Do teeth in your pocket count as yours?

                I recent encounter with The Dad was disarming to say the least.  I was cooking his requested “country” food and took him a small bowl for taste-testing purposes.  He usually tells me I need to add salt and pepper and, even though I never add the salt as he has high blood pressure, I always tell him I do and he deems it “just right” upon the second taste test.  The dish tonight was shrimp stir fry.  What?  China is a country.  Anyway, when I took him his little bowl, he had to get his teeth out of his shirt pocket to take a bite.  I was so taken aback that I simply stood there, trying to process that information.  Besides the fact that he had them out of his mouth, they were sharing the overly stretched confines of his shirt pocket with his glasses, phone and a crochet needle. 

                As someone who has spent a small fortune on dental care in recent years, I am hyperaware of both my and other’s teeth.  You could have purchased a car with what I have paid for dental surgery.  Not a new car, mind you, but at least a mid-90s Buick LeSabre; definitely more than you need to spend to have an award-winning smile, as if there are awards for that sort of thing.  Even if there were, I wouldn’t be winning any as the small space between my front teeth is not sexy like Lauren Hutton; it’s simply a space.  A small imperfection in an otherwise normal face, if normal is what you call someone whose eyes are so small there is an assumption of a heritage that is indirectly Asian.

                I’ve always heard that you can tell someone’s fiscal health based on their hair, teeth or shoes.  Having had my hair snipped in both hoity-toity salons and chains like Super Clips, I can tell you there is scant difference between the two (for men, at least) other than you won’t get a hot towel facial at a Super Clips unless your stylist dumps her latte on your head because she is texting/drinking whilst she cuts.  There are texting dangers outside of driving, people.  Where’s the advocacy there? 

And I definitely have excellent shoes.  It’s amazing what you can fit your former canned ham of a foot into when it shrinks right along with your waistline. Yay me and my Johnston and Murphy loving self.

                As someone who did not receive regular dental checkups as a child, due to the lack of dental insurance, I can attest to the fact that poor dental care is a factor of poverty that is difficult to overcome; hence my over-priced but still not award-winning smile.  And that is ok.  I am single-handedly funding my dentist’s daughter’s year abroad and I know she would be grateful were she aware.  And I’m glad to help someone go to Europe, although if I had my druthers it would be me or at least someone who would share photos.

                But, back to the teeth in the shirt conundrum.  What does one say to one’s parent who has just (1) retrieved their teeth and (2) from the confines of any location other than their mouth?  How does one tiptoe past that?  Does one address it?  Does one ignore it?  Does one blog about it?  Apparently, yes to the last question.  And I don’t say this to malign The Dad; he is who he is.  But it’s one of the starkest differences betwixt us.  When I was discussing my upcoming dental surgery and told him the cost he was as taken aback as I was when he asked his home health aide if she’d ever heard a gnat fart.  When I added how much I had already spent, he informed me that I “coulda had all them teeth pulled and got (you) some false teeth and then used all that leftover money to buy me a Harley”.

                And I thought about it; not the Harley part but the pulling teeth and saving money part and I realized that I truly in my heart of hearts wanted to have the teeth with which I was born, still in my head and not in my pocket.  I don’t carry change in my pants pocket as it breaks the line of my trouser.  Why on earth would I want to put teeth there?  I don’t put my phone in my shirt pocket as it skews the drape of the shirt and makes me look messy.  Why on earth would I place teeth there?  I don’t want my teeth anywhere heretofore considered unseemly unless it’s biting into a Susie Cakes cupcake or a corndog at the fair, do you hear me?

                Now I don’t know the reasons behind his false teeth but I do know that his health has been an issue for quite some time.  In all honesty, based on his diet and his lack of exercise since he hurt his back at work in 1989, I am surprised he is still with us.  The man has had eight, count them, eight heart attacks and a stroke and I still have to fight him on whether or not he gets to fry the one steak he is allowed per month as I am doing everything I can to keep from becoming an orphan at 41.  And I have to constantly watch his crazy diabetic butt to keep him from ingesting all manner of ice cream and donuts, all the while lamenting that “the sugar” is going to “take (his) feet”.

                And even after I bullied, tricked and outright lied him into a 40 pound weight loss since he moved in, he remains 65 pounds overweight and it’s been an issue for some time.  Based on photographic evidence I have recently uncovered, he transitioned from pudgy to officially fat sometime in 1974, y’all.  And as a former fat boy, I can tell you that the more weight you have on your body, the more pain you will feel.  Doctors have said that for every pound you are overweight, it’s like four pounds of pressure on your joints.  Imagine walking around with your best friend strapped to your back, unless of course your best friend is crazy skinny like mine was in high school (Hey Paige!).  Then imagine walking around with your best friend and her Mama strapped to your back.

                As someone who has lost 200+ pounds in the last four years (yes, I am bragging), I can attest to the feeling of being able to leap like a mountain goat from peak to peak once you shed the equivalent of a normal-sized person from your person.  However, that feeling quickly passes at the first failed attempt to jump to anything other than the premature conclusion that you are actually in decent shape (see previous bicycling blog). 

I was also sad to find the only thing that changed with my weight loss was a thinner me.  I had the same issues, same problems, same everything, both good and bad, other than a more stylish wardrobe.  And while that is awesome (pastel chinos are a beautiful thing, y’all), it wasn’t the only thing I thought would automatically change.  To find that skinny people are just people who are skinny was an unexpected let down.  And here I talked about y’all all those years.  I apologize profusely to all and sundry.  Well, except for that one girl.  You know who you are.

I have tried everything I can think of to motivate The Dad because further significant weight loss will not take place as his only exercise is walking between his recliner, the bathroom and the kitchen table.  Driving at “full rabbit” on his scooter doesn’t do anything for anyone except keep those in his way unexpectedly exercising lest they be rundown by an aggressive Santa look-alike in a Tractor Supply hat, a stash of contraband Almond Joys hidden in his basket underneath assorted crime novels and packs of Freedent, the gum of choice of denture wearers nationwide.

                The only part of his body that is in any sort of reasonable shape is his mouth, as it gets a constant workout due to his sudden singing of random songs like “Rainbow Stew” and “Why Me, Lord?” and whistling with a talent on par with a songbird, y’all.  It’s a truly amazing sound, like he’s kidnapped a bird and hidden it, like everything else, in his shirt pocket.   I thought about comparing him to the Hager Twins or any other minor members of the Hee Haw gang, but I’m still reeling from the residual shame of admitting I knew the identity of Faron Young in Senior English in high school.  The only other people with that knowledge are in a nursing home and think a blog is something “your Daddy useta get.  It’ll pass.”

And that is all I’m saying.

Isn't this a Tom T. Hall song?

             At 4:45 the other morning I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.  Then noise seemed to involve wood, ceramic and metal.  I was soon to discover it also included denim and whatever material constitutes a tractor supply hat.  My Daddy had fallen; like a Redwood in the forest, except with more cursing and shame.  This couldn’t have come at a worse time as when I awoke I realized I had been sleeping on my right arm; it was numb and I couldn’t move it.  I am a typically conservative sleeper.  Until my significant weight loss, I used a CPAP machine to help me breathe and had to learn to sleep (1) on my back and (2) without moving.  Making my bed in the morning is not an exhaustive task.  My sister has said it's slightly creepy how I don't move; like a dead person.  However, for the past month or so I have been tossing and turning  like Bobby Lewis.  Some of you will get that joke; others will need to ask their parents.

                Anyway, I rush into my Daddy’s bedroom and see him on the floor, having somehow taken the entire contents of his bookshelf full of crochet yarn and the top of his dresser except for the TV, thank goodness.  When I attempted to help him up he insisted that he could get himself up and lurched away from my one good arm and proceeded to get up on one knee and summarily collapse onto the floor, emitting more curse words than a truck stop waitress who has “been done wrong” by some no-good trucker with a double name. 

                Trying to help him with the good arm, while flapping my other arm around to get the circulation flowing and him wiggling all over the floor threw Lulu into a state of confusion and happiness as she bounded from her doggie bed wanting to play.  Have you ever tried to help lift an overweight man who is trying to fight you using your one good arm and fending off the dog?  No, Dustin, just you.  And while it may be funny now, it was most assuredly not funny then.  Well, except maybe to Lulu.  If she could talk, I can only imagine what she would say.  Probably, “I’m hungry!” “Please pet me!” “Squirrel!”  “You’re Awesome!” and/or “The old fat one sleeps a lot, what breed is he?” although not necessarily in that order.

                I felt bad about him falling and I know that older people can break things when they do fall.  He complains about aches and pains nonstop so I knew I could look forward to an uptick in the woe-is-me-ing later that night and especially the next day and the day after that.  As someone who knows (somewhat) the pain of working out, I can tell you the next day is not as bad as the day after that.  And although his falling and my working out are not the same, they both involve sweating and someone on the floor cursing.  And they are both usually followed by someone regaling all and sundry with the specifics of the incident and detailing the aches and pains long after interest has waned and the even the memory of the pain has subsided.  Full disclosure:  I did kick boxing for about 5 months (from October 2009-February 2010).  I still talk about it.  Yes, Virginia, I see the irony.   

                Of course, he is still talking about the fall and the aches and pains and it’s been like a week and a half.  His toe hurts, his ankle hurts, both knees hurt, his ribs/thigh/shoulder/lungs/kidney/uterus hurt.  Ok, that last one I may have misunderstood, but you get my drift.  This is in addition to his typical refrain of “my back, a double s and neck hurt”.  When I ask if he has taken a pain pill, for which he has a prescription, he always says, “Nah.  It’s not THAT bad yet.”  Really?  To hear him you would think his pain was mind-numbing.  He has likened it to child birth.  He has actually said, “On a scale of 1 to 10, this is a 25”, but in his estimation it is not enough to take a pill.  Get over yourself old man. 

What do you think is going to happen?  Just because more than your fair share of relatives (on the Thompson side) have become pill addicts doesn’t mean you will.  I am hardcore anti-drug but even I’ve started acting like the sketchy best friend in a coming of age movie saying things like, “Come on man, it’s no big deal.  It’s just the one pill.”  I have even resorted to just getting one out and putting it in his hand and giving him a bottle of water.  No questions, no judgments.  Just like one of those meetings you see on TV where you tell your name and your addiction.  They don’t have one for thrift store shopping; I checked.  They should have one for gossiping (or fellowshipping depending on your denomination), but those kind of meetings usually take place in church and although we’d talk about how we feel guilty talking about people, we’d end up talking about people while describing why we felt we had to and it would be sort of a breaking even situation and nobody wants that.  Not even for really good chess pie.  Ok, maybe for really, really good chess pie.

                And although he is prone to exaggeration, I really do think he is “stove up” a little as he has turned down the last two invitations to breakfast at Jason’s, his favorite place, as well as the latest trip to Wal-Mart leaving me to navigate the waters of Little Guatemala, mano-a-nada.  Como se dice, ‘Alone’?  I felt like the hero in an action film who has been abandoned at the gates of the castle/den of thieves/cave, on a mission from some hard to please despot who requires things I wouldn’t normally buy like yarn, XXL underwear, Stetson cologne and denture adhesive.  I can only imagine what people were thinking when they looked into my cart.  I used to say buggy but that can be shamed out of you by New Englanders who call them carriages. 

                What?  You mean you don’t look in other people’s carts, scoping out their items and using what you see to parse out their back story?  No, Dustin, just you.  I guess it is true what my mother always said, “Just because you’re talking about people doesn’t mean they are talking about you.”

                Well said, nomadic Southern Baptist.  Well said indeed.