Oh, for God's sake, Part II

Tuesday night, I came home from work and headed for the kitchen to get Dillon and Dad’s supper ready. After dumping dog food and salt-free green beans in Dillon’s bowl, I started making sandwiches. Dad roused himself from his chair to come into the kitchen, pick up an empty glass off the counter, move it to the island where I was working, and inform me that he’d used it earlier in the day and it could be re-used for his suppertime Coke. “Okay,” I said, not appreciating the interruption or infringement on my workspace, and continued assembling the sandwiches. Then he retreated to the doorway and just stood back to watch.

Unless you’re helping, or contributing scintillating and amusing conversation, there is no reason to be in my kitchen when I’m working. Dad wasn’t doing either of those things. He was just standing there, watching. I wanted to be nasty and ask if he was attempting to relearn how to make a sandwich, but I kept my mouth tightly shut and continued working.

Dillon finished his supper and came to see if anything interesting was going to fall down to dog level. In the process, he wedged his body firmly between the island and me and I practically tripped over him when returning from the counter with a knife. Katie used to get out of the way when she sensed you approaching or at the very least responded to a nudge. Not Dillon. He firmly stands his ground and it’s like trying to move a wet sandbag, tough going.

So, Dillon was under my feet and Dad was still standing guard in the doorway. Neither was contributing anything productive to my efforts. The lid on the mayonnaise jar has been sticking recently. When I went to open it, it refused to budge. I applied more pressure, and when it still didn’t turn, even more. The lid finally popped free and the jar popped out of my hand, flew through the air and dropped to the floor, splattering mayonnaise on Dillon, the cabinets, and the floor.

“F*#k!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I really try not to use that word in Dad’s presence, but dropping the mayonnaise jar was the last straw. Dillon was licking up mayonnaise as fast as he could. I reached for the paper towels to try and wipe up the biggest globs before he could make himself sick. Dad just kept standing there. I finally snapped, “I don’t need an audience!” Only then did he feel moved to action. “Give me the paper towels,” he said in disgust. Since I’d already gotten the worst of it off the floor, he started working on getting it off Dillon’s head, ears, and back.

It seems like I’ve heard that some women put mayonnaise on their hair intentionally as a beauty product. I don’t know why. When I went to pet Dillon later that evening, he had stiff patches of fur where the mayonnaise had been. Dad obviously just swiped, he didn’t bother to wet the paper towel and actually clean Dillon’s coat.

Still, even that limited effort was more than he’s done when Dillon’s come in wet from outside for the past two days. We’ve finally been getting some much needed rain. That means when Dillon comes in from his bathroom trips, he needs to be dried off. I keep a towel hanging in the laundry room for just that purpose. For the past two days, Dad has let Dillon in and then come down the hall to tell me that the dog was wet. From his chair, it would actually be closer to walk into the laundry room, pick up the towel, and dry the dog off. It’s not like the towel is hidden. It’s hanging on one of the cabinet knobs. Right beside one of Dad’s shirts that I washed yesterday and he can’t be bothered to carry down the hall and put in his closet.

I think I earned the right to use the “F” word. Dad’s really lucky that I exercise. Last night when I got home, after I took the trash out and rolled the garbage can to the street, I worked out for an hour before fixing supper. It’s amazing how much less stress I felt afterward. I managed to fix supper for everyone without using any expletives or dropping the jar of mayonnaise. Because of course, they were still waiting for supper to be served.

Oh, for God’s sake

Last night, Dad didn’t ask for help with his arm. Silly me, I thought perhaps he’d finally figured out he could take care of himself. Today, as I was rushing into the kitchen at 2 minutes before noon to get lunch out of the oven and on the table, he’s sitting there with his sleeve rolled up. That can only mean one thing.

Sure enough, he puts that beseeching smile on his face and asks, “Could I get you to change the bandage? We can do it now or after lunch, whichever you’d prefer.” I was so mad I could have spit. “Why do you do this? Why wait until it’s time for lunch when you know I’m on a schedule to get lunch on the table and get ready for work?”

“Well, it wasn’t going to be convenient any time and I know you don’t like to do it anyway.” Right, I don’t like to do it because he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself! As for a convenient time, I guess it doesn’t occur to someone who’s retired and just sits in a chair all damn day waiting to be served his next meal, that evenings are a more convenient time if I absolutely have to help. On top of which, wound care isn’t particularly appetizing, so mealtimes aren’t my preferred time for that activity.

I chose before lunch. I didn’t waste time asking if he’d washed his arm. At this point, I don’t care if the damn thing falls off. That would be one less appendage I’d have to doctor in the future. I slapped a bandage on it and haven’t spoken to him since. I don’t know why I think that will discourage him from asking again. Obviously, it’s impossible to shame him into looking after himself.


For those of you who think I’m being unnecessarily harsh. It’s his forearm that he scraped. The forearm pictured above is simply intended to illustrate my point. The injury is less than ½ an inch wide and probably about an inch to an inch and a half long. You don’t have to be a contortionist to reach it and putting on a bandage is simple enough. So I don’t understand why a grown man requires assistance.

I frequently wonder what he'd have done if he'd had sons. Would he expect the same level of personal service? Would they be expected to cook, clean, do laundry, wash the dishes, take out the trash, make his appointments, mow the grass, share the expenses, and bandage his wounds? Somehow I doubt it.

He's so right

Walking with empty hands, no eager dog at the end of the leash, is lonely. Fortunately, Dillon never declines the offer to go for a walk. He's always eager to head out the door; dashing ahead to grab a ball and run in big circles until I catch up, snap on the leash, and open the gate.

Okay, that's just annoying. Once again the blogger template has cut off the right side of the image. Since I can't figure out how to work around that you'll just have to click on the image to see the full cartoon.

A room full of ding-a-lings

I got up at 5:30 a.m. Saturday morning to travel 1-1/2 hours, unload a van full of handbell equipment, stand on my feet for hours ringing bells, pack up all the equipment, drive back home, unload the van, and finally get back home at 7 p.m. to collapse into my chair. No wonder some people call us ding-a-lings.

Our church handbell group attended a handbell festival in Mechanicsville, VA. We were one of 19 groups working and playing under the direction of David Harris. David is one of the preeminent handbell directors in the country. He’s the director of the Raleigh Ringers, a group that has played all over the world and is credited with the rise in popularity of handbell groups in the United States. The opportunity to learn from him was a real treat. Fortunately, he’s not only talented, but patient, funny, and a pleasure to be around.

When we arrived and checked in, we asked where our tables were located in the room. “You’re right on the front row,” the enthusiastic volunteer at the registration table informed us. We looked at each other in shock. “The front row? We’ve never been on the front row,” said Jane, our director. “Next time, wait a little later to send in the registration form,” Cheryl instructed. Beth and I were still standing there with deer in the headlight looks on our faces. Michele, our youngest member at 12, was the only one who didn’t appear intimidated.

We followed Jane into the auditorium. Sure enough, our little group was front and center. We were going to be directly under the nose of David Harris. I had been secure in the fact that we’d just be one of the crowd, planning to look innocent when I rang the wrong note, and counting on my mistakes being attributed to someone else in the room. That was going to be a lot more difficult when we were the closest group to the director.

We started unpacking and setting up our tables. Jane had left the skirting attached to the table pads. Time for Plan B. If things started going too badly, I could just drop one of my mallets under the table, crawl underneath to retrieve it, and not come out again until the event was over. It’s always good to have options.

Jane had told us to wear black pants, white shirts and comfortable shoes. I have black jeans, but afraid of being too casual, wore the black pants that I wear to work and a good white blouse. The rest of the groups were dressed in jeans, chinos, and knit shirts. We were the best-dressed group there. I guess it’s good to be well dressed if you’re on the front row.

Beth asked a member of the group behind us to take our picture. We posed with our bells while she took several group shots. No one else was taking pictures, so I felt a little self-conscious. Turns out, the rest of the groups brought out the cameras and started taking pictures at the end of the day. Beth was smart. By the end of the day, everyone in the room looked exhausted. We were still fresh and smiling in our group shots.

We started practicing promptly at 9 a.m. and except for an hour for lunch, and three 30-minute breaks, worked steadily until 5 p.m. Our group may have been the smallest there, only 4 of our members and Jane attended, but we were the best equipped. We took our industrial foam floor mats to stand on. The rest of the groups were standing on that hard tile floor for hours. I heard several members of nearby groups complaining of back pain. Of course, given that the average age of participants was probably at least 55, I guess that’s to be expected. If they’d given a prize for youngest participant, Michele would have won easily.

I doubt that my musical ability showed miraculous improvement in just one day, but it was fun. Hearing all those bells playing together was so different from hearing just our group of eight. I did learn new things and I didn’t publicly disgrace Jane as I’d feared. At the end of the concert, I took my program and asked David Harris to sign it for me. He laughed and was very gracious, saying that he hoped I’d enjoyed the day and would continue playing handbells.

According to Jane, a previous festival director had been a stern taskmaster with no discernable sense of humor, so I felt very lucky to have worked with David. Most church handbell players are amateur volunteers and Jane doesn’t feel we should be subjected to the same level of discipline and exactitude as professional musicians. It’s hard enough to recruit ringers as it is. If you take away the fun, you’ll soon be listening to the sound of silence.

We only had one unpleasant moment. One of the pieces we were playing featured chimes as well as handbells. Before the concert, a member of one group took it upon herself to call out to the director and ask if he’d noticed that some of the chimes sounded like “a car wreck out on I-95 on a Friday afternoon.” She wanted to know if that was the fault of the chime, perhaps it was defective or not properly maintained, or the technique of the person playing it. She also suggested that perhaps the offending chimes should be silenced so that they didn’t disrupt the music. She was quite insistent.

Since the director hadn’t felt it necessary to single out anyone for embarrassment, and we weren’t playing Carnegie Hall, I thought that was completely unnecessary and extremely rude. Thank goodness, I’m not a member of her group and we weren’t located directly adjacent to her. I would have crawled under the table. The man with the offending chime made a point of ringing it very loudly. Good for him!

Jane shares David’s ability to drill and instruct with enthusiasm, patience, and good humor so that the experience is fun. The admonition, as I recall it, was to make a joyful noise. I thought we succeeded admirably on both counts. I’m glad I went, but also relieved that it’s a bi-annual event. I was worn out on Sunday. 5:30 a.m. is just too early to get up on a Saturday, even for a ding-a-ling.

Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter

I made Dillon a batch of bunny-shaped apple cinnamon dog biscuits. He wishes I'd give him the whole plate instead of rationing them out, one-a-day at bedtime.

True to form

My original prediction proved correct. After putting on the bandaid himself the first night, Dad reverted to pattern and came to me the next day, bandage and tape in hand, wanting to know if I’d put a new one on for him. I bit my tongue so hard it practically bled, but I changed the bandage.

He didn’t ask for help for the next two nights. Not because he was assuming responsibility for his own wound care, but because he wasn’t changing the bandage. This morning, he wanted to know if I’d put another bandage on for him since it hadn’t been changed in two days.

I told him I would, but it had to be washed too. “What?” he asked in shock. “You have to wash the skin while the bandage is off.” He kept looking at me in disbelief. “You know this,” I said. “You’ve not a stupid man even though you act like you are.”

“But the washcloth is rough,” he protested. “Then use your finger. I'm not saying you have to scrub it, but you do have to wash it off with soap and water.” He’s such a wimp when it comes to cuts and scrapes.

I didn’t follow him into the bathroom to supervise, but he came back shortly, grumbling that he’d washed it and he hoped I was happy. “Good. Maybe your arm won’t fall off now.” That earned me another hurt look.

I applied a new bandage. From the size of the bandage and the production we have to go through, you’d think this was some type of mortal injury. He could just slap a regular bandaid over it at this point, but he obviously thrives on the drama.

Yes, I'm heartless, deal with it

“I need your help,” Dad said as he came in from his room in the garage last night. “Do we have any gauze?” I was already cringing. “What did you do?” I asked. “I stumbled and fell on the arm of my chair. It’s not as bad as it looks, but I need you to bandage it.”

Wonderful. It’s already been firmly established that I lack the poor baby gene that some women seem to naturally possess that makes them croon and soothe when someone is injured. I’m definitely a suck it up and tend your own wounds sort.

I followed Dad down the hall to see what he’d done now. He had a couple of good skinned spots on his arm, but there was no dripping blood or huge wounds. “I’m going to pour alcohol on it, and then you can bandage it.” Since I know from experience that he’s not the type that enjoys pain, I thought pouring alcohol on an open wound was a stupid idea. “You don’t use alcohol. That will hurt. You use hydrogen peroxide,” I informed him. How can he not know that?

I went to fetch my bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I keep a bottle on hand for my own scrapes and for when I need to make the dog empty the contents of his stomach. Dad followed me into the bathroom. “Do you have any gauze?” he asked. Why is it my responsibility to stock the first aid supplies? “Unless you’re a dog, my supply is somewhat limited,” I replied. I handed him the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and started doing an inventory of my first aid supplies.

“It wouldn’t be as bad if I didn’t have such thin skin, just another problem with getting old. Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth it.” “Well since the alternative is being underground, I don’t think you should complain,” I responded. “Sometimes that doesn’t seem like it would be so bad,” he replied, not ready to give in on the poor pitiful me yet. “Well if you go that way, I’m going to sit you up in a corner and keep collecting your social security checks,” I informed him. Not the reply he was angling for.

He kept standing there. I glanced over at him. “Why are you still standing here? You don’t need me to pour the hydrogen peroxide. You go do that and I’ll see what kind of bandages I have.” He looked hurt and went down the hall. Given the number of times that we’ve been in similar situations and the fact that I’ve made no secret of my fix it yourself attitude, I don’t see why he keeps expecting me to turn into Clara Barton.

I found a pretty good selection of bandaids, gauze, tape, and scissors, but I hadn’t found any nonstick pads. My tubes of Neosporin and Polysporin were both expired. Dad came back with a tube of some kind of first aid ointment. “Put this on and then bandage it,” he instructed. “Is it still good?” I asked. “What’s the expiration date?” “I don’t know. What difference does it make?” he asked with growing frustration. “Because if it’s expired you can’t use it,” I snapped. He handed me the tube. It expired in 2003. “You can’t use that.” I tossed it in the trash. “Well just put a bandage on,” he instructed.

I showed him a good size square bandaid. “This would probably be better than the gauze. It won’t stick to the wound.” He agreed, but then started giving me detailed instructions about which way to place the bandaid and to be sure to avoid the raw areas. I held the bandaid up and started trying to figure out how to position it. It looked to me like it was going to be a little too short in one direction to safely clear the raw spots.

I put the bandaid down and started looking for gauze pads. Dad insisted the bandaid would fit. I insisted it wouldn’t. He finally picked up the bandaid and stuck it on his arm. “See, it fits,” he said in disgust. Fine, he was going to be the one wincing and moaning if he’d applied any of the adhesive section to raw skin.

Of course, by applying the bandaid himself, he proved my point. He was perfectly capable of treating his own wounds. I never actually did anything except argue with him and hand him supplies. I refrained from saying that aloud. He wouldn’t have appreciated it, no matter that it was true. And it wouldn’t have changed anything. He’ll still be back expecting help for the next booboo.

I will admit to feeling a little bad about the social security jab. But since he's still in fairly good shape for his age, I'm not real receptive to commiserating when he starts in yet again on the pains of old age theme. We all have our challenges.

Now that's style

I love these two photos from The Sartorialist blog. I wish I had the sense of style these women possess. Their look is so beautiful and classy.

p.s. To see the top photo in its entirety, click on it. The blog template has cut off the right side of the photo and you miss her beautiful ring.

Oh, s#*t

This was what the cemetery looked like weekend before last. Today, the blooms are almost all gone. It's amazing how quickly Bradford Pear trees go from beautiful balls of fluffy white to ordinary green leaves.

I was sitting on the floor in the laundry room this morning putting on my walking shoes, preparing for our morning walk along the Canal Trail. I kept getting a faint whiff of something unpleasant. I gave my shirt a quick, worried sniff and that wasn't the source of the odor. Then I looked at the bottom of my right shoe. Sure enough, there was something brown stuck in the concave sole at the heel of the shoe. Apparently, although I didn't remember doing it, I'd stepped in dog poop on our previous day's walk.

I figured it would wear off on today's walk, so I laced up the shoe and headed out the door. As I stepped out onto the back porch, the odor seemed to get stronger. For a moment, I was again worried about the freshness of my shirt which I thought was clean. Another quick sniff and it was fine, but the smell was definitely getting stronger.

That's when I realized that when John was working on the power line right-of-way the day before, he'd put down manure. He'd tilled it into the garden plot areas, but some of it must have been dropped onto the grassy areas as well. That's what was on the bottom of my shoe and that's what was making my entire backyard smell like a barnyard since the breeze was blowing from that direction.

He did the same thing last year and it stunk for a day or so and then the smell dissipated. Thank goodness I don't live next to a working farm because I prefer the fragrance of fresh laundry, newly mowed grass, and spring flowers to chicken manure.

March Madness

I think John Henson is absolutely adorable. He actually looks like he's having fun when he's out there on the court playing the game.

Speaking of fun, whoever decided to put Charles Barkley on the CBS panel with Kenny Smith is a genius. Barkley really ups the entertainment value of the analysis and prognostications. He says what he thinks, doesn't sugarcoat the facts as he sees them, and it's clear a publicist hasn't vetted his remarks or tried to polish his opinions. Kenny Smith is the perfect counterpoint, he's not afraid to needle or contradict Barkley. I can't wait to hear what they say next.

This is fun.

Washington 83 North Carolina 86

A new beginning

The redbud trees are just beginning to bloom. Redbuds are my favorite tree. We had a big one in the backyard when we first moved in and for some insane reason my father cut it down, despite my pleas, a transgression for which I have still not forgiven him. I don’t understand how anyone whose favorite tree is a dogwood can’t appreciate the glorious beauty of a redbud tree in bloom.

Dad has planted several dogwood trees in the backyard since that time. Acts that only added insult to his original sin in my eyes. This year, he planted a redbud tree. It was a surprise early birthday present for me. Of course, this is my father, so he still managed to leave me shaking my head.

The trees were on sale at the neighborhood Food Lion store for $13.99. Apparently a price too low to resist, despite the fact that a number of them had already died for lack of water. Dad claims he bent the stems of the trees until he found one that still had a little life left in it. Okay, I understand wanting to get a bargain. But when you’re buying a living thing that you’re going to half kill yourself to plant, don’t you think you’d want to start off with one that was good and healthy, even if it did cost a few dollars more?


This is a prime example of a cheap tree in what I’ve heard referred to as a $100 hole. It took Dad a lot of time and effort to dig that hole. Every time he digs one, he claims it’s his last; that the next time he’s just going to crawl into the hole when he’s done and I can just cover him up with dirt. If I were going to work that hard to plant something, I’d want really good odds that it was going to survive and flourish. Instead, Dad didn’t even cover the root ball yet. He’s waiting to see if the tree shows any signs of life. Otherwise, I guess he’ll drag it out of the hole, and with my luck, replace it with another dogwood tree.

He definitely has his own way of doing things.

Put your best foot forward

I wore my new Aerosoles yesterday with my Champs Elysees skirt. They looked really cute, and I even received compliments on them, but it's a good thing my job is mostly done while seated at a desk. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home and by the time I got back to the house, my feet were begging for mercy.

I rarely wear heels, but occasionally I can indulge my inner desire for stylish shoes if they're Aerosoles. Even then, 3 inches is a bit too high for real comfort. Since they were on sale, I'll get my money's worth out of them, but I definitely won't be racking up the miles in these shoes.

Paws for Japan

Like everyone else, I've been watching the pictures from the disaster in Japan with amazement and horror. Whenever a disaster like this unfolds, I find myself asking what I'd do if I was one of those in that dire situation.


One of the most heartbreaking images I have of Katrina was of evacuees being loaded onto a bus and an owner being forced to put down a small white dog, obviously a beloved pet, and leave the dog behind as he boarded the bus. The dog kept going up to the bus door and putting a paw on the door, asking to go inside, wondering why he was being left behind.

I can't imagine losing everything you own and being forced to leave your dog alone in the devastation, knowing they have very little chance of survival without you and that you'll probably never see them again even if by some miracle they do survive.

Everyone has their own priorities and I don't intend to diminish the very real human suffering going on or discourage donations to organizations trying to help. But pets are an important part of many people's lives and I like to support the organizations devoted to helping the animals trying to survive the disaster. In this case, World Vets.



A group of pet bloggers have started a virtual fundraiser, Paws for Japan, to raise funds for World Vets. Jessica, at Pawcurious, does a much better job of stating my point.

"In a disaster like this, you need more than love. You need teams trained in animal handling. You need transport. You need a base to house them, food and water for them, a system to manage disease outbreak, a way to identify them so they can be reunited with their owners. Kennels and leashes and dewormer and vaccines. These are concerns specific to animal rescue, and why dedicated animal rescue teams are integral to this effort.

There are people on the ground and on the way with this training. What they need more than anything, desperately, is donations. Millions are pouring in to the Red Cross and similar organizations- and rightly so, I in no way think otherwise.

But so often we forget these animal rescue teams, an afterthought in this grand tragedy. They are entirely different groups with the same goal: to return a nation to some semblance of functionality. To save lives. They do it not because they value animals over people, but because we do value animals. And no one else is there to help if they don’t do it."

From CNN, Rescue Groups Race to Rescue Japan's Abandoned Animals.

You can also follow World Vets on Facebook.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

May your day be touched
by a bit of Irish luck,
brightened by a song in your heart,
and warmed by the smiles
of the people you love.

We had the traditional corned beef and cabbage for lunch. I cooked it in the crock pot overnight. Dad said it was pretty good. It'll be even better as sandwiches for the next few days, topped with sauerkraut, swiss cheese and thousand island dressing. Yum!

Dad's now settled in to watch the NCAA tournament for the rest of the day. I guess I'm lucky that Carolina doesn't play until tomorrow.

Time for a change

Dad and I met in the kitchen at 12:45 p.m. yesterday afternoon. “When did the time change?” he asked. “Today,” I answered. “Well I didn’t know it. I just found out by accident. I almost missed the first half of the basketball game,” he complained. “I changed the clock in your car on the way to Oscar’s this morning.” “I wondered why you did that.” What, did he think I just randomly decided to spring forward by an hour?

“You live in your own little world,” I said, sure that there had been some mention of daylight savings time in the newspaper. Surprisingly enough, when I went back to check the front pages of the N&O and Daily Herald, I saw no mention of daylight savings time beginning on Sunday. He doesn’t really watch the local tv news, so that would have been no help.

After Carolina got off to such a bad start, I told him I was sorry he’d discovered the time change. I would have been happier if he’d missed the first half of the game. I’ll be glad when basketball season is over. I keep telling him I’m not interested in his analysis and complaints about Carolina’s latest game, but he insists on sharing his expertise regardless. I’m tempted to put my fingers in my ears and start droning “nah, nah, nah…” like a 2-year-old. Sometimes it would be nice to be able to tune out the rest of the world.

At lunch today, I told him that we do get Tru tv. I thought he would be pleased since it's one of four networks that will be carrying the NCAA tournament. "What?" he asked. He'd never heard of Tru tv and had no idea that it was carrying any of the tournament broadcasts.

"The tournament is being carried on four different networks. It's been all over the sports news. How could you have missed it?" I asked. It's amazing to me how much goes on that he's totally oblivious of given the amount of time he spends reading the newspaper and with the tv blaring in the background. He really does live in his own little world.

I want my hour back

Dad wasn't sure whether to be insulted or pleased with his birthday balloon. After Carolina went to overtime, which I knew probably annoyed him, I asked didn't he think it was nice of Carolina to give him 5 extra minutes of basketball for his birthday. He didn't know what to say to that, but it cut off the complaints I sensed were coming about their play in the first half of the game.

Today's issue of Parade lists salaries earned by people in different professions around the country. A personal chef in Aston, PA earns $55,000 a year. I knew I was vastly underpaid. All I get is grocery money.

We stopped at Food Lion on the way home from breakfast so I could pick up some milk. The cashier was probably in her late 50's or early 60's. Unlike the young girl at Lowes, when the Food Lion cashier handed me my groceries, she didn't ask if I was capable of carrying them. Either she was heartless or didn't think I looked decrepit.

While I like having an extra hour of daylight after work, I don't know why we have to screw with the time twice a year. Trust the government to decide we need more daylight and instead of saying we have to get up an hour earlier, they just change the time. Same result, but it leaves us with the impression that our schedule hasn't changed by order of the government.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

He's 85 today. This picture was taken by my cousin Patricia's husband, Alan, at a family reunion last spring. Alan got some really good pictures, including a handful of wonderful shots of Dad, for which I'm very grateful since Dad never smiles like that when I try to take his picture.

Got milk?

I stopped at the grocery store on my way home this evening. The two most important items on my very short list were milk and bananas for Dad’s breakfast. Lowes had lots of empty shelf space in the milk aisle and no skim milk. I picked up the other few things on my list and asked the young cashier if they had any milk in the back because I needed skim milk.

She called over to the assistant manager, who said they wouldn’t be getting any more milk until tomorrow morning. Who gets milk deliveries on a Saturday? This is the second time that’s happened to me at Lowes recently. I won’t be shopping there on Friday afternoons any more.

When the young girl ringing up my order finished, she put my groceries in 3 separate bags. I bought a corned beef brisket, 4 bananas, a green pepper, a jar of chow chow, a box of cake mix, a can of frosting, and less than 10 red potatoes. After she put the bags in the grocery cart, she looked up at me and asked, “Can you carry that?” EXCUSE ME?! A toddler could have carried those bags. I assured her that I could manage while wondering exactly how old and feeble she thought I was.

So, in one shopping trip, the Lowes associates managed to both inconvenience and insult me. I guess that’s a home run for them? Dad thought it was funny. I’m still annoyed.

Creamy Chicken with Biscuits

This recipe is from the March 2011 issue of Real Simple magazine. I made it for lunch today. It's easy and really good. There's a recipe on the website for the easy drop biscuits the recipe calls for. I used Mom's biscuit recipe and I think the recipe would be just fine using any biscuit, but definitely don't skip the biscuits because they're an essential part of the dish.

I cooked the dish in the crock-pot on high for 3-1/2 hours. I added the frozen peas 30 minutes before the end of the cooking time because Dad doesn't like hard peas and I wanted to give them time to get good and soft. I didn't have any poultry seasoning, so I made my own. I combined 3/4 tsp. thyme, 1/2 tsp. sage, 1/2 tsp. marjoram, 1/4 tsp. black pepper and a pinch of nutmeg and measured out the amount called for in the recipe.

Dad had a second helping, so it was a success.

Creamy Chicken with Biscuits

Serves 6

Hands-on Time: 15m

Total Time: 6hr 30m

Ingredients

* 3/4 pound carrots (about 4), cut into 1-inch lengths
* 2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
* 1 small onion, chopped
* 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
* 1 1/2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs (about 8)
* 1/2 teaspoon poultry seasoning
* kosher salt and black pepper
* 1/2 cup dry white wine
* 1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
* 6 (store-bought or Easy Drop Biscuits; see recipe), split
* 1 cup frozen peas
* 1/2 cup heavy cream
*

Directions

1. In a 4- to 6-quart slow cooker, toss together the carrots, celery, onion, and flour. Place the chicken on top and season with the poultry seasoning, 1 teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper. Add the wine and broth.

2. Cover and cook until the chicken and vegetables are tender, on low for 5 to 6 hours or on high for 2 1⁄2 to 3 hours (this will shorten total cooking time).

3. Thirty minutes before serving, prepare the Easy Drop Biscuits (if using).

4. Ten minutes before serving, add the peas, cream, and ½ teaspoon salt to the chicken and stir to combine. Cover and cook until heated through, 5 to 10 minutes more.

5. To serve, place the bottom halves of the biscuits in shallow bowls, then top with the chicken mixture and the remaining biscuit halves.

Tip

Poultry seasoning usually contains a mix of dried thyme, sage, marjoram, rosemary, and black pepper. It’s a great way to add flavor to chicken dishes. To make your own, combine equal parts of these herbs and store in a tightly sealed container.

Nutritional Information

Serving Size: Includes 1 Easy Drop Biscuit

Calories 616; Fat 33g; Sat Fat 18g; Cholesterol 146mg; Sodium 1255mg; Protein 29g; Carbohydrate 49g; Sugar 7g; Fiber 4g; Iron 4mg; Calcium 161mg

Self-help

“My finger is numb from punching all those digits,” Dad complained. “I’ve been on the phone for the past 10 minutes punching buttons to get those prescriptions refilled,” he continued, still looking for a good boy. “Then it offered the option of choosing automatic renewal, so I punched that too.” “Well, good for you,” I finally gave in and offered the pat on the back he was obviously seeking. “See what you can do when you put your mind to it?” He grimaced.

“It’s a lot of work getting through all those menus. The confirmation number was 14 digits! Can you believe it, 14 digits! How do some folks do it without help?” “The company would just as soon you die anyway,” I answered. “You could expire while on the phone,” he laughed and walked away shaking his head.

Since the whole purpose behind the exercise was to refill his prescriptions, I didn’t see why his efforts were worthy of a lot of praise. After all, he’s supposed to look after himself. I’m not a home health aide or servant, although that’s what he’d obviously like. He’s capable of doing many things that he doesn’t want to do. And it would undoubtedly have been easier and quicker if he'd answered the phone when the company called two times earlier this week, trying to refill his prescriptions, instead of letting the calls go to the answering machine for me to handle when I got home.

News flash, I don’t enjoy spending 10 minutes on the phone working my way through automated menus either. And I have a lot more to do today than sit in a chair and read a book. I still have to call and make an appointment for him to get a haircut. In between doing the laundry, walking the dog, putting away the groceries, cooking lunch, and taking out the garbage before I go to work. So forgive me if I have a hard time offering the pat on the back he obviously thought he deserved.

Cereal killer

Last week a friend recommended chocolate Cheerios. She’d bought a box for her grandchildren, who refused to eat it, so she tried it and claimed it was really good. Since Sadie Carol is usually right about questions of style and taste, I bought a box of chocolate Cheerios when I was at the grocery store yesterday and tried them for supper last night. Her grandchildren are obviously gifted with superior taste.

Chocolate Cheerios have got to be one of the worst cereals ever. In fact, I’ll take that a step further, they’re one of the worst foods ever. I couldn’t finish the bowl. They were absolutely horrible and it only got worse as they absorbed more milk. I finally gave up and dumped the remaining half a bowl in the trash. I wouldn’t even let Dillon finish the bowl. I didn’t want to have to clean up after him if they made him sick, which seemed like a distinct possibility.

Instead of wasting the rest of the package, I’ll save it for the next time I see Sadie Carol. If I hadn't actually seen her eating a bowl with my own two eyes, I'd have thought she was trying to put one over on me. Apparently she’s like Mikey in the old Life cereal commercials, she’ll eat anything.

Make a joyful noise

Sunday morning I played the mariachis with the advanced handbell group at church. I think it’s safe to say that I don’t have rhythm. Which is a problem when you’re playing percussion and supposed to be maintaining the beat. I did fairly well in rehearsal, but when it came time to perform, I made the mistake of trying to listen to Joanna, who was beating out a rhythm on a pair of sticks, to make sure we were on the same beat. Big mistake.

I did better when I just forged ahead and assumed that everyone else was going to adapt to my rhythm. Dad says it’s no wonder I didn’t play team sports since I’m not good at taking direction and adjusting to the other players. See what happens when I try to follow his advice? I got lost twice, but kept smiling and finished on the right beat, so that’s something.

It didn’t bother me for myself, but I hate that I messed it up for the rest of the group. Everyone was gracious and said it was fine. I guess they practice what they preach and try to show Christian forgiveness for other’s transgressions against them.

Weekend roundup

I had a productive weekend with only a few bumps in the road. My kitchen is now clean. Well, except for the top of the refrigerator. But since Dad’s too short to see the top of the refrigerator and I try never to look up there, that doesn’t count. The countertops, stovetop, and kitchen floor have been scoured and vacuumed and scrubbed and look good. My fingernails are now a disaster, but I guess that’s a fair trade.

I tried another crock-pot soup recipe yesterday. This time it was navy bean. I love the concept of a crock-pot, but very few of the things that I try to cook in one come out tasting all that great. The beans were edible, they weren’t green and disgusting like the split pea soup, but I was disappointed. I think it would have been better without the ham hock. That made it sort of greasy. Adding more pepper improved the flavor, but sent Dad into a sneezing fit.

Speaking of which, it was a challenge to get through breakfast at Oscar’s yesterday. I swear everyone in the room except me was snorting or sneezing or coughing. It was a cacophony of disgusting sounds guaranteed to rob the normal person of their appetite. I have discovered that living with an old man means you’re guaranteed a daily dose of that type of thing, but listening to a whole room of people was almost too much for me. Dillon has better manners.

I don't really think he was trying to kill me

When Dillon and I got back from our morning walk, one of my neighbors was out on the power line right-of-way. John likes dogs. He gave Dillon a good rubdown. I stopped to chat for a minute. Dillon wandered around at the end of his leash and at some point dropped his tennis ball. As we were getting ready to head back to our yard, I started towards the tennis ball, which was laying a couple of yards away.

Suddenly, Dillon took off like a rocket, headed in the opposite direction. I yelped a startled and futile, “Dillon, wait.” Dillon kept running full tilt away from me. Fortunately for me, for once I dropped the leash instead of trying to hold on for dear life. If I hadn’t, I’d have been like one of those cowboys in the old westerns being dragged along behind a runaway horse and Dillon would have a bad case of whiplash.

Dillon came to a stop and John, who was laughing, said, “I threw a rock down there.” He was getting ready to plow the garden plot, so I think he was clearing the area of rocks, not trying to play with Dillon. He just didn’t realize that Dillon will run after anything anyone throws.

As soon as the thrill of the chase was over, Dillon realized that the retractable leash was banging along behind him. That scared the poor dog, so he crouched down and looked at me for help. John, still laughing, said, “See, he’s not going far.” Lucky for John or I would have been trying to kill him. I called Dillon to me, grabbed the leash, and headed home before John could decide to amuse himself further at our expense.

Dancing in the Rain

I keep reminding myself of that when I get frustrated with Dad. I watched him walking slowly across the backyard the other day. I was at the sink washing dishes while waiting for lunch to be ready to put on the table and feeling a bit annoyed because once again it seemed as if all of the household chores fell to me. Then I felt my heart catch when I realized that one day he won't be around to complain about. Who will I use for inspiration for my blog posts then? Gene Kelly danced, I blog.
Speaking of rain, my new LLBean rain hat arrived yesterday. I think it's pretty cute as rain hats go. I modeled it for Dad, explaining that I'd bought it to replace the rain hats I've had for years that make me look dorky. "And how does this hat make you look?" he asked. Given that I was standing right in front of him with the hat on my head, I thought that was a rather rude question. "Better than the others," I said firmly. I'm dancing as hard as I can.