, "Hmmm... ahhh... ohhh,"  and I'm keeping my other eye on the problem at hand.
     "How 'bout... nah, that wouldn't work..." my Dad says to himself, thinking out loud. 

     We have no luck getting it to work. I say we, since there are three of us, but, really, it's me accomplishing nothing.
     "Maybe we need to buy Dad a new TV?" my wife, trying to be helpful, unhelpfully suggests.
     "A new TV?" my Dad echoes. My Dad can't hear half the time, but THAT he heard.
     I push my brain harder to figure out what could be wrong with the TV. There's only so many buttons I can push, and so many connections I can check. Another TV?
     Heck, my Dad never even uses THIS one, and here my wife is wanting to replace it.
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene

  

My Dad's TV (Part One)

     Just shoot me, right between the eyes... twice.

      Remember the incident with my Dad's radio not working? And the reason was something as simple as the volume not being turned up? Well, a few days ago, my Dad tells my wife that his (his?) TV isn't working. My wife, who likes to read mystery novels and fancies herself quite the detective, goes into his room to conduct her investigation.
     Yep, it won't turn on.
     Somehow, I get involved in it.
     "Honey," my wife says, using her sweet-as-honey voice. I know something's up. "Your dad's TV isn't working."
     "I guess it's time for him to buy himself a new one," I tell her. Kidding, but not really.
     "No, really. Can you check it out for him?"
     "What's the point?"
     I'm really not trying to be rude, but I've barely sat down to enjoy a nice, hot cup of gourmet coffee (one of my rare indulgences), and read the morning newspaper, which is another rare indulgence, because--now that I think about it-my Dad usually beats me to the paper, and hogs the whole darn thing up. He got better about sharing it, for a time there, but people are creatures of habit, and he went back to his old habit of claiming the newspaper as if he was the one paying for it.
     "Excuse me?" my wife says, her eyes bulging out a bit, kind of like the way my Dad does when he's confronted with something he doesn't understand, like how to turn on a TV set without breaking it.
     Okay, I'm not stupid. I know I crossed some kind of line here, so I try to backtrack a little. It's still early in the day, and if the day starts off this way, then it's going to be a very long day, indeed.
     "I mean, what's the point? Dad watches TV in the great room anyway? So what if his TV doesn't work?"
     My wife continues to give me a new version of what I like to call The Look, and I continue to dig myself into a deeper, no-whoopie-tonight hole.
     "In fact, how did he even know his TV wasn't working? He never watches it."
     "Of course he watches it."
     "No, he doesn't."
     "Yes, he does."
     "No, he doesn't."
     "Yes, he does."
     This seems silly to me, and, in that silliness, I wonder if I could get away with doing that trick Bugs Bunny use to do when he'd argue with Yosemite Sam. Bugs Bunny would go, "no, he doesn't," and Yosemite Sam would go, "yes, he does," and Bugs Bunny would go, "no, he doesn't," and Yosemite Sam would go, "yes, he does," and they'd say it over and over again, faster and faster, until Bugs Bunny would suddenly shift to, "yes, he  does," and Yosemite Sam would be tricked into saying, "no, he doesn't. And that's final!"
     Bugs would then take a cocky (no pun intended) bite from the carrot he always seemed to have with him, and say, "Well... if you insist, Doc. He doesn't."
     I think about trying this trick on my wife, but I figure it wouldn't work. I'm no Bugs Bunny, and she's certainly no Yosemite Sam.
     "Well, if he does," I tell her, "it must be when I'm asleep or away, because I always see him watching TV in the great room."
     She doesn't say anything. She just stands there, trying to stare me down. Maybe "trying" is the wrong word. I should have said STARING me down. Early in our marriage, I used to belly right up to the challenge and try to beat her at this little game, but it was no use. She must have spent hours as a little girl, practicing in front of a mirror, staring it down, and now she's the all-time world champ at it. These days, if she stared at the mirror, the mirror would blink. She could even out-stare Mike Tyson if she had the opportunity, but, of course, he would just punch her, and the match would be over.
     It's less like The Irresistible Force versus The Immovable Object, and more like The Irresistible Force versus The Guy Who Would Like To Have A Sex-Life, so I give in to the inevitable. I get up from my quickly-cooling cup of gourmet coffee, and go check my Dad's TV.
     As soon as I walk in my Dad's little father-in-law house in the front of our property, he tells me, "It just quit working. I didn't do anything to it. I didn't touch it."

     Hmmm, the first sign of guilt.
 

  

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Wandering Thoughts (Part Four)

I like to hike.
     When I hike my mind wanders off in many unrestricted directions. I don't control it, I just let it take me back into what could have been my future. Meandering down all the different avenues my life could have taken is one of the top five reasons why I like to get away, sit in the middle of nowhere, recall the good life, and imagine what might have been. It's the same driving along the long, lonely roads by myself to nowhere in particular. No blab, blab, blab from love ones to interrupt my thoughts.
     Many moons ago, it was my senior year in high school and I was dating the Wicked Witch of the West Coast. To make a long story short, we had a fight (which was nothing new) and were broken up (which was also pretty common). Too bad it wasn't the final break up, but I do realize that if it had been, then I wouldn't be the man I am today, living the life I have.  A good life. A life I wouldn't trade for anything else in the world.
     Instead, we got back together, and eventually got married. Like Captain Kirk once told Bones, "It's our pain that makes us who we are."
     My current wife once asked me why I married my former wife. I explained to her that when I'm looking for a girlfriend, the first thing I look for is intelligence. If she doesn't have that... then I marry her. Let me tell you, my wife hits pretty hard for a girl.  Anyway...
     Within days after our break-up, I started dating a sophomore who had the prettiest, greenest light-colored eyes. Green eyes are rare in general, but in the town I grew up in, they were almost non-existent. She was a very beautiful girl, quiet with a great smile. A normal body for a 15 year-old, but she wore micro mini-skirts and had the legs to pull it off. She also wore her hair in the style of the times: short. She was a beautifully ordinary 15 year-old girl, that is, except for the color of her hair. The color of her hair was platinum blonde.
     That was also almost non-existent. You'd have a better chance of seeing Bigfoot walking down Main Street with Elvis, than a girl with platinum blonde hair. I've always wondered if it was her natural color, and I always regretted I never had the chance to find out. You see...
     After the Witch found out that I had replaced her within days, she got me to go back with her, using the one Weapon of Mass Seduction she had at her disposal, Lord knows it wasn't her personality. Again, I wish I hadn't gone back with her, but I was weak. A bird in the hand... and all that. (Sex researchers say that sex drains you of all your energy. I don't know about that, my ex-wife always seemed to have enough energy to steal money out of my wallet after I'd go to sleep.)
     Still, if I hadn't, who knows where I would have ended up. Maybe I'd be just another loser living with my parents and waiting for them to die so I could inherit their house, like a buddy I have who was in his forties and still had to have his mother co-sign for him so he could buy a car. He still owes me a thousand bucks, now that I think about it. He's owed it to me since the late 80's.
     I remember, toward the end of my first marriage, the Witch escorted me to our family doctor for a physical. She must have wanted something. I passed the physical with flying colors, but when the doctor asked me if I had any questions or concerns, I admitted that I just didn't have the same passion for my wife that I used to when we were younger.
     "What is it, doc?" I asked him, worried. "Is my testosterone low? Am I just getting old? Could it be something serious?"
     The doctor called in the Witch. I thought he wanted to talk with her, get her opinion on the matter, but instead he just had her stand in the middle of the small examination room wearing her thong of indecency, and walked around her, looking her up and down, carefully checking her out. Then he turned back to me.
     "You're fine," he said. "She doesn't do a thing for me, either."
     So,...if I hadn't gotten back with her, then I wouldn't have the wife I have now, the kids I have now, the grandkids I have now, or the 94 year-old Dad I have living with me now. In the end, I guess, my ex-wife made me want to be a better man.
     And that's why I left her and got a better wife.
     The girl with the platinum blonde hair's name was Esperanza, which is Spanish for Hope. Hopie was the nickname I gave her, and I would love to see Hopie again . . . but not as she is now, a 60+ year old women, but as the 15 year-old girl I had such a crush on. Which brings me to... 
     One of the other of the five things I think about on my hikes is, after death, will we see our family and friends the way we want to, or will we see them the way they were when they died? Old and frail and sick? 
     Mom in her hospital bed, sometimes remembering who I was. Sometimes not. Dad high-stepping it in his late 90's, and taking his time in the tool section of Wal-Mart when I'm in a hurry. Will we see our grandparents young and strong, or old and angry because we just told them they weren't allowed to drive anymore?
     If that's the case, then no thank you.
     I don't want to be around a bunch of elderly men and women, if that's the way heaven is, talking about aches and pains and surgeries and bodily functions that no longer function. Billy Joel put it this way:

I'd rather laugh with the sinners,

than cry with the saints.

The sinners are much more fun.

 

     When I hike, I remember some girls I haven't thought of since I graduated from high school. I often wonder if those same girls I think about ever think about me. If they do...

     I hope they think of me young and strong.
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

 

So... How Did It End? (Part Three)

"What took you guys so long?" my wife asked my Dad and I, as we walked into the kitchen.  Me with an armload of grocery bags. My Dad with his hands as empty as the cupboard where Congress keeps its good ideas.
     "I wanted to hurry," my Dad snitched, "but loverboy here was flirting with two young girls."
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

 

I've Still Got It (Part Two)

Back when I was in high school, I dated the girl who would one day become my first wife (let's just call her the Wicked Witch of the West Coast, since she deserves it). As with most high school romances, there were highs and there were lows. There was much passion, and there was much crap I had to take to get to that passion. Sometimes the crap was too much to take, and I'd say, "the hell with it," and break up with her. By coincidence, this was usually just before a gift-giving holiday or anniversary.
     On one of those many occasions, I began dating a sweet girl. I'd tell you her name, but I don't want you to see me crying from the memory. She was the nicest, the prettiest, the sweetest-smelling girl I had ever dated, but, alas, before our relationship could develop into anything more serious, my future ex-wife must have noticed how happy I was and couldn't stand it. So she pulled a Roe Versus Wade on my relationship by winning me back with the one thing she had to win me back with. (Come on, guys. You know what I'm talking about.)
     The rest of my life I've spent wondering what that sweet girl was doing, where she was, and what would have happened if only...
     Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:
     My Dad and I went to Wal-Mart on the 4th of July to buy some last minute supplies for a cookout we were having later that day.
     "Dad," I told him as we were walking into the store, "this has to be quick. Let's just get what we need, and get out."
     I told him that, because the Wal-Mart was packed. I didn't want to spend all my time walking up and down the aisles window-shopping and avoiding people who look like what was left of the human race at the end of the Pixar movie Wall-e.
     "Yeah, yeah," is what my Dad said.
     "Whatever," is what he meant.
     I grabbed a cart, and we quickly went through the produce department. Tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and I forget what else. My Dad's doing a good job of keeping up with me, and I think he sees it as one of his walks, because I see him high-stepping it when the crowd of shoppers parts like Moses and the Red Sea, and he has enough room.
     Boom! We grab some charcoal, some lighter fluid (I like to do things the way our caveman ancestors used to), some beer... and I think we're done. I check my list. Yeah, we're done.
     "Okay, Dad," I told him, "I think that's about it."
     "We're done?"
     "We're done."
     ...pause...
     "I'm going to look at the tools."
     What? Look at the tools? I thought we were done. If I had known he wanted to look at the tools I would have left him there, done my shopping, and then picked him up on my way to the checkout.
     "Dad," I told him. Pleaded really. "We don't have time."
     "It won't take long."
     "But our cookout."
     He starts walking in the direction of the other side of the store where he assumes the tools will be.
     "We have guests coming," I say, and then he really starts high-stepping it.
     "I'll be quick," he assures me. F.U. is what he means.
     Twenty minutes later, he's still looking at the tools, and I'm parked at the end of the aisle, out of the way of the cart traffic, waiting for him to get done. There was no use trying to hurry him up, because if he thought I was trying to hurry him up, he would just take twice as long out of spite.
     "Excuse me," a voice said. A female voice. "Do you work here?"
     I turn to see two old ladies. I'm dressed casually in shorts, t-shirt, athletic shoes, and a baseball cap.
     "Do I look like I work here?" I think to myself.
     "No, ma'am," I say instead, "I don't."
     "Oh," she said. "You just look like you work here."
     "Thanks, old lady," I think to myself, "and you look like..."
     "No, sorry. I'm just waiting for my Dad," I explain, and I nod in the direction of my high-stepping, tool-appreciating father.
     "Aren't you a sweet one," she told me, and I could swear she batted her eyes when she said it.
     I looked at her and her partner. I didn't know if they were friends or sisters or Don't Ask/Don't Tells.
     "Well..." I said, and I shrugged.
     "Do you always bring your father with you?" her friend said.
     "Not if I can help it," I thought.
     "Of course," I said.
     You know, those two old ladies weren't that bad looking for two old ladies. In their prime, during the Great Depression, I bet they were really hot stuff. Maybe I could set one of them up with my Dad. Maybe both of them. My Dad exercises.
     But, as they continued making small talk, I could swear they were flirting with me. The way they'd playfully laugh and bat their eyes and lightly reach out and touch my arm when they made a point.
     I guess old ladies need love, too.
     Meanwhile, my Dad was taking his sweet time looking at everything and buying nothing. He didn't even notice me with those two ladies and the potential for a double-date.
     Somehow our conversation came around to where we went to high school. They went to school locally, while I went to school in a different city, in fact, in a completely different state.
     (Now here's the part of the story where it gets really sad in a kind of Twilight Zone kind of twist.)
     "So... when did you graduate?" I asked them, expecting them to tell me a date that probably included those cavemen ancestors I had mentioned before.
     Lawyers have a rule (I mean the one other than the one where if they see a rock they must get blood from it), and that rule is: Don't ask a question you don't know the answer to.
     I have a rule, too. It's: Don't ask a question you don't want to know the answer to.
     To my great shock and surprise, those two old ladies, whose Social Security Numbers I could swear were #000-00-0001 and #000-00-0002, graduated from high school the same year I did!
     Hey, I've got mirrors. There's no way I look as old as those two ladies. I exercise. Just like my Dad.
     My Dad! Wow! Now that I've found out these ladies are as young as I am, I think my Dad would be more open to dating one or more of them. Only, they weren't interested in my Dad. They were interested in me.
     "Well," I told them, "it was nice talking with you, but I've got to go."
     They both opened their mouths to say something, but I could guess what they were about to say, so I beat them to the punch.
     "My wife's waiting for us," I told them, and the flirtatious spark went out of their eyes, replaced by the dull look of disappointment.
     Then again, maybe it was all my imagination. I probably looked as old to them as they did to me. They were probably just being friendly, and my ego was getting the best of me. We all want to feel attractive. We all want to feel like we've still got it.
     It may be heavier, hairier, and closer to the ground, but we've still got it.
     In my mind, I'm still the goofy high school kid I once was. My body, however, tells me something different. Never mind what the mirror says.
     As my Dad and I walked to the checkout, I started thinking about the girls I used to date in high school, the girl I told you about at the beginning of this story in particular. I wonder what she looks like. In my mind, she's still 16 years-old, but, like those two old ladies I was talking to, time has since danced her forward into maturity.
     Sometimes it's better not knowing.
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
 

Pajama Bottoms For Pants? (Part One)

If you think all I do is complain about how my Dad claims my favorite chair like he's Spain and my chair's an undiscovered country, well, you'd be wrong.
     This being an almost-Fourth of July Weekend, my wife had the good sense yesterday to send me to Wal-Mart to buy the few last-minute items we needed to make our cookout for that afternoon a success. I say she had the good sense, because she knew something I didn't... Wal-Mart was going to be packed!
     "Why don't you take your Dad?" she asked me.
     "What?"
     "Why don't you take your Dad?"
     Now I'm starting to understand why "What?" is my dad's favorite question. It's fun to say.
     I looked over to my favorite chair in the great room. The one with the perfect view of the big-screen TV. The one that was being occupied by my Dad. He was sitting there, but the TV was off. He does that sometimes.
     "What?" I asked my wife again.
     She wasn't buying it.
     "Just ask your Dad," she told me.
     Well, to be honest, it was more of an order than it was a "told," and if there's one thing I don't like, it's being "ordered" to do anything. I like being asked. Nicely. That way I can pretend it's my idea. Now, I could have been offended at being ordered around by my wife, but she would have just gotten mad and I would have still ended up taking my Dad with me, so I cut out all that "being offended" stuff.
     "Dad."
     "What?"
     "Dad!"
     "What?"
     "Do you want to come with me to Wal-Mart?"
     "Where?"
     "To Wal-Mart."
     "Do I want to go?"
     "Yeah."
     "Where?"
     "To Wal-Mart."
     "To Wal-Mart?"
     "Yeah."
     "I don't know, I'm watching TV."
     He looks at the TV. It's still off.
     "I guess I'll go," he tells me.
     I feel like I'm in the middle of a bad sitcom.
     We get in the car, and, as we're driving down the road, I start slowing down for a yellow light. At the corner to my right is a convenience store. A guy gets out of his car at the gas pumps, and I don't believe what I see.
     I don't know if it's because of this being on or around Gay Pride Week, but the guy's wearing a black or dark-blue see-through mesh t-shirt and dark-blue swim trunks. Not Speedos, but close. He's also wearing white athletic shoes with white socks. Somehow, those seem oddest of all. He's lean, fit, but not really muscular. He looks like a dork.
     "Dad," I say, coming to a complete stop, as the light turns red.
     "What?"
     "Look at that guy," I tell him, nodding in the direction of the convenience store's gas pumps. I don't know if my Dad understands me or not, but he looks in the right direction. I see his eyes bulge out a bit at what he sees.
     "Is that guy..." my Dad says slowly, trying to find the right words, "...getting gas?"
     You have to understand, my Dad doesn't like it when he sees "these young kids" walking around with their pants below their butts, and he especially doesn't like it when he sees grown men wandering around in public wearing pajama bottoms for pants, so what he thought about this old-enough-to-know-better guy wearing a bathing suit to get gas wasn't too hard to figure out.
     I remember taking my Dad for a haircut once. We were sitting there, waiting our turn, when in walked a guy in his thirties wearing a black leather jacket, black Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses, black Nikes... and pajama bottoms! You could tell he thought he looked cool by the way he walked in talking on his cellphone, but, in reality, those pajama bottoms made him look like a dork.
     "He's a grown man," my Dad leaned over and whispered to me. "Why's he wearing pajama bottoms?"
     To be truthful, I had no idea. The best answer I could come up with was that he must not have known how stupid he looked. Which was the exact same thought I had when I saw Mr. Bathing Suit In Public Guy.
     My Dad leaned over. He whispered, even though there was no reason to.
     "He's a grown man. Why's he wearing Speedos?"
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene