Oh, Well... Back To Shampooing

I'm upstairs vacuuming and shampooing the carpet. There was a time when I used to run with the wolves. How did I ever become so domesticated? Meanwhile, my wife is MIA. That means she's out shopping. Which means she's out spending money. I wish I lived in her world. My Dad is supposed to be downstairs watching TV.

     I go downstairs.

     0900 hours: All the lights are on in the great room, the kitchen, and the TV is blasting.

     Sometimes my father turns everything on, goes to his room, and comes back a few minutes later. Sometimes he turns everything on, goes to his room, and forgets to come back for hours. I don't know what he does in that little father-in-law house he lives in in the front of our property. Maybe he naps. Maybe he just sits and stares at the wall and thinks about his life. I do that sometimes. Mainly my old high school girlfriends. They were pretty hot back in the day. Now they probably look like grandmothers. Which they probably are. Why am I saying "probably"?

     Recently, an old high school girlfriend of mine tracked me down .

     I received an email from her that said: "Are you...? Who went to high school at...?"

     I answered back.

     "Give me a call," she wrote back, and included her phone number.

     I don't like to lie. Mainly because I'm not good at it. So I told my wife about her.

     "Do you mind if I give her a call?" I said, asking for permission. I thought it might be nice to catch up.

     Mind you, my wife and I have been married for a while now, so we've learned to be polite with each other.

     "I won't tell you what to do," she told me, "but it would hurt me."

     So I didn't call.
     Not that I would have, because the more I thought of it, the more I realized that my old high school girlfriend was just that: Old. Which looks good on me, but who knows what it looked like on her. I might have met her for coffee expecting to see the 16-year-old who showed me such a good time, but what I would have ended up doing was meeting someone who looked like one of my aunts, ruining a nice memory in the process.

     I end my stroll down memory lane, and get back to work. I wonder what all my old girlfriends would think if they saw me shampooing the carpet?

     0930 hours: All the lights are still on in the great room and kitchen. The TV is still blasting.

     I wonder what my Dad is doing.

     1000 hours: Same as the above.

     There's one sure way to get my Dad back in the house. that would be for me to sit in front of the TV in my favorite chair and put on something that's actually entertaining. If I did that, five seconds later he'd show up asking, "What's the rumpus?'

     1030 hours: Same as before. Where the heck is my Dad?

     I should go check on him, but who knows what he could be doing? Worst case scenario, I wake him up and he comes back into my house. I'm hard at work. I'm better off without the distraction.

     1100 hours: After busting my hump upstairs vacuuming and shampooing the carpet, I go back downstairs and still find it all lit up like Disneyland's Electric Light Parade on Christmas Eve.

     After two hours of wasting money, I figure enough is enough and go downstairs to turn everything off.

     1130 hours: Man, who knew shampooing carpets was such hard work? It sure seemed easier when I used to hire other people to do it back before I retired.

     As I turn off the machine to add more water and shampoo, I hear someone down stairs coughing real loud. I know it's my father. He's trying to get my attention.

     The cough could mean several things.

     It could mean: Anybody home?

     It could mean: Well, then, come turn on the TV for me.

     To: And make me a sandwich while you're at it. With chips.

     But I just freeze and listen. It appears that my Dad is somewhere downstairs, probably at the foot of the stairs, coughing up to the second floor. Why am I saying probably?

     The TV is still turned off. He doesn't know his daughter-in-law/personal assistant is out. What's my next move?

     The way I look at it is this: He has his own TV in his own room. He knows how to turn on the TV in the great room. He shouldn't have left the room for over two  hours and still expect everything to still be on. He knows the cost of wasting electricity--heck he only reminded me of it all of my teenage years--besides which, I'm busy.

     Sure, I took time out of my workday to aggravate myself by going downstairs to check on a room I knew was empty. And, sure, what would it hurt me to go downstairs to turn on the TV for him? Make him a burrito, which, if you're not familiar with one, is kind of like a sleeping-bag for beans.

     I could take off his slippers and give him a foot-rub. Do his nails. Comb his hair. He's already used to sitting down and being catered to hand and foot by my wife. As you can see, he won't even watch TV unless she's here to turn it on for him. He'd rather stand by the foot of the stairs coughing to get someone's attention.

     But what would that get me?

     Oh well... back to  shampooing.

 

 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  Fifty Shades of Funny

@JimDuchene

   

Not Once In Five Years

Did I tell you I've changed my sleeping schedule?
     Well, I have. 
     I now stay up until 2300 to 2400 hours (that's 11 to 12pm, for all you non-military types out there) every night. I read, write, and draw. I work out, work on my list of honey-do's, and I even work at being nicer to my Dad. I clean out the stuff I have taped on TV, spring clean my personal space, and clean all my guns--the ones I've bought and the ones my Dad has given me from his time in the Army during World War Two. I've been doing this for months.
     Why?
     Because I was beginning to sleep way too much in my advance age. I was going to bed before 2200 hours and sleeping until 0730 or later. Now I go to bed late, get up early, and sometimes even earlier than that.
     The sad truth about life is that when you retire, you find out that's there's even more stuff you have to do than when you were gainfully employed. Too much stuff to do and not enough hours in the day. Not a good combination. I tell my wife that retirement combines my two favorite things: working and not getting paid for working.
     Right now, I'm on a break while my wife is busy thinking up some new way to torture me. It's a testament to my good work ethic that I've finished all my chores. It reminds me of the scene in the classic movie Cool Hand Luke with Paul Newman, where Luke and the rest of his chain gang finish early topping off a newly paved road with sand. 
     "What do we do now?" one of the other prisoners asks him. They're used to working from sunup to sundown.
     Paul Newman just lays back and says, "Nothing. Not a damn thing."
     I look over at my Dad. I'm sitting here in the kitchen waiting for him to go take his afternoon nap. My Dad has other ideas and sits in the great room with the TV set on. He must know I'm up to something, because he won't follow his usual routine and leave. If you look in a dictionary under "stubborn old coot," you'll see a picture of my Dad.
     He's half asleep.
     Every once in a while I hear him snoring.
     I'm waiting my Dad out because there's one donut left on the counter, and it's my favorite. A glazed donut, topped with chocolate, and sprinkled with coconut. I know he hasn't touched it, because my saint of a wife put it on a plate for me and covered it with aluminum foil. I want to eat it but I can't with my Dad nodding off so close. If I make an attempt to grab it,  my eagle-eared father would hear the crinkle of the aluminum foil, wake up, and ask me what I was doing.
     And then I'd have to offer him a piece of it.
     It's not that I'm selfish, it's that... okay, I'm selfish. But the truth is, my Dad NEVER says no to food, not even to the food he doesn't want, and the donut is not large enough for two grown men to share. Before you think too badly of me, this is EXACTLY what would happen: I'd offer him a half of the donut, he'd take it, and then it would sit uneaten on a plate by his--my--favorite chair in the great room, until my wife throws it out at the end of the day.
     "You always give me too much food." he'd tell her as she cleans up after him.
     So I sit here, quietly waiting him out. Meanwhile, I can smell the donut. Even under the aluminum foil. Superman has super strength? I have super smell.

     My Dad is snoring, but every once in a while he'll wake up, take a drink of his hot tea--now cold--and gargle. He's picked up this nasty habit recently and it kills me. What is he, Chinese? He snores, wakes up, takes a swig, gargles, swishes it back and forth in his mouth, and then drinks it. He snores, wakes up, takes a swig, gargles, swishes it back and forth in his mouth, and then drinks it. He snores, wakes up, takes a swig, gargles, swishes it back and forth in his mouth, and then drinks it.
     What is up with that?
     On one of the occasions, he wakes up, follows his routine, and then looks around. He picks up the newspaper he's been hogging, looks at it, and shakes his head.
     "What's wrong, Dad," my sweet wife makes the mistake of asking him.
     My Dad continues looking at the paper and shaking his head.
     "Where's the baseball game?" he asks my wife without looking at her. "I can't find the baseball game."
     My wife looks at me, and I look at her.
     "It's on the TV in front of you, Dad," my wife offers.
     "What?" my Dad asks, probably wondering why she isn't offering him food instead.
     "The game's on the TV already, Dad," she lathers, rinses, and repeats.
     "What about the game?"
     "It's on the TV."
     My Dad finally looks up. He looks at my wife, he looks at the TV--yep, there's a baseball game on--and then he looks at my wife again.
     "No, no," he tells her. "I don't know who's playing today. The newspaper is all mixed up and I can't make heads or tails of it. Why can't there be something in the sports section that tells me who's playing baseball today?"
     He's got a point, but, actually, there is something in the newspaper that says who's playing today. It's called the TV listings, but it's in another section. The section which happens to be right in front of my wife. She's busy looking for another reality show to get hooked on, but takes a quick scan down to the MLB channel.

     "They're playing Arizona," she tells him.
     "What?"
     "Arizona."
     "Who?"
     "Arizona."
     "Did you say Arizona?"
     "Yes."
     "What about Arizona?"
     "That's who's playing."
     "Where?"
     "On TV."
     "That's what I want to know."
     "What?"
     "Who's playing on TV."
     "Arizona," my wife patiently tells him. Me? I don't get involved. "Arizona's playing."
     "Did you say Arizona?"
     "Yes, Dad. Arizona."
     My Dad takes a beat.
     "I knew that," he says.

     A while back, before I started my new sleeping schedule, my father was watching a baseball game that went into extra innings. With all the napping he does during the day, it's easy for him to stay up late at night watching nothing on TV. I just wish he would watch it on his own TV in his own room in his own little father-in-law house that he lives in at the front of our property, but he doesn't.
     What can I do?

     My wife and I can only take so much baseball, so we go upstairs. My wife reads, and I look for something to watch on the TV in our master bedroom. Sadly, all the good shows seem to be on when my Dad is hogging the TV down below. I fall asleep, and so does my wife soon after.
     We own a pretty well-built house, and can't hear the downstairs TV from where we sleep upstairs. We probably wouldn't be able to hear a burglar either, but that's another story. Sometime after 11:30pm, my wife and I are both snoring away, when we're awaken by someone, someone out of breath, someone yelling, "Hey! Hey! Hey!"
     "Hey!"

     Pause.
     "Hey!"
     Pause.
     "Hey!"

     We both wake up from a dead sleep. Fortunately, I do a better job of pretending to still be snoozing. My wife finally jumps out of bed and runs to the top of the stairs. She yells down, "Dad! Is everything all right?"

     "Yeah, yeah," my Dad yells back up. "Everything's all right."
     Pause.
     My Dad's decided to be quiet.
     "Why are you yelling?" my wife is finally compelled to ask.
     "Is the TV is keeping you awake?" he asks back.

     My Dad has only watched TV the entire time he's lived with us, and he's NEVER--not once in five years--has he asked if we can hear TV from upstairs.

 

 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

jimduchene.blogspot.com  Fifty Shades of Humor

@JimDuchene