He gets a star today

Dad is off getting his hair cut.  Frankly, he has so little hair left these days that I can never tell when it needs cutting.  But once every 5 weeks or so, he looks up from his morning paper and tells me to call Renee and get him an appointment.

When I called this week, she said she could fit him in today at 11.  I thought that was perfect.  While he’s out, he can pick up lunch.  No cooking for me!  That practically qualifies as a mini-holiday.

When I announced the plan to Dad, he gave me one of his pained looks.  I refused to be deterred.  He will occasionally make the token, magnanimous gesture that any time I don’t feel like cooking, we can go out to eat.  Yet when I attempt to take him up on it, instead of saying graciously, “Sure, where do you want to go?” he gives me the pained look.  

I prepare his meals every day.  I don’t give him the pained look.   Slamming the serving dishes down on the table doesn’t count.  That’s my way of calling him to dinner.

I told him he could pick up hamburgers and hot dogs from Second Street Lunch or go to Chick-Fil-A.  The decision was his.  How much more generous can I get than that?  Those are the only two places in town that he’ll go for take-out. 

He left while I was walking Dillon.  I don’t know where he decided to go, which is a little scary because even though I always order the same thing from both places, I always have to remind him of my order.  Still, I don’t have to cook! 

He even set the table before he left, so I know he remembers that he’s responsible for picking up lunch.  He put out the plastic star-patterned plates.   We only use those for sandwiches because they’re smaller than a normal dinner plate.  Today they’re doubly appropriate because any day that I’m not responsible for putting dinner on the table is definitely worthy of a star in my book.

P.S.  Updated star status as of 12:24 p.m.

It's now after lunch and Dad's been downgraded to 1/2 a star.  He went to Second Street Lunch.  Either he's decided I need to diet or more likely, he didn't remember my standard order.

I always get 2 hamburgers.  I've ordered 2 Second Street hamburgers since I was in my teens.  Second Street hamburgers are only about 1/4 of an inch thick, and that's probably being generous, so 2 of their hamburgers isn't even the equivalent of a Jr. Whopper.

Dad came home with 2 hot dogs for himself, an order of fries for us to split, and only 1 hamburger for me.  I didn't say a word, just tried to my eat my 1 measly hamburger very slowly.  Next time I'll write down my order.

Accentuate the positive

My ice maker is functioning again, my bathroom floor is fixed, and my hissy fit is over.  At least until Dad makes me mad again.  Since he doesn't go near a computer, and in my family we tend more towards silence than argument, he's pretty oblivious as to how angry I was anyway.

When the contractor finished in the bathroom, Dad asked what the verdict was on the work.  I replied that Donald said it would last at least 25 years.  “At which point you’ll be dead and I’ll be in a nursing home and it won’t matter to either of us what shape the floor is in.”  Dad laughed.  “Well, I appreciate your optimism about the future,” he replied.  “I thought you’d find it reassuring that you don’t have to worry about it anymore,” I said.

See, I can look on the positive side.

Am I too old to run away from home?

Mr. Perfectly Helpless apparently killed the ice dispenser in the refrigerator while I was at handbell practice tonight.  “Nancy, the ice wouldn’t come out and I don’t know what you do.  I read the book, but it didn’t say what to do.”  I’ve read the book too and found it to be pretty clear.  Then again, I don’t just throw up my hands and expect someone else to do it for me.

The chute was completely full of ice, the ice bucket was half-empty, and the chute door was jammed open by several pieces of ice.  I don’t see why it requires an instruction manual to figure out that what you need to do is free the ice blocking the bottom of the chute so that the rest can fall.  That’s what I did. 

But after clearing the chute, the dispenser wouldn’t work.  I don’t know if it has an automatic shut-off to prevent the motor from overheating or if the chute door being left in the open position for so long kept it grinding away until the motor burned up.  I was gone for over an hour, so who knows how long it ran before stopping.  I didn’t ask Dad any questions.  I just told him from now on he'll have to open the freezer door and reach into the bucket for ice.

I’m not happy.  And tomorrow the contractor will be here to start work on my bathroom floor.  I foresee another stressful day.   Maybe I should start packing now.

What's cooking?

I’m making a big pot of chili for lunch today.  Hamburger was on sale.  It’s cold and dreary.  I love chili.  Dad isn’t particularly fond of it.  Since he’s spent much of the past week managing to annoy me, I’m in the mood to cook something he doesn’t like.  I don’t know if he’s ever made the connection between what I cook and his behavior, but I certainly associate the two.  Passive/aggressive?  Oh, yeah.

Warning, the rest of this post will be a bitchfest of his current list of transgressions.   Continue reading at your own risk.  You’ve been warned.

Dad operates under the assumption that he’s smarter than 99% of the rest of the people on this earth.  Therefore, we’d all benefit from his instruction.  Since I’m the only person he talks to, I get to listen to his pearls of wisdom.  It’s too bad I’m not hard of hearing.  Then I could just nod periodically and ignore him.

When I occasionally make the mistake of sharing a story from work, he tells me how the matter should have been handled.  When a contractor doesn’t do something to suit him, he tells me how a business should be run or how the repair should have been made.  When a retailer doesn’t stock products he likes, he hastens to explain how they should stock their stores.  When a team plays a game, regardless of whether they win or lose, he analyzes their performance and elaborates on their shortcomings. 

Since I’m the only one he talks to, his comments change nothing except my mood.  He annoys the hell out of me.  I’m not interested in listening to him complain.  I have told him repeatedly that if he has a comment to make, he should direct it to the individual or company in question.  If he doesn’t want to use the telephone, he can write them a letter.  If the individual is standing in the same room with him, the fact that he’s hard of hearing doesn’t render him incapable of speech.  I’m not interested in doing his dirty work for him and I certainly don’t share his belief in the infallibility of his opinions.  I told him the other day that it’s a shame he never operated his own business since he’s obviously such an expert on how it should be done.

I know we all do our share of bitching and complaining.  God knows, I do.  But it’s not my sole topic of conversation and a lot of the time I’m taking my frustration and going for the laugh.  Dad operates on the principle that if you can’t find something to complain about or use as a means to prove your own superiority, don’t waste your time opening your mouth.  It’s infuriating.  I’m not trying to turn him into Little Mary Sunshine, that’s not natural either and beyond annoying in its own way, but I do think there are topics of conversation other than your latest complaint.

The final straw came on Saturday night at supper.  I received a postcard in the mail announcing that an old family friend had gifted me a subscription to Taste of Home magazine.  I thought that was very generous.   However since she knows Dad’s aversion to eating anything that his mother didn’t serve him as a child, and my proclivity for trying new recipes, I wondered if she was trying to be nice and provide a new source of recipes that he’d find somewhat familiar or trying to torture him with a whole new source of casserole recipes.

 

After waiting for Dad to finish telling me about the basketball game he’d watched that afternoon, despite the fact that he knows I hate his play-by-play analysis, I shared the news and the question with him.  I thought he’d find it amusing.   He didn’t say a word in response.  He just went right back to talking about his basketball game again as if I hadn’t spoken.  

I stopped eating, looked him straight in the eye, and asked if he’d heard what I said.  “Yes,” came the reply.  “Then why didn’t you make a response?” I asked.  That is how normal, polite people carry on a conversation.  “Well, what’s going to happen is going to happen.  It doesn’t matter what I say.”  

I stopped speaking to him after that.  I have to agree that it obviously doesn’t matter what I say.  So what’s the point?

Link love

I love this paper chain for Valentine's Day.  It sounds so simple, even a noncrafter should be able to do it.  Instructions here.

These brown sugar blondies look festive and sound delicious.  Recipe here.

The wall-sized bulletin board on the right wall of this home office really caught my attention.  I have the perfect spot in my study for this.  I'm pondering the logistics and Dad's reaction.  It just might be worth the effort.

Splish, splash I was taking a bath

Shortly after we moved into the house, my dog tried to dig through the carpet beside the bathtub in my bathroom. Holly deserved a reward because she alerted us to the fact that the tub was leaking and apparently had been doing so for an extended period of time because the floor had rotted. Dad took a look and assured me that it wasn’t bad enough that I was in any danger of winding up in the basement while taking a shower. We had the plumber fix the leak and that was the end of the repairs. The fact that I could feel cold air coming up through the small hole in the floor didn’t seem to bother Dad.

Fast forward 20 years. About a year ago, I noticed that the paint was beginning to crack on the sliver of wall between the tub and cabinet. At first, I thought the painter had used the wrong type of paint when we had the bathroom painted. Then I realized the wall was cracking. It wasn’t wet, so there was no leak. A small crack appeared in the grout of the tile on that same wall. I brought it to Dad’s attention again. He agreed that the floor needed to be fixed at some point, but there was no urgency to the situation.

The crack in the tile has grown to about ¼ of an inch. I began to fear that there was a very real possibility that the tub might end up in the basement. So this week, I brought it to Dad’s attention again.

“Well of course the crack is getting bigger. The floor is rotten and it’s sinking. I thought you were going to replace the carpet and get it fixed.” Excuse me; he’s the one who said there was no danger of the tub winding up in the basement. And he didn’t seem overly concerned when I brought the cracks to his attention last year. And he’s the one who muttered about how much easier it would have been to replace the carpet before all of his furniture got moved in. A point I tried to make at the time and he completely disregarded. But now it’s all my fault?!

My handyman was here Monday to see about repairing the fence that was damaged during the hurricane last summer. I showed Donald the bathroom floor and told him to put it at the top of his list. Then I asked him if it was safe to use the tub until it got fixed. “As long as you don’t jump up and down, you should be fine,” he assured me with a laugh. I didn’t exactly take that as a glowing endorsement.

There’s a shower in Dad’s bathroom, so I decided to err on the side of caution and use it until the repairs are complete in my bathroom. I took my first shower in there yesterday. Last night when Dad got ready to take his shower, I kept hearing him repeatedly slam the shower door shut. I couldn’t figure out what the hell his problem was.

This morning when I went to take my shower, I discovered that he’d moved my shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and mesh shower puff out of the shower and onto the counter. That’s what all the door slamming was about. Given that I’d hung the shower puff on the faucet handle and the 3 bottles were on the floor in the far corner and it’s a big shower stall, I can’t figure out what the problem was. There’s no chance that they were in his way.

I’m not about to ask. I found a plastic container that will hold all of my paraphernalia. I’ll just schlep everything back and forth until my shower is fixed. Dad’s never been good at sharing.

He likes it; he really likes it!

Every year, I search for the perfect Christmas gift for Dad. I'm never really sure how close to the mark I came. This year, I obviously hit the bulls-eye.

Dad really feels the cold. When I ride in the car with him, he'll be bundled up in a winter coat, hat and gloves with the heater on full blast while I'm wearing a baby-corduory shirt with maybe a light jacket. Steam will be practically coming from my ears and he'll keep putting his hand in front of the vent to see if it's really blowing hot air. He wears flannel drawers and flannel-lined jeans virtually all year round, yet he only layers a thin short-sleeved cotton undershirt underneath his flannel shirts.

Giving someone underwear for Christmas doesn't sound terribly exciting or particularly thoughtful. It really brings to mind duty gifts given to the elderly and underprivileged because they should have a Christmas present, but why give them something frivolous or fun? Better to give them something practical whether they want it or not. Mom used to say she could even give us underwear for Christmas and as long as it was wrapped, we considered it a present.

Still, I couldn't help thinking that Dad would really enjoy some warmer undershirts and would never be willing to pay the price himself. So for Christmas, I bought him some long-sleeved undershirts from LLBean. I ordered one in silk and one that's a two-layer with cotton on the inside and wool on the outside. When they arrived and I realized how heavy the two-layer version was, I almost sent it back without giving it to him. It's apparently designed for wearing to outside sporting events. Thankfully, I elected to wrap it and put it under the tree so he'd have an extra package to open, sure I'd be returning it after Christmas.

I was quite surprised when he didn't tell me to return either shirt. Then the two-layer version appeared in the laundry. Apparently he'd decided to give it a try. This weekend, he handed me his credit card and told me to order him another one, without even asking the price. He likes it so much he wants two so he'll have one to wear all the time. "Long sleeves are a lot warmer than what I was wearing." My mouth about dropped open. He never seems overly enthused about anything I buy him and he's certainly never asked me to order him another one at his expense.

What do you know? He likes it; he really likes it! He hasn't tried the silk version yet. He's saving it for warmer weather. I think since it's thinner, he doesn't realize how warm silk can be. It's a good thing he wears a small because the two-layer version is sold out in the larger sizes. I guess there's a lot of cold-natured men out there. Meanwhile, I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy inside because I finally bought him something he really likes!

A spoonful of sugar

Since it finally feels like winter, I thought a nice, warm bowl of oatmeal would be good for supper. Dad takes brown sugar and milk in his oatmeal. He’s very careful to add just the right amount of both to his bowl and to stir thoroughly. He doesn’t apply the same amount of thought to his use of utensils. Left to himself, Dad would use 2 spoons to doctor one bowl of oatmeal. Since I’m the dishwasher, I try to provide guidelines on the proper use of utensils to insure that we use the smallest number.

I had the bag of brown sugar Splenda and the milk on the counter beside his bowl of oatmeal. “Help yourself to the brown sugar first, then add the milk and after that, stir,” I instructed. “That way you’ll only be using one spoon.” “Is there a spoon shortage that I don’t know about?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “But if you do it in that order I only have to wash 2 spoons.”

“What’s the big deal about only washing 2 spoons?” he asked. “Do you plan to start washing dishes?” I asked bluntly. “Well, if all I had to wash were 2 spoons, I don’t think I’d have much to worry about,” he answered. “Keep it up and you’ll be fixing your own dinner and washing your own dishes,” I assured him. He finished stirring and carried his bowl of oatmeal to the table while I put my biscuits in to toast.

I turned around and there was a spoon in my oatmeal. I stared at it in horror. I couldn’t believe I’d stuck the spoon into my bowl before I added the brown sugar. How could I have done that? After the hard time I’d just given Dad, I couldn’t very well get another spoon.

I decided to just shake my brown sugar out of the bag straight into the bowl. I squished the bag and then tried to shake a small amount into my bowl. A big chunk of brown sugar fell out and plopped down into my oatmeal. I couldn’t put part of it back into the bag since it had made contact with the oatmeal. It was about twice the amount of sugar I normally add to my oatmeal, but I didn’t want to waste it. Frustrated, I added the milk and hoped for the best.

Right about then, Dad came back into the kitchen and got a spoon out of the drawer. I hadn’t stuck the spoon into my oatmeal, he had stuck the spoon he’d been using into my oatmeal. “Did you put your spoon in my oatmeal?” I demanded. “What? I hadn’t eaten with it,” he protested. “I know that, but I thought I’d put the spoon in my oatmeal and I couldn’t very well use 2 spoons after telling you not to.”

I went on to explain about my brown sugar mishap. “It’s all your fault,” I accused. “If you’d just kept your own spoon everything would have worked out fine.” “You need to give better instructions,” he said as he laughed. I’d been very clear with my instructions and my objective, which he seemed determined to obstruct. At that point, I was a little concerned about my inability to remember my own actions, but relieved that I hadn’t carelessly wasted a spoon. Fortunately for Dad, I saw the humor in the situation and was laughing as well.

The Key to remember is

I have one set of keys that I use only for dog walking and yard chores. My house key and padlock key, that unlocks the gates and shed, are the only keys on that set. I keep them in the kitchen so they’re easy to grab on my way out the door. This morning, I spent 15 minutes searching for that set of keys.

The search began after I put on my shoes to go for our morning walk and then went back inside for a different jacket. I reached in my coat pocket to switch the keys to the new jacket and came up empty. I looked in coat pockets, closet floors, the space between the washer and dryer, my bathroom, blue jeans on my closet shelf, and the storage bin on the back porch where I keep the leash. I asked Dad if he’d borrowed them although he knows they’re off limits. I got progressively angrier the longer the search continued. I hate to misplace things.

Since Dad was reading the paper in the den, he was a witness to the search. Poor Dillon kept following me around, and winding up on the wrong side of the backdoor, as I searched the same places repeatedly. Dillon was ready to go for our walk and couldn’t understand what the holdup was.

Dad asked couldn’t I use another set of keys. “I want my keys,” I snapped. I was running out of places to look and the only thing I’d found so far was an old mousetrap on the pantry floor. While pacing in frustration, I stuck my hands in the back pockets of the jeans I had on. There were my keys. I never carry them in my back pocket and I have no idea why I stuck them there this morning.

I ‘fessed up to Dad who laughed his head off. So at least one good thing came out of my forgetfulness. I felt like a fool, but he got his laugh for the day. And the delay meant that Dillon and I ran into a fellow dog walker we hadn’t seen in a while. I made sure to put my keys in their proper place as soon as we got back home.

For the record, I do know my name, the date, and who the President of the United States is. Just in case there were any doubts about my mental acuity.

It didn't rise to the level of slander

Dad thinks I maligned him terribly in my Christmas letter. He pointed out a typo that needed to be corrected. I told him it was too late, all the letters were already in envelopes, ready to mail. He volunteered to compensate me for the expense if I’d let him burn the letters. Uncle Bud says I was very generous in my characterization. I expect that the truth lies in between. I may have exaggerated a tiny bit for dramatic effect.

Brrrrrr!

Dillon and I walk every day unless it’s raining. We only go as far as he wants to. Some days he doesn’t want to walk the entire route. Since he’s older, and has started to limp a bit from what the vet thinks is arthritis, I let him decide when he’s had enough. He knows better than I do how he feels on any given day.

I confess to being frustrated that during some of the recent more temperate days, he would turn around and head for home after we’d only walked about halfway. Yet this morning, the coldest morning we’ve had this winter, he wanted to walk the entire route and stopped to sniff about every 5 yards. I had on my winter hat, heavy coat and thick fleece gloves, but my fingers were so cold they hurt by the time we got home. Tomorrow I’m wearing my mittens.

I was doubly glad I went ahead and got the outside decorations down when it was warmer. The candy cane pathway lights are kept in a plastic bin on the bottom shelf along the wall in the garage. It’s impossible to get to when my car is in the garage. I told Dad at lunch today that it would be nice if he’d put the lights into the bin while I was at work. He claimed it might be too cold for such work. I suggested a hat and gloves. Since the lights were already in the garage, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Somehow, he managed to get it done without frostbite.

What are you doing New Year's?

I finally finished my Christmas letter on Friday. I had a major case of writer’s block. Since I don’t like to reuse material, I couldn’t blog until I found something to fill up that big white piece of paper. Well actually, it’s a soft blue with winter-themed graphics around the border, but when it’s blank, color and graphics don’t fill the void.

We had a very nice Christmas. My New Year’s celebration has been very odd. Our weather has been unseasonably warm. Saturday, I hit the After-Christmas sales. Sunday, a predicted high of 67 degrees made it seem ludicrous to waste time indoors. I walked Dillon and then took down the outdoor decorations.

I cooked a pot of black-eyed peas and had collards leftover from Christmas. Even though Sunday is usually my day off from cooking, I decided to fix some macaroni and cheese and make it a meal. At lunch, I informed Dad that I’d done my part, if we wind up in the poor house this year, it won’t be my fault.

Then I decided to mow the front and back yards to mulch the remaining leaves. First, I had to make a trip to the gas station to fill up the gas can that I asked Dad to fill at the end of the summer and he conveniently forgot. Since the gas station is located in the parking lot of the grocery store, I added a grocery-shopping trip to my list of errands. We were out of almost everything.

I finished the day by scrubbing my bathroom before taking a shower. At supper, I informed Dad that I’d worked hard and filled my day with tasks that I don’t enjoy and Monday was going to be my day. I planned to watch the parade and then the NHL Winter Classic. I was not cooking lunch; everyone was going to have to fend for themselves.

He looked pained, but I held firm. “Cooking Sunday lunch was a big sacrifice?” he inquired. “Yes,” I replied, “and since you don’t cook at all, I’m assuming that you feel the same way.” He decided it wouldn’t be wise to pursue the subject further. He volunteered to get take-out, but I declined. That would require a schedule and I didn’t plan to adhere to anyone else’s schedule.

Today, I took Dillon for a quick walk and then settled in for a second cup of coffee and the parade. When the parade was over at 1, the hockey game was supposed to start. Except that the NHL moved the start time from 1 until 3 due to weather conditions. That’s the problem with playing a game outside on ice.

That completely destroyed my personal schedule. I had 2 hours to kill. I decided to bake Dad an apple pie. Then I vacuumed. Dillon was practically out of dog biscuits, so I baked him a batch. My unofficial New Year’s Day turned into another day of household chores. It’s probably good that tomorrow it’s back to work. I’ve had enough celebrating.