as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
RaisingDad
by Jim and Henry Duchene
A Big Sandwich
“my own personal peccadillo”
My father just got over a cold that almost left us with an empty bedroom that would have converted nicely into an office for me. Still, the rest of us are not without our own issues. Just the other night I thoughtfully brought my beautiful wife two aspirins as she sat in bed reading.
"What are these for? " she asked. "I don't have a headache."
"Then it's a good thing you're already in bed," I said, giving her a lascivious wink.
Okay, so that's an old joke... but it's not far from the truth.
My own personal peccadillo has given me a new eating schedule. I only eat twice a day, which isn't bad, BUT--and, as you can see, it's a big "but"--I can't have any bread or bread-like substances, and THAT'S what's killing me. I'm a BIG bread eater. Well, make that used to be. I'm not any longer. On the plus side, I can have all the fruit I want, which is another way of saying I go to the bathroom a lot.
The reason for this is my weight has ballooned to none-of-your-business proportions, enough that I had to take drastic action. I remembered reading in a book by Fran Drescher* that she was on a non-white diet. That is, she wouldn't eat anything white. That left out white rice, potatoes, dairy... and bread. It made sense to me. A lot of empty calories in white sugar and starch. If I was in half as good shape as Fran Drescher I could box in the Olympics, if you get my drift.
But bread?
Man, that's all I live for. As a kid, I was famous for making anything into a sandwich. Even soup.** What has all this got to do with the story I want to tell you? Well, hang on. I'm getting to that.
Today my wife drove my father to the PX. He wanted to do some shopping and she wanted to empty our bank account there, too. I tell her she doesn't have to spend money everywhere she goes, but, to tell the truth, when it comes to the PX I only pretend to mind because she always brings me back one of their sandwiches.
It's a big sandwich. A BIG sandwich. So big it would be worshipped as a god in some impoverished third world nation. However, because of my new diet I told her I would just share with my father. He always gets one and he never finishes it.
I won't lie to you, by the time they got back I was hungry. Really hungry. My father was all smiles. He was hungry, too.
I was at the kitchen table paying our bills. My father came in carrying the one styrofoam container the sandwich came in, while my wife had an armload of plastic grocery bags.
"Do you need some help, sweetie?" I asked her.
"No," she said. "I'm fine."
That was good. I didn't want to stop in the middle of finding out how much money I owed everybody. I have no problem spending money, I just have a problem wasting money, but that's neither here nor there. Which is more than you can say about my money. It's here, but soon it will be there.
As my father sat the container on the counter he started.
Cough, cough! Sniff!
He covered his mouth and nose with his hands.
Cough, cough! Sniff, sniff!
I think you know where I'm going with this.
I'm not a germaphobe, but I don't care to have snot all over my food. Sure, that might happen in restaurants, but as long as I don't know about it, it doesn't bother me.
The sandwich, undisturbed, slumbered deliciously in its cradle. I was hoping my wife would hurry up and use the wisdom of Solomon on it, but she began unpacking the grocery bags instead. I'd have cut the sandwich in half myself, but my father would have taken offense. When my wife does it, he just sees it as her catering to him. For some reason, he feels entitled to being catered to. Gone are the days when he'd fend for himself. Good thing he didn't have that kind of attitude during the war or else we'd all be speaking another language.
As far as my sharing his sandwich, well, it was not meant to be. My father lifted the lid on the styrofoam container, took the sandwich out, and placed it on a plate. All the while...
Cough, cough! Sniff, sniff! COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!
Right on the sandwich.
He lifted a knife.
"How big a piece do you want?" he asked me. Cough!
I looked at my wife. She was too busy putting away the groceries to notice.
"Nevermind about the sandwich, pop," I told him. "It has bread and that's no longer on my menu."
"More for me," he acknowledged.
My wife, who hears everything, asked, "Do you want me to cook you something?"
She’s wonderful that way.
"No, thanks,” I told her, "I'm not hungry."
Anymore.
I decided to stick to my diet. I've lost eight pounds in two weeks, and since I'm going to bed hungry...
I guess I'll be losing a little more.
************************
*Don't judge me. I love The Nanny. **Don't judge me. I was a kid. ***Don't judge me. I'm VERY regular.
@Alacazowie
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