Recently, as my ample proportions have become less generous, I have noticed an alarming new addiction to change. I am trying new foods(gasp), listening to new artists, reading new authors... you get the picture. It feels kinda liberating, if you must know.
Naturally, my mother isn't always thrilled. Especially, it seems, about my new wardrobe (size 16! YAY me!). And so, I have decided to make a few declarations about what I will and won't do in the coming days in Slim-town:
I Solemnly Swear To:
- Always wear a bra
And this hurts me because I think I would look so hip in one of those halter thingys. But let's face it, the bottoms of my boobs would get rug burn and there is absolutely nothing hip about that.
- Avoid Spandex
Again, this is something I have kinda looked forward to since this is the skinny girls version of elastic waisted pants. But when there is no delineation between your thighs and your calves save for the amount of dimpling, you are setting yourself up for some ridicule. I know this because I am the one usually doing the nasty face/gag me gestures in the WalMart parking lot.
- Keep the hemline age appropriate
As many of you know, I can get myself into alot of trouble wearing a skirt and there is no sense in adding the possibility of a "Brittany" to the list of nasty foibles. Of course, I never go commando...Huh...
- Keep the neckline modest
You know, with boobs like mine, there is little reason to show skin. They are the first thing people see (since they usually enter a room way before the rest of me shows up) and the first thing they see in their mind's eye when they are called upon to remember me. So, with that in mind, this one is easy to promise.
- Never wear a thong
OK, here's the thing. Even at my current enviable weight (not really. I just wanted to write that.) it would still require two men and a boy to get me out of one. (One, Two, Three PULL!)
- Always say Thank You
I have had very few instances of people coming up to me to tell me how ravishing I look (though that day is coming, by golly) but when it starts, I promise to never take it for granted, to always smile and in my most sincere and gracious tone, receive the praise.
Until then, never fear! Mother is here to remind me to change my shorty-shorts, throw away my sleeve-less hoochy shirt and consider donating my thigh high boots to the Bad Boy Clubs auxiliary, The "Love You Long Time" Girls. You can count on her to keep me in line.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I could be wrong (what?) but I think I need a break. After shuttling and shopping, loading and unloading, cooking and cleaning...and let's not forget listening without retort...I am a bit bushed.
Mother says I do too much. Of course, that's after she asks me to "run the sweeper", "fetch the laundry" and "do up those dishes". I really don't mind the grind. They are appreciative and are always trying to stuff money in my pockets. I love the idea of taking pressure off them and am happy to be able to do it.
It's just that it constantly reminds me how quickly I will be in their shoes. I am always wondering if I am living the fullest, best life...if I will get to the end and regret the decisions I made (or didn't make)along the way.
Of course, up to now I have been on auto-pilot for the most part. Went to college, got married, had 3 (perfect) children...I've done what was expected of me, if little else. It's been a good life, one many women would enjoy very much.
This is the itch, isn't it? That dreaded mid-life crisis thing that begins after the empty nest syndrome, where you start dreaming of what could've been and begin convincing yourself you could do better, be happier, live more.
I asked my Dad if he ever experienced it and he smiled and said he thought about leaving my mother, could've left her, but he made a promise to her to always be there to protect her and though imperfect, he was a man of his word.
A few days later I asked my mother the same question. She has regaled us with stories over the years of all the men who courted her who turned out to be successful, wealthy men, and I am sure she was thinking about them while she paused to answer. Finally, she said, "Well, early on if I had left I wouldn't have you. Later, we had the ministry...and really, God is what held our marriage together. Who knows where we would be now without that."
Where, indeed.
I think when a person suffers a mid-life crisis, they've begun to ask, "Is this all there is?" They have started to wonder if they will ever feel a powerful, over-whelming sensation or emotion ever again. They are sensing the possibility, the very real possibility that the end of their days will be spent coasting out, living on the periphery of other people's lives. Going through the motions, but really just making themselves as comfortable as possible while they wait to die. One year fading into the next with nothing to distinguish one from the other at the end.
Not to depress you or anything, dear Reader, but I bring this to your attention in the hopes that I can encourage you to either closely examine your habits, your beliefs, your priorities and realign them with "Maximum Living" in mind or stay away from old folks. For real. Because their rickety bones and gnarled fingers are gonna get you thinkin'...
I, for one, require some realignment...possibly an entire overhaul. It will be expensive in emotion and addled with adversity, but the people who love me now will love me in the end, right? And if you get to the end and can at least say you gave it your best shot, that will be enough, yes?
Well, that's what I think, anyway. But we all know I'm a bit of a goofball, so it could be that I am 100% wrong...(What?)
Mother says I do too much. Of course, that's after she asks me to "run the sweeper", "fetch the laundry" and "do up those dishes". I really don't mind the grind. They are appreciative and are always trying to stuff money in my pockets. I love the idea of taking pressure off them and am happy to be able to do it.
It's just that it constantly reminds me how quickly I will be in their shoes. I am always wondering if I am living the fullest, best life...if I will get to the end and regret the decisions I made (or didn't make)along the way.
Of course, up to now I have been on auto-pilot for the most part. Went to college, got married, had 3 (perfect) children...I've done what was expected of me, if little else. It's been a good life, one many women would enjoy very much.
This is the itch, isn't it? That dreaded mid-life crisis thing that begins after the empty nest syndrome, where you start dreaming of what could've been and begin convincing yourself you could do better, be happier, live more.
I asked my Dad if he ever experienced it and he smiled and said he thought about leaving my mother, could've left her, but he made a promise to her to always be there to protect her and though imperfect, he was a man of his word.
A few days later I asked my mother the same question. She has regaled us with stories over the years of all the men who courted her who turned out to be successful, wealthy men, and I am sure she was thinking about them while she paused to answer. Finally, she said, "Well, early on if I had left I wouldn't have you. Later, we had the ministry...and really, God is what held our marriage together. Who knows where we would be now without that."
Where, indeed.
I think when a person suffers a mid-life crisis, they've begun to ask, "Is this all there is?" They have started to wonder if they will ever feel a powerful, over-whelming sensation or emotion ever again. They are sensing the possibility, the very real possibility that the end of their days will be spent coasting out, living on the periphery of other people's lives. Going through the motions, but really just making themselves as comfortable as possible while they wait to die. One year fading into the next with nothing to distinguish one from the other at the end.
Not to depress you or anything, dear Reader, but I bring this to your attention in the hopes that I can encourage you to either closely examine your habits, your beliefs, your priorities and realign them with "Maximum Living" in mind or stay away from old folks. For real. Because their rickety bones and gnarled fingers are gonna get you thinkin'...
I, for one, require some realignment...possibly an entire overhaul. It will be expensive in emotion and addled with adversity, but the people who love me now will love me in the end, right? And if you get to the end and can at least say you gave it your best shot, that will be enough, yes?
Well, that's what I think, anyway. But we all know I'm a bit of a goofball, so it could be that I am 100% wrong...(What?)
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Duck! Goose?
I am now spending my days with the parents looking for blogging material. Several of you remarked on my mother's unusual vocabulary. Yes, she can always be counted upon to have something to say, even if it makes no sense whatsoever.
One of her many quirks when communicating is her impatience. Example:
"Mom, that's the wrong button. Stop pushing buttons! Wait!"
"This is my remote and I can push buttons if I want to. If someone would take the time to teach me how to use this stupid piece of malarky I might be able to make it do what it's told."
"That's the problem, dear. It is doing what you tell it to do."
"Well, it clearly is not. Do you see Bob Barker on there?"
"He doesn't host Price is Right anymore."
"What planet are you living on? China? Of course he does. I tell you, Rebecca, I am starting to worry about your mental health."
"Too late for that."
And her need for the last word:
"You lost my card? How does a person lose a card?"
"Sorry."
"I mean, how? Does it have legs like a centerpede?"
"I'll keep looking."
"It profounds me how it could be here one minute and gone the next."
"It is a mystery."
"This is just ridicilus."
Silence...
"Oh, I give up. I am surrounded by incomparable people. What's the use?"
This makes her seem like a real sourball (to borrow her phrase) and she's not always like that. Well, I should say, people do tell stories of times when she was perfectly personable. The witnesses are mostly dead now, but the incidents are documented...somewhere. I'll start looking for them as soon as I find the 2004 Christmas card from the Logsdens (also dead) that I seem to have lost.
One of her many quirks when communicating is her impatience. Example:
"Mom, that's the wrong button. Stop pushing buttons! Wait!"
"This is my remote and I can push buttons if I want to. If someone would take the time to teach me how to use this stupid piece of malarky I might be able to make it do what it's told."
"That's the problem, dear. It is doing what you tell it to do."
"Well, it clearly is not. Do you see Bob Barker on there?"
"He doesn't host Price is Right anymore."
"What planet are you living on? China? Of course he does. I tell you, Rebecca, I am starting to worry about your mental health."
"Too late for that."
And her need for the last word:
"You lost my card? How does a person lose a card?"
"Sorry."
"I mean, how? Does it have legs like a centerpede?"
"I'll keep looking."
"It profounds me how it could be here one minute and gone the next."
"It is a mystery."
"This is just ridicilus."
Silence...
"Oh, I give up. I am surrounded by incomparable people. What's the use?"
This makes her seem like a real sourball (to borrow her phrase) and she's not always like that. Well, I should say, people do tell stories of times when she was perfectly personable. The witnesses are mostly dead now, but the incidents are documented...somewhere. I'll start looking for them as soon as I find the 2004 Christmas card from the Logsdens (also dead) that I seem to have lost.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Motha, Motha
So, my precious mother is home from the nursing home. She was delightfully overwhelmed with gratitude for the first 24 hours or so. I was personally hoping she had experienced a life-altering attitude adjustment that would replace her chronic crankiness with serene acceptance of all things domestic. Alas, it was not to be.
Name-calling commenced early on the second day with "blowhot", "pollywallace" and "jerkjockey" landing on the Most Memorable list. She threatened to "bake my oven", "pepperspray my pockets" and "light a fire under my nose".
When I came out of my room this morning, my dad was standing in the livingroom wearing a back brace and she was hovering over him saying, "Hurry up, Fred. I don't have all day."
"What's going on here?" I wonder.
"Well," daddy begins.
"We are fixing the leg on the table."
I glance to the corner where a 50lb. antique table once stood. It isn't there.
"Don't tell me..."
"We had to get it out of there so we could fix it," mother offers.
"Where is it?"
"We took it into the dining room."
I round the corner and there, sitting upside-down on the dining table is this footless monstrosity. UPSIDE DOWN!
Now, dear reader, you must know that the "we" referred to by mother dearest is used in the loosest regard imaginable. "We" to mother means she told him and he did it.
"You must be joking," I say.
"I need to sit down," dad says.
"We've got work to do! There will plenty of time to sit when we're done here."
"Dorothy, my back is hurting."
"Oh, you'll say anything for a little attention."
She wobbles off muttering about not being able to find good help anymore and then yells from the other room for me to bring her the sweeper.
"Let me look at the table leg and then I will vacuum," I reply.
"I will do it! Just bring it to me!"
"Mom! I am not bringing you the sweeper. Just sit down and make a list of what you want done and I will do it!"
Her head rears back and she says, "Well, there is no need to raise your voice."
Good times.
As I write, she is happily reclined watching "All My Children" with the remote in one hand and a cookie in the other. I am about to walk by her and say, "You better not get any crumbs on my freshly swept carpet."
She will no doubt reply, "Don't be a jerkjockey. We'll just vacuum again tomorrow."
Name-calling commenced early on the second day with "blowhot", "pollywallace" and "jerkjockey" landing on the Most Memorable list. She threatened to "bake my oven", "pepperspray my pockets" and "light a fire under my nose".
When I came out of my room this morning, my dad was standing in the livingroom wearing a back brace and she was hovering over him saying, "Hurry up, Fred. I don't have all day."
"What's going on here?" I wonder.
"Well," daddy begins.
"We are fixing the leg on the table."
I glance to the corner where a 50lb. antique table once stood. It isn't there.
"Don't tell me..."
"We had to get it out of there so we could fix it," mother offers.
"Where is it?"
"We took it into the dining room."
I round the corner and there, sitting upside-down on the dining table is this footless monstrosity. UPSIDE DOWN!
Now, dear reader, you must know that the "we" referred to by mother dearest is used in the loosest regard imaginable. "We" to mother means she told him and he did it.
"You must be joking," I say.
"I need to sit down," dad says.
"We've got work to do! There will plenty of time to sit when we're done here."
"Dorothy, my back is hurting."
"Oh, you'll say anything for a little attention."
She wobbles off muttering about not being able to find good help anymore and then yells from the other room for me to bring her the sweeper.
"Let me look at the table leg and then I will vacuum," I reply.
"I will do it! Just bring it to me!"
"Mom! I am not bringing you the sweeper. Just sit down and make a list of what you want done and I will do it!"
Her head rears back and she says, "Well, there is no need to raise your voice."
Good times.
As I write, she is happily reclined watching "All My Children" with the remote in one hand and a cookie in the other. I am about to walk by her and say, "You better not get any crumbs on my freshly swept carpet."
She will no doubt reply, "Don't be a jerkjockey. We'll just vacuum again tomorrow."
Sunday, September 12, 2010
My Immodesty Knows No Bounds
Oh, lawd, lawd. What can I find next to embarrass myself doing? Say you are dying to hear what I did today...say it! Well, ok.
I am in the church kitchen, where so many bawdy things have happened of late, with my dear friend BJ (hi, Beeg!)and we are discussing my weight loss. I am so excited to tell her that I am really taking it off, that if I hold my breath real good, my skirt would just fall right to the floor!
I said, "See?" I start pulling the skirt up and say, "I can even put this up over my boobs!"
Well, dear reader, said skirt was rather short to begin with, so imagine what happened when I yanked it up over my considerable boobage. Yeah.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see little Justin, age 12, with eyeballs the size of saucers bugging out of his precious head. He ran screaming from the room. (That's happening alot to me lately, too.)
BJ is hiccuping with laughter and is calling, "Justin! Come here! I need you! Jus-tin!"
But, alas, no Justin. We surmised he had raced to the sanctuary and was hiding under a pew seeking the face of God to remove the mental picture I had so masterfully painted onto his brain. God is good, but I don't know if He's that good. This guy is toast. He will never look at thighs the same way again, I can tell you that. Years from now he will see a girl about to pull an article of clothing over her head and he will become numb struck with nausea and not know why. Kneecaps will make him blanch and stepping into a kitchen with women in it will make him break out into a cold, hard sweat.
And all because of me.
I am leaving my mark on the world, one unsuspecting innocent at a time.
I am in the church kitchen, where so many bawdy things have happened of late, with my dear friend BJ (hi, Beeg!)and we are discussing my weight loss. I am so excited to tell her that I am really taking it off, that if I hold my breath real good, my skirt would just fall right to the floor!
I said, "See?" I start pulling the skirt up and say, "I can even put this up over my boobs!"
Well, dear reader, said skirt was rather short to begin with, so imagine what happened when I yanked it up over my considerable boobage. Yeah.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see little Justin, age 12, with eyeballs the size of saucers bugging out of his precious head. He ran screaming from the room. (That's happening alot to me lately, too.)
BJ is hiccuping with laughter and is calling, "Justin! Come here! I need you! Jus-tin!"
But, alas, no Justin. We surmised he had raced to the sanctuary and was hiding under a pew seeking the face of God to remove the mental picture I had so masterfully painted onto his brain. God is good, but I don't know if He's that good. This guy is toast. He will never look at thighs the same way again, I can tell you that. Years from now he will see a girl about to pull an article of clothing over her head and he will become numb struck with nausea and not know why. Kneecaps will make him blanch and stepping into a kitchen with women in it will make him break out into a cold, hard sweat.
And all because of me.
I am leaving my mark on the world, one unsuspecting innocent at a time.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Hey Baby
My doctor called me "kiddo" today.
Now, if you are a faithful follower, you might recall my doctor is the hottie of the hospital over in Port Huron. He is impossibly adorable. So naturally, being his kiddo for a moment was sa-weet.
Makes me contemplate, and not for the first time, my unknown reader, what makes people attractive to one another. (I am not saying he is attracted to me, but really, how could he not be...am I right?)
There are so many people out there who draw lines around what you can find appealing and what is officially off limits. I have always chaffed against that. I am getting in deeeeep water here, but isn't it nice to imagine a world where it's ok to smile and feel and be?
Everyone knows I am in over my head. My views on so many things make my conservative friends look at me sideways...and my family! They just smile and nod, having accepted long ago how "out there" I am. But, let me say how sincerely I wish folks would just relax and let people be who they are. REVISION: I don't want you to let them "be", I want you to ENCOURAGE them to be...exactly who they are, here/there/everywhere. If they don't match your level of perfection, well, suck up your condescension in your old mental baggage, throw it in the closet and slam the door.
I invite you to join me here in this bubble of acceptance. Where the right and left meet, where the new agers and old-timers dance together and the seekers of truth find a wealth of opinions and theories to guide them forward.
Get out there and BE...kiddo.
Now, if you are a faithful follower, you might recall my doctor is the hottie of the hospital over in Port Huron. He is impossibly adorable. So naturally, being his kiddo for a moment was sa-weet.
Makes me contemplate, and not for the first time, my unknown reader, what makes people attractive to one another. (I am not saying he is attracted to me, but really, how could he not be...am I right?)
There are so many people out there who draw lines around what you can find appealing and what is officially off limits. I have always chaffed against that. I am getting in deeeeep water here, but isn't it nice to imagine a world where it's ok to smile and feel and be?
Everyone knows I am in over my head. My views on so many things make my conservative friends look at me sideways...and my family! They just smile and nod, having accepted long ago how "out there" I am. But, let me say how sincerely I wish folks would just relax and let people be who they are. REVISION: I don't want you to let them "be", I want you to ENCOURAGE them to be...exactly who they are, here/there/everywhere. If they don't match your level of perfection, well, suck up your condescension in your old mental baggage, throw it in the closet and slam the door.
I invite you to join me here in this bubble of acceptance. Where the right and left meet, where the new agers and old-timers dance together and the seekers of truth find a wealth of opinions and theories to guide them forward.
Get out there and BE...kiddo.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Spandex and Me
Yesterday my parents retired from their current preaching assignment after 50+ years in the ministry. Their people were so kind. There was a huge spread after the service and a good time was had by all.
On the way to church I had told dad I was gonna have to sneak over to WalMart to purchase a girdle.
"A what?"
"Girdle! I need to clamp down these jiggly bits."
He made a face and reminded me I still had to get mom from the nursing home and pick up Joe.
Joe was a faithful attender as long as dad picked him up. He is a 60ish, country boy with about a 3rd grade ability to understand things with an odd way of fooling people who have never met him. He is a big man with beautiful white/gray hair and he always comes to church wearing khakis and a sport coat and tie. If you didn't know better, you'd take him for a banker. But he is a peculiar fellow who prefers routine and folks with whom he is familiar. He was a little nervous about me coming alone to get him at first so I have been taking one of the teenage boys from church with me each time.
We have collected some JOEisms over the years, my favorite of which from a conversation he and my dad were having about how much Joe hated living with his brother and father since his mother died.
My dad asked, "Well, Joe, how old is your father anyway?"
Joe pondered that a minute and then replied, "I don't rightly know, but I am almost sure he's older than me."
When we pulled up his drive yesterday, I noticed a house at the back of his property I had never seen before and I said, "Do you know the people that live back there, Joe?"
He beamed and said, "Oh, yes, been knowin' them for years."
"What's their name?"
"Next Door Neighbor."
"Ahh," I said. Gonna miss old Joe.
As soon as I dropped him at the church door I ran over to WalMart and got the dreaded girdle, only I didn't get the standard panty-style. I opted for the slip girdle. My reasoning was simple and I am sure you can see why it would kill two birds, so to speak. I rushed back to church and entered the Ladies Room to anchor the bits before they took off for parts unknown.
At first, I was very pleased at the smooth look it afforded. I turned and surveyed my ample backside and, yes! Very smooth, indeed.
Then I took a step. It became immediately clear I would have to shorten my stride a bit if I wanted the thing to stay put, but I felt reasonably sure I could handle that with a modicum of unwanted attention. One last look at my new firm middle and I was off...slowly.
I made the rounds taking my baby steps, shaking hands and chatting with folks until it was time for the service to begin. As soon as I sat I knew I was in trouble. The bottom wanted to roll up, and it was quite determined, but I managed to thwart it's progress the first time. The third and fourth time however, found me losing the battle. By the time my dad called me up to sing my mom's favorite song, it had creapt all the way up to my middle and rested there like a child-size hoola hoop, tenting my dress in a most unbecoming way. Well, I was mortified. There were people taking pictures and watching my every step and I seriously considered singing it from my seat.
After the unbearably long song, I exited the sanctuary and returned to the restroom. I elected to return the spiteful garment to it's proper place since there would only be one more up and down to the service and, surely, I could control it once.
And, I did! I was simply beaming when I entered, geisha-like into the social hall. I was so flushed with success I practically floated from friend to friend, bouyed not only by my ability to master spandex, but also by my imagined sveltness. I walked into the kitchen and found Joe getting a real glass to drink out of and as he turned, he knocked a towel to the floor. I knelt, practically at his feet, to retrieve it and... an odd noise, rather like a "ffrrrlippp", announced the rolling up of my god-forsaken slip.
Joe's eyes, when I looked up at him, were wide and fixed. I feared for his health. I was standing as he fled the room with me shouting, "Joe! It's not...I didn't..." Oh, forevermore. Confound it!
I returned to the loo, removed the evil hugger and dropped it in the trash. Me and my jelly belly returned to the party and dang, if we didn't have a really good time.
On the way to church I had told dad I was gonna have to sneak over to WalMart to purchase a girdle.
"A what?"
"Girdle! I need to clamp down these jiggly bits."
He made a face and reminded me I still had to get mom from the nursing home and pick up Joe.
Joe was a faithful attender as long as dad picked him up. He is a 60ish, country boy with about a 3rd grade ability to understand things with an odd way of fooling people who have never met him. He is a big man with beautiful white/gray hair and he always comes to church wearing khakis and a sport coat and tie. If you didn't know better, you'd take him for a banker. But he is a peculiar fellow who prefers routine and folks with whom he is familiar. He was a little nervous about me coming alone to get him at first so I have been taking one of the teenage boys from church with me each time.
We have collected some JOEisms over the years, my favorite of which from a conversation he and my dad were having about how much Joe hated living with his brother and father since his mother died.
My dad asked, "Well, Joe, how old is your father anyway?"
Joe pondered that a minute and then replied, "I don't rightly know, but I am almost sure he's older than me."
When we pulled up his drive yesterday, I noticed a house at the back of his property I had never seen before and I said, "Do you know the people that live back there, Joe?"
He beamed and said, "Oh, yes, been knowin' them for years."
"What's their name?"
"Next Door Neighbor."
"Ahh," I said. Gonna miss old Joe.
As soon as I dropped him at the church door I ran over to WalMart and got the dreaded girdle, only I didn't get the standard panty-style. I opted for the slip girdle. My reasoning was simple and I am sure you can see why it would kill two birds, so to speak. I rushed back to church and entered the Ladies Room to anchor the bits before they took off for parts unknown.
At first, I was very pleased at the smooth look it afforded. I turned and surveyed my ample backside and, yes! Very smooth, indeed.
Then I took a step. It became immediately clear I would have to shorten my stride a bit if I wanted the thing to stay put, but I felt reasonably sure I could handle that with a modicum of unwanted attention. One last look at my new firm middle and I was off...slowly.
I made the rounds taking my baby steps, shaking hands and chatting with folks until it was time for the service to begin. As soon as I sat I knew I was in trouble. The bottom wanted to roll up, and it was quite determined, but I managed to thwart it's progress the first time. The third and fourth time however, found me losing the battle. By the time my dad called me up to sing my mom's favorite song, it had creapt all the way up to my middle and rested there like a child-size hoola hoop, tenting my dress in a most unbecoming way. Well, I was mortified. There were people taking pictures and watching my every step and I seriously considered singing it from my seat.
After the unbearably long song, I exited the sanctuary and returned to the restroom. I elected to return the spiteful garment to it's proper place since there would only be one more up and down to the service and, surely, I could control it once.
And, I did! I was simply beaming when I entered, geisha-like into the social hall. I was so flushed with success I practically floated from friend to friend, bouyed not only by my ability to master spandex, but also by my imagined sveltness. I walked into the kitchen and found Joe getting a real glass to drink out of and as he turned, he knocked a towel to the floor. I knelt, practically at his feet, to retrieve it and... an odd noise, rather like a "ffrrrlippp", announced the rolling up of my god-forsaken slip.
Joe's eyes, when I looked up at him, were wide and fixed. I feared for his health. I was standing as he fled the room with me shouting, "Joe! It's not...I didn't..." Oh, forevermore. Confound it!
I returned to the loo, removed the evil hugger and dropped it in the trash. Me and my jelly belly returned to the party and dang, if we didn't have a really good time.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Unwilling
I have been in Florida helping the 'rents for about a month. My mom is still in the nursing home and my dad is unable to drive, so I have been the chauffer to here, there and everywhere.
This morning, he knocks on my door and opens it. I am still asleep. It is 8am.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
One eye opens and I gaze around the room.
"Ready? Uh, no," I say, sitting up.
"Humph," he says, and turns to hobble away.
"But I can get ready," I offer to his retreating back.
I dutifully get up, grab some clothes and hustle into the bathroom. I come out a short 3 minutes later and wander down the hallway wondering what appointment I have forgotten. Dad can't be found. I go to the front door and find him sitting in the front seat of the van with his big hands resting on the top of the cane between his knees. I wave but he is too blind to see. Grabbing the keys, I book it out into the already scorching heat.
"Where to?" I venture, hoping I won't encourage his ire if the destination should already be known to me.
"We need a mattress pad."
We do? Hmm.
"So, where to?" I ask again.
"Gainesville, I guess."
As we make our way, we attempt conversation, but it is difficult. His right ear is the good ear and everything I say must be repeated (often more than once) and he tires easily. He and I watched some of the Little League World Series the night before and I tell him what happened after he went to bed. He tells me a "Johnny" joke.
The coach calls little Johnny over and says, "Johnny, now you know we don't use bad language in baseball."
"No, sir," Johnny says.
"And we don't call people names or insult them."
"No, sir."
"And we never shout at the umpire or threaten his life in any way."
"No, sir, I would never do that."
"Well," the coach says, "would you please go tell your mother all that?"
And I laugh, remembering how often I might have deserved a reminder during the boys' high school games. We are smiling as we go a few miles lost in our own worlds and then he says, "Your mother wants to come home."
"Yes sir, she sure does."
"I think..." he begins, "I think we will be alot closer when she does."
He leans his head back and falls asleep. Big tears well up, and I feel so many things. So sad and mad and grateful...and the love! The love just about kills me.
There are so many things I still don't know, but I do know I am not ready. Each day brings us closer to an ending, a seperation, a goodbye. But I am not ready. Not yet.
Not yet.
This morning, he knocks on my door and opens it. I am still asleep. It is 8am.
"Are you ready?" he asks.
One eye opens and I gaze around the room.
"Ready? Uh, no," I say, sitting up.
"Humph," he says, and turns to hobble away.
"But I can get ready," I offer to his retreating back.
I dutifully get up, grab some clothes and hustle into the bathroom. I come out a short 3 minutes later and wander down the hallway wondering what appointment I have forgotten. Dad can't be found. I go to the front door and find him sitting in the front seat of the van with his big hands resting on the top of the cane between his knees. I wave but he is too blind to see. Grabbing the keys, I book it out into the already scorching heat.
"Where to?" I venture, hoping I won't encourage his ire if the destination should already be known to me.
"We need a mattress pad."
We do? Hmm.
"So, where to?" I ask again.
"Gainesville, I guess."
As we make our way, we attempt conversation, but it is difficult. His right ear is the good ear and everything I say must be repeated (often more than once) and he tires easily. He and I watched some of the Little League World Series the night before and I tell him what happened after he went to bed. He tells me a "Johnny" joke.
The coach calls little Johnny over and says, "Johnny, now you know we don't use bad language in baseball."
"No, sir," Johnny says.
"And we don't call people names or insult them."
"No, sir."
"And we never shout at the umpire or threaten his life in any way."
"No, sir, I would never do that."
"Well," the coach says, "would you please go tell your mother all that?"
And I laugh, remembering how often I might have deserved a reminder during the boys' high school games. We are smiling as we go a few miles lost in our own worlds and then he says, "Your mother wants to come home."
"Yes sir, she sure does."
"I think..." he begins, "I think we will be alot closer when she does."
He leans his head back and falls asleep. Big tears well up, and I feel so many things. So sad and mad and grateful...and the love! The love just about kills me.
There are so many things I still don't know, but I do know I am not ready. Each day brings us closer to an ending, a seperation, a goodbye. But I am not ready. Not yet.
Not yet.
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