You can't pop your collar without a good breakfast

Apropos of nothing, my Daddy enters the room and says, in a pained voice, “So if I grew a ponytail, you’d just cut it off?”

                “Yes.  Lopped.  Immediately.”  To catch you up, we had recently had a conversation about things that I loathe; men with ponytails being one of them.  Al Franken, Dick Cheney and people who think irregardless is a word are three others.

“Lopped?” he asked, with the same look on his face that Lulu (his dog) had the first time she saw herself in a mirror.

“Yes.  Lopped.  Maybe even with pinking shears.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“But it’s my hair.”

“Obviously if you are so inclined to grow a ponytail, you have taken leave of your faculties and someone needs to intervene.  That someone is me.”

“Ok, but what if I wanted a mullet?”

“A mullet is simply a ponytail having a party.  It would be lopped as well.”

“Without any warning.”

“This counts as the warning, just so you know.”

“Who made you the hair police?”

“It’s not just hair; clothes too. And I was elected.”

“I don’t remember voting.”

“It was secret ballot.  But I assure you, you voted for me.  Twice.”

“Why are you so aggressive about this?”

“Ponytails on men are aggressive.  So are popped collars on old people, so don’t get any ideas.”

“What’s a popped collar?”

“You’ll never need to know.  See how I protect you?”

Dear readers, I feel I must take a minute and apologize if anyone reading this has been offended.  Of course, I’m not apologizing for my opinion; I feel pretty confident that I am right.  But if you have a ponytail, feel a kindred spirit for those who do or are at present wearing a popped collar (and you’re over 21), I apologize for the fact that I am judging you so hard right now, I think I may have just pulled a muscle.  And for that I am truly sorry.

After the hair discussion, my Daddy decided to “git inside that head ‘a yours” and asked me for my opinions on any number of topics.  I would like to think it was to truly gain insight into what makes his eldest son tick.  I suspect, however, that is was simply a ruse to distract me while he foraged for illegal items that he doesn’t know I know he hides in the deep recesses of his bedside table.  What sort of caretaker would I be if I didn’t spy, people? Don’t be so naïve.  I have to save him from himself.  This is a diabetic who fixates on sugar to the point that it’s almost funny.  In the middle of a meal that he has personally requested and is eating with as much as haste as a Minuteman waiting for Paul Revere to ride by screaming about lanterns and boats and British dudes, he will state, “Boy this sure is good, but not as good as chocolate ice cream.  I’d love a gallon (!) of that right now.”

                So I am forced, FORCED do you hear me, to sneak and spy.  Peek and pry.  I have, however, found very little in the way of evidence of contraband snacks.  I have, so far, simply found more empty wrappers of his approved snacks than is typically allotted.  Even if they are sugar free, eating 7 popsicles in a day is not good.  Anyone who has gone on a sugar free diet can tell you what sugar alcohol does to you.  And you, as a regular reader, are far too familiar as it is with this area of his personal hygiene.  If you are a new reader, start at the beginning.  And thanks for your support.

                I started to think I was making headway.   Maybe he is listening to me and not eating foods that are bad for him although he has stopped losing weight after the initial 20 pounds.  And I was about to get all proud of him (and myself) when my network of accidental spies began reporting.

                Before you get all judgmental, let me say that it all started innocently enough.  My assistant Marie casually mentioned that she saw my Dad at the snack machine (on the hospital campus where I work), buying a soda one afternoon after his doctor appointment.  Another time she made him some coffee and when she asked how much sugar he took, he told her two spoonfuls, never mentioning that he is supposed to use Equal or Splenda or Old Lady (Sweet n Low) since he is diabetic.  Later her daughter, Dawnyielle,  then mentioned, oneday visiting on her day off, that she had seen my Dad on the other hospital campus (where we live) reading a book outside the convenience store, soda in hand.  When I casually mentioned this chance sighting, my Daddy had the nerve to say that she must have mistaken him for someone else.  As if there are two redheaded rednecks with a grey bowler and green paratrooper suspenders, riding a red scooter.  Really?  That’s your defense?  It wasn’t me.  Are you suddenly an R&B singer?  If you’re going to make a concerted effort for people to notice you, which was his goal with the hats, then you must deal with the consequences of being noticed.  Wearing colored pants (pink, kelly green, aqua) keeps me honest, y’all.  You can’t perform any activity that requires stealth or secrecy if people can see your pants from outer space.   

                I decided not to press the issue due to the fact that I was secretly proud of him for actually leaving the house without me, even if it was to cheat on his diet and move ever closer to the reality of “the sugar taking his feet”, which is his favorite lament.

At least he’s doing something.   The fact that these activities are simply sketchy as opposed to openly larcenous is a workable paradigm.  This coupled with the fact that he’s started to cook for himself in the mornings is progress. I'm looking past the fact that there’s not much else to do once you’re awake at 4:30 AM.  Apparently he feels that God has taked him with ensuring the sun rises on time because he wakes at the same time each day and he has no chickens to feed or cow to milk.  The only downside is that he is not one to cook breakfast foods on a consistent basis.  I have attempted to grow accustomed to being awakened to a variety of smells.  Some are awesome (bacon); some are subtle (grilled cheese) and some are downright odd (shrimp and okra?!). 

The fact that he is up makes me happy.  I worry about his health being negatively impacted by his lack activity on a daily basis.  So even when I would prefer not to be roused from slumber with an offer of stewed tomatoes, or tommy-toes, as he calls them, I am happy that I am offered something other than silence.  Because I know that day is coming and I can't bear to think about it.

Change ain't just a jingle in your pocket

Since we last spoke, I had an interaction with my Daddy that aired out some laundry so to speak.  One of the items on the agenda was, in fact, the laundry or lack thereof.  I was concerned that when I washed his clothes on Saturdays, I found but one lone pair of underwear, pants and socks.  For the entire week.  Now I am not one to go searching for household chores. Truth be told, if it weren’t for this Southern Baptist guilt related to the cleanliness/Godliness connection, I’d have those Merry Maids, making merry all up and through here. 

However, when the stench can rouse you from sleep like the most unpleasant of alarm clocks, something must be done.  “Old Man Butt with Feet”.  Talk about the worst Yankee Candle scent ever.  As I have previously mentioned, but feel compelled to repeat, this odor proves to be more than these new Febreze canisters (that supposedly can cover the smell of a room full of rotting meat and/or animals) can take.  The funk has got to go, do you hear me.  And I said as much. 

During the ensuing discourse on habits that are just flat out wrong, I spoke so eloquently of the need for portion control when eating, better aim when peeing and the actual definition of a clean dish, grown men wept and Shiite Muslim terrorists loudly sang the national anthem.  I mean, it was awe-inspiring and downright patriotic.  I assure you, if I’d have spoken even one more sentence, Mary Lou Retton might have flipped through the living room in her American flag unitard, a sparkler in each hand.

And I think I got my point across.  Now, you have to realize that portion control for him is the most quixotic of pipe dreams.  Giving him free reign of the kitchen and expecting him to control himself is like giving the most felonious of carnival workers full access to the funnel cake/corn dog cart.  It’s just too much temptation not to end in a gastrointestinal nightmare.  And he seems oblivious to the connection.  When I explained that the average person does not use a roll of toilet paper every three days unless they are decorating someone’s lawn, he seemed genuinely shocked.

I recently attended a retreat with my church choir and he was left to his own devices for exactly 46 hours.  When I returned, the level of carnage in the kitchen simply defied logic.  Had he been my teenage child, I would have immediately accused him of having either a party with 80 of his closest personal friends or having offered housing to a small family of refugees.  Either way, more food than could have been safely consumed by one person had disappeared.

You have to understand my father views eating as a competition.  It isn’t an activity to enjoy so much as it’s a means to end.  And it doesn’t matter if it’s good; as long as it’s a lot.  This intake of food is Olympic level.  That chubby little dude on Food Nation is an amateur, people, compared to mi Padre (that’s Spanish).  And his need for crackers is nothing short of an addiction.  I fixed him BBQ pork roast, macaroni and cheese and broccoli for dinner the other night.  And he asked for crackers to go with it.  When I asked why on earth he needed crackers, he insisted if he didn’t have “bread” he didn’t think he could enjoy himself.  I told him I felt pretty certain he’d survive.  If one of the tenets of parenting is a mastery of sarcasm, I may be parent material after all. 

I tried to explain that if he insisted on getting full every meal, he would never lose another pound.  And since his only exercise is walking to the toilet to relieve himself, his food consumption should have a commensurate decrease.  He accused me of speaking French and went in search of a sugar free Popsicle. 

And I don’t know what he’s doing in the bathroom, but there is pee EVERYwhere.  It’s as if he were a urinating Willy Waterbug.  You remember those water toys from the 70s that had little tubes that sprayed water every which way?  Imagine this, but with pee.  I mean, how else do you explain urine on the rug in front of the sink and on top of the toilet tank?  Try to un-picture that, dear friends, I dare you.

And I realize I should have left well enough alone, but I just had to slip the last topic into the conversacion (also Spanish).  Now I am fully aware that you can’t un-poke a bear but I just had to ensure that he understood the real definition of washing dishes.  See, he has decided that “his chore” is washing the dishes after I cook.  And as a harried homemaker, I appreciate the effort.  However, washing dishes is not his forte, as it were.  Mind you, there are both dishes and water involved but oftentimes they do not meet.  I have witnessed him wetting the silverware, with cold water and then wiping it with his fingers and placing is ever so gently onto the towel to dry.

At first, I tried to give subtle hints by placing still-dirty dishes back in the sink to be washed again, but it was to no avail.  Now I don’t know if his eyesight is such that he truly can’t see the food remaining.  However, a good rule of thumb for cleaning should definitely be “if you can still smell the chicken, the casserole dish might be dirty.”  Just sayin’.

But apparently our “talk” worked.  He has been toeing the proverbial line for the past week.  I washed four, count them, four pair of underwear today.  And he even ate the pre-portioned meals I cooked with very little pouting and protestations of hunger.  Have we reached a middle ground?  Or is he just trying to lull me into a false sense of security?   Surely he hasn’t matured that quickly.  He couldn’t possibly have grown as a person in a week, could he? 

I should have known he’d do something so nefarious, so diabolical.  I mean, how dare he become a better person, just when I've begun documenting this social experiment.  See how selfish he is.

Red(neck) is the new Black

It’s the end of the first month and we’ve settled into somewhat of a routine.  I accuse him of being the source of all odd smells and he accuses me of “forgetting where you come from”.  Now, I have been accused of many things in my day, some nefarious, some untrue and others quite on the mark.  But as someone who is able to recognize a Jim Ed Brown and Helen Cornelius duet from another room, I take exception to that remark.

I may want to forget some of the more redneck aspects of my heritage, like peeing in the yard without shame or the cover of darkness, but as someone who once dressed as Buck Owens for Halloween, I feel I am sufficiently country as to be welcomed at a 4-H meeting, y’all.  I mean, I am the former owner/caretaker of a cow, sheep and horse; not necessarily in that order.    I have worn Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots, albeit under duress, but I actually bought chukka boots last year, people.  Chukka Boots!  The fact that they are navy and come with a matching suede belt shouldn’t take any of the shine of my spurs, if you know what I mean.

After being confronted with this information, my father’s terse reply was, “Well, pardon me, Conway Twitty.  Did you get your pink pants at the feed store?”  Touché, Farmer Brown.  Touché, indeed.

And so it goes.  I have cooked boiled okra, people.  Boiled Okra!  But to be fair, I have made him watch Project Runway, which he says he doesn’t like but still manages to vocalize his opinions on which dress looks most “hookerish”.  Oddly enough, we usually have similar tastes although I am able to guess which weird-shouldered Barbarella dress the judges will pick, whether I actually like it or not.

I think this sudden interest in fashion stems from his purchase, upon arrival, of a black bowler.  He has now decided that he wants to collect hats and has since purchased gray bowler and a brown fedora.  He asked me what I thought about his hats.  I said I liked them just fine, but that if insisted on wearing them he needed to start dressing in more fashionable attire.  As it is he looks like a hillbilly who mugged a British banker in the 1870s.  And he agreed!  I was rendered speechless and fled to Marshall’s before he could rescind his comment.

 Why not TJ Maxx, you ask?  Well, I’ll tell you.  TJ Maxx and Marshall’s (and Homegoods) are owned by the same company (TJX) but there are distinct differences.  TJ Maxx has jewelry, only women’s shoes and more designer labels.  Marshall’s has shoes for the entire family, no jewelry department and Big & Tall Menswear. 

In my frenzy, I purchased an additional pair of khakis (he now has two) and a blue plaid button-down. Gingham is the new black.  You heard it here first.

Of course, he hasn’t actually worn the shirt yet, but I’m holding out hope, y’all.  I have made it my duty to make the world a better-dressed place one person at a time.  I guess I should have picked a less complex pupil for my latest project.  But fear not.  Those huge, yeti-like feet will be encased in coordinated socks by the end of the year.  I mean, he can’t see his feet so he wouldn’t know anyway, right? 

Stealth fashion seems to be the best bet for this redneck redo.  I’ll be like a Navy Seal of fashion, without the guns or camouflage make-up or the combat.  Okay, maybe not a Navy Seal.  Maybe just a navy-jacketed style coach for those who wear overalls. I’ll do whatever I need to do, as long as I’m cute, not sweaty and get a free pass for being judgmental.  You pickin’ up what I’m throwin’ down?

Onomatopoeia

It’s almost funny the number of noises that emanate from general area of my father up to and including his dog Lulu.  Not only are there the previously mentioned toxic fumes but there are also random bursts of what I can only describe as auditory clatter.  For example, he has recently begun singing, apropos of nothing, the 1960s song “Brand New Key”.  You know, the “I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates; you’ve got a brand new key…”song?  I don’t know why either.  Of course it’s preferable to his usual song of choice which starts with that timeless phrase, “I don’t know but I’ve been told, a green grasshopper has a red…”  I’ll leave the last word to the mysteries parked in his noggin, y’all.

There are also the staccato bursts of whistling which, although impressive, occur at random times that tend to startle one such as me; someone who is used to a quiet little abode.  I didn’t realize that old people are loud people.   Not only just with the level of sound needed for them to enjoy the TV, but just the loudness of the talking, the coughing, and the wheezing.  Hold on a minute, I think he needs his inhaler.  Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s having a bronchial incident, as the ER docs call it, or if he’s just practicing his pre-pout huffing.  And he is an Olympic level pouter my friends.  It's truly astonishing.  The fact that he’s lost 12 pounds in 3 weeks is lost on him.  His only focus is that he has only been allowed one soda since he arrived.  I explained to him that diabetics can’t have regular soda.  Since he refuses to drink diet soda because of the “aftertaste”, he can’t have any at all.  What aftertaste he’s referring to is beyond me, since he is a big fan of Sweet and Low and everybody knows that tastes like old lady; you know like White Shoulders and baby powder.  Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, the noise level doesn’t abate even when he begins to slumber, which occurs at any given time of the day or night.  He sleeps in bursts, like an overworked programmer for Microsoft or some other Silicon Valley company.  Every couple of hours he’ll nod off and then suddenly wake up like that girl did in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta gave her the adrenaline shot.  You know, when she jumped and gasped?  Although he adds a look of accusatory confusion that says “where am I and what happened to my sandwich?” 

I already discussed our TV tastes and the fact that we have agreed to “play pretty” and allow each other to watch our favorite shows from time to time.  Being a non-regular viewer of TV, but a hard core user of Netflix, I am usually exceedingly generous with the remote.  However, I have grown used to the habit of enjoying my disks on Tuesdays and Saturdays and watching each disk the day it comes in and returning it the next day.  Obviously all the selections in my queue were chosen long before this co-habitation was even a glimmer of an idea in the back of my mind.  And even though he enjoyed the Burn Notice Season 4 marathon, he does not care for multiple episodes of Big Bang Theory, also Season 4, which I purchased or The New Sherlock Holmes, which I Netflixed. 

He decided to be polite and said, “This show is not in’tresting me at all, so I’m gonna take a nap ‘til you get your fill.”  That seemed awfully benevolent; until the snoring began.  Both he a Lulu are mouth breathers in the literal sense.  She because of her boston terrier heritage (short snout) and he because of the numerous nose breakings throughout his life, from incidences and allegations the likes of which even he will not disclose.  And this reticence is from a man who had a conversation that veered from flatulence to the Playboy channel in his initial conversation with my assistant, Marie.  Thank goodness she’s good natured and not litigious.  

And the snoring not only began in earnest it crescendoed to the point that I had to leave the room as I couldn’t turn up the volume enough to hear it without waking the slumbering duo and I just flat out refuse to use closed captioning on any program spoken in English.  I'll gladly read a foreign film, but my "fanciness" has boundaries, y'all.

I was forced from the room like a despot from his third world throne although the noise from those unhappy mobs is no match for the chaotic symphony of numerous sleep-interrupting horks, the loud, metallic pwangs and wooden plomps of his recliner being declined (is that the opposite of recline?) and the random snorffs (that's a snort and sniff combo) of both father and dog.  At least I'm used to them now.  The first night he lived here and got up to use the bathroom at around 2:00 am, I thought somebody was trying to break in the house and "git" me and I near about wet myself before I realized that if my intended captor was making that much noise, it wouldn't take much effort to escape. 

Throughout the evening, I've been trying to think of a way to bring this whole thought home and maybe make some sense of the situation, but I've come to realize, it'snot really that simple.  There's not always a Family Ties-esque synopsis that both educates and entertains.  Truth is, he's old and loud and set in his ways.  I can be downright persnickety and am more set in my ways than I ever imagined or admitted.  But we're family and you make do with the cards you're dealt.  At least that's what Kenny Rogers taught us and although some days I may feel ready to run, I'm not ready to fold 'em just yet.

Me, you and the Boob Tube

For those who asked, the soup was pretty good.  I tried a little the day he cooked it and it’s a good thing I did as he finished off the entire pot by the next evening.  I’ve never seen so much food eaten so quickly since the last time I watched ‘Man vs. Food’.  And he wasn’t even trying for a shirt or to get his picture on a wall. 

He has been trying to get me to buy a painting of a cowboy for my living room.  When I questioned which particular painting, he said “Oh, just any of ‘em.  Everybody needs a cowboy picture”.  Untrue.  I do not need a cowboy picture, not even if it was an original Andy Warhol of Elvis as a gunslinger.  The decorating scheme of my living room is a modified art deco meets thrift store chic.  It’s quirky.  Cowboy anything is not quirky.  Cowboys wouldn’t call me quirky, even at church.  That’s just not how they talk.  What some of the called me behind my back and even to my face occasionally, is better left to history.  I can’t really blame them; after all I did dye my top-siders aqua blue and use Madonna in my successful campaign for Sophomore Class Reporter.  Apparently “Desperately Seeking Dusty” resonated with somebody besides me.  And this was at a consolidated high school with around 250 students in Northeast Texas.  I must have been insane.  Most of the people that knew me must have thought I was some sort of social experiment.  I wonder if they wondered if they were all on Candid Camera.  My sister used to tell everyone I was adopted.   I used to joke that the only thing my Daddy and I had in common was the belief that I was adopted.  And that’s become more apparent as we enter our third week as roommates.

I knew there would be a learning curve living with someone in their 70s.  And while he and I have never really been on the same page, I thought I had a reasonable idea of who he was based on the fact that I have visited with him several times a year since my mother died in 2000.  Truth be told, we’ve never been in the same section of the library, y’all.  But I tried to combine the new him of the visits with my memories of who he was when I was growing up and the reports from my brother and sister-in-law with whom he shared a home for the immediately preceding two years.  None of this prepared me for the reality show that is my father. 

He is an enigma, wrapped in bacon, swathed in big ’n’ tall men’s denim.  The overbearing, judgmental and downright scary father of my childhood has somehow morphed into an aged, slightly depressed version of Dan Conner from ‘Roseanne’; all bathroom humor and false bravado.

His complaints are both understandable and irritating.  He wants to be in Alabama without being in Alabama.  I just want him to assimilate as quickly as I do.  He wants me to be a housewife from the 50s armed with a war chest of carb-heavy comfort food recipes and slotted spoons.  I just want him to change 70 years of eating habits overnight.  I want a roommate; he wants a Southern June Cleaver.  Other than a tendency to be over-dressed while cleaning, June Cleaver I shall never be.  Although if you read my book (A Gone Pecan – available at your favorite on-line retailer) you might think I certainly sound like a middle-aged woman.  Quacking like a duck doesn’t make me a duck, dear friends; it simply makes me duck-esque.  Duck-onic if you will.     

You must forgive this digression.  I am trying to collect my thoughts while the entire nation of Guatemala is celebrating something in the parking lot of the El Rancho Supermercado y Tacqueria across the street from my neighborhood.  Supermercado is Spanish for Supermarket.  As far as I can tell, Tacqueria is Spanish for “add cheese”.  And you know I’m on board for that.  If you put a boot in a casserole dish, topped it with cheese and set it out at a Fifth Sunday Dinner on the Grounds, I’d do my darnedest to eat it. 

TV seems to be the one area where we’re willing to compromise.  I have been subjected to boxing, football and re-runs of America’s Funniest Home Videos.  He’s been subjected to Project Runway, Dr. Who and Drop Dead Diva.  We both like Big Bang Theory, NCIS and Bait Car.  The Judds may think love can build a bridge, but so can TV, y’all.  And any chasm can be bridged with a shared enemy, ya’ll.  I have never agreed with him more than just now when he said, “Them people need to turn that mess down.” 

Amen, Daddy.  I mean, we’re trying to watch funny home videos over here.

Soup Nazi?

It has happened.  We have had our first tiff.  And it was over a request for hamburger soup, if you can believe that.  As someone who rarely, until recently, cooked, I have more than my share of top-shelf kitchen accoutrement courtesy of my best friend Christopher’s culinary prowess and former position as manager of a Sur La Table.  For those not in the know, SLT is like Williams-Sonoma.  For those readers who are still in the dark, I always referred to SLT as a hooty-tooty Wal-Mart for kitchen crap.  Maybe I am more country than I thought?  Like any good Southern Baptist, the next sound will be that of a disconcerting truth being vanquished.  It’s like extra cheese on a casserole; bad for you in the long run, but oh so pleasant right now.

Even though I am not a gourmand by anyone’s definition, I felt I was reasonably equipped to take on most any cooking request, this side of risotto.  I mean, I have a small copper pot solely to melt butter.  Yes, Virginia, those chef people ARE crazy.

Anyway, my Dad was visiting me at my office, waiting for his doctor’s appointment and stated, out of the blue, that he wanted to make hamburger soup.  When I asked the day he planned for this event, he said, “Tonight.”  I asked what he needed to make this soup and he rattled off a list of ingredients that were familiar enough to me to know that I had exactly none of them in my home.

So, I pulled out my trusty list making tools and began quizzing him on what he needed and informing him that if he wanted to make this soup tonight we would be eating later than usual as the most important ingredient for soup was a “soup pot”, which I do not possess.  Based on his description, the only person that would have one that size is a witch doctor from Scooby-Doo.  He pretty much described a stainless steel 1977 Caprice Classic station wagon with “hannels on the side so I won’t burn myself”.

I also informed him that I also did not own a ladle, slotted spoon, 4 cans of Veg-All or a container of salt.  After he stared at me with a mixture of condescension and pity, I made another error.  When I attempted to sway him to use ground turkey instead of ground beef, as it would be better for him, he looked at me with a look of horror that can only be described as akin to those Republicans make when they realize that poor people and minorities actually vote.

He said, savoring each word like the contraband M&Ms I found in his room. “I. WILL.  NOT.  PUT.  TURKEY.  IN.  MY.  HAMBURGER.  SOUP!”  Then hamburger it shall be.  He has made a number of dietary changes since he’s been here.  We’ve cut out most sugar and salt and almost all fried foods.  We have also eliminated soda and he’s lost 11 pounds in 2 weeks!  I should have my own show, people.  Start the on-line campaign.

And I know I should have left well enough alone, but I’m not afraid to nudge a little further if it’s for the greater good.  I’ll re-create the conversation ver batim, which is Latin for “only a twerp would remember a conversation word for word”.

“If you want to use hamburger, then you at least need to reduce the number of crackers you eat with it.” 

                “Why?”

                “Your doctor said to reduce your carbs.”

                “What’s carbs?”

                “Well, bread for one.”

                “Crackers aren’t bread.”

                “Yes, they are.”

                “How?”

                “What do you mean how?  What do you think crackers are?”

                “Crackers are crackers.  They’re not bread.”

                “Are you kidding?”

                “Well, I guess you learned that in college?”

                “What are you talking about?  Everybody knows crackers are bread.”

                “I don’t.”

                “That may be, but they are and you eat too many of them.”

                “How many is too many?”

                “You should have like 6 or 7 with your soup.  The saltines you like are about 10 calories each.”

                “6 or 7!?!  I can eat that many putting the soup in my bowl.”

                “I know.  That’s why you’ve got this right here,” I said poking his belly, which he hates because he is hyper-ticklish.  Seriously, I should film him and post it on YouTube. 

                “Just forget it.  I don’t even want soup anymore.”  And then he made as dramatic an exit as you can make while riding in an electric wheelchair with the speed set on “turtle”.

                Cut to me buying the above-mentioned items.  He’s making the soup tonight.  I’ll let you know how it tastes. 

               

Suspenders and a Hospital Gown...

Having an elderly parent move in with you is not like getting a roommate.  It’s like adopting a teenager with habits that reach back to the 1950s, y’all.  He doesn’t want to eat anything that even vaguely mentions a lack of sugar or fat.  I swear if he found a can of cake frosted lard he’d buy it.  Dont' get me wrong.  I’m not saying that wouldn’t be good, but there’s no reason to kill oneself in one weekend.  Now, he did ask me to put him on a diet.  I explained that losing weight is not a matter of dieting; it’s a lifestyle change.  He seemed nervous with that choice of phrase.  I’ve been able to show him, in just a few days, how to do portion control and stop eating once you are no longer hungry, not waiting until you feel full.  I forgot how many of those rules I let slide because just monitoring my intake since last Tuesday, I’ve lost 2 pounds.  Once he gets under 300, we can weigh him and see how much he’s lost.  It’s not that I’m being rude; my scale only goes up to 300 pounds.

And his requests for meals have been oddly specific with the expectation that they will all be filled post haste or even sooner.  Meatloaf and lima beans.  Which I found at a German place.  Catfish, hushpuppies and banana pudding.  Which I found across the street from my neighborhood no less).  It’s a good thing that I am the king of the culinary treasure hunt. He has requested hamburger steak and even though I found a place that has smothered steak with rice, he said it’s not the same because he wants potatoes not rice.  Considering he’s living on the West Coast and not Alabama, you’d think he’d settle for a reasonable facsimile but you’d be wrong.  I mean I’ve had to adjust to the fact that there is no cheese dip in California outside of a jar at the Safeway and other than a couple of hissy fits and some pouting, I’ve been fine.

Speaking of bad diets, we went to the emergency room last night. It wasn't specifically related to his weight but the litany of woe that makes up his physical state.  It was an interesting cap to an interesting day. He asked is I would drive him to the doctor.  He said he was afraid he’d get lost on his way to the VA where I work and his appointment would be.   Fear from a man who just drove from Alabama to California in three and a half days with no map.  A man who voluntarily jumped out of airplanes in the Army.  Who owned a hot pink welding truck.  Who got a perm on a dare when I was  four.  Who went deer hunting armed with toenail clippers and self-confidence.  Who brazenly mixes stripes and plaids.  I'm kidding (but only about the deer hunting) but you see how his request threw me for a loop.

However, the request to drive him was one I had no problem granting.  I mean, his doctor’s office was in the same building as my department so my time away from work would be minimal.  I asked if he wanted to go with me in the morning (his appointment was at 1:30) and spend the day at the VA acclimating himself to the area and enjoying the farmer’s market we have every Wednesday.  Once I explained that the cafeteria offered both biscuits AND gravy, no more convincing was needed.

So, I drove his pickup which smelled strongly of feet, dog food and contraband cheetos because he needed to use his power wheelchair and my car is not equipped for that.  Clad in my three-piece suit, I drove a pickup for the first time since I was forced to learn to drive a standard on the column feed truck when I was abandoned in a field by my feed store co-workers the summer after my senior year in high school.  I was country when country wasn’t cool.  Has country every really been cool?

We got to the VA, headed to the cafeteria and met with our first roadblock of the day. No biscuits for the gravy. He was half-heartedly offered an English muffin with gravy but even the cafeteria lady who suggested it seemed to know it was an odd suggestion and our encounter became awkward until I blamed “California hippies” and we all laughed and he ordered a quasi-Denver omelette with sausage instead of ham.  I left him happily munching and reading his book about the FBI’s plot to bring down Al Capone; your typical light breakfast reading.  We then went to the Farmer’s Market and my visited offices where he met my staff and bonded with my assistant, Marie, over their shared demotions in the military due to violence toward and/or disrespect of officers.  Guess I better learn to keep my sarcastic comments to myself lest I feel the wrath that apparently is resting right under the surface of the two people who know the details of my schedule and floor plan of my home. 

After lunch, he went to the doctor and after about an hour, they called me and said they are taking him to the emergency room due to labored breathing and I rush to meet them there.  He’s sitting in his wheelchair, slightly stooped due to a bad back and somewhat irritated due to Irish heritage.

We sit there while they perform a battery of tests and take a rather large sampling of fluids.  They force him to take off his shirt and put on a hospital gown but he insists on wearing his suspenders over the gown.  When they protest I explain, it’s either that or the full moon, as it were.  Those wide pieces of forest green elastic are the only thing between a reasonably amicable but oddly dressed patient and a naked and irritated redneck.  I told them if it was all the same to them, I’d prefer the keep at least a layer of denim between his flatulence and my immediate air space.  And seeing as how the face masks weren’t distributed based on who was best dressed and/or physically closest to the patient, I needed some assistance, do you hear me.  I mean, my hair was starting to involuntarily perm.

However, the oddest moment came when they wanted to perform a blood gas test and he winced at the needle.  This from a diabetic who self-injects insulin four times a day.  He likened the pain to being shot in the butt, which he consequently admitted had happened to him on more than one vaguely felonious occasion before my mother agreed to marry and remove him from the mean streets of Epps, LA, population 215, if you count cows, dogs and slow-moving squirrels.

With his admission, the “real pretty Indian doctor lady” asked if I were his attorney.  I was confused until I looked down and realized I was still in my three piece suit with matching socks, tie and pocket square and he was outfitted in what I've come to describe as "slighlty medicated, topless Hee Haw extra".  I laughed and said, “No, I’m his son.  Thank goodness I didn’t inherit the ‘hood’ gene."  I mean, the only 'shot' I've ever been is through the heart by someone who gave love a bad name.  (every story needs a Bon Jovi reference, right?)  He laughed and said, “Yeah, his Mama is what made him turn out so good.  You know he’s run a department here?  He’s real smart.”

It was in that very second that I realized that while he is very vocal about his pride in my accomplishments, I don’t think I have ever reciprocated.  I thought about how he came from nothing and worked his fingers to the bone, literally up to the point where he hurt his back off-shore just to make sure his family had what they needed.  I thought about how he scrimped and saved to buy me a new car in college and how hurt he must’ve been when it was repossessed after his accident and his workman’s comp check was much less than his normal pay.  All I could think about at the time was how mad and embarrassed I was; I didn't stop to think how it affected him.  He has his faults to be sure but for someone who got his GED in the Army, it was never a question of if I were going to college, it was when and where.  It was practically pre-determined that I would be successful.  He never wanted me to follow in his footsteps; he wanted the best for me.  He told me he knew I was going to "besomebody" when I was in elementary school.  All I remember is never wanting to be him.

And I felt ashamed for ever thinking that being him wouldn’t have been good enough; for always making sure everyone knew how different we were, when in actuality we aren’t so different.  We’re very similar, at least on the inside.  We both want to make people laugh and to take care of those we love and we’d give our last dime to help somebody.  I’m not sure why I never saw that. 

Wearing Calvin Klein suits and having a color-coordinated life doesn’t make me better than anyone.

And although I’d like to think if God were to choose a "look" it'd be from the 2011 Brooks Brothers Black Fleece collection, I have a sneaking (Baptist) suspicion he might be wearing a John Deere hat or, at the very least, jeans.  Maybe I’ll start  borrowing my Daddy’s boots every once in a while.  You know, just in case.