Listen Up, Ladies!
Listen up, ladies.
The way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach, it's with the remote control. Let a man have control of the television set, and you'll have a very sedate beast.
At least that's the way it is with my father, and that's how I usually find myself sitting in the great room watching the premium baseball channel with him, instead of something more interesting, like Championship Knitting.
The cable company calls the MLB channel "premium," which is another word for expensive. It's not something I would purchase on my own, but my wife and I get it for my father because it makes him happy.
And keeps him out of trouble.
Speaking of trouble, my father has developed a bit of it when it comes to reading and understanding his bank and financial statements. He's been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's, and one of the symptoms is having a problem with numbers.
Occasionally, he'll pester us into taking him to the bank so he can complain to someone in charge, then he'll come home satisfied, but still unable to make sense of the statement, so he'll get upset all over again.
"Those characters," he'll rant. "They're nothing but a bunch of thieves. Take me to the bank!"
"Here's the remote, dad."
And all is right with the world.
When the phone rang (yes, we still have a landline), I wasn't surprised. We get a ton of calls from people trying to sell us something, no matter how many Do Not Call lists we put our names on.
This one was for my father, so I handed the phone over to him. It was a broker making what's referred to as a cold sales call, but, since we have veto power over his finances, he can't get into too much trouble.
"Hello?" my father said into the receiver, and then listened politely to the sales pitch. "No, thank you," he finally said, "but I'll keep you in mind in case I ever want to hand all my money over to a stranger on the phone."
My father.
He's not so dumb.
The way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach, it's with the remote control. Let a man have control of the television set, and you'll have a very sedate beast.
At least that's the way it is with my father, and that's how I usually find myself sitting in the great room watching the premium baseball channel with him, instead of something more interesting, like Championship Knitting.
The cable company calls the MLB channel "premium," which is another word for expensive. It's not something I would purchase on my own, but my wife and I get it for my father because it makes him happy.
And keeps him out of trouble.
Speaking of trouble, my father has developed a bit of it when it comes to reading and understanding his bank and financial statements. He's been diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's, and one of the symptoms is having a problem with numbers.
Occasionally, he'll pester us into taking him to the bank so he can complain to someone in charge, then he'll come home satisfied, but still unable to make sense of the statement, so he'll get upset all over again.
"Those characters," he'll rant. "They're nothing but a bunch of thieves. Take me to the bank!"
"Here's the remote, dad."
And all is right with the world.
When the phone rang (yes, we still have a landline), I wasn't surprised. We get a ton of calls from people trying to sell us something, no matter how many Do Not Call lists we put our names on.
This one was for my father, so I handed the phone over to him. It was a broker making what's referred to as a cold sales call, but, since we have veto power over his finances, he can't get into too much trouble.
"Hello?" my father said into the receiver, and then listened politely to the sales pitch. "No, thank you," he finally said, "but I'll keep you in mind in case I ever want to hand all my money over to a stranger on the phone."
My father.
He's not so dumb.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
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