blaugra

My dad's gift of gab

I talk to my dad every day. He's almost 82. 

Last week:

Dad:    Do you know Pat Boone?

Me:     Yes. 

Dad:     Well he's been around!

Me:     Yah, Debby Boone's dad.

Dad:     There's a TV ad with him selling TV Ears. They can save your marriage! I can't hear the TV, and your mother always says it's too loud. I thought I'd take Pat's advice. Although I think his wife is dead.

Me:    OK. Did you buy them?

Dad:    Well, here's what I did. I called their phone number and I talked to a "Jose" in San Diego. His name was Jose but he didn't have a Spanish accent, I could understand him, so I don't know if his name was really Jose or not...

Me:    Daaaaaaaaadddd...

Dad:     OK, so I said to Jose, are you really in San Diego? And he said yes. So I said, my sister lived in San Diego, in the College Heights neighborhood. Do you know it? And he did!  He doesn't live far from there. So that proves he's actually in San Diego. Ha! Well, we talked for a while about the city. Then I asked Jose if these TV Ears really worked the way Pat Boone says they do. And he assured me they do, and they're easy to set up. I asked him if they really do save marriages! Ha ha!

Me:     OK, so they're coming in the mail? And you can return them if they don't work out?

Dad:    Jose said they're on their way! I can't wait! They're coming by UPS.

This is basically how every interaction is between my dad and people he encounters, especially during lockdown while he's cooped up in the house most of the time. He loves talking to people. Got the gift of gab. I don't really have that gift. Maybe I'm not really his kid. Anyway, I wonder what Jose thought of my dad.

p.s. The TV Ears arrived and the set up was not what Dad expected, something got in the way, I don't know what, so he returned them. Something else will have to bring harmony to his marriage. 

 

Some Enchanted Evening

I went to see South Pacific. With my parents. No, this was not a high school musical, it was -- thankfully -- a great production. Because it's a fucking long show.

And it's about war and a rich French guy, and this hick American girl, and she's racist, and she's freaked out by the fact that he has dark-skinned kids from his Polynesian dead wife, and then this other white soldier shtups this young Asian chippie and they fall in love and then he dies. Meanwhile all these gay sailors dance and sing. In the middle of it are those songs like "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair" and, I'm sorry, Rodgers and Hammerstein - it's SO WEIRD. And my parents love it.

The cough medicine I'd been using started to wear off just before intermission. How very annoying.

My dad bought me a roll of Life Savers at intermission. Five Flavor.

HOW CUTE IS THAT!

Such a dad thing to do.

I ate almost all of them, even the lemon ones.

Sometime after "Honey Bun" during the second act, I turned to my mother, whose face was all lit up with musical theatre delight, and I said, "Is this the world's longest musical?"  She whispered back, "No. Les Miserables is longer..."

"Yeah, well I'm miserables." I muttered, but not loud enough for her to hear. Because it was a good time out with the folks.

"Facebook will kill you dead!"

I called my parents while they were watching The Social Network. Neither of them is on Facebook (thank God) and they don't really get it.

My dad is back to his normal self after some major surgery. Aaaaaand here we go.

Dad:  I know this movie is supposed to be very very well done, but I can't understand a word anyone says. They all talk way too fast and it's much too technical during the second part of the film.

Me:  You're not liking it, then?

Dad:  It shows that Mark Zuckerberg is a real doofus. Although he's SO hyperkinetic!!!  So hyper! But what a doofus!

[note: my dad is talking super-duper energetically fast]

Me:  It might help you appreciate the movie more if you used Facebook...

Dad:  What's the point?

Me: Well, you are networked with anyone you want to be connected with, and you share info and photos and have conversations... [at this point I'm questioning whether I find a point in Facebook now. I used to. I'm not sure whether I would miss it or not. Eh, I probably would miss it.]

Dad:  But you can talk to all those people in other ways, why do you need to be on a network?

Me:  [I don't feel like answering this question]  It's fascinating though, the story and the growth of Facebook, don't you think?

Dad:  I guess so. How do they make all their money?

Me:  Selling your data.

Dad:  What data?

Me:  The information you enter about yourself.

Dad:  Like what?

Me: Your birthday, your friends, interests, music you like, places you go, causes...

Dad: Why would you enter that information?  For everyone to see it?

Me: So you can connect with people with similarities and see what your friends like, and then advertisers target you...

Dad:  You put your birthday in?  What about privacy violations? It knows your birthday?

Me:  Well, yes...

Dad:  And you're OK with this?!

Me:  Most of the time. I'm still a little guarded, I don't publish my exact address or my phone number.

Dad:  Oh my God, you're going to end up dead!  Because of Facebook!

Me: Facebook is not going to kill me.

Dad: You could be dead! I predict Facebook will become irrelevant and go away. So, is Twitter like Facebook on steroids or is it different?

Me: It's different...

Dad:  Do you Twitter?

Me:  Yes. I love it.

Dad: Someday you'll have to explain that one to me.

[I sort of dread that conversation]

Me:  Maybe they'll make a movie about Twitter.

Dad:  THEY SHOULD!!

Ok bye.

Milkshake Money

I felt like a complete nutjob when I pulled up to the McDonald's drive-thru today and ordered 5 small vanilla milkshakes and a hot coffee.

Do people at McD's think about what people are ordering?  Are they like, WTF, it's 20 degrees outside and some broad wants 5 small milkshakes? If I worked there I would make fun of people and their orders all the time. "You want 6 McRibs and a Diet Coke, no ice? What's wrong with you?"

Mom had given me money to load their freezer up with vanilla milkshakes, and she needed them sooner rather than later.  This is a normal habit of hers, this frozen milkshake thing, but the urgency was that my dad now wanted to partake in the milkshake habit. 

During his last two days in the hospital, he found out he didn't have to eat the Jell-O on his all-liquids breakfast tray. He could ask Pete the restorative specialist for vanilla ice cream. That really perked him up. He thought it would be the key to a successful recovery. So one night he told me he wanted to go home and just eat Mom's stash of vanilla milkshakes in the freezer.

My mom panicked and sent me out for more stock.

Because neither of my parents are driving for about 6 more weeks, I will be making more milkshake runs. Even though their friends and neighbors have offered to shop for them, I doubt Mom will ask them to pick up 5 small vanilla milkshakes from McD's (they can't be from BK) because if she did they would think she is crazy.

Depuffing

My dad had surgery the other day and, to quote what he said yesterday, "My surgical team is VERY PLEASED with themselves."  Everyone around us saying how great everything went, how great he's doing.  It's a humongous relief but now it's just on to the next day, the recovery, the surgery of my other parent coming up, and a bunch of unknowns.  But yes, I'm very positive, because dad has a new lease on life.  I could share some of the things that he said to me and my mom when we first saw him in the ICU but I will keep those funny, poignant moments private.

There are those weird moments sitting in an ICU unit, surrounded by all these machines and voices around curtains and hearing everyone saying to all the patients "You did great.  You just did great." which I found myself saying to my dad too, and then there are these residents who say things like "We want to discharge him to a regular room now" and then the lioness comes out NO YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING UNTIL HE IS READY so anyway they kept him for another night in the super luxury suite.

And that was one babbling run-on.

I'm a little tired but even more I am tired of other people telling me how tired I look.  I came downstairs at my mom's house this morning and she took one look at me and said, "Ugh!" What?  "If your father sees you looking like that he'll be upset.  At least put a cold compress on your eyes!"  I'm like, give me a break, I need some caffeine and my special Icelandic eye cream.

But she's not the only one.  Even the visiting pastor said something to me in the hallway. "You'd better get some rest, you look like you need it," said Pastor Jack.  Well EFF YOU PASTOR JACK, I thought.  I'm sleeping enough hours, I'm just getting drained by the whole experience.  I don't need some young man of the cloth telling me that my de-puffing eye cream isn't doing its freakin job.

OK I found some teabags I'm chilling and will put on my eyes now. Go ahead and make a teabag joke ...GO!

 

 

Ruffians Attack

At dinner I noticed that my dad had a scar on his face. It was the first I'd ever noticed it. Maybe the lighting in my dining room is bad. Maybe he could see all of my scars too. 

No, no he couldn't.

I asked him what the deal was, because it looked kind of grisly.

Dad: "Well, ya see, back in 1974..."

oh, this is gonna be GOOD!

Dad: "...my coworker Buster and I were walking down the street in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.  And we were on West 4th Street. We were dressed in our office suits and suddenly these ruffians came up to us and started giving us a hard time."

Me:  "Oh my God, dad, were you MUGGED?"

Dad:  "No, they just started hassling us, calling us 'pretty boys'"

Ummmm so my dad looked PRETTY?

Dad:  "And they got right up in our faces and pushed us around. We didn't want any trouble so we didn't fight back..."

Me: "So they took all your money right?  And your watch?"

Dad:  "No. No, these ruffians just wanted to ..."

Me: "Rough you up?"

Dad: "Yeah, yeah. And the ruffians pushed me into a brick wall, so there are pieces of brick in my skin, and that's what you see."

Me: "Wow! What did your daughter have to say about that when you got home?" (I was around 7 at that time, I'd imagine I would have asked daddy what happened to his face)

Dad:  "Who?"

Me:  "Your DAUGHTER."

Dad: "Huh?"

Me: "Me!"

Dad: "Oh. I don't know.  But yeah, this has been on my face for 30-some years because of those ruffians."

Me: "Ruffians in Williamsport."

Dad:  "Yeah."

Now, Williamsport, PA, is the birthplace of little league baseball. I have never been there. Is anyone from Williamsport reading this?  It's one of those places in my state that is probably pretty and mildly interesting but is part of bumfuck flyover country so I never make the point of driving there. I don't mean that to offend any Williamsport residents, unless you are a Williamsport ruffian. You know it's true, if you're living there.

I should go someday, find a good diner, and walk down West 4th Street (which I noticed is also known as Millionaire's Row. So these ruffians were cruising Millionaire's Row?) but frankly I might be a little scared I'd get roughed up.

That was a weird story. I wonder if it's true.

Kvetch du Jour

My dad met up with an old friend of his. Old friend, we'll call him Jerkface, gave him a huge bear hug. Jerkface was happy to see Dad. And why not?  Dad's the life of the party.  Dad yelped in pain, because Jerkface hugged him so hard, he thought his ribs had cracked.

That's not a good feeling for someone like Dad, who's a heart and lung patient.  Dad just has some bad contusions but no broken bones, so that's good. Have I mentioned lately that I'm a daddy's girl? Nobody hurts my daddy. You hear that, Jerkface?  

Dad has been doped up but still feeling pain and saying things like, [Jerkface] "doesn't realize he's such a big Polish guy." 

No. I think that by age 70 you do realize that you're a big Polish guy, if that's what you are.

But the real bummer of the story is this.

 Months ago I got my parents tickets to see Garrison Douchebag Keillor. And the show is this week. 

If my dad doesn't heal enough to sit and laugh I will accompany my mother to the show.

A Prairie Home Companion?  More like a Torture Chamber Dullard. Regardless of his political stance, I find him to be a bucket of misery.

No, there's nobody else she wants to ask to accompany her. 

So, please please please Daddy, get better. 

Update, Tuesday evening: Dad called and said he's all better and would go to the show, I was off the hook. Yaaay!  I planned a nice dinner at home.

Update, Wednesday morning:  Nope, Dad is not all better and I need to attend in his place. Crap.

Weekend in Nashville - part 1 !

"I'm going to Nashville!" I declared.

"Who with?" asked my parents, my friends, well, everyone.

"Some girls."

"Which group of girl-friends?"

"Some girls I met online, and some I don't know."

* silence *

Then the questions. "You met them ONLINE? How do you know them? Are you going to get along? What if you don't? How many friends do you have, anyway? What are you going to do?"

My answers:

1. Yes, I met them online. I met Jen and Michelle in real life at BlogHer last summer. They invited me to come to Nashville a couple of weeks ago and I said, why the hell not?  Never been.

2. PeevedMichelle and Jen14221 are part of this group blog.

3. I think we'll get along. We have similar senses of humor and are similarly wired.

4. We're grown-ups. If we don't get along, we'll know why.

5. I have lots of friends. I'm very very lucky. Some friends are silver and the others gold. There's always room for new friends even if it's hard to keep up with everyone's news.

6. What do you do in Nashville for 40 hours?  You party, eat, drink, dance, eat, drink, shop and go to the Country Music Hall of Fame!  Hell yeah.

My dad became perplexed. How did this activity of mine come about?  As someone who is set in his ways, he doesn't get how you can keep meeting new friends, especially online.

I had to explain, "Dad, it's this girl from Buffalo, who used to live in Boston, and a few chicks from the Boston area, and one of them moved to Tennessee, and she brought her friend, and this Buffalo girl's sister is coming too, and this other chick from California who runs a blog and I met her in Chicago..." He just laughed. "Well. I guess you know what you're doing. Cool! heh heh heh"

Which, in dad-speak, means "Not cool! - You're making me nervous."

While I was taking a disco-nap (or I guess in Nashville a honky-tonk-nap,) in my hotel room while roomie Michelle was engrossed in her Kindle, I talked to my parents.

I'm 42, and Dad is worrying about me like I'm a kid at summer camp.

"So...how's it going?  Are you all getting along? How is it that you know these girls again?  Is there anyone who is, you know, weird? Are you rooming with the girl from Buffalo? No? The girl from L.A.? What's her name? Michelle? HI MICHELLE!  HA HA HA HA! HI MICHELLE!"

So Michelle was the lucky one.

I think he was fascinated. I then put together this map below to show how we converged on Music City. All my talking with him about mobile communications and online communities and the fact that geography doesn't need to be an obstacle to getting shit done doesn't seem to change his opinion that my weekend with "stranger-girls I met online" was odd. It felt right to me, though. 

Want to know what we did? I'll share that next. The wacky pillow-fights in our p.j.'s, the naked karaoke...

The things I do for love.

My mom made a big salad on a tray. It consisted of mixed leaf lettuce, tomatoes, olives, pepperoni and fresh mozzarella. Then she "drizzled" balsamic vinaigrette over the whole thing. By vinaigrette I mean mostly vinegar, not much olive oil, and by drizzled I mean poured.

A little balsamic goes a long way, I think.

Well, Salty D. does not like vinegar. It's funny because you'd think with a name like Salty he would love it. Don't you picture him enjoying salt-n-vinegar potato chips (a.k.a. crisps)?  But no, the smell of it makes him hurl, for whatever reason. This is a drag for me whenever we go to a british style pub or a boardwalk and there are really good french fries (a.k.a. chips) which I want to flavor with malt vinegar.

I think it goes back to when he would smell hot vinegary easter egg dye in school.  I think it's a reaction to Christian traditions. I think he doesn't love Jesus, that's what this is all about.

So applying this logic, my mother's salad = Jesus worship.

Story about Pricey Punkins

My parents are moving tomorrow. If you haven't noticed the posts about dealing with aging parents on the move, you can see here and here and here how it's been going.  And going.

I stopped by my childhood home last nite, because they keep finding shit in the house that they don't know what to do about and so they call me about either taking it, storing it, selling it, or launching it into the charity thrift store universe. The final call was about a leaf blower.  I have three gigantic trees so of course I want the leaf blower, as much as I HATE leaf blowers, Salty D. has been jonesing for one and hey, it would be free.

I ring their doorbell for the last time. The porch is festooned with fall decor.  Why the fuck is the porch still decorated if they're moving tomorrow? 

I ask to see the leaf blower. "Well," my dad explains, "it's more of a leaf SUCKER than a leaf BLOWER.  It lost the blowing attachment.  And it's pretty old and worn out." 

I resist my urge to make a joke about an old toothless hooker.

"So then why did you call me about it?"

"We don't know what to do with it!"  Just leave it for the new owners, I said.  My parents are already leaving a shed full of lawn crap as part of the deal.  My garage is already full of their crap. Besides, raking leaves once a year is better for the environment and eardrums.

Mom then offers a box of tea, packets of salad dressing, and some crackers.  "Here. I found these in the cupboard do you want them?"   I picked up each one.  "Expired. Expired. Expired."  

"Really?  I just bought that Hidden Valley. Are you sure?"  I proceed to read each past date to my mom.

Honestly, Hidden Valley Ranch dressing mix and tea can live beyond their expiration dates, I just didn't want one more fucking thing. 

I left as quickly as I could after reviewing all their final arrangements. The last thing I wanted was a twinge of nostalgia, and I didn't want to absorb any more of their anxiety and lingering sadness.

Then I stood on the porch and said, "Ma. WHY THE HELL did you decorate the porch if you knew you were moving this month?" 

"We're not moving til tomorrow!" 

"Yeah, but, you have pumpkins, flags, corn cobs..." 

She said defensively, "This is just some of the fall decoration.  I already have half of the decorations at the new house!  That porch has pumpkins and mums, and a wreath...."

I pointed to two very bright orange pumpkins.  "What are you doing with these?  Can I take them?"

Mom had to think for a second. Do I want to pack the pumpkins or leave them as a welcome gift for the new owner or let my daughter take them...  She replied, "They're very expensive pumpkins."

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"  I exclaimed.

"Yeah," my dad added, "you wouldn't believe the price per pound. We got them in New Hampshire." 

Oh my Gawd. We live in Pennsylvania. Last month my parents went on a trip to Canada, and stopped in New Hampshire on the way, apparently to go to a pumpkin patch. That means the pumpkins have been driven about 1,000 miles.

But I wasn't about to make an offer on buying the well-traveled pricey pumpkins. 

"I'm taking the pumpkins, OK?" 

It's the only thing I've asked for in this whole move. Well, not true. I also asked if they were moving the pretty birdbath, and they were.  

I drove away from the cul-de-sac of many happy memories (blocked out all the bad shit, of course) and realized the one thing I was sad about them leaving behind - the big beautiful endless summer hydrangea bush in the front yard with its blooms of many colors, which are now faded blue, purple and pink and kind of look like this: