How To Lose Your Water Floss Machine To Your Father In One Easy Step

Today my father found out I have a water floss machine.
     I love that floss machine. It's my favorite toy. He heard me using it and asked my wife what I was doing.
     "What's your husband doing in the bathroom?"
     "I don't know, Dad. Why do you ask?"
     "Because I hear something vibrating."
     I don't think the water floss machine is especially loud, but my father's hearing is selective. One moment he can't hear me when I'm standing right in front of him, and the next he's like Superman and can hear a fly farting halfway around the world. He either thought I was in the bathroom having a good time or that his hearing aid was acting up again.
     My wife, on the other hand, knew I was flossing my teeth with my new state-of-the-art contraption and asked my father if he wanted to try it.
     "Try it? Hmm... do I want to try it? What's he doing in there again?"
     "He's flossing his teeth with his new toy."
     "I hear something vibrating. What kind of a toy is it?"
     I don't know what my father was implying, but I don't think the machine makes a vibrating noise. In fact, I don't think whatever noise it does make can even be heard on the other side of the bathroom door, but what it comes down to is this: my father knows I'm in there doing something, and he wants to know what it is.
     "It's a water floss, Dad," she tells him. "It's pretty cool."
     "I don't like cold water."
     "No, Dad, it's a water floss."
     "Didn't you say it was cool?"
     "Yes."
     "Well, I don't like cold water."
     Sometimes, when you talk with my father, you have to take the bull by the horns from the end of the bull that doesn't have horns.
     "Okay, Dad. We'll heat up the water."
     "Good, because I don't like cold water."
     "So, do you want to try the water floss?"
     "It's a water floss?"
     "Yes."
     "You floss with water."
     "That's right."
     "Do I want to try it?"
     "Yes."
     "You're asking me if I want to try it?"
     "That's right."
     "You're asking me if I want to floss with water?"
     "Yes, I am."
     I'm sure my wife only gave me the highlights of her conversation with my Dad, but even the highlights were putting me to sleep. If this conversation was a movie, it would be a foreign film.
     I wasn't too keen on my father trying my water floss, because you know what it means if he tries it. It means I'll never see it again. It will go from being my water floss machine to being his water floss machine. Even if he did give it back, I would never use it. I wouldn't care to put anything near my mouth that's been near his mouth.
     I'm just funny that way.
     But getting it back is nothing I have to worry about, because I know that my father likes toys, too. If he uses this water floss once, he'll never give it back. He may never use it again, but it will be his. And of all the things he likes, he likes the things that are his the most.
     Anyway, when I step out of the bathroom, my wife catches me off-guard and asks me to show my father how to use the machine. 
     "Show him what machine?" I ask. She doesn't have to tell me, I already know I've lost my favorite toy.
     "Your water floss. Your father was asking about it."
     "And you told him to bugger off, right?"
     She lifts one eyebrow at me, which is a neat trick if you can conquer it.
     "Just show him," she tells me.
     I only let her think she's the boss because she is.
     "How'd you know I had a water floss machine, Dad?" I ask him when the two of us were in the bathroom together (a sentence I never thought I'd have a reason to type).
     "I didn't know you had a water floss machine," he clarified. "I just heard something vibrating."
     "And what did you think I was doing?"
     "I didn't know what you were doing, but I knew you were doing something," he said, using the same kind of logic he used to use when he wanted to punish me for something when I was a teenager.
     "Okay, Dad," I tell him, "this is how it works."
     I'm trying to show him how the water floss works, but it's like teaching a teenager how to drive. He knew everything. All I hear is "I know that" or "I thought it worked that way."
     "Pop," I say, "you blah, blah blah."
     "I knew that."
     "And then you blah, blah, blah."
     "I know that."
     "So then you blah, blah, blah."
     "I know that, too."
     "And that's how it works."
     "That's what I thought."
     I swear, all he probably heard was the blah, blah, blah.
     "Here," I say, and hand it over. It's his problem now. I think I would have had a easier time showing him how to disarm a nuke.
     "I know how to do that," he would have told me. "I saw it done in a James Bond movie."
     "Octopussy?"
     "Goldfinger," he would have corrected me. "You just flip a switch."
     That's the great thing about my Dad, he knows everything except how to turn off the lights. He's like my buddy Maloney's son, Boswell. With the right haircut he could pass for Kim Jong Un, and he knows everything about losing weight except how to lose it himself.

     Later that day, to show God that I'm a good person and deserve to get into heaven, I made my father a five-star three-slice baloney sandwich with all the trimmings. It wasn't my wife's usual gourmet cooking, but he really liked it.
     Or was very hungry.
     I don't know.
     What I do know is that I'm too soft-hearted for my own good, even if I do say so myself.
     "Are you going to give your new water floss machine a tryout?" I asked him when he was done eating, knowing what the answer would be.
     "Later," he said.
     Always later.
 
 

RaisingMyFather

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

   

If Worse Comes To Worse

Remember when I told you how my wife and I went to Yosemite last week?

     You don't?

     That's okay, because I didn't tell you. I just wanted to give you an idea of what it's like talking to my father.

     If I did tell you, I would have told you that I had booked a room at a historical hotel that was over one hundred years old. A hundred years old! It was built just a few years before my father was born, if you can imagine, but I was hoping it was in better shape.

     The hotel is so old that when it was first built, none of the rooms had a bathroom. Since then, to accommodate the newer generation, a generation used to comfort and convenience, they have installed bathrooms in fifty of the rooms.  Not fifty per cent of the rooms, but fifty of the rooms, as in the age I'm never going to see again. You know what that meant, don't you? It meant that if I wanted to rent one of the fifty rooms with indoor plumbing, it was going to cost me more. A lot more.

     Boy, I must really love my wife.

     Now, when you first entered the historical hotel, the bottom floor (which included the lobby, dining room, coffee room, etc...) looked very impressive because it had high ceilings. A hundred years ago, they could afford to waste space. Also impressive was the fact that everything in the hotel seemed to be made of oak and brass. And, like an old book, the hotel had that antique smell to it, which I like.

     I felt like I was back in the 1800's, only without the prostitutes and the poker games.

     However, there was one thing I did not take into account when I reserved our room, I didn't take into account what a room was like over one hundred years ago. There were no frills, no thrills, no television sets, no microwaves, no coffee makers, no hairdryers for your wife, no coke machines, no free breakfasts, etc. It's harder for me to tell you what the room didn't have, than what it did, because the room didn't have ANYTHING.

     It was a 100+ year-old room, and it cost me more per night than the Bellagio didwhen my wife and I stayed there the last time we went to Las Vegas during a business convention.

     So, my advice to you is, if you ever want to stay at a historical hotel, home, boarding house, or whatever, remember... it's historical. Not hysterical... historical. The only perk will be that there will be no perks to distract you when it's time to go to bed, if you get my drift. Speaking of which...

     We had a great time, if you can call my wife catching the flu prior to getting into Yosemite a good time. I had to cancel the last two nights.

     "You can't cancel the last two nights," I was informed.

     "But we have to leave," I explained.

     "That's not the hotel's fault," I was additionally informed.

     "But my wife caught the flu," I went on.

     "The problem, sir," the desk clerk said, explaining his side of the problem to me, "is that we could have rented that room to another couple. Unfortunately, it's too late for us to do it now..."

     "That doesn't seem quite fair to me," I began.

     "...especially now that you tell us your wife has the flu."

     Well, what could I possibly say to that?

     When the desk clerk handed me the bill, I almost fell to the floor in astonishment. It was waaay more than what it was supposed to be.
     "This is ludicrous," I complained to the clerk.
     "What is?" the clerk's enquiring mind wanted to know.
     "The bill," I told him, holding it toward him with one hand and pointing at it with the other.
     He leaned forward and looked.
     "Nope," he said, "that's correct. You see, the price also includes service fees for the use of the hotel sauna, complementary drinks at the bar, and our car valet service."
     "We didn't use the sauna," I told him.
     "But you could have, if you wanted to," he said.
     "And we didn't have drinks at the bar," I told him.
     "But you could have, if you wanted to," he said.
     "And we didn't have our car valeted," I told him.
     "But you could have, if you wanted to," he said.
     "I give up," I told him, and I wrote him a check.
     "Sir," he said, "this check is for only a hundred dollars."
     "I know," I told him, "I'm charging you for sleeping with my wife."
     "I didn't sleep with you wife," he told me.
     "But you could have... if you wanted to," I said.
     Actually, that last part didn't really happen. It's a joke I heard that I thought was pretty funny. Just don't tell my wife. I don't think she'll find it as funny as I did. Anyway...

     Sadly, the two of us ended up spending more time on the road than we did in the hotel room. We drove all the way to Yosemite just to sleep, get up, and then return home.

     I fully expected her to come up with some kind of bedroom distraction when we got there.

     "I hear the kids," my wife might have told me.

     "Our kids are all grown up and out of the house," I might have told her back.

     "Is that your father?" she might have asked.

     "How could that possibly be my father?" I might have asked her back.

     Although my father would have fit in quite comfortably in these hundred-year-old surroundings, he wasn't there. I had the good sense to leave him at home.

     "I have the flu," was what she actually did say.

     Well, what could I possibly say to that?

     "You win, sweetie," I said. Or, rather, I might have said that if I didn't have the long drive back home with her.

     To tell the truth, I was a bit anxious to get back home anyway because somewhere in the back of my mind I was worried about my father, too. The mornings have become the same old routines with him. He gets up, eats breakfast, then moves on to the great room where he sits in front of the television set. He'll then watch the most boring programing on Earth with all the lights on, because, apparently, having all the lights on when you're watching television improves the quality of the picture.

     Within five minutes he looks like I'll soon be collecting my inheritance. His head will be tilted back, his eyes will be slightly open, and so will his mouth. I'll move in closer for a better view of him, because it always looks as if he's not breathing. Even my wife has had to stare at him to make sure he's still with us, but the joke's on us, because my father is just a sound sleeper. He'll sleep that way all day long, only awaking if I change the channel on the TV set.

     And then, after he wakes up, he'll complain to us that he can't sleep at night.

     Go figure.

     Heck, if I slept all day, I'd be up all night too.

     In fact, if I tried to sleep all day, my wife would tell me, "Get up, you lazy bum. We need to go to Costco." But for my father, she tells me, "Let him sleep. He's earned it."

     I figure I must have earned something in this life, too. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be sleep. Or sympathy. From my wife, that is.

     Our fear is that one of these days, he will be on the chair and he won't be asleep, if you get my drift. Four or five days later, when we finally notice that he hasn't eaten, we'll discover that he's gone on to that great throne room in the sky. He'll stand there, look around, and will see three guys.

     "Who are you?" he'll ask the guy in the middle.

     "I'm God," the guy will say.

     "And who are you?" he'll ask the bearded guy on the right side of God.

     "I'm Jesus," the bearded guy will tell him.

     "Well, then, who are you?" he'll ask the other guy standing next to God.

     "I'm Cleanliness," the other guy will say.

     It's rare when my wife and I leave my father by himself for a few days. Either she or I will stay home to look after him, but, when we do leave, we have a small army of people who come over and check on him. Our daughters, our neighbors, even my brother who gets out of most things, will come by for a look. After he doesn't find where my Dad has hidden his money, he'll ask him how he's doing.

     This time, before leaving for Yosemite, I told my Dad, "If worse comes to worse, someone will call us and we'll come right home."

     My Dad just looked at me, and then said, "If worse comes to worse, I'm screwed."
     Well... what could I possibly say to that?

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

A Dirty, Smelly Prince (Part Two)

After my grandson and I left the White Sands Bataan Death March Memorial Marathon, we went to my sister's house to visit her and her family. They live in the house we grew up in. When our father and mother got older, they moved in to help them out, and they never moved out. Now the house is theirs. There are a lot of ways to get a house. That's the hardest way I know.
     Hmm... let me backtrack on my story a bit first:

     When we left for the Death March, my grandson and I were wearing clothes that were freshly laundered. My wife made sure of that. Three days later, we're still wearing the same clothes and neither of us are quite so fresh.
     My grandson and I, we like to sightsee and take our time. We got to the White Sands Missile Range on Friday, the Death March is on Sunday, and, after we completed that, we left. There are showers available, but they're all together in one big room, not individual stalls. My grandson is only four. I figure he doesn't need to shower with a bunch of naked GIs.
     Neither do I, for that matter.
     I like travelling with my grandson. He's up for anything, and he doesn't complain. He didn't mind not showering. We even slept in our clothes in their big gymnasium. Everybody who sleeps there just puts a sleeping bag on the floor to claim their space, GIs and civilians alike. He liked that the best.

     When we arrive at my sister's house it was a little after twelve in the afternoon. No sooner did I park my SUV and walk out, than I notice a van pass by. I notice because of how it slowed down as it passed us.
     "Take a picture," I think to myself, "it'll last longer."
     We get to the door, greet my sister, but before I can walk in I see that the van has made a u-turn, doubled back, and is parking on the other side of the street.  An old lady starts to get out.
     "I'll be back," I tell my sister, and she takes my grandson inside to feed him. That's just what the women in my family like to do. Feed people.
     Meanwhile, the old lady waddles toward me and asks, "Are you ...?"
     I'm thinking, it's probably one of my mom's high school friends.
     I answer, "Yes."

     She picks up the pace of her waddle so that she can greet me with a big hug.
     "I'm Abby...," she tells me.
     Abby...? I haven't seen her since... She was my sister's friend, but I also knew her from grade school. My mind must be slipping, because, try as I might, I can't recall what she looked like all those years ago. She's a few years younger than I am, but looks older. Much older. She looks so old her birth certificate could be printed on a rock. And, boy, does she like to talk.
     She tells me her whole life story in less than ten minutes. Her mother sold her the house she grew up in for $20,000, but then gave her back $15,000 to add a second story. She has 13 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Her husband has diabetes, but refuses to give up drinking beer. Did I say her name was Abby? It's more like Blabby.

     Now, I haven't seen her in decades, so why's she telling me all this? She even knew that I had moved out of town, where I moved to, and that I was now retired. How do people find out this stuff?

     She then starts asking me about some of the people in the neighborhood we grew up with. Do I know where so-and-so is and whatever happened to what's-his-face? Back then, we were all close, but these days I had no information about any of them. I must not have been holding up my end of the conversation, because she starts to tell me about another two friends of ours from back then, Emma and Vivian.

     What she didn't know was that I had dated both of them when we were in our early teens. Emma when she and I were 13 and Vivian a year later. Unfortunately, I'm feeling a bit vain and make the mistake of bragging about that to Abby.
     Her eyes get wide and she tells me, "Wait... are you telling me... really?" She twists one finger around the other, shows it to me, and says, "Emma and I are like this. We talk on the phone all the time."
     Like magic, her cell phone is in her hand and she starts to dial. Someone answers and she tells the person, "Hang on, there's someone that wants to talk to you."
     I wonder who that someone is, because it's certainly not me.
     She hands me the phone. "It's Emma," she says.

     I'm like, WHAAAT?
     I get on the phone. I really don't know what to say or ask, but somehow I muddle through it. We talk for about five or ten minutes and then hang up. I feel like the taxi driver from Harry Chapin's old song. I hand Abby back her phone.
     Funny, I think to myself, Emma sure didn't sound like an old lady. It was easy for me to remember what she looked like way back when. She was gorgeous. So was her mom. But that's another story.

     The next few hours is all cloudy. Abby leaves. I go inside, talk with my sister for a while, and then my grandson and I leave. All the time I'm thinking I know what's going to happen. Emma is going to call Abby back and ask her, "What did he look like?"

     I can hear Abby's answer now, "Well, he looked like a prince. A dirty, smelly prince. He was wearing an old pair of glasses, I guess he can't afford contacts. He looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes for three days. They were all wrinkled and dirty. He hadn't shaved. When I first saw him, I thought I had spotted Osama bin Laden. His hair wasn't combed and it looked like he hadn't washed it in weeks. At least he still has his hair, I guess. It looked good with the piece of lettuce he had stuck in his front teeth."

     "Really?" Emma would ask.
     "Really," Mary would say.

     You know, in the many years that I have gone back to my old house in my old neighborhood, first to visit my parents and then to visit my sister, not once have I seen any of my old friends and acquaintances. Now, when I look my absolute worse, I run into someone who just happens to have an old girlfriend of mine on speed-dial.
     And a big mouth.
     Life is cruel.

     Now I know why my wife doesn't go out in public until she has her face on and her hair is done.

     Still, as I drive away, I can't help but wonder what the gorgeous Emma looks like now. She's almost as old as I am, so that doesn't bode well. I have yet to see any woman my age who didn't look like an old lady to me. However, I'm no fool, I know I look the same way to them.
     So, my friends, what did I learn?
     The first thing I learned is that it's best to remember your old friends the way they were, not the way they are today. Now that I've seen Abby as a senior citizen, that's the way I'm always going to picture her.

     The second thing I learned is not to leave the house unless my hair is combed, my clothes are clean, my nose and ear hairs are trimmed, and I've bathed within the last 24 hours.
     And the third thing I learned is that when a girl from out of your past asks you if you know what happened to any of your old friends, the best answer is to tell them they're all in jail.

     "What happened to Carlos?"

     "He married a little changita, and then went to prison for bestiality."

     "Ritchie?"

     "He murdered his grandmother, and ended up in prison."

     "Frank?"

     "He was convicted of embezzling from the bank he worked at, and was sent to prison."

     "Bug?"

     "When I filed charges against him for not paying me for that car I sold him that he wrecked, he was found guilty and sent to prison. No one's seen him since. I hear that when he was released, he took a wrong turn and is still wandering around that prison looking for an exit."

     "Gory?"

     "He was sent to prison, where he was brutally gang-raped by his cell block. When he went to complain to the prison guards, they gang-raped him, too. He's spent the last twenty years being gang-raped. Funny thing is, he was given parole fifteen years ago, but refuses to leave."

     If you tell them that, it doesn't matter if you haven't bathed or changed your clothes in three days. Heck, you could have just stepped in what comes out of the tail-end of a dog, and, by comparison, you'll still look like a prince.

     A dirty, smelly prince.

 

 

Raising MyFather

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene