Email To My Brother: Fooling Around

You... to your wife in bed:
     "Wanna fool around?"
     "I've got a headache."
     The next night:
     “Wanna fool around?"
     "I'm too tired."
     The night after that:
     “Wanna fool around?"
     "Three nights in a row? What are you? A sex maniac?"
 
 

Raising My Father

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Email To My Brother: Dirty Old Man

I was shopping at a place called Sprouts
     It’s a health grocery store, much like Whole Foods. When I was done shopping, and rolling the cart to my truck in the parking lot, I saw a flash of Kool-Aid-colored red hair. It was a young woman—maybe early twenties, maybe late—and she had one leg lifted behind her as she was putting her groceries deep inside of her big SUV. She was attractive, but with makeup she could be pretty.
      I couldn't help but check out the view, but, once I passed her, I didn’t look back. Instead, I looked forward, in the direction of my truck...
     ...and saw an old guy pushing an empty cart in my direction, toward the grocery store. He was also checking out the view. I went from being 17 back to being my actual age.
      “That,” I thought to myself, “is me.”
     And I drove off feeling very much like a dirty old man.
 
 

Raising My Father

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JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

The Toilet Roll Holder

Remember back in January when I told you how my father was constantly breaking the shower curtain rod? Well…

     "Honey," my wife said to me, again giving me her sweetest smile. "You need to repair the toilet paper holder in dad’s bathroom."
     "What?" I said, almost spitting out my coffee.
     I would have sprayed it out in a comedic double-take except for two reasons: 1) it’s expensive, and 2) it's delicious. I may be cheap—I mean, frugal—but I also appreciate perfection. Gourmet coffee is too precious a commodity to be wasted trying to be funny.

     But I digress...

     “Why?” I asked my lovely wife.

     Actually, I knew why. It was my father. Godzilla may have lumbered through downtown Tokyo knocking down skyscrapers, but that giant lizard's got nothing on my father when it comes to breaking things. So, when I asked my wife why, I really wasn’t expecting an answer, but she was kind enough to provide one for me anyway.

     "Because dad says the house cleaner broke it."

     I tried to raise one eyebrow at her, the way she does when she’s irritated with me. Failing miserably, I looked in the direction of my father. He was watching baseball, his favorite pastime, and ignoring our entire conversation. If my wife had whispered she was going to Costco, he'd have already been at the car, but this particular conversation was of no interest to him.

     "I'll take care of it," I assured her.

     "Dad!" my wife called out, wanting to include him.

     Personally, I've learned it's better not to confuse my Dad with too much information. I’ll do what I need to do first, and apologize later if I have to.

     "Huh?" my father said, turning our way, but keeping one eye on the TV.

     "We need to go into your bathroom to fix the toilet paper holder."

     "You're going where to fix what?" he asked.

     "We're going to fix the toilet paper holder in your bathroom."

     My father turned back to the TV. This information didn't even deserve one eye's worth of attention from him.

     "Yeah,” he said, waving us off, “your maid is rough. She cleans too hard."

     "Maybe it wasn't her," I chimed in.

     "Yeah, it was her."

     "How do you know?"

     "I just know."

     "In that case..." I began, slowly.

     My wife knew I was about to tease my father, and gave me a perfectly raised single eyebrow of disapproval. “Don’t do it,” it advised. Her eyebrow generally gives me good advice, and I always come out ahead when I follow it. Too bad I never do.

     "...maybe the maid used your toilet,” I told him, “and, when she got up, she used the toilet paper holder for support, and her weight broke it."

     "She'd better not be using my toilet," he warned us.

     "I'm not saying she does, but if she's gotta go, she's gotta go."

     "If she’s gotta go, she'd better not be going in my bathroom."

     "Okay, pop," I told him. He was getting agitated at the thought of our cleaning lady using his toilet, so I backed off a little to let him settle down.

     "Don’t worry, dad," my wife added, trying to distract him from the image of our maid sitting on his commode. "She doesn’t."

     I left, and made my way to the scene of the crime. Entering his sanctum sanctorum, I felt like Indiana Jones. The holder should have been bolted onto the side of the sink cabinet, which is made out of one inch plywood. It wasn't. Instead, there were two large holes where the toilet paper holder used to be. It was just as I thought: when he was getting up from his porcelain throne, he used the holder for support, and his weight pulled it out of the wood.

     Trust me, I watch CSI.

     As I was reinstalling the holder, I looked up to make sure the shower curtain rod was secured properly. That’s when I got a brilliant idea. I ran it past my wife, and she agreed.

     "I don't want bathtub handles," my father told us.

     "But, dad," my wife said, "they'll make it easier for you to get in and out of the tub."

     "I don't want them, and I don't need them. You'll be wasting your money."

     "Pop," I lied, "we're installing them in our bathtub, too."

     "Well, I don't care if you need handles to get in and out of your bathtub, but I don't."

     "Dad," we both said, but it was no use.

     His mind was made up.

     And then one day my wife said the magic word “Costco.” If you think it was some kind of grand plan to get him out of the house, you'd be right. I took the opportunity to install the bathtub handles, making sure one was in reach of the toilet. When they got back my wife looked at me, and I gave her a little nod.

     "Dad," she told him, "guess what? We installed the bathtub handles you wanted."

     That was a nice try, but my father wasn’t born yesterday. I know, I’ve seen his birth certificate.

     "Good thing you’re rich," he said, sarcastically, “because you’ve just wasted your money.”

     Time may heal all wounds, but it does other things as well. Recently, my father admitted to us without actually admitting to us how much he liked the hand support.

     "Why didn’t you install them before?" he told me. “Like I wanted you to.”

     My wife nodded her head, agreeing with him.

     And you know what?

     Nothing has broken since.           

     

When my wife and father are busy shopping at Costco, you can find me being frugal at RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com, JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, or @JimDuchene. 

     

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
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Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
 

Another Fart Story

Life is always an adventure with my father.
     An embarrassing adventure.
     We were sitting in the waiting area of his doctor's office. One of his many doctors, I might add, and one of his many doctor's appointments. The office was packed, and we found ourselves sitting on opposite sides of the room. Wherever I go, I usually bring a book to read. Either that, or I use my phone to write stories.
     Like this one.
     The person in the chair next to him heard his name called, and went inside to have his vitals taken. The way he slowly shuffled away from us, I think his vitals were taken from him years ago.
     An elderly lady came into the office. Seeing the only chair available, she walked over to sit next to my father.
     Just then, my father's name was called.
     As the lady was sitting down, my father stood up.
     Maybe a bit too fast...
     BRAAAP!
     ...and he let out a huge fart.
     In the quiet of the doctor's office, everybody turned to look at him.
     Without missing a beat, my father looked at the old lady, who had a horrified look on her wrinkly old face, and, with a tone of disgust, said loud enough for everyone in the office to hear, "You should be ashamed of yourself!"
 
 

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

  

BRRAPPP!

There's an old joke that goes: 
     An elderly man says to his doctor, "Doc, I have this problem.  I keep throwing these silent farts all day long.  (See?  There goes one now).  I can't help it, doc.  I keep farting and farting, but they make no noise.  (Oops!  There goes another one.)  I don't know what's wrong with me.  I can throw the most massive farts, and they'll make no sound.  (Ahhh, that's three in a row.)  What do you think?"
     "Well," the doctor says.  "I think you need to have your hearing checked."
 
     Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:
 
     My Dad has his own room.  His room, actually, is in a guest house in the front of our main house.  If it's not called the Father-In-Law House, then it should be.  His room has its own satellite TV, radio/CD player, telephone, and refrigerated air.  The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the greatroom of the main house, which forces everybody--mainly me--to watch TV somewhere else.
     And that's where my Dad is right now.  He's watching baseball.  In fact, he's been watching baseball all day long.
     "Who's playing, Dad?" I'll ask him.
     "I don't know," he'll answer, and keep watching. 
     If it's not the Yankees, he really doesn't care who's playing.  Now, I like baseball as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is someone who doesn't like baseball, and I have fond memories of watching baseball on TV as a toddler, when the only other options were The Edge of Night and Sing Along With Mitch.  When and where I lost my interest in baseball, who knows?  But it's gone.  No use crying over spilled milk.
     Speaking of milk, I'm kind of hungry, so I pour myself a glass of 2% and start to fix myself something to eat.
     "Do you want something, Dad?" I ask.
     "What?"
     "Would you like something to eat?"
     "Would I like something to eat?"
     "I'm fixing myself something, and would like to know if you would like me to fix you something."
     "You're making it?"
     "I'm the only one here, Dad."
     "Would I like something to eat."
     "Yes."
     "And you're making it."
     "Yes."
     "No, thanks."  My Dad is the only one who can make a polite statement sound insulting.
     Well, more for me.
     I'm not too picky about what I eat, and that's probably why Dad turned me down.  I tend to keep things simple.  It's not that I don't appreciate good food, I do.  And it's not that my wife isn't a good cook, she is.  It's just that in my bachelor years I got used to eating pretty much anything that was available.  Fast food.  Leftovers.  Meals by girlfriends trying to prove they can cook.  I kid my wife that I married her for only two reasons:  She could cook in the kitchen, and she could cook in the bedroom.*
     Meanwhile, my Dad gets up from his chair and goes to his little house with all the deluxe accommodations.  I grab some potato bread, Miracle Whip, various lunch meats, and lettuce, tomato, and such.  I decide to live large, so I even grab an avocado.
     Ten minutes have passed, and no Dad.
     I tear off a couple of lettuce leaves.  Rinse them, put them on the side to dry.  Slice the tomato.  Do the same with the avocado.  I look toward where my Dad had been sitting.  Still no Dad.
     So I grab four slices of potato bread, and slather them with Miracle Whip.  Heck, I decide to live life on the edge, so I grab mustard from the refrigerator, and slather on a little bit of that, too.  It should give my sandwich an interesting combination of sweetness and tart.
     My Dad's still gone.  The fact that he's left on the TV annoys me, and he does that constantly.  He'll sit, turn on the TV, get up, and leave.  I think I've given him enough time, so I walk over, grab the remote, and turn it off.  If he's not back by now, he's not coming back, I reason.
     I guess I shouldn't let it annoy me so much.  I'm sure I did the same thing when I was a kid.  I probably used to get up and and leave Mitch Miller warbling along with the bouncing ball, so I should cut my Dad some slack.  But I'm sure, even as a toddler, I would turn off the TV the majority of the time.  Do you know why I know this? 
     Because my Dad wouldn't have tolerated anything less.
     Settle down, settle down, I tell myself.  If I let myself get too irked about Dad not turning off the TV, I'll ruin my appetite.**
     So I get back to my two sandwiches.  Lettuce leaves torn and rinsed--check!  Tomato and avocado sliced--check!  Potato breads properly slathered--check!  I open the package of turkey slices and put a healthy amount on two separate slices of bread.  Heck, it's turkey...  I pile it on a little higher.  Top it off with the lettuce, tomato, and avocado.  Perfect.
     Just then, my Dad comes back.  He walks back to the TV.  Sees it's off.  I don't know if this confuses him, or if he's upset because I had the nerve to turn it off.  He stands in front of the black screen.  He stands there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do, I guess.  Meanwhile, I serve myself a little more milk, and top off the sandwich with the remaining two slices of bread.
     I keep my head down, ignoring my Dad, and try to enjoy my meal.  I take the first bite of my sandwich.  Mmm, that's good, but you know what it needs?  Some chips.  So I walk over to the pantry, and grab myself a bag of Vinegar & Salt chips.  I can hear him mumbling something.  He mumbles to himself for a few minutes, before he starts walking back to his room.
     "What's that, Dad?"  I ask.
     "Nothing," he mumbles some more.
     To get to his guest house he has to walk right past me, through the kitchen, exit the french doors that lead to the patio, follow a little pathway, and--bam!--he's home.  The part of that sentence that's important is the part where I say he has to walk right past me, because...
     I lift my sandwich to take another bite, when--BRRAPPP!--he cuts loose with a huge fart just as he's passing me.
     He mumbles something again, and walks out of the kitchen. 
     I put my sandwich down, and walk away.  My appetite gone.  I don't know if it was intentional, accidental, or revenge for my having turned off a baseball game he really wasn't interested in.  All I know is...
     ...he ruined my meal.
 
 

  Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene
 
  as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
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*But let's keep that between you and me.

**Did I mention that he does it ALL the time?  For some reason, instead of turning off the TV, he'll just get up, walk away, and leave it for us to worry about.