Sometimes I don't even know myself.
When I come downstairs, there's no one there. The great room is dark and quiet. No Dad. No TV. No wife with one more chore for me to do. I almost feel like I'm in a Twilight Zone episode where a man wakes up to an empty world... and finally finds happiness.
Yeah, I could get used to this.
I don't turn on the lights, but I do turn on the downstairs air conditioner. It's a little warm today. High 80s . And the humidity doesn't help. I also turn on the TV. It's just about time for the weather lady on Action News, but first I have to listen to the newscasters blah, blah, blah about all the problems we have on the other side of the world. I don't know why they call it Action News, when the only thing the newscasters do is sit and read.
One of my sisters recently told me that she heard or read or saw or someone told her that things are so bad the U.S. is going to start drafting men up to 70-years-old.
"It's true," she insisted.
Well, I'm not quite 70 yet, but if my number's called, I'll offer to serve my time as a hostage. Now that I think about it, elderly soldiers might not be such a bad idea. If the enemy saw a bunch of geriatric soldiers stumbling toward them across a smokey battlefield, they'd probably all run away thinking it was an army of zombies coming to eat their brains.
Hmm... eating.
I'm hungry, but I'm not hungry hungry, so I toast a bagel, spread some peanut butter on it, cut a banana into quarter-inch slices, and make myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich Elvis would come back from the dead for.
I also fix myself a nice, hot cup of gourmet coffee.
I wouldn't say coffee is better than sex. I wouldn't even say it comes close. What I would say is that sometimes I have to settle for coffee when I'm in the mood for something else.
As I did all this, I had my back turned to the TV because I don't need to see the newscasters to hear the B.S. they're feeding the American public. Besides, the only one worth turning around to look at is the weather lady. If she were an Almond Joy, the almonds would be extra large.
"She's young enough to be your daughter," my lovely wife once chastised me indignantly, because, even though I do a pretty good job of pretending to be interested in what the weather is going to be like tomorrow, it's not good enough to fool my wife.
Hmm... now I can't look at the pretty young weather lady in her tight dresses without feeling like a dirty old man.
"You're determined to take all the things I love out of my life, aren't you?" I grumbled to myself.
"What?" she demanded to know.
I didn't think she'd hear me, but she did. She always hears. When will I learn?
"Shhh..." I told her, trying to distract her. "I want to hear what John Kerry has to say."
I really don't care what John Kerry has to say, because I remember when he had the wrinkles on that Herman Munster-looking face of his treated with Botox injections, then denied it when he was questioned about it?
"Who are you going to believe?" he practically told the newsperson who questioned him about it. "Me, or these pictures?"
I can't remember if his skin was still dyed orange from a bad spray tan that he also denied, but I do remember him looking directly into the camera when he made his denials. You know what his skin looked like when he did this? His skin looked like old leather with the wrinkles ironed out.
Just face facts, Kerry. You're an old man. No amount of Botox or tanning liquid is going to change that. I can't get as agitated as I would like remembering all this, however, because guess who walks in just as soon as I sit in my favorite chair?
"She's young enough to be your daughter," my lovely wife once chastised me indignantly, because, even though I do a pretty good job of pretending to be interested in what the weather is going to be like tomorrow, it's not good enough to fool my wife.
Hmm... now I can't look at the pretty young weather lady in her tight dresses without feeling like a dirty old man.
"You're determined to take all the things I love out of my life, aren't you?" I grumbled to myself.
"What?" she demanded to know.
I didn't think she'd hear me, but she did. She always hears. When will I learn?
"Shhh..." I told her, trying to distract her. "I want to hear what John Kerry has to say."
I really don't care what John Kerry has to say, because I remember when he had the wrinkles on that Herman Munster-looking face of his treated with Botox injections, then denied it when he was questioned about it?
"Who are you going to believe?" he practically told the newsperson who questioned him about it. "Me, or these pictures?"
I can't remember if his skin was still dyed orange from a bad spray tan that he also denied, but I do remember him looking directly into the camera when he made his denials. You know what his skin looked like when he did this? His skin looked like old leather with the wrinkles ironed out.
Just face facts, Kerry. You're an old man. No amount of Botox or tanning liquid is going to change that. I can't get as agitated as I would like remembering all this, however, because guess who walks in just as soon as I sit in my favorite chair?
My Dad.
He walks in and mumbles something in my direction.
I answer, "Yes, sir, it sure is hot outside," without really understanding a word he said.
It never fails, no sooner do I sit down to write or read or eat or relax or watch TV, my father will walk in. His timing is impeccable. Mine is just plain peccable.
He walks in and mumbles something in my direction.
I answer, "Yes, sir, it sure is hot outside," without really understanding a word he said.
It never fails, no sooner do I sit down to write or read or eat or relax or watch TV, my father will walk in. His timing is impeccable. Mine is just plain peccable.
He sits next to me on the sofa and starts watching the news with me.
"Is that a sandwich?" he asks, pointing to what is obviously a sandwich.
"Yes, do you want half?"
"No," he says, and makes a face like I just offered him what comes out of my dog's hind end. "Isn't there a game on?"
"I'm watching the news, Dad," I tell him. "I'm waiting for the weather lady to come on."
"Oh, okay," he says, and settles himself in besides me. "The weather lady."
"Hmm..." he says, and smacks his lips together.
Smack!
And then he smacks them some more.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Boy, oh boy," he says, and then clicks his teeth. Click, click, click! "What are you watching?"
"The news," I tell him.
"Oh, okay," he says. "The news."
Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click!
"Hee, hee, hee..." he says. "...the news."
"What's that, Dad?" I ask him.
"Those characters," he tells me, but doesn't finish his thought.
I wait.
And then I wait some more.
"Those characters what, Dad?"
"Oh, those characters," he says.
"What about those characters?"
"Who?"
"Those characters."
"Which characters?"
"The ones you were talking about."
"Which ones was I talking about?"
"The ones on the TV."
"I'm not watching TV," he tells me.
"What do you mean you're not watching TV?" I ask him. "You're sitting right beside me."
"I'm sitting right beside you, but that doesn't mean I'm watching TV."
I hate to admit it, but my Dad has a point.
"Is that a sandwich?" he asks, pointing to what is obviously a sandwich.
"Yes, do you want half?"
"No," he says, and makes a face like I just offered him what comes out of my dog's hind end. "Isn't there a game on?"
"I'm watching the news, Dad," I tell him. "I'm waiting for the weather lady to come on."
"Oh, okay," he says, and settles himself in besides me. "The weather lady."
"Hmm..." he says, and smacks his lips together.
Smack!
And then he smacks them some more.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Boy, oh boy," he says, and then clicks his teeth. Click, click, click! "What are you watching?"
"The news," I tell him.
"Oh, okay," he says. "The news."
Smack, smack, smack! Click, click, click!
"Hee, hee, hee..." he says. "...the news."
"What's that, Dad?" I ask him.
"Those characters," he tells me, but doesn't finish his thought.
I wait.
And then I wait some more.
"Those characters what, Dad?"
"Oh, those characters," he says.
"What about those characters?"
"Who?"
"Those characters."
"Which characters?"
"The ones you were talking about."
"Which ones was I talking about?"
"The ones on the TV."
"I'm not watching TV," he tells me.
"What do you mean you're not watching TV?" I ask him. "You're sitting right beside me."
"I'm sitting right beside you, but that doesn't mean I'm watching TV."
I hate to admit it, but my Dad has a point.
The weather lady is just about to come on when I hear my wife walking down the hall toward the great room. On her way over, she walks right up to the air conditioner control box and turns it off. She then walks over to where I'm sitting, picks up the remote, and changes the channel to a baseball game.
"I thought there was a game on," my Dad says.
My wife gives me an evil smile as she walks past me on the way to the kitchen.
I get up and go over to my wife. My father quickly jumps up and takes my seat. For an old man, my father sure can move fast when he wants to deprive me of something.
"Don't worry," I tell my wife, "I wasn't really watching TV."
She gives me The Look--a Code Yellow--and answers ,"I know you weren't doing anything but waiting for the weather lady to come on."
"I thought there was a game on," my Dad says.
My wife gives me an evil smile as she walks past me on the way to the kitchen.
I get up and go over to my wife. My father quickly jumps up and takes my seat. For an old man, my father sure can move fast when he wants to deprive me of something.
"Don't worry," I tell my wife, "I wasn't really watching TV."
She gives me The Look--a Code Yellow--and answers ,"I know you weren't doing anything but waiting for the weather lady to come on."
I whisper to her so my Dad with the selective super-hearing won't hear, "You're prettier than the weather lady."
"Thank you," she says, a smile creasing her lips despite her best effort for it not to.
"Why don't we go upstairs?" I suggest, knowing I'll get the same answer I always get when I ask her this question, which is at least ten times a day.
"Okay," she tells me. "Go first and get started without me. I'll meet you when I'm done down here."
Sure, I got the answer I wanted to hear, but the problem is she's never done down here. So I tell her, "You know, I like the air conditioner on and I like to watch the news."
Again, she gives me the answer I knew I was going to get.
"You know your father gets cold and you know he likes to watch baseball."
I ask her, "Then can I have the TV and convertor box in his room?"
She answers, "You know when he's in his room he likes to listen to his music."
This is what I don't understand, why does my father need a huge HDTV with a converter box just to listen to music?
"Thank you," she says, a smile creasing her lips despite her best effort for it not to.
"Why don't we go upstairs?" I suggest, knowing I'll get the same answer I always get when I ask her this question, which is at least ten times a day.
"Okay," she tells me. "Go first and get started without me. I'll meet you when I'm done down here."
Sure, I got the answer I wanted to hear, but the problem is she's never done down here. So I tell her, "You know, I like the air conditioner on and I like to watch the news."
Again, she gives me the answer I knew I was going to get.
"You know your father gets cold and you know he likes to watch baseball."
I ask her, "Then can I have the TV and convertor box in his room?"
She answers, "You know when he's in his room he likes to listen to his music."
This is what I don't understand, why does my father need a huge HDTV with a converter box just to listen to music?
I answer, "Can't he listen to his music on his stereo?"
When my wife is about to lose an argument, she changes the subject, "I'm going shopping, do you want to go?"
"No thanks," I tell her.
"Why not?"
"Because I'll be upstairs waiting for you."
"No thanks," I tell her.
"Why not?"
"Because I'll be upstairs waiting for you."
And, in fact, I will go upstairs, but as God is my witness, no sooner will I leave than my father will also leave and go back to his room. He has no interest in watching TV in the great room unless he knows he's keeping me from watching TV in the great room.
The lights and TV, of course, will be left on, at my expense.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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