Today, my wife almost had to call the Pope.
She had just spent four hours cooking me a feast. I'm not talking about something you heat up in the microwave from Costco. I'm talking about a five-star meal, all made from scratch. That's just the way my wife rolls.
Forgive me for not telling you what the meal was. I just don't want you to evaluate your life and come up short in comparison to mine.
Now, my father, because of his lack of teeth, has to eat soft foods, so what my wife was making was for me and her, her and I, the two of us.
My father had slept almost all day in his--my--favorite chair in the great room, with the TV blasting, because, apparently, the noisier a room is, the more conducive to sleep it is. He had only been awake for ten or fifteen minutes.
Myself, I'm in the courtyard looking into the house. I see my father's Muppet-like arms go high into the air, as he stretches in his--my--chair. He gets up, high-steps it a bit, and then--please, no--walks into the kitchen.
My father has no curiosity about anything that happens in our household. If his little yappy dog were to have an "accident" right in front of him, my Dad would just ignore the mongrel and continue to watch The Price Is Right until my wife or I come into the room and do something about it. However, when my wife is cooking something, especially something for me, he always has to know what it is. The guy has never lifted a spoon in his life to prepare a meal, so why he finds the pots and pans so interesting when they're steaming on our stove is beyond me.
He makes his way to the kitchen table--the very same kitchen table where we (mainly me) all sit to eat--reaches into his pant pocket for his handkerchief, and starts blowing his nose. Even from where I'm standing, I can see that his nose is running. Maybe it's just my imagination.
His handkerchief must be past the point of no return, because he puts it back in its holster and grabs a paper napkin from the little napkin-holder on the table and uses that to finish the job. When he removes it, I can see a clear droplet of booger juice hanging from his nose.
His handkerchief must be past the point of no return, because he puts it back in its holster and grabs a paper napkin from the little napkin-holder on the table and uses that to finish the job. When he removes it, I can see a clear droplet of booger juice hanging from his nose.
I guess it wasn't my imagination after all.
This goes on for several minutes.
How it's possible for him to have so much snot in his nose, well, that's like the mystery of the great pyramids. Who knows?
Still in the kitchen, he finally finishes emptying the contents of his head. Something he could have done in the great room where he has slept all day, but, no, he had to walk into the kitchen for that. As he walks toward the stove, my wife makes the mistake of walking away for a split-second. I see him stop and look at the pans of food on the stove, and then--quick as a Ninja-- he puts his nose not two inches from a pan of my food and smells it. He takes several good whiffs before my wife is able to get between him and my dinner. Knowing I'm outside, she gives a quick look my way, then back again.
"What're you cooking?" he asks her, as if two of his senses aren't enough to give him enough information. Maybe his eyes aren't what they used to be, but he was practically stirring the food with his nose, so that should have given him a hint.
"Nothing," she tells him, politely. "It's for me and your son. Do you want some?"
She knows he can't have any, but more important than that, my Dad knows he can't have any, but he takes a while to "Ahhh... hmmm... well...," and then decline the offer.
Again, just to remind you, he can't eat what she's cooking. He has a hard time chewing regular food. My wife could serve him soup and he'll complain about how tough the broth is. The problem is, my wife didn't expect him to wake up. She thought she'd be done before that.
My wife glances my way again. She can see I'm exacerbated, exasperated, discombobulated--take your pick. She gives me The Look because she knows I've just crossed dinner off my list. I won't eat anything my father has touched, smelled, or tasted. It's not that I'm squeamish, I'm not. It's just that his nose is always running. He blows it all the time.
All the time.
Hmmm... my wife is giving me The Look AND she's raising one eyebrow, John Belushi-style.
Why my wife gets mad at me for being right, I have no idea.
Hmmm... my wife is giving me The Look AND she's raising one eyebrow, John Belushi-style.
Why my wife gets mad at me for being right, I have no idea.
I walk into the kitchen and look at the food on the stove. In front of my dad, I tell her, "I'm not eating that."
"You're not eating what?" my Dad asks, all the nuances of the English language conveniently going over his head.
My wife mumbles something. I know she's irritated, agitated, maybe even infuriated, because she knows it's true. I won't eat anything that sits on the table, on the kitchen counter, or is put in front of my father. He likes to see, smell, touch, inspect, and interrogate whatever my wife leaves out in the open that is edible. He'll scan, scope, scout, and scrutinize every morsel. If this were Viet Nam and his face was on patrol, his nose would be point. Food would be the enemy, and napalm would come dripping out of his nose.
Drip, drip, drip.
To make a long story short... I had leftovers for dinner.
Later that night, the house is dark. My wife and I are upstairs. All's forgiven. At least I hope so. I'll find out later.
I excuse myself.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"To check the locks," I say.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"To check the locks," I say.
Meanwhile, my father is downstairs, watching the game.
All of a sudden, the TV set goes black.
"Wha?" I hear my father say.
Hmmm, must have been a short in the wiring.
I go back upstairs.
To pray for forgiveness.
RaisingMyFather
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
