The More Things Change

It's time for dinner.
     I don't have to consult a psychic, I can read the signs myself. My Dad has just walked into the house and is standing in the kitchen looking like he's just lost something.
     My wife is still putting it all together. She grabs all the veggies out of the refrigerator, makes a quick but tasty salad, and sets it where she always does: on the counter top for all of us to help ourselves.
     Hmmm, help ourselves. We've only done this a million times before.
     My Dad slowly walks to the counter where the salad is and stands in front of it. He doesn't know I'm watching him. If he does, he doesn't care. Meanwhile, my wife is working on the other half of dinner. She has her back to him.

     I watch my Dad just stand there in front of the counter looking at the salad. Standing. Looking. Standing. Looking. Standing and looking some more.
     "Ahhh, my Dad says. "Hmmm." Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click! "Ahhh, mmmm."
     He's not making a move. He's just staring at the veggies. If they were people, they'd be under his hypnotic spell by now. Maybe he'd even be having them rob banks for him, the evil puppet master.
     I take a glance at the veggies myself, trying to see what he's seeing. Nope, they're just plain ol' veggies. I have an old girlfriend I used to date who might find the cucumbers interesting, but other than that, there's nothing special about them.
     After two or three minutes my wife notices that my dad has not served himself his salad and has just been standing in front of the counter. She takes a quick look, sprints (I'm kidding, but not by much.) to the cabinet right next to him, and gets his favorite salad dish out and places it in front of him.

     And that's when, and only when, my Dad starts to serve himself salad.

     Ah, the more things change, the worse they get... I mean, stay the same.
 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny

@JimDuchene

   

The Bacon Story Continues

I don't get it. I've lived a pretty healthy life.

     I watch what I eat. I exercise. I say my prayers before I go to bed at night. And yet, because of various clogged arteries, I've got to watch what I eat.

     My 94-year-old father, on the other hand, has eaten bacon pretty much every day of his long life. Give or take the time during World War Two when he was in the Philippines courtesy of Uncle Sam. But if there was bacon on that island, I'm sure my Dad found it.

     And HIS heart is fine and dandy, thank you very much. Not that I'm wishing him heart problems. I just wonder why, after all his smoking and drinking and bacon-eating, HE'S healthy as a horse, and after all my vitamins and organic foods and weight-lifting, I'M the one who ended up doing a Fred Sanford impersonation.
     Not only that, remember when I told you about how I threw out my back picking a weed from the backyard? Well, I just threw it out AGAIN giving my dog a bath. I'm the kind of guy who REFUSES to take pills, but it just goes to show you how much in pain I was that when my wife offered me a muscle relaxant... I took it. But I digress...

     My Dad likes bacon with his breakfast and beans with his dinner. In a restaurant, when he orders a cup of coffee, the waitress had better bring along a side of beans with it.

     In the last five years I don't think he hasn't been served bacon with his breakfast, more then once or twice. And when he goes to the doctor for his annual check-up or finger where fingers aren't supposed to go, he gets the All Clear.
     He wants his bacon. The only problem with giving him his bacon is that at the end of every year, around this time, he will complain about the bacon he has been eating for the previous twelve months.
     It's too thick.
     It's too thin.
     It's too salty.
     It's not salty enough.
     It's not Oscar Meyer.
     I hate Oscar Meyer.
     What happened to my Oscar Meyer?
     So, every year--around this time--my wife makes the mistake of listening to him and she changes the brand and cut of his bacon.

     Last week when she served him his breakfast with bacon, he not only told her he didn't like the it, didn't want it, but he also said, "That bacon..." (that he's been eating for over a year) "...you served me isn't any good. I don't like it. I don't want any of that bacon. Blah, blah, blah. Mumble, mumble, mumble." Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click!

     "Hmm," I thought to myself, "with the cost of bacon going up, I might just be saving myself a few bucks." Now, if I can only get him to stop eating ice cream and desserts, I could really start save some serious cash.

     Anyway, later in the day I asked my wife, "What was that all about? He always eats bacon."

     She shakes her head and tells me (in her He's-YOUR-Dad tone of voice), "Well, the other day he got a piece of bacon stuck between his teeth and it bothered him all night long. He blames the bacon."
     "Did he floss?" I asked her, in all innocence.
     That's when she gave me her He's-YOUR-Dad look.

     So I checked the wrapper the bacon came in and it had a claim written on it. It said: "This bacon is guaranteed not to get stuck between the teeth of anyone over 96-years-old."

     I showed it to my Dad, but he just dismissed it.

     "I'm 95," he told me, but I really think he recognized my handwriting on the bacon wrapper. I guess I won't be pretending to write a complaint to that bacon company, after all. My Dad is a very amusing individual to live with. I often wonder what nonsense he's going to come up with next.
     The water he drinks makes him go to the bathroom too often at night?
     I know that's what happens to me.
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny

@JimDuchene

  

   

What Does THAT Have To Do With Anything?

"Do you want some bacon with your pancakes?"

     I love my wife. She keeps me well-fed. Unfortunately, that isn't me she's asking. She's talking to my Dad.

     "Do I want what?" my Dad asks her in return.

     "Bacon."

     "Hmm..." he says, considering it. And then, "What?"

     "I'd like some bacon," I tell my wife.

     She ignores me, and continues asking my Dad, "Bacon. Do you want some bacon with your pancakes."

     "I already have pancakes," my Dad informs her.

     "I'd like some bacon," I inform her, too.

     She turns her head to me.

     "You can't have any," she informs me back.

     Jeez... you have one little heart attack.

     "Not pancakes, Dad. Bacon. Do you want any?"

     "Any what?"

     "Bacon."

     "Bacon?"

     "Yes, Dad. Bacon."

     My Dad sits back in his chair, looks at his rapidly cooling pancakes, and takes his time considering my wife's question.

     "Hmm... ahh... well... you know I don't like that bacon you bought," he tells her. "I told you, it's tough."

     Tough? It's the same bacon he's been eating for only the last five years. And now he's got a problem with it?

     Let me clue you guys in on something. My wife isn't just a good cook... she's a great cook. Even if she bought bacon that was tough, she would find a way to make it not tough. I don't know how she would do it, but she would do it.

     Sometimes I think my Dad just complains to complain. I've never noticed any of his complaints keeping him from eating the food he's complaining about. And I've never noticed him complaining when I'm taking out my wallet to pay for the food he likes to complain about. Personally, I think the only people who should be allowed to complain are the people who are footing the bill. Whether it's me on the small scale or American taxpayers on the grand scale.

     What's my Dad going to complain about next? Me?

     "I don't like your husband."

     "My husband?"

     "Yeah. He's always watching me when I'm trying to read the newspaper."

     "That's your son, Dad."

     "What does that have to do with anything?"

 

 

Raising My Father

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@JimDuchene

 

Have I Done What?

I don't know if you've been listening to the news these last few days, but it's been raining down where I live. Yeah, raining.
     A lot.
     When it rains, I like to stay indoors. I don't particularly care to go outside, and I don't especially care to drive anywhere. Too many people who don't know the difference between hydroplane and hydrogen.

     Today, I'm sitting in the kitchen. I'm looking over the 50th anniversary issue of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition until my father releases the morning newspaper from his wrinkly little fingers.
     When I have time, I'm trying to finish reading a great book called Unbroken. A good portion of it takes place in various Japanese POW camps. The Japanese didn't hang onto their World War Two prisoners the way my Dad hangs onto the morning newspaper.
     Every once in a while, I can see him looking over the top of his newspaper and over at one of the beautiful bikini-clad models on the cover of my magazine. On the front of the cover is a model showing off her boobs, and on the back cover are three models showing off their oompa-loompas.

     I'm drinking a hot cup of coffee.

     I'm wearing a t-shirts, shorts, no shoes.
     It's still raining.

     My Dad is looking at the newspaper, looking at the models, and drinking his hot tea. He lifts his head and looks out the window at the rain. He sits there like that for awhile...
     Yep, it's still raining.
     Without turning to look at me or addressing me, he asks no one in particular, but I know he's talking to me, he mumbles, "Hmm..." Click, click, click! Smack, smack, smack! "Ahhh... Have you taken him outside yet?"
     "What, Dad?"
     Still not looking at me.
     "Have you taken him outside yet?"
     "Who's that, Dad?"
     "What?"
     "Who am I supposed to take outside, Dad?"
     You see, my Dad has a dog, and that's who he's talking about. My wife's not in the kitchen with us. If she was, she would do it because she has a kind heart. That's one of the reasons I married her. Another reason is that she could have been the forth model on the back cover of Sports Illustrated.
     Myself, when it comes to putting my kind heart to good use, I'm a bit more stubborn.

     I don't feed his dog.

     I didn't want his dog.

     It's not my job to take his dog outside to do its business.
     In fact, I don't even know what the dog's doing in my house. Or my Dad, for that matter. My Dad has a very nice father-in-law house in the front of our property, and that's where I expected him to spend most of his time when I first asked him to move in with me and my family. But first thing in the morning, my Dad lets himself into our kitchen, sits at the table, and waits for my wife to serve him breakfast. While he's waiting, he'll hog the newspaper. Some mornings he'll hang onto it for so long, that I'll just have to forgo reading it for that day. Time's too short, and I have too much to do. If I knew I was going to have to spend my days working so long and so hard, I would never have retired. I would have stayed at my old job, where I had it easy. But back to what my Dad said...

     I'm thinking: "Have I done what? Who is he even talking to?"
     His not looking at me pisses me off. I tell him, "Why would I take your dog outside? It's not my job, old man. I never take your dog outside. You do."
     Actually, that's what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, "No, Dad. I didn't."
     My Dad mumbles something (probably "jerk"), takes a drink of his tea, and looks outside. Still raining.
     He sighs, and again, he speaks to no one in particular, "I guess I'll take him outside."
     Yeah. You do that, old man.
     Hmmm, this hot coffee is good.
   
 

Raising My Father

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@JimDuchene