Heading in the right direction

Dad made it to the VA hospital and back.  He only got lost once.  At least, that’s all he admitted to.  I had printed out the directions from the hospital’s website.  Unfortunately, there was some type of roadwork going on and a detour was involved.  Since Dad has a lousy sense of direction, I was surprised that he still managed to get there, but apparently, the building was tall enough that he could see it. 

He even got lucky in that the audiology department was located right inside the main entrance.  He got an appointment for Election Day.  He didn’t even have to argue with the woman, which disappointed him.  He looks forward to matching his wits against the opposition and had his arguments all lined up.

Naturally, I didn’t find out any of this until I got home from work that evening.  Dad has a cell phone, but I’m not sure he knows how to use it.  When I answered a call at work that morning, all I heard was heavy breathing and rustling noises.  I said “hello” several times and got no response.  I finally hung up.  “That was probably my father,” I told the other women in the office.  I was mostly joking because I doubt he knows my work phone number.

Cindy, the office manager, asked me later if I’d heard from Dad.  “No, and I won’t because he won’t use the telephone,” I replied.  “I took it as a good sign that there were no messages on the answering machine when I went home for lunch.  At least that means that emergency personnel aren’t trying to locate me.”  I wasn’t entirely kidding. 

Driving home that evening, I just kept repeating over and over in my head, “Please let him be there.  Please let him be there….”  I can’t tell you how relieved I was to turn the curve and see his car parked in the drive.  He regularly frustrates the hell out of me, but as I told him that morning, “We’d miss you if you didn’t come back.” 

I added that last sentiment almost as an afterthought.  I spent more time reminding him to watch out for other cars.  If he had an accident and left us homeless, I was never going to forgive him.  “Maybe I should take Dillon with me,” he commented, as if Dillon could fill the role of backseat driver that Mom had performed for so many years.  “Forget it.  If I’m going to be homeless, I at least want my dog,” I said.

My next assignment is to find out what time the polls open on Election Day.  I tried to get him to take advantage of early voting, but he’s determined to cast his ballot on Election Day.  His appointment isn’t until 1 p.m. so it shouldn’t be a problem.  The election is supposed to be close, and Dad and I are both yellow dog Democrats, so I want his vote counted.

Soup's on

I made a big pot of Mom’s homemade vegetable soup over the weekend.  I thought it would be nice to have some for lunch on Monday.  I knew that if I left it up to Dad, he’d sit in his chair, waiting for me to come home for lunch and heat up the soup for both of us.  There was no reason he couldn’t heat it up and have it ready when I got home for a change.  

I knew portion size would be an issue, so I went ahead and filled zip lock bags with enough soup for two people.  All he had to do was dump the contents of the bag into a pot and heat.  Simple.

I explained my plan to him the night before.  I assured him that I’d made the process as idiot-proof as possible.  “Do I have to take the soup out of the bag or can I just dump the bag into the pot?” he queried.  “I was giving you credit for having some common sense,” I assured him when I reminded him that he did have to pour the soup out of the baggie prior to heating.  He knew that, he was just trying to be a smart-ass.

The next morning, he wanted to know what time he should begin heating the soup.  I come home for lunch at the same time every day.  “Heating soup isn’t rocket science,” I told him.  I knew if I didn’t give him a time, it would become an issue.  “Start heating it about 5 minutes to 12.”  Everything is such a production when my father’s involved.

When I got home for lunch, the soup was boiling.  Mom liked her soup so hot it would scald your tongue.  Not me.  I put an ice cube in my bowl when Dad wasn’t looking.  It was nice to have lunch ready when I arrived.

Not wanting to press my luck, I didn’t ask for a repeat performance today.  So I was surprised to come home and find Dad dipping up a bowl of soup.  He’d raided the pantry and found a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.  He was only planning to feed himself, but since he never eats more than 1 bowl, that seemed a waste.  I asked if he was planning to have seconds.  He assured me that he wasn’t.  I decided I’d eat the rest of the soup in the pot. 

I poured it into a bowl and it only filled the bowl halfway.  “Did you add a can of liquid to the soup?” I asked.  “I only added about ¾ of a can of liquid,” he replied.  Dad doesn’t understand ratios.  He figures if he only wants a certain amount of soup, he’s wasting resources by adding more liquid than he’ll eat.  I can’t convince him that the amount of liquid affects the taste and particularly the salt content.

A grilled cheese sandwich was definitely in order if I was going to get a meal out of that pitiful bowl of soup.  I had almost finished cooking my sandwich when Dad came back into the kitchen, bowl in hand.  He looked at the soup I’d put in a bowl for myself.  “Were you going to eat that?” he asked.  What did he think I was planning to do? 

“You said you didn’t want it,” I answered.  “Well, I didn’t realize that one bowl wasn’t going to fill me up,” he said pitifully.  “You can have it,” I told him.  “Won’t that mess up your lunch?” he asked.  Yes, but what else was I supposed to do?  “No, I’ll just eat the sandwich,” which I would never have fixed if I hadn’t been planning to eat the tomato soup, I assured him.

He took the bowl of soup back to the table.  After a couple of spoonfuls, he said maybe he should have left well enough alone and only eaten the first bowl.  “Well now that we’ve managed to dirty two bowls just so you could have soup, you’d better eat it,” I snapped.  Not to mention that he’d used separate spoons to heat and eat.  You can tell he never washes a dish because he doesn’t care how many he dirties.  By this time, I was definitely annoyed.

He went on to complain about his frustrating morning trying to telephone the VA hospital about his appointment for hearing aids.  They’re incredibly backlogged and Dad is not a patient person.  He’s about decided to drive to Richmond, find the VA hospital, and check on things in person.  He figures he’s going to get lost, so going in advance to get the lay of the land isn’t such a bad idea.

His next topic of conversation was last night’s Presidential debate.  He knows I don’t watch the debates.  I know who I’m voting for and I don’t enjoy listening to the posturing.  Still, Dad had to give me his expert analysis.  

When he concluded, I suggested that before he went to the VA hospital, he should probably take advantage of early voting.  “That way if you’re never heard from again at least your vote will count,” I assured him.

He burst out laughing, looked at Dillon, and complained that he knew where he stood.

Sunday rambling

Those people who say you should eat slowly and savor every bite don’t live with my dog.  How am I supposed to enjoy my pie when Dillon is sitting in front of me, salivating to the point that drool is dripping from his mouth, waiting for me to finish so he can lick the plate?  He must really like lemon pie because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drool that much before. 

I’m still on soft foods, so I skipped the bacon again this morning.  Dad didn’t order any either and instead of reliving last week’s argument, I made him stop at Food Lion on the way home so I could buy a bag of Beggin’ Strips.  I absolutely could not go home empty handed.  Dillon would never forgive me.  He looks forward to his weekly piece of bacon and lets me know by barking from the time the car stops in the driveway until I get in the house.

I decided I’d take a chance that the commercial that showed the dog in a frenzy for bacon when it was actually Beggin’ Strips wasn’t false advertising.  Dillon’s tail kept wagging and he didn’t spit it out.  It did take a bit more chewing than real bacon, but he didn’t seem overly disappointed.

I played the autoharp to accompany the Family Choir at church this morning.  Luckily, Jane let me bring it home earlier in the week so I could practice.  There were more chords in this song than last time I played.  When I started practicing on Monday, Dillon got up and left the room.  He didn’t come back until I quit playing.  I have to admit, it sounded pretty bad.  I’d have left too if someone else had been playing. 

At first, I thought the autoharp must be out of tune.   I quickly realized the fault was mine.  I wasn’t pressing the buttons down hard enough and I wasn’t holding the pick at the proper angle.  After practicing every night this week, I finally improved enough that Dillon would stay in the room with me. 

Dad stood over me one evening and wanted to know if the autoharp would be louder when I played in church.  “I hope to God not,” I told him.  I shared my stories with Jane and the choir and urged them to sing loudly.   I didn’t hit any wrong chords, and no one covered their ears, so I guess it sounded okay.

You’d think from my recent blog posts, which are becoming few and far between, that I was a really active church-goer.  Truth be told, I only go when Jane asks me to participate in some way.  The new minister addressed attendance during the sermon this morning.  I like him very much, but I think he’s counting heads and taking names.  Being one of the few members under the age of 70 makes it harder to remain inconspicuous.   He’s already told me once that he missed me the previous Sunday.   I’m beginning to think I should take that as a threat instead of a compliment.

Bringing home the bacon

I had a root canal two weeks ago. The endodontist does it as a two-part procedure. I went in for the second part this morning. I’ve had root canals before and they’ve all been accomplished in one visit. I prefer that method. This two-part procedure reminds me of the old joke about the man who didn’t want to hurt his dog, so he cut his tail off a little at a time. It just prolongs the suffering in my opinion.

Their office resembles a house from the outside. The back walls of the exam rooms are mostly glass and look out onto a yard that’s filled with bird feeders and a bird bath. I’m sure it’s intended to be restful and calming. Unfortunately, if you’re there in the morning, the sun is right in your eyes. This morning, I was in a different room than I was on prior visits. The dental hygienist handed me a pair of sunglasses. I guess that’s less expensive than investing in a set of blinds?

The first thing they do before they begin is take your blood pressure. This morning the hygienist kept pumping and pumping. I don’t know what she was thinking, but she about cut off my circulation. I’ve never had anyone pump the cuff up that tight. All of a sudden, she realized what she was doing and started letting the air out and apologizing profusely.

“I’ve never pumped it that tight on anyone before,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” “I thought we were going for the tourniquet method,” I replied, hoping that was going to be the only snafu of the procedure. I swear I pray more in the dentist’s chair than I do in church on Sunday.

After the first part of the procedure, the endodontist had warned me to be careful and try not to chew on the side of my mouth that he’d been working on. The final step is to have a crown put on and until then there’s the possibility of breaking the tooth. I made sure to cook soft foods like pasta and soups. When Dad and I went to breakfast on Sunday, I skipped the bacon I usually order. Eggs and grits are soft and posed no danger.

Dad ordered scrambled eggs and toast. “He wants bacon too,” I informed the waitress. “I don’t want any bacon,” Dad said. “He wants bacon,” I assured her. “I don’t want any bacon,” Dad repeated. “Bacon comes with the order and you have to get the bacon,” I told him. “But I don’t want bacon,” he said yet again.

“Dillon expects me to bring him a piece of bacon. I don’t care if you eat the rest of it or not, but there has to be a piece of bacon to take home to Dillon,” I said very firmly. Dad shook his head in disgust, but quit arguing. When his order arrived and he’d given me a piece of bacon for Dillon, I noticed he ate a couple of pieces himself. I don’t know if he decided he wanted it after all or he just couldn’t stand the thought of paying for something and not eating it.

Frightfully fun

I'm enjoying my new Halloween wreath. It was super simple to make. I found the purple and black wreath and witches hat garland at Michael's. The spiders are from the $1 bins at Target. I wound up with 1 too many for the wreath, so the extra spider found a home on the light fixture in the entry hall.

This isn't my Halloween outfit, although I will admit when I first put it on I couldn't quite decide whether it was inspired pattern matching or if I resembled a clown fish. Maybe I've been reading too many fashion blogs, but I decided to go for it. It's bright and fun and I felt good wearing it. The skirt was on clearance at Target. They still had plenty left. I guess the bright stripes scared most people away. I bought the scarf at a super reduced price from Talbot's about a month ago. I like how they work together.

I bought this boucle skirt at Target earlier this week. It fits great and will be perfect for this winter. At $26.99 it's a bargain. I'm a huge fan of Target. It's too bad the closest store is 45 minutes away.