What's Up?

A few weeks ago, Dad woke up with an upset stomach.  I knew he was spending a lot longer getting ready than normal and I kept hearing the toilet flush.  Then I heard a huge "boom."  I knocked on his bedroom door and called.  No answer.  I pushed the door open and called again.  Still no answer. 

I finally stood outside his bathroom door and yelled.  I heard a faint sound.  I went in and discovered Dad on his hands and knees on the floor.  His pants were down around his knees, but his back was to me and his shirt tail mostly protected his modesty.  "I got dizzy," he finally managed to say.  I stood to the side, holding his arms, prepared to help him up when he was ready. 

Dillon had followed me into the bathroom.  Being a dog, he did what comes naturally and tried to sniff Dad's butt.  In doggie terms, Dad was practically issuing an engraved invitation.  Dad doesn't want his butt sniffed at the best of times and this was definitely not the best of times.  I pushed Dillon back.  Luckily, Dad was still so out of it than he didn't realize what was going on. 

I helped Dad up and back to bed.  I called in to work and told them Dad was sick and I'd be in later if he felt better.  He was okay by lunchtime.  Fortunately, he didn't hit anything on the way down, so other than sore knees, he was okay.  I told him if he was going to make a practice of falling like that (pretty much exactly like he fell on Christmas except this time he didn't hit his head) he was going to have to start wearing knee pads and maybe a helmet.

This morning, I heard the toilet in his bathroom flush several times in quick succession.  He stayed in his bedroom for a long time.  I was afraid we were in for a repeat performance.  He finally came out.  "Are you okay?" I asked.  "Yes, why?" he wanted to know.  "You were in there for a long time.  I was waiting for the crash," I said.  "I was trying to figure out which socks I was going to give away," he replied.

He's been gathering things to take to Angel's Closet for a while now.  Since he generally wears his socks until the elastic gives out and they won't stay up or until they have holes in the heels and toes, I can't imagine how he found any socks to donate.  I just shook my head and went to work.

Oops!

When Dad got up on Valentine's Day, he found a box of his favorite candy and cards from me and Dillon at his place at the table.  He came into the kitchen where I was fixing my coffee.  "You can just go ahead and put my name on the black list now," he began.  "I didn't do anything for you for Valentine's Day."  "You'll pay for it later," I assured him.

Apparently, he took my threat seriously.  When I got home for lunch, there was a beautifully wrapped box of candy and a very sweet card at my place at the table.  "That was very nice of you," I thanked him.  "I thought I did a particularly good job on the bow," Dad replied.  It was a gorgeous bow and obviously made by a professional.

"You did such a good job on the bow that you can be in charge of making all the bows for our wreaths from now on," I played along.  "You can only achieve perfection once," he answered.  "Practice makes perfect," I assured him.

I baked him a simple version of a black forest cake that weekend.  I used a sugar-free Pillsbury chocolate cake mix and topped it with Cool Whip and sugar-free cherry pie filling.  It makes a pretty cake.  Last year's cake was too dry, so I doctored it up this year adding sour cream and pudding mix.  I told Dad the cake was for him.

"Last year, you told me it looked better than it tasted," I said pointedly.  "I guess that wasn't too smart of me," he said.  "Not if you want me to keep baking for you," I agreed.  There's a time and place to let someone know you'd rather they not make a particular dish for you again.  He didn't choose his wisely last year.

Where is my hat?

I had a special bell practice last night, so instead of cooking supper, we had stuffed hot dogs, slaw and baked beans for lunch.  I fixed everything on Sunday before I realized there was a screw in my tire that necessitated a trip to the tire shop on Monday.  That completely screwed up my schedule.

I wrote down the cooking instructions for Dad, complete with notations to take the lid off the casserole dish the baked beans were in and to remove the foil covering the hot dogs.  You can't take anything for granted when Dad is doing the cooking.  Or heating in this case.

I gave Dad the news while he was eating his breakfast.  "You're cooking lunch today," I began and then went on to review his instructions and timetable. He scowled.  "Does this mean I have to find my chef's hat?" he quipped.  "I think we can dispense with the hat," I assured him.  I had to give him credit, that was a pretty funny line to come up with first thing in the morning.

It was nice to come home to a hot meal in the oven.  Asking him to put it on the table would have been asking too much.  I told him he'd done such a good job we might have to see about expanding his repertoire.  "I'm not so sure about that," he groused.  Still, I'm thinking that putting chicken pot pies in the oven shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.

What do you mean I can't eat that?

When I came home for lunch today Dad was in the kitchen.  He'd just finished making his sandwich.  The scent of toasted bread filled the air.  He was in the act of getting his soda out of the refrigerator.  I took one look at his sandwich, told him, "You can't eat that," picked it up off his plate and dumped it in the trash.  The look on his face was priceless.

"What do you mean I can't eat that?" he protested, outraged.  "That turkey salad is too old.  If you eat it now, you risk another upset stomach."  I'd made the turkey salad Sunday night so he could have it on Monday.  Monday morning he woke up with an upset stomach, so turkey salad was not on the menu.  Tuesday we had hot dogs and baked beans.  Today was garbage day and I was planning to throw out the turkey salad. 

It was made from scraps of the Christmas turkey that I'd almost waited too long to freeze, so it had a limited shelf life.  Three days was too long.  I'd intentionally hidden the container in the meat bin underneath a couple of other things.  Dad usually gives the contents of the refrigerator a cursory look and if whatever he's looking for isn't eye level on the front of the shelf, he claims he can't find it.  I didn't know he even went into the meat bin.

"Well what am I supposed to eat?" he demanded.  "I don't care, but you can't eat that.  Don't you have any more cans of soup in the garage?"  He keeps his stash of soup separate from the soup I store in the pantry.  Don't ask me why.  "Yes, but I had my mouth set for turkey salad," he said.  "Too bad," I said as I went in search of the peanut butter.

He rummaged in the refrigerator and came out with 1 slice of American cheese.  "We don't have another package," he announced with disgust.  "I didn't know you ate that.  You could always use a knife and slice yourself some real cheese," I told him.  He looked even more disgusted.  Clearly the thought of having to slice his own cheese was too much work.

He went to get the plate his sandwich had been on.  "You can't use that plate," I told him, taking it away from him and putting it back on the counter with the dirty dishes left from breakfast.  "Why?" he demanded.  "It has some of the turkey salad on it.  You're risking contaminating your cheese and crackers and winding up with another upset stomach or food poisoning."  Muttering and shaking his head, he got another plate out of the cabinet.

I was doing a NC Bar Association continuing education webcast during my lunch, so I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich back to my study.  Dad poked his head in the door a few minutes later.  "The jar of peanut butter in the cabinet that you dated 9/12, can I eat that?"  "Yes, you can eat that."  "Well since you don't want me to eat anything else, I figured I'd better check."  You'd think I was trying to starve him to death instead of prevent him from getting food poisoning.  "You should be thanking me, not complaining," I called after him.

When I was doing the dishes tonight, I noticed that the turkey salad container wasn't on the counter to be washed.  I looked in the meat bin.  There it was.  With just enough turkey salad left for one more half a sandwich.  Obviously Dad had been planning on having another turkey salad sandwich tomorrow.  I threw it out, laughing all over again when I remembered the look on his face when I dumped his sandwich in the trash.

I had one more package of frozen turkey scraps in the freezer.  I mixed up another batch of turkey salad so he can have a turkey salad sandwich tomorrow.  He can pretend it's a box of chocolates.  Happy Valentine's Day.

Snow Day

We got about 3 inches of snow today.  Our office closed around 1:30.  It's so nice to have someone tell me to go home instead of the old days at the mall when I had to answer the phone and tell the store employees that no, we weren't closing when the first flake fell.

I called Marvin because I know he feels the same.  Bless his heart, the first thing he asked was if I needed a ride.  I could always count on Marvin to pick me up when it snowed.  He had a sports utility vehicle with 4-wheel drive and loved an excuse to put it through its paces.  Plus, he knew if he picked me up, I was stuck in the office until he was ready to take me home.

The only thing I really like about snow is watching it fall.  It's a rare treat to have it come down in the daytime when I can enjoy it.  And since it's Friday, and I have plenty of groceries, there's no need to battle icy roads tomorrow.  I can stay home until it all melts.

The most dangerous thing I'll have to do is bring in Dad's newspaper tomorrow morning.  I made sure I was the one who went out and picked up his Herald this evening.  He looked pleasantly surprised when I handed it to him.

"You went out there and got my paper?" he asked with a big smile. Well of course I did.  I'd much rather go out in the cold myself than risk having him fall.  That would be a huge pain for both of us.

I put towels on the back porch steps to try and prevent Dillon from breaking a leg.  He doesn't slow up for bad weather and those steps get slippery when wet and/or frozen.  He raced up them last week, lost his grip, and crashed into the boards with both front and back legs.  He limped for a few minutes, but then shook it off.

I first put the towel in the middle of the steps.  Dillon politely walked to the side so he wouldn't step on the towel.  I moved the towel to the side.  He looked confused, but walked up the opposite side.  Apparently he thought he shouldn't walk on the towel.

I finally got a second towel and covered the entire width of the steps.  I hoped he wouldn't go so far as to attempt to leap up both steps to avoid the towels.  He finally got the message and used them as I intended.  No slipping and sliding so far.

After supper, Dad looked out the front window at the snow covering the road.  "The road looks like a mess," he commented.  "I'm pretty sure there won't be any yard sales tomorrow morning," I assured him.  Hopefully he'll just stay home until things thaw out.  I did sweep the snow off his car so it should thaw out when the sun hits it without him having to do much scraping.

Speechless

When Dad does something to make me mad, I usually shut up instead of trying to discuss the matter with him.  He's not going to change and arguing isn't going to improve the situation.  Instead, I stop talking to him.  We have a lot of silent days because he insists on acting as though I'm the unpaid household help and I just can't reconcile myself to cheerfully accept the situation.  When he does something particularly egregious I do make my opinion known, but mostly I just shut up.

Since the help is supposed be seen and not heard, I don't consider this out of character.  Until you factor in that I'm also supposed to be informative and his link to the outside world.  He likes to know what's going on even if he isn't willing to make the effort to talk to anyone himself.

He still thinks I should make his telephone calls for him.  Like Goldilocks, he's expects things to be not too loud, not too soft, but just right.  It's easier to spare himself potential frustration and rely on me to take care of his communications with the outside world.  Regardless of the fact that I'm usually pushed for time and he has nothing but time.

Citigroup has contracted with an outside company to coordinate matching their retirees with new private health care plans.  Naturally this will all be handled over the phone.  To avoid having to take time off from work to handle that little chore, I suggested Saturday morning that Dad gather all of his information and we'd try and call on Monday, which is a holiday for my office.  Not the way I wanted to spend my day off, but he's made it quite clear that he expects me to help him through the process.  He made a face.  Apparently he's not ready yet.

Sunday he informed me that you can call and schedule an appointment with Extend Health.  They're open from 8 a.m. until 8 p.m. on weekdays.  "So you can do it without taking time off from work."  Then he said he'd probably check with the local insurance company that handles BCBS.  That's who I have my health insurance with.

"Are they nice people?" he asked.  "Most of the people in the office are, but the woman who handles the health insurance is a real bitch," I informed him.  "Well you won't have to go talk to her, and I can get along with just about anybody.  I manage to live with you," he said with a laugh.

EXCUSE ME?!  I still can't believe he said that.  I was momentarily speechless.  Instead of insulting him in return, I simply informed him that if he was looking for my help, he was going about it in the wrong way.  He just laughed. 

He may think he's funny, but he's going to be paying for that crack for a long time to come.  We had Chicken Divan today.  The ingredients for Butternut Squash and Kale Quesadillas are in the fridge.  He may not recognize anything I serve for dinner for weeks to come.

Dishpan hands

Friday morning it was raining so Dillon and I couldn't go for our morning walk.  I decided to put the time to good use and made a pot of soup.  I don't generally cook on Fridays, but I thought homemade soup sounded good and if I fixed it before work, it would be simple enough to heat up when I got home.

Since I was cooking, and I dislike coming home to a counter full of dirty dishes, I tried to wash up as I went along.  I left the sink full of hot, soapy water so that I could wash my breakfast dishes as well.  I left the kitchen and went to eat breakfast in front of the computer while reading my morning blogs.

When I got back to the kitchen, I discovered that Dad had decided to take advantage of the situation.  He had gone back and fetched the glass he uses in his bathroom.  He'd generously left the glass and the knife he'd used to cut his banana on the counter beside the sink for me to wash.  Heaven forbid that he should actually wash anything himself.

It would be one thing if I'd been standing at the sink in the act of washing dishes.  But given that I wasn't even in the room, and there was a sink full of hot, soapy water, you'd think that for once he could have washed up after himself.  Instead he was sitting at the table eating his breakfast which would leave me yet more dirty dishes to wash.

I do the dishes every day when I come home from work for lunch while he goes back and sits in his chair.  I do the dishes after I cook supper every night while he goes back and sits in his chair.  I think every once in a while he needs to get his ass out of the chair and pull his share of the load.

I washed the glass and the knife.  Then I went to the table and said, very politely, "I guarantee you that your hands will not melt if you put them in dishwater.  So I would appreciate it if you would wash your breakfast dishes when you get through."  He looked startled, but laughed.  I left the room to dress for work.  When I came back, he'd washed his dishes.  Needless to say those were the only dishes he washed that day or any day since.  The message obviously didn't stick.