A failure to communicate

When we got back from breakfast yesterday, Dad informed me that he thought we had a communication problem on Saturday.  “You told me we had a cake you’d thaw that I could put the strawberries on,” he began.  “I looked all over for it yesterday and finally decided you must not have understand me when I said ‘yes’.”  “You didn’t say ‘yes’,” I informed him.  “You just made a face.” 

“I thought you must not have heard me.  Sometimes I think I’m talking louder than I am,” he continued.  “I didn’t hear you say anything.  I just saw you make a face,” I replied.  “I definitely said ‘yes’,” he insisted.  “No problem, I can thaw the cake.  I just didn’t think you wanted it.”

He may have thought he said yes, but I swear all he did was squinch up his face in a grimace.   I got the cake out of the freezer and put it on the counter where he couldn’t possible miss it. The cake thawed and he made his own strawberry shortcake.  Hooray!

I also caught him making his own sandwich for lunch yesterday.  With cold cuts that he’d obviously bought himself.  Look what he can do when he tries!  Or has no choice.

“Do we have any lettuce?” he asked.  “No, but I can buy some when I go to the grocery store this afternoon.”  “I don’t need much,” he said.  “Do they sell it by the pound or by the head?”  “By the head,” I told him.  “So it doesn’t matter how little I use the price is going to be the same?”  “That’s right.”  

He looked dubious, but I bought a head of lettuce.  This is the man who used to order his cold cuts by the slice, not by the pound.  I asked if he wanted some hot pepper cheese.  “Just a little.  Don’t get too much.”

This is going to be a learning process for both of us.

How bad do you want it?

A container of strawberries appeared on the kitchen counter this week.  I hadn’t asked for them.  I didn’t want them.  Strawberries mean that Dad expects strawberry shortcake every night.  I had baked a fabulous chocolate cake last weekend.  There’s still plenty of it left.  We’re not short of desserts and don’t need another.  I am short on time and have no desire to add making strawberry shortcake to my daily to do list.

I put the strawberries in the refrigerator and ignored them for several days.  Today I informed Dad that he had a choice to make.  “I have a frozen yellow cake layer in the freezer,” I told him, “and I can thaw out a container of Cool Whip.  But I am not going to cut up strawberries and make strawberry shortcake every night.  I’m already doing all of the food prep I plan to do.  So you’re going to have to decide if you want it bad enough to cut up your own strawberries.  If you do, I’ll thaw everything out.” 

He made a face and looked pained.  He didn’t tell me to take anything out to thaw.  It’ll be interesting to see what happens.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the strawberries wind up in the trash.  The way I see it, if he’s too lazy to put together his own strawberry shortcake, he must not want it badly enough.

And before you think I'm a terrible person, so far today I've walked the dog, exercised, put away the clean dishes left in the drainer from yesterday, cooked lunch, washed the dishes, started thawing the meat for Monday's meal, ironed, dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the bathroom.  Dad has gone to yard sales, read a book, and had an afternoon nap.  He can make his own strawberry shortcake.

Tell me what you really think

The storage container of secondhand Easter decorations that Dad gave me for my birthday has been sitting in front of the fireplace for a couple of weeks now.  I’m tired of looking at it.  This morning, I told Dad that I was going to wait until I started decorating for Easter next year before I decided what to keep and what to get rid of.  “In the meantime, I want you to find somewhere to put that container,” I instructed.  “I thought we were going to get rid of it,” he replied.

Excuse me?  I know he made it clear when he presented it to me that he was keeping the container and I could give away any of the decorations that I didn’t want.  I didn’t realize he assumed I was going to get rid of all of them.  Why give me something he didn’t think I wanted to begin with? 

That made me mad.  I pulled the lid off the container and quickly sorted through the contents.  I pulled out one set of bunny figurines to keep.  “This is all I’m keeping.  You can get rid of the rest,” I informed him.  “What?” he asked.  I repeated myself. 

“How did you decide so fast?” he wanted to know.  Well gee, the only reason I hadn’t immediately told him he could donate everything to Angel’s Closet for a tax deduction was because I was trying to be polite.  After he made me mad, I didn’t see the need to pretend. 

“I’d have to find a place to put all the rest and then they’d just be more to dust,” I replied, deciding not to be ugly about it even though I was pissed.  Frankly, I’m relieved that I don’t really have to find a place to display a bunny carousel and swing set.  

I'm good at that

I’m discovering that being organized is a necessity.  Wednesday is laundry day.  Once a schedule is established, it’s best to stick with it.  Less chance of confusion for Dad. 

Before getting the nod to go full time, I had scheduled a hair appointment for 9 a.m. Wednesday morning.  Although it’s a running joke at our office that nothing gets in the way of a hair appointment, clients be damned, I asked Renee if I could reschedule.  She worked me in at 8:30 a.m. 

I wasn’t going to have time to walk Dillon and get a load of laundry collected, washed and dried before 8:30.  Luckily, our new washer has a delayed start feature.  When we bought the washer, I couldn’t imagine ever having occasion to use that particular feature.  Now I think it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.

I told Dad to go ahead and take the sheets off his bed Wednesday morning.  “I’m going to put them in the washer and set it to come on an hour before I get home from work,” I explained.  “The washer lights on the control panel will be lit, the timer will be counting down, and the washer will start itself.  You don’t have to do anything except ignore it.”  “I’m good at that,” he assured me. 

I’ve noticed.  I can be in the middle of cooking when the dryer buzzer goes off.  He'll be sitting right there doing nothing except reading and he completely ignores it.

After instructing Dad not to touch the washer for anything short of water gushing out onto the floor, I left.  When I arrived home Wednesday evening, the washer had just cut off and the sheets were ready to transfer to the dryer.  I love it when a plan comes together.

That's the way the cookie crumbles

I had a doctor’s appointment in Durham yesterday.  I left the house at 7 a.m. and knew I wouldn’t be home until around supper time.  I took the day off work and planned to hit one of the regional malls for a couple of hours after my appointment.  That left Dad and Dillon home alone all day.

I’ve always given my dogs a treat when I leave the house so that my leaving is seen as a positive thing.  Dillon is a real chowhound, so he goes into here’s your hat, what’s your hurry mode whenever he senses that I’m getting ready to go.  He’s used to getting a dog biscuit shortly after lunch every day when I head to work.  I knew Dillon would miss his cookie if I wasn’t there, so I reminded Dad that he was to give Dillon a cookie sometime around midday.

When I got home last night, Dad wanted to know where I usually give Dillon his dog biscuits.  “Wherever he happens to be at the time, which is usually at my feet as soon as he hears me open the box of biscuits.  Why?” I asked.  “Well, he makes a mess when he eats one, dropping crumbs all over the floor,” Dad replied.  “So?”  Since Dad doesn’t vacuum, I didn’t see why he cared.  “I thought about giving it to him on the back porch,” Dad said seriously.  “I finally decided to give it to him over the doormat in the den.” 

I had no idea giving Dillon a dog biscuit required that much planning.  I’m not sure Dad has ever given Dillon a cookie before.  I hope Dad figured out the procedure before getting the biscuit in his hand or else the floor was probably wet with drool by the time he handed it over to the poor dog.

Making a joyful noise

This is a group photo taken yesterday after our Spring Ringing and Singing concert at church.  (Click on the photo to enlarge.)  Shown are the members of both the Bells of Joy (advanced) and Echoes of Praise (beginner) bell choirs and the Chancel choir. The preacher is on the front row and the lady in the beautiful striped robe narrated "Joseph and the Coat" hence her many colored robe.  Jane, our music director, is on the front row, far left.

This is my second year as a member of Echoes of Praise. I'm in the middle of the second row.  Standing to my right (your left) is my bell buddy, Leigh.  She joined at the same time I did and we've mostly been grouped together, sharing the same music and struggling to turn the pages without losing a beat or our place.  It's not always easy, but it's always fun.

Bill, one of the attorneys at work, goes to our church although he attends regularly and I'm definitely a backslider, attending only when Jane recruits me to play bells or sing with the Family Choir.  This morning Bill was telling Holly, the third partner, that I was very talented and that during one of the songs we even played bells and clapped in the same song.

Clapping requires the use of both hands, so you have to put down the bells to clap then quickly pick them back up to play your next note.  "That was the advanced group," I assured her, "I'm a member of the beginner group."

Once I get my bells in hand, I hang on for dear life. Putting them down to clap would be beyond my current ability.  I have learned to play 2 bells in the same hand, either at the same time or independently, and I'm pretty proud of that.

After Bill and I had finished discussing the concert and he went back to his office, Holly asked me if Bill had heard me play before.  "Yes," I replied.  "But he didn't think you were talented the first time?" she asked.  "You'd have to ask him that question," I laughed.

Maybe I've gotten more successful at disguising my mistakes. Now I just smile and keep ringing instead of grimacing and panicking.  I've learned that making a mistake during a performance won't kill me, although I do hate to mess up for Jane's sake.  She works so hard and never loses her good humor.

I must admit, when I got up yesterday morning and it was raining, I told Dad since the majority of our congregation is older, maybe they'd all stay home. "That's not exactly the right attitude," he laughed.  I just like to practice.  Practice is fun.  Performing is work.

Careful what you wish for

Things will be changing around here next week. After two years of working part time, I start working full time on Monday. I’m excited. I’m tired of being poor. Plus, I’ll be more in the loop at the office. On the other hand, I’m going to have to become much more organized at home. Or not. Who’s to say we can’t have cereal for supper? I did that plenty of times when I was working at the mall and lived alone.

Dad has never been satisfied with my working part time. He’s thrilled that I’m going to be full time. He’s probably already counting on me paying a bigger share of the household expenses. He’d be wrong on that. He’s already getting a bargain. My mother got free room and board plus living expenses, health insurance and a car. I’m doing the same chores, plus yard work, and paying for the privilege.

I don’t think Dad realizes yet that my working full time means that I’m going to expect him to step up and do a little more for himself. Like making his own sandwich. Or going to the grocery store for bread and bananas. Or horrors, actually washing a few of the dishes he uses in the course of eating 3 meals and 2 scheduled snacks a day. A new dishwasher may be in our future.

There are plenty of household tasks he could do; he simply doesn’t think he should have to. It’s not just an old age thing, it’s a mindset that women are supposed to perform all household tasks. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, his mother and my mother have a lot to answer for. They ruined him and by the time I inherited him, it was too late to change what had become an ingrained mindset.

It’s been the hardest thing I’ve had to adjust to about living with my father. I resent the hell out of being turned into unpaid household help, especially when I'm rushing around and he's just sitting in a chair reading and waiting for me to call him to the table.  It would really be better for my nerves if the den and kitchen weren't open to each other.  Out of sight, out of mind would help cool my temper.

I make no claims to be Super Woman or a Domestic Goddess and I have no intention of killing myself and trying to do it all. Dad will just have to cope. He’ll also have to start paying more attention to Dillon, who’s going to miss me very much. I’m Dillon’s person. Dad is just the other human who lives here and occasionally opens the door to let him in or out and gives him a piece of banana every morning. Which, come to think of it, is more than he does for me.

Reality tv on ice

I’ve been watching as many Stanley Cup play-off games as possible. My team may be out of the running and on the golf course, but there’s still plenty of ice hockey left. Frankly, I’m beginning to be relieved my team isn’t on the ice. The play-offs are always intense, but this year has been out of control.

There’s been fighting, dirty plays and childlike behavior. I watched two players chase a third around the net trying to pick a fight. It took several circuits before they finally caught up with him. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that fighting is part of the game. I’m not a fan of the fights, but it’s a little embarrassing to see a player run like a girl. Speaking of which, there’s even been hair pulling, which will get you ejected from the game faster than throwing a punch. It’s like the Three Stooges on ice, except the punches and head bashing are real.

I’ve never seen anything like it. Every once in a while they actually play hockey, but that’s only for a few minutes between fights and penalties. Some of the things taking place on the ice would get you arrested for assault if you did the same thing off the ice. Physical play shouldn’t mean intentionally trying to seriously injure your opponent. When even the commentators start calling the players thugs, things have gone way over the line.

Other actions are less criminal and more reminiscent of kindergarteners who need a time out. “Sid the Kid” Crosby was one of my favorite players until this series when he proved that at 25, he has the maturity level of a spoilt two-year old. Having acted like an ass, it’s fitting that he scored one goal by having the puck bounce off his butt and into the net.

I was watching a game last Sunday afternoon that went to double overtime. I quickly made Dad a sandwich and gulped mine down during the last intermission. Dad started having one of his coughing fits. "I don't have time to call 911 and perform CPR, but if it's really serious, I understand you can perform the Heimlich maneuver on yourself by throwing yourself over the back of a chair. The porch railing would probably also work," I said helpfully.

“Gee, thanks,” he choked out, “I see how I rate.” “I don’t want to miss my game,” I said. “You know what’s really sad; it’s not even my team that’s playing.” He just shook his head. The play-offs have been fascinating, entertaining, scary and disgusting. It’s like a car wreck you can’t look away from. And when I'm not considering boycotting the sport out of disgust at the officiating that's allowing such behavior, I don’t want to miss a minute of it.

Highs and lows

This has been a day of unexpected events. It began at 6:15 a.m. when the heat came on and Dillon decided it was time to get up. I managed to stave him off until 6:30, but after that he was determined, sleeping time was over. I let him out, fed him and started the coffee brewing. Before the coffee was ready, Dillon had finished his breakfast and wanted to go back out. He’s in such a hurry to eat every morning that sometimes he shortchanges potty time.

I let him back out and idly watched out the window waiting for the coffee to finish. Dillon loves to roll in the grass. The first thing he does when he goes out is fling his body to the ground and wallow. This morning though, he seemed particularly intent and he was wallowing in an unusual part of the yard. Then he got up and sniffed the ground as if to locate precisely the right spot before flinging himself back down and grinding into the grass. I recognized those motions. This wasn’t his normal rolling around, those were the actions of a dog wallowing in something rotten.

I charged out in the door in my pajamas and bedroom slippers. I shouted, “Dillon” in a stern tone of voice. He immediately got up and came to me. He is a good dog. When he got close enough, I gave him the sniff test. My worst fears were confirmed, he reeked. There was no way he could go back in the house before he had a bath. Naturally, this was the coldest morning we’ve had in ages.

I went back inside to put on some clothes. Dillon was not happy to find himself alone on the back porch. He proceeded to bark with growing intensity while I rounded up the scrub bucket and filled it with warm water. Then I put on my heavy raincoat and started searching for the doggie shampoo. It wasn’t in the garage or the laundry room, so I hoped it was in the recycle bin on the porch. Otherwise, I was going to have to make a quick trip to the grocery store.

Dillon stopped barking when I went outside. He was less thrilled when he realized that he was getting a bath. He sat like a stone statue while I poured warm water over him, soaped, rinsed and repeated until the eau de rotten odor was gone. I used 3 beach towels in an attempt to get him as dry as possible before letting him back in the house.

Then I got some plastic bags and went back outside in search of whatever it was he’d been rolling in. If I didn’t find it and throw it away, we were going to be repeating the process every time he went outside. I searched and searched. I could tell where he’d been by the flattened grass, but I couldn’t find any dead bodies. Dillon was in the house barking because he’d once again found himself on the opposite side of the door from me.

I finally went and let him out figuring the only way I was going to locate the source of the smell was by following him. Only he was no longer interested in the rotten smell. He thought we must be ready for our morning walk, so he was running around the yard in ecstatic circles. I tried telling him to "Find it". He wagged his tail and circled the yard again. Then he decided since I was in no hurry to leave, he’d go to the bathroom. Finally, he came back over and went straight to the base of a tree and sniffed.

There it was. It was about the size of an unshelled peanut. It looked like it was the remains of a dead baby vole. I used the pooper scooper to deposit it in a plastic bag. Hopefully there are no other deceased family members in the backyard.

Dad slept through the whole thing. It’s my birthday and I had to deal with all that before I even had my coffee. Dad just laughed and laughed. Then Dillon stuck his big, wet head in Dad’s lap. “He’s still wet,” he informed me. “I know that. Why do you think my bedroom door is closed? I don’t want a wet dog on my bed.” Dillon has a thick coat. It takes a while to dry, but I wasn’t going to subject him to the hairdryer. I needed my coffee.

Dad did redeem himself in the end. If you read the post below, you know that earlier in the day, I was seriously disappointed in my birthday presents. Well, I misjudged him. A beautiful flower arrangement was delivered to the office this afternoon. He’s never sent me flowers. I guess he won’t have to learn to use chopsticks after all.

It’s no party and I’ll cry if I want to…

Today is my birthday. I’m 54 for the curious among you. I want my mother.

I’ve always looked forward to birthdays. Yes, after a certain age, I didn’t relish adding another year to the total, but I always enjoyed the celebration. Mom made birthdays fun. There were beautifully wrapped presents. I always got a pretty new pair of spring pajamas. There were balloons and cake. She cooked my favorite foods.

Fast forward to the present. I no longer expect balloons and cake. Those things never occur to Dad. He gave me a pained look yesterday when I announced at lunch that I would not be cooking on my birthday and placed my order for 2 full dressed hamburgers from Second Street. Still, there are certain inviolate rules. There must be presents and I always get money to buy myself something nice.

This morning, he handed me a birthday bag recycled from his birthday. Not an auspicious beginning. Inside were 3 bargain table books, a jar of Target’s house brand cashews, and a birthday card. I dutifully read the flaps of the books and expressed the proper appreciation. While Dad went out to the garage for something, I opened the birthday card. It was a very nice card, but there was no money inside. That’s never happened before.

He came back inside carrying a large plastic storage bin. It was filled with what were obviously used Easter decorations. While driving down the road yesterday, he spotted a yard sale. He got the entire bin for $15. “I’d have paid that just for the container alone,” he said happily. “Whatever you don’t want to keep, I can donate to Angel’s Closet.”

So, he found a way to continue using me for a tax deduction. I considered asking if we’d suddenly become poor. I thought about suggesting that he might have forgotten something. Instead, I took Dillon for a walk with the song It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to playing in my head.

When we got home, I took the gift bag back to my bedroom and searched it thoroughly. I rifled through the pages of each book. I even lifted the cardboard bottom of the bag, just to make sure he hadn’t hidden anything underneath. Dad sometimes gets too cute for his own good. Nope, this time what you see is what you get.

I still don’t know if he just forgot or if he thinks this is the way we’re going to celebrate birthdays from here on out. I've about recovered from the initial shock. When Dad does something that really annoys me, I cook foods he doesn’t like. I’m definitely feeling the urge for Mexican. This may even rate Chinese.

Dinner's ready

In my family, it’s a pretty established fact that lunch is served at 12 noon. I may occasionally be a few minutes ahead or behind schedule, but the goal is always to have the food on the table at noon. My mother’s rule was that if Dad wasn’t there at noon, she started without him. He became very good at arriving home right on time.

One day earlier this week, lunch was ready and Dad was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in the garage or his bedroom. I didn’t spot him in the front yard. I walked all around the backyard before finally locating him in the basement. By that time, I was seriously annoyed. I’d wasted a good 5-10 minutes walking around in circles trying to find him. He’d forgotten to check his watch.

Another day this week, he told me to call him if he wasn’t in on time. How do you call someone who doesn’t hear a word you say? I told him I wasn’t going to worry about it. I was adopting Mom’s rule. If he wasn’t at the table at noon, I’d just start without him.

He just came into kitchen 10 minutes ago to ask when I was planning on having lunch ready. “Why are you asking that question? We always eat at 12. That’s when I’m planning on having it today,” I informed him, exasperated. “Maybe I have time to get to Lowes,” he said.

Yeah, right. It takes a good 20 minutes just to get across town. It’s a spring Friday that many people have off. Yet he thinks he can get to Lowes and back in 40 minutes. “Don’t break your neck,” I told him. “What we’re having won’t spoil if you’re not here right on the dot.”

I guarantee you all he needs is another bag of potting soil to fill in around the holly bushes he’s planting. That couldn’t wait until this afternoon? Mom always said he had a one-track mind. God save me from old men.

My Sweet Boy

I've had Dillon for 3 years this month. Since he's a rescue, his age is uncertain, but he's probably around 7 or 8. He's such a good dog. He spent the day at the vet earlier this week. She agreed that he's a good dog, "He had big shoes to fill," she reminded me. Katie, my second lab, was one of her favorite patients. "He has a completely different personality, but he's wonderful in his own way," I said.

He's started drinking a lot of water, which concerned both of us. After several urine tests and bloodwork, Dr. Lawrence wanted him to fast for 12 hours, no food or water, and then have another urine test. Dillon wasn't a big fan of this idea. He couldn't understand why there was no breakfast. Then we got to the vet's and there were no cookies. People were suddenly being very mean to him.

His urine concentration level was still too high to suit Dr. Lawrence, so she wanted to keep him for the day and test him again. She told me I could probably pick him up around lunchtime. The phone rang at noon. He was still testing too high, and he'd only lost 2.3% of his body weight, so she was going to keep him until that afternoon. If I'd known that he had to lose exactly 3% of his body weight prior to the test, I'd have walked him along the Canal Trail that morning before taking him in. "I promise we'll feed him as soon as we get the results," she assured me.

When I arrived to pick him up around 4:45 p.m., they brought him into the exam room. The vet tech then brought him a bowl of canned food. Apparently they hadn't yet fed him because he attacked that bowl like he was starving. He must have forgiven them though because when he finished he stood in the door leading to the back and wagged his tail at everyone that walked by.

He never got to the urine concentration level Dr. Lawrence wanted. She's not sure if it's something going on with his kidneys or a hormone problem or a breakdown in the link between his brain signaling the hormone production. She asked if he could hold his urine through the night. "Yes," I answered. "I'm the one who has to get up in the middle of the night." She laughed. At this point we're going to leave him be. There's a human drug that will help control the excessive peeing issue if it becomes a problem.

"Does this affect his life expectancy?" I asked anxiously. That was my biggest fear. She assured me that it didn't. I was relieved, but took the assurance with a grain of salt. My previous experiences haven't given me great confidence in the ability of vets to diagnose my dogs imminent deaths. Fingers crossed that Dr. Lawrence is correct. As I told her, "Dillon is the perfect dog for me and Dad."

He's such a good boy.

P.S. While it’s no secret that I deeply resent having to play Nurse Nancy for able bodied humans, when it comes to my dog, I’ll do whatever it takes. Need a urine sample? I have no problem following my dog around the backyard, pie plate in hand, ready to spring into action when the mood strikes. I will admit that it’s easier to coordinate with a squatting female than to try to anticipate which leg a male will lift. And you have to get the timing right or he’s liable to kick the plate on the way down which loses the sample and may lead to an unscheduled load of laundry. Dad screws up his face in distaste at the very thought. I learned long ago that being a dog owner isn’t for the squeamish.

Gee, thanks

After walking Dillon this morning, I decided to mow the backyard. When I finished, I was grungy and definitely in need of a shower. I stopped off in the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the casserole we were having for lunch. My plan was to jump in the shower while the casserole was baking. I’d have just enough time to get my shower and be out in time to sauté the asparagus and put the rolls in the oven. Dad was outside digging a hole to plant a holly bush.

I was standing at the sink washing up while waiting for the oven to preheat. The telephone rang. It was my A/C contractor calling to let me know that they had a service tech available to service the A/C unit. I try and get it serviced every spring so it’s ready for the dog days of summer. They stay busy, so I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. I told her to send him on over. Then I started mentally reworking my schedule.

I waited until the service tech had arrived and gone out back to check the unit. Then I went and asked Dad if he was at a good stopping point. I needed him to come into the house for about 10 minutes so I could get my shower. The bathroom door doesn’t lock and I wasn’t comfortable taking a shower with a workman around. Dad said he’d be right in. Of course, right in was about 5 minutes later. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not a lot of time, but when you’re on a schedule to prepare a meal and get to work, 5 minutes can throw everything off.

I hurried through my shower and was done in 10 minutes. I’d put my makeup on after lunch. I dressed in fresh clothes and walked back out into the den to let Dad know I was done. “You’ve had your shower already?” he asked. “Can’t you tell? Don’t I look better?” I asked. That was his opportunity to say something nice like, “You looked fine before.” Dad’s response was, “My glasses are kind of dirty so I can’t really tell.” With comments like that, it’s surprising that he survived to see 86.