Growing up, my dad was a joker, and so my sense of humor comes from him. One of the things he taught us is how to laugh at the unlaughable. I'm not going to tell you how we "look for the sunnyside" or any of that kind of crap. What we do is laugh at ourselves, and try not to take things too seriously.
When everything was happening last spring, it was really hard to find a way to laugh at any of it. Brain trauma is serious, and spending weeks not knowing if every day when the phone rang it would be the news that my sister died, was horrible. (There were other things adding to the horrible, but that's for a different day.)
So when my sister woke up, and was going to be released to do rehabilitation in our home town, it was time to start laughing. And getting her to laugh.
The first thing I did, before she was released from the hospital in Pittsburgh, was to draw smiley faces on her toes. I had "threatened" to draw on her earlier, and I meant to make good on that.
Also, she's diabetic, so drawing on her feet would drive my mother bananas.
Everyone at the hospital, and then the nursing home she was released to, knew about the faces on her toes. (Sharpies are good for A LOT of things!!!) Since she couldn't do much for herself those first few weeks, it was inevitable that the Gator would discover what I'd done.
One day, the Gator called and she did her usual "So what's new" bit, and I told her that a rainbow pack of Sharpies was on sale at Staples. At that point, she called me an asshole, and told me that if I didn't behave, she'd have me strip-searched every time I went to visit my sister.
I couldn't stop laughing.
She had been up to visit my sister, and noticed the "black" on her toes. Since my sister is diabetic, my mother's first thought was gangrene (or worse) and so, as she tried to get a better look, my sister kept her legs moving around. When my mom finally caught a foot, and got a look, she asked, "Just when did your sister do this?"
I don't know why the Gator immediately thought of me.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Friday, May 29, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Whole Lot of Stuff Goin' On
2014 was Hell. Starting in April, and ending Not Just Yet.
Long story short, my sister was sent by Life Flight with brain trauma. After life-saving surgery, she began having seizures, and was sedated and put on life-support. It took almost 2 weeks to get the seizures under control, and she woke up on Mother's Day last year. She couldn't speak, and couldn't walk...she was released to a nursing home a week before my 96 year old Grandmother died.
Since then, she has progressed to walking, sometimes with a cane, and now comes to my house to play practical jokes. Yay!
My mother is channeling her mother. It wouldn't be so bad, but Grandma wasn't all that nice.
It was also really great that my brother went batshit crazy and decided that the Howler was his arch-nemesis. That culminated at Easter, when he took a for reals tantrum. Since then, he's had it explained (not by me!) to him, and he is now behaving like a sane adult.
2015 is better. Busier, but better.
Long story short, my sister was sent by Life Flight with brain trauma. After life-saving surgery, she began having seizures, and was sedated and put on life-support. It took almost 2 weeks to get the seizures under control, and she woke up on Mother's Day last year. She couldn't speak, and couldn't walk...she was released to a nursing home a week before my 96 year old Grandmother died.
Since then, she has progressed to walking, sometimes with a cane, and now comes to my house to play practical jokes. Yay!
My mother is channeling her mother. It wouldn't be so bad, but Grandma wasn't all that nice.
It was also really great that my brother went batshit crazy and decided that the Howler was his arch-nemesis. That culminated at Easter, when he took a for reals tantrum. Since then, he's had it explained (not by me!) to him, and he is now behaving like a sane adult.
2015 is better. Busier, but better.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
The Jury Is Still Out
About a week ago, the Gator called me and began telling me about how she received a letter from the courthouse telling her she is on a jury. FOR A MURDER TRIAL. She's getting excused, of course. She can't be bothered with that (channeling her mother much?) "stuff."
In her defense, she is still dealing with a lot of "stuff," (short list: my grandmother-her mother-died in May, shortly after my sister was released to rehab from a hospital in Pittsburgh, PA, after suffering a brain trauma-an ongoing thing; another family member was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing treatments) along with the fact that she's old enough to be excused on her age alone. All that aside, IT'S A MURDER TRIAL! And she's not going. And I had to hear all the reasons, several times over. For many minutes.
I'm certainly not going to be the one to argue with her. I'm not stupid.
I have to tell you, it's a MURDER TRIAL! And she was just randomly chosen, and notified by letter, without any further process!
This past spring, I was summoned for jury selection, so I do have the teeniest bit of experience with how jury selection occurs, I asked her several times about how she was chosen, about when she was at jury selection, and mostly being answered that it's a MURDER TRIAL! I asked her how many days this trial would take. She tells me "One day. But even so blah blah"
Finally, she got the letter and read it to me. Much like the long-ago days of listening to her reading the daily newspaper to me, it was an enlightening experience:
There was no mention of a MURDER TRIAL at all. It was a summons to JURY SELECTION, not for her to serve on the jury for a MURDER TRIAL. She had to read the letter, sentence by sentence, before she understood that whether or not there is a MURDER TRIAL, she is NOT actually on a jury (yet.)
She's still getting excused, but the jury's still out on several charges: can she read for context? Does she understand how the process works? To what degree is she batshit crazy?
In her defense, she is still dealing with a lot of "stuff," (short list: my grandmother-her mother-died in May, shortly after my sister was released to rehab from a hospital in Pittsburgh, PA, after suffering a brain trauma-an ongoing thing; another family member was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing treatments) along with the fact that she's old enough to be excused on her age alone. All that aside, IT'S A MURDER TRIAL! And she's not going. And I had to hear all the reasons, several times over. For many minutes.
I'm certainly not going to be the one to argue with her. I'm not stupid.
I have to tell you, it's a MURDER TRIAL! And she was just randomly chosen, and notified by letter, without any further process!
This past spring, I was summoned for jury selection, so I do have the teeniest bit of experience with how jury selection occurs, I asked her several times about how she was chosen, about when she was at jury selection, and mostly being answered that it's a MURDER TRIAL! I asked her how many days this trial would take. She tells me "One day. But even so blah blah"
Finally, she got the letter and read it to me. Much like the long-ago days of listening to her reading the daily newspaper to me, it was an enlightening experience:
There was no mention of a MURDER TRIAL at all. It was a summons to JURY SELECTION, not for her to serve on the jury for a MURDER TRIAL. She had to read the letter, sentence by sentence, before she understood that whether or not there is a MURDER TRIAL, she is NOT actually on a jury (yet.)
She's still getting excused, but the jury's still out on several charges: can she read for context? Does she understand how the process works? To what degree is she batshit crazy?
Monday, December 24, 2012
That's Not the Funny Part
My sister sends us a Christmas card every year. It usually arrives shortly after she gets home.
That's not the funny part.
This is: one year, she sent us a card, but didn't put a return address, and forgot to sign it. She was kinda mad when I never let her know how funny the card was. We all had a good laugh when we realized what a dip she is.
It gets even funnier, though.
This year, we get a card from her. It has a return address (yes, it was hers) and she had signed it.
That's not the funny part.
This is: She had our address wrong on it.
It got delivered anyway.
No, that's not a funny part.
But this is: I live in the house we grew up in. She lived her for 20+ years herself.
That's not the funny part.
This is: one year, she sent us a card, but didn't put a return address, and forgot to sign it. She was kinda mad when I never let her know how funny the card was. We all had a good laugh when we realized what a dip she is.
It gets even funnier, though.
This year, we get a card from her. It has a return address (yes, it was hers) and she had signed it.
That's not the funny part.
This is: She had our address wrong on it.
It got delivered anyway.
No, that's not a funny part.
But this is: I live in the house we grew up in. She lived her for 20+ years herself.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Report on the Day
Thanksgiving at the Mumple's: Loads of people. Each one, odder than the last, no matter how you stack 'em.
This year, we made a new world record. My mother was at my house for a full hour before she pissed me off & I wanted to punch her in the head.
This year, we also got to listen to my mother, who is practically deaf, my aunt is just plain nuts, and my grandmother who, at 94, has forgotten more than she remembers, discuss how to prepare cranberry sauce made from real, whole cranberries.
This year, my sister did her best to imitate a door. She would enter a room, then stop dead in her tracks and stand stock still for upwards of 2 minutes before regaining forward momentum.
This year, my brother did not, I repeat, did not confirm that he is the reigning king jackwagon in creating retail workers' nightmares.
I can't wait for Christmas! (NOT)
This year, we made a new world record. My mother was at my house for a full hour before she pissed me off & I wanted to punch her in the head.
This year, we also got to listen to my mother, who is practically deaf, my aunt is just plain nuts, and my grandmother who, at 94, has forgotten more than she remembers, discuss how to prepare cranberry sauce made from real, whole cranberries.
This year, my sister did her best to imitate a door. She would enter a room, then stop dead in her tracks and stand stock still for upwards of 2 minutes before regaining forward momentum.
This year, my brother did not, I repeat, did not confirm that he is the reigning king jackwagon in creating retail workers' nightmares.
I can't wait for Christmas! (NOT)
Monday, September 03, 2012
Uncle Dad
So, My Sweetie has FINALLY won the "Who's Family is More Hillbilly?" unofficial contest we've had going on for 12 years.
The other day, he shares a story about some "news" that was shared with his parents at his mother's family reunion.
His cousin, Charlie Brown, has a brother. The brother has a wife. Brother Brown and Mrs. Brother Brown have several half dozen chillen'. At some point in the last few years, Brother Brown and Mrs Brother Brown were havin' som o' them thar marital issues. And Charlie Brown stepped in to help alleviate Mrs Brother Brown's loneliness during that time.
Brother Brown & Mrs Brother Brown worked out their differences, and are still together. Charlie Brown's child by Mrs Brother Brown calls his daddy "Uncle Charlie."
My family gets more normal the more I learn about My Sweetie's extended fam.
The other day, he shares a story about some "news" that was shared with his parents at his mother's family reunion.
His cousin, Charlie Brown, has a brother. The brother has a wife. Brother Brown and Mrs. Brother Brown have several half dozen chillen'. At some point in the last few years, Brother Brown and Mrs Brother Brown were havin' som o' them thar marital issues. And Charlie Brown stepped in to help alleviate Mrs Brother Brown's loneliness during that time.
Brother Brown & Mrs Brother Brown worked out their differences, and are still together. Charlie Brown's child by Mrs Brother Brown calls his daddy "Uncle Charlie."
My family gets more normal the more I learn about My Sweetie's extended fam.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
The Jackass
By now, I'm over it, but since I've told you all that my brother is a jackass, I feel I should explain.
Mostly, I like him. I do. But sometimes, for many months in a row, he's a total jackass, and I just want to punch him in the head. For many months in a row.
Last winter, he had some sort of weird newspaper sales flyer fixation. He called early one Monday morning, and by early, I mean somewhere just after the buttcrack of dawn. I'm not a morning person, and yet, this doesn't stop him. EVER. Add in that it takes WEEKS of telling him over and over again that I have to take the Howler to school now, before he actually hears and retains that information, and I'm soooooo very NOT in the mood to hear from him before 10:30am EVER.
Anyway, he calls this one bright morning and insists that he has to talk to me. My Sweetie had answered the phone, and that just wasn't good enough. So My Sweetie brings me the phone, wakes me up enough for me to be moderately coherent and hands me the phone.
My brother asks if we subscribe to the local Sunday paper.
"Yes."
Did we happen to get our paper yesterday (Sunday)?
"Yes."
He rambles on for a few minutes about getting a not-quite local Sunday edition for himself. And how he was disappointed in the sales flyer selection. He then tells me to go get my Sunday paper, and tell him each and every sales flyer I got in mine, so he can compare the two.
"NO." I hang up the phone.
As if that's not idiocy enough, a few weeks later, he calls me to rant about a specific flyer. This time, he purchased the local Sunday paper. This particular sales flyer was utilizing the annoying gimmick of having the "guys' stuff" printed one way is up, and the "girls' stuff" printed the other way is up. Half and half. He's calling me to rant about how, if he were interested in buying new tires, he can't read the prices, as they've been printed "upside down."
I try to be calming, I try to care. I try to explain that it's a gimmick...he rants on.
To make it even better, several hours later, I discover that he's tagged me in a picture OF THIS SALES FLYER on FaceBook. Captioned by his rant...and MY NAME.
He needs serious help.
Just a few months ago, he again tagged me in a random pic on FaceBook. Some TV newscaster chick.
Considering that two years ago, when we got new kittens, I tagged him (along with several other people) in pics I posted. He ranted at me (yes, special morning phone calls) that those were not pictures of him. The finer art of untagging yourself is lost on him. Several days of phone calls and finally caved & untagged him. He continued to rant at me about it.
But somehow, it's totally sane & rational that he should tag me in photos with accompanying rants about sales flyers, and random newscaster photos.
Finally, next month I am FINALLY getting go to see a musician I have liked for years. When the tickets arrived, I took a photo & posted that on FaceBook. Yeah, I'm that dorky & excited to be going to see him live!
My jackass brother, knowing full well who this artist is, decides to comment on my photo. No, I didn't tag him. Jackass, suck-the-happy-out-of-it comment. I deleted the comment.
In the meantime, he's posted pics of tickets stubs from events he went to in 1987. No, I haven't commented. Why?
Because I may have a brother who is a jackass, but I am not a jackass.
I think he's noticed I'm unhappy though, because when he asked me about the concert, I answered as simply as I could, offering no further information, because he is not going to kill my happy, and I'm not going to respond in kind.
He can be all the jackass he wants to be...and he can leave me the hell out of that loop.
Mostly, I like him. I do. But sometimes, for many months in a row, he's a total jackass, and I just want to punch him in the head. For many months in a row.
Last winter, he had some sort of weird newspaper sales flyer fixation. He called early one Monday morning, and by early, I mean somewhere just after the buttcrack of dawn. I'm not a morning person, and yet, this doesn't stop him. EVER. Add in that it takes WEEKS of telling him over and over again that I have to take the Howler to school now, before he actually hears and retains that information, and I'm soooooo very NOT in the mood to hear from him before 10:30am EVER.
Anyway, he calls this one bright morning and insists that he has to talk to me. My Sweetie had answered the phone, and that just wasn't good enough. So My Sweetie brings me the phone, wakes me up enough for me to be moderately coherent and hands me the phone.
My brother asks if we subscribe to the local Sunday paper.
"Yes."
Did we happen to get our paper yesterday (Sunday)?
"Yes."
He rambles on for a few minutes about getting a not-quite local Sunday edition for himself. And how he was disappointed in the sales flyer selection. He then tells me to go get my Sunday paper, and tell him each and every sales flyer I got in mine, so he can compare the two.
"NO." I hang up the phone.
As if that's not idiocy enough, a few weeks later, he calls me to rant about a specific flyer. This time, he purchased the local Sunday paper. This particular sales flyer was utilizing the annoying gimmick of having the "guys' stuff" printed one way is up, and the "girls' stuff" printed the other way is up. Half and half. He's calling me to rant about how, if he were interested in buying new tires, he can't read the prices, as they've been printed "upside down."
I try to be calming, I try to care. I try to explain that it's a gimmick...he rants on.
To make it even better, several hours later, I discover that he's tagged me in a picture OF THIS SALES FLYER on FaceBook. Captioned by his rant...and MY NAME.
He needs serious help.
Just a few months ago, he again tagged me in a random pic on FaceBook. Some TV newscaster chick.
Considering that two years ago, when we got new kittens, I tagged him (along with several other people) in pics I posted. He ranted at me (yes, special morning phone calls) that those were not pictures of him. The finer art of untagging yourself is lost on him. Several days of phone calls and finally caved & untagged him. He continued to rant at me about it.
But somehow, it's totally sane & rational that he should tag me in photos with accompanying rants about sales flyers, and random newscaster photos.
Finally, next month I am FINALLY getting go to see a musician I have liked for years. When the tickets arrived, I took a photo & posted that on FaceBook. Yeah, I'm that dorky & excited to be going to see him live!
My jackass brother, knowing full well who this artist is, decides to comment on my photo. No, I didn't tag him. Jackass, suck-the-happy-out-of-it comment. I deleted the comment.
In the meantime, he's posted pics of tickets stubs from events he went to in 1987. No, I haven't commented. Why?
Because I may have a brother who is a jackass, but I am not a jackass.
I think he's noticed I'm unhappy though, because when he asked me about the concert, I answered as simply as I could, offering no further information, because he is not going to kill my happy, and I'm not going to respond in kind.
He can be all the jackass he wants to be...and he can leave me the hell out of that loop.
Monday, August 13, 2012
No Title, Just Memory
Some friends and I have been discussing personal experiences with medical insurance companies. During this discussion, the side topic of dying came up, particularly being diagnosed as terminally ill and experiences with insurance companies in relation to that.
I'm not going to write about insurance companies, but I am going to write about what it was like when my Dad died in 1989.
1989 was a pretty stressful year. My son was born, my dad died, my sister was diagnosed with an operable & treatable brain tumor (although she was given no prognosis regarding survival rates. 23 years and 1 month later, she's still here being a PIMA, and no recurrence.)
But that's not what this is about either.
My dad's medical history is that in 1979 ('78?), he had triple bypass heart surgery. He was also a diabetic, although he did not take insulin. At the time, it was just emerging from experimental status, I guess, because they sent him home with a diet to follow and once the incisions were healed, he went back to work and didn't really have any other follow up that I remember. A trip or two, maybe a stress test or two, but that was it.
In June of 1986, he had a heart attack. There was a lot more information available by then about cholestrol and such, and his 2nd open heart surgery recovery was much different. At the 1 year checkup for that, Hamot Medical Center in Erie, PA, found a mass in his lung. Biopsy, and viola! It's lung cancer. They gave him one chemo treatment, and sent him home to die, the bastards.
The local hospital was an up-and-comer when it came to cancer, so he switched his treatments. They did chemo, and pushed for radiation. He did the chemo. He took the radiation.
June 1988: My brother graduated from high school. My parents celebrated their 24th wedding anniversary.
September 1988, when the doctors in Erie (the bastards) told him he'd be good and dead by then, he & my mom went to California for the only real vacation or trip they ever took.
Christmas 1988, he decided that since he had cancer, he only had to put up with the holiday bullshit he wanted to (YAY!)
January 1989, my son, his first grandchild, was born.
He turned 54 on Friday, April 7, 1989. He was admitted to the hospital on Saturday, April 8, struggling to breathe. He died around daybreak on Sunday, April 9, 1989.
We cared for him at home between January and April. He slowly became chair bound (he couldn't breathe if he laid down.) He gradually lost his taste for everything except Wendy's Big Classic burgers, and that last month, he didn't even eat much of those. The world slowly began to shrink: he lived in the living room, and we, his family, bathed him, cared for him, and administered what medicines he could still take. He was not on oxygen, nor was he in much pain.
But on his birthday, he started coughing and couldn't catch his breath. We did everything we could, but nothing helped. We had a tank of oxygen, and even that didn't help. My mom knew--the doctors had told her in January--that his lungs were effectively gone, swallowed up, filled, with cancer.
Yes, we knew he was terminal, but honestly, at the time, we were all living day-to-day with him. Our world had been shrinking too. Around dinnertime on Saturday, he asked my mom to take him to the hospital. She called the ambulance, informing them that he was a cancer patient,
When they came, one of them happened to be my sister's old boyfriend. Yes, he knew where he was going when they got the call. Odd the things you remember. Odd the things you find comfort in, when you watch as they take your father to the hospital to die. (Familiar faces, even of people you don't like, are weirdly comforting during those times.)
He's admitted. My mom verifies the Do Not Resuscitate order. He's in the end room, as far away from everyone else as they could and still have him actually be in the hospital. (Hospice was only just beginning then, and at the time, they had nothing to offer our family.)
During that night, there were people, his oldest friend, the priest, extended family members, who came. We gathered, we talked. We sat with him. His oldest friend, Bob, after greeting my dad, he sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, motionless. Just there, so we would all know we weren't alone.
They gave him morphine. He had an oxygen mask. He didn't like the tube thing. They hooked him up to monitors, volume turned as low as it could go. Nurses stopped in to take BP, or whatever else it was they were doing. Rules were suspended: visiting hours and number of visitors allowed didn't apply.
He wanted to know where "the Bear" was--that's the Toad's real nickname.
When someone started to cry (his sister), he found the breath to tell her to "knock that shit off. I'm dying, and that ain't gonna be the last thing I hear!"
As the hours passed, his breathing became more labored. He wouldn't go. My sister sat with him, held his hand, and talked with him quietly. He would occasionally speak. Eventually, it was clear that he was not talking to us, he was talking to....someone(s) we couldn't see or hear.
Somewhere around 4am, his sister said that she was going to go home, get some sleep and be back in the morning. It hit me then: he was waiting for dawn. The past several weeks, he would stay awake all night, restless, and only rest when he could hear birdsong as morning approached. I told her that, and asked if, as 5am got closer, if we could open the window. We watched him; we watched the clock.
My sister needed a break. Any time my mom talked, or touched him, he would jolt back to the room from where ever he was. I took over. I sat, held his hand, and tried to be as comforting for him as she was.
I can tell you this, corny as it sounds: There is a light. Loved ones who went before you do come to meet you. I saw silhouettes. I could identify those I knew well--my grandmother, our neighbor. I saw, but did not recognize others. There were many. My sister can tell you names, describe faces. She stood in that light, and heard their voices. She heard his last goodbye. (I know she's not making it up, because just a few years ago, when my aunt pulled out old photos we'd never seen before, my sister could name several we'd only heard of, but who had died before we were born, and we'd never seen pics of them before.)
The hospital staff, the doctor, everyone we encountered that night were compassionate. My dad chose to go into the hospital to die. I believe he didn't want our last memories of him to be in our house. I also think that when the time came, he knew he couldn't let go while he was at home.
So yes, I'd have to say that, a terminally ill person should be given as much control over his or her surroundings as possible, including where to die. If they choose to be in the hospital setting, with morphine and oxygen (as in our case, the oxygen tank was borrowed and without hospice or a nurse, a morphine drip was impossible) then that's where he or she should be. I don't remember any problems with insurance paying for things. There were some things about his treatment that were paid out-of-pocket then reimbursed, and these weren't cheap things. It was annoying, it was an inconvenience. But overall? I guess we were lucky. In many more ways than we knew.
I'm not going to write about insurance companies, but I am going to write about what it was like when my Dad died in 1989.
1989 was a pretty stressful year. My son was born, my dad died, my sister was diagnosed with an operable & treatable brain tumor (although she was given no prognosis regarding survival rates. 23 years and 1 month later, she's still here being a PIMA, and no recurrence.)
But that's not what this is about either.
My dad's medical history is that in 1979 ('78?), he had triple bypass heart surgery. He was also a diabetic, although he did not take insulin. At the time, it was just emerging from experimental status, I guess, because they sent him home with a diet to follow and once the incisions were healed, he went back to work and didn't really have any other follow up that I remember. A trip or two, maybe a stress test or two, but that was it.
In June of 1986, he had a heart attack. There was a lot more information available by then about cholestrol and such, and his 2nd open heart surgery recovery was much different. At the 1 year checkup for that, Hamot Medical Center in Erie, PA, found a mass in his lung. Biopsy, and viola! It's lung cancer. They gave him one chemo treatment, and sent him home to die, the bastards.
The local hospital was an up-and-comer when it came to cancer, so he switched his treatments. They did chemo, and pushed for radiation. He did the chemo. He took the radiation.
June 1988: My brother graduated from high school. My parents celebrated their 24th wedding anniversary.
September 1988, when the doctors in Erie (the bastards) told him he'd be good and dead by then, he & my mom went to California for the only real vacation or trip they ever took.
Christmas 1988, he decided that since he had cancer, he only had to put up with the holiday bullshit he wanted to (YAY!)
January 1989, my son, his first grandchild, was born.
He turned 54 on Friday, April 7, 1989. He was admitted to the hospital on Saturday, April 8, struggling to breathe. He died around daybreak on Sunday, April 9, 1989.
We cared for him at home between January and April. He slowly became chair bound (he couldn't breathe if he laid down.) He gradually lost his taste for everything except Wendy's Big Classic burgers, and that last month, he didn't even eat much of those. The world slowly began to shrink: he lived in the living room, and we, his family, bathed him, cared for him, and administered what medicines he could still take. He was not on oxygen, nor was he in much pain.
But on his birthday, he started coughing and couldn't catch his breath. We did everything we could, but nothing helped. We had a tank of oxygen, and even that didn't help. My mom knew--the doctors had told her in January--that his lungs were effectively gone, swallowed up, filled, with cancer.
Yes, we knew he was terminal, but honestly, at the time, we were all living day-to-day with him. Our world had been shrinking too. Around dinnertime on Saturday, he asked my mom to take him to the hospital. She called the ambulance, informing them that he was a cancer patient,
When they came, one of them happened to be my sister's old boyfriend. Yes, he knew where he was going when they got the call. Odd the things you remember. Odd the things you find comfort in, when you watch as they take your father to the hospital to die. (Familiar faces, even of people you don't like, are weirdly comforting during those times.)
He's admitted. My mom verifies the Do Not Resuscitate order. He's in the end room, as far away from everyone else as they could and still have him actually be in the hospital. (Hospice was only just beginning then, and at the time, they had nothing to offer our family.)
During that night, there were people, his oldest friend, the priest, extended family members, who came. We gathered, we talked. We sat with him. His oldest friend, Bob, after greeting my dad, he sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, motionless. Just there, so we would all know we weren't alone.
They gave him morphine. He had an oxygen mask. He didn't like the tube thing. They hooked him up to monitors, volume turned as low as it could go. Nurses stopped in to take BP, or whatever else it was they were doing. Rules were suspended: visiting hours and number of visitors allowed didn't apply.
He wanted to know where "the Bear" was--that's the Toad's real nickname.
When someone started to cry (his sister), he found the breath to tell her to "knock that shit off. I'm dying, and that ain't gonna be the last thing I hear!"
As the hours passed, his breathing became more labored. He wouldn't go. My sister sat with him, held his hand, and talked with him quietly. He would occasionally speak. Eventually, it was clear that he was not talking to us, he was talking to....someone(s) we couldn't see or hear.
Somewhere around 4am, his sister said that she was going to go home, get some sleep and be back in the morning. It hit me then: he was waiting for dawn. The past several weeks, he would stay awake all night, restless, and only rest when he could hear birdsong as morning approached. I told her that, and asked if, as 5am got closer, if we could open the window. We watched him; we watched the clock.
My sister needed a break. Any time my mom talked, or touched him, he would jolt back to the room from where ever he was. I took over. I sat, held his hand, and tried to be as comforting for him as she was.
I can tell you this, corny as it sounds: There is a light. Loved ones who went before you do come to meet you. I saw silhouettes. I could identify those I knew well--my grandmother, our neighbor. I saw, but did not recognize others. There were many. My sister can tell you names, describe faces. She stood in that light, and heard their voices. She heard his last goodbye. (I know she's not making it up, because just a few years ago, when my aunt pulled out old photos we'd never seen before, my sister could name several we'd only heard of, but who had died before we were born, and we'd never seen pics of them before.)
The hospital staff, the doctor, everyone we encountered that night were compassionate. My dad chose to go into the hospital to die. I believe he didn't want our last memories of him to be in our house. I also think that when the time came, he knew he couldn't let go while he was at home.
So yes, I'd have to say that, a terminally ill person should be given as much control over his or her surroundings as possible, including where to die. If they choose to be in the hospital setting, with morphine and oxygen (as in our case, the oxygen tank was borrowed and without hospice or a nurse, a morphine drip was impossible) then that's where he or she should be. I don't remember any problems with insurance paying for things. There were some things about his treatment that were paid out-of-pocket then reimbursed, and these weren't cheap things. It was annoying, it was an inconvenience. But overall? I guess we were lucky. In many more ways than we knew.
Monday, February 06, 2012
Sweet Mother of Mercy!
My brother is now tagging me on Facebook in photos he's taking of his Sunday flyers.
This week? Sears. (and yes, I said taking photos of the ads.)
Sears, in a misguided attempt to encourage shoppers, divided it's flyer into this side up=women's crap and that side up=man's crap. I don't shop a lot at Sears, so unless I'm actually looking for a sale on babies or tires, I don't look at the damned thing.
And he's taking pictures. And naming me as being in cahoots with him on it.
Save me from my family...please.
This week? Sears. (and yes, I said taking photos of the ads.)
Sears, in a misguided attempt to encourage shoppers, divided it's flyer into this side up=women's crap and that side up=man's crap. I don't shop a lot at Sears, so unless I'm actually looking for a sale on babies or tires, I don't look at the damned thing.
And he's taking pictures. And naming me as being in cahoots with him on it.
Save me from my family...please.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Good Morning!
I am not a morning person. Actually, I'm not a morning anything. Mornings are supposed to be spent bleary eyed drinking coffee, trying to remember where I left my glasses. Anything before 8am is dangerous--there's not enough oxygen left after overnight, and if you move too fast, or expect too much, you're liable to pass out. Oxygen production doesn't get back up to speed until around 9, and it's really not safe to move fast or have big plans for the morning until 11 or so.
Last Monday, I was, of course, sleeping. Until the phone rang, at too early for me o'clock. It was my brother, the Crown Prince. After years of explaining to him that his schedule is indeed HIS, that does not mean anyone else (namely, ME) follows it. He still doesn't get it.
He wanted to know if I got the local Sunday paper.
I did.
Then he wanted to know what sales flyers were in it, because he got the other non-local Sunday paper, and the flyer selection was not what he expected. Can I grab mine so we can compare my list of flyers to his?
Uh, NO. Dude. Meet Mr. Click.
Last Monday, I was, of course, sleeping. Until the phone rang, at too early for me o'clock. It was my brother, the Crown Prince. After years of explaining to him that his schedule is indeed HIS, that does not mean anyone else (namely, ME) follows it. He still doesn't get it.
He wanted to know if I got the local Sunday paper.
I did.
Then he wanted to know what sales flyers were in it, because he got the other non-local Sunday paper, and the flyer selection was not what he expected. Can I grab mine so we can compare my list of flyers to his?
Uh, NO. Dude. Meet Mr. Click.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Up On The Housetop...
My Sweetie talked to his mother today. Apparently, his father decided that today would be a good day to clean out the chimney, so the woodstove would fireup better.
Keeping in mind that the Old Man didn't want to get up on the ladder last month to clean out his gutters, or his daughters gutters, he got out the ladder and got up on the roof. He had his scrubbing brush with him and he scrubs the crud out of the chimney.
He then realizes that at 83 years old, and with gout in his foot & leg, he can't get his legs swung back onto the smaller of his two ladders to get down.
My mother-in-law and the anxiety prone sister-in-law have to get the big aluminum ladder from the garage and drag it around to where they can put it up to the roof so he can get down. If they hadn't been home, or my mother-in-law had been home alone, he'd have been stuck up there for hours, or until the fire department was called.
Lovely.
Keeping in mind that the Old Man didn't want to get up on the ladder last month to clean out his gutters, or his daughters gutters, he got out the ladder and got up on the roof. He had his scrubbing brush with him and he scrubs the crud out of the chimney.
He then realizes that at 83 years old, and with gout in his foot & leg, he can't get his legs swung back onto the smaller of his two ladders to get down.
My mother-in-law and the anxiety prone sister-in-law have to get the big aluminum ladder from the garage and drag it around to where they can put it up to the roof so he can get down. If they hadn't been home, or my mother-in-law had been home alone, he'd have been stuck up there for hours, or until the fire department was called.
Lovely.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Not Funny Really, But It's Really Funny
Today was really fricking HOT! It's still really fricking HOT!
My Sweetie says, "I'm gonna call the fam. I worry about my old people in the heat."
I sez, "Yeah, well, I do too, but if you'd just remember to put out an extra bowl of cold water and add ice cubes, they usually do okay."
He sez, "My old people aren't as bitchy as your old people."
I sez, "Yeah, that'd be why I don't always give mine ice."
Funny isn't always nice, yanno.
My Sweetie says, "I'm gonna call the fam. I worry about my old people in the heat."
I sez, "Yeah, well, I do too, but if you'd just remember to put out an extra bowl of cold water and add ice cubes, they usually do okay."
He sez, "My old people aren't as bitchy as your old people."
I sez, "Yeah, that'd be why I don't always give mine ice."
Funny isn't always nice, yanno.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Anniversary
Tomorrow would have been my dad's 76th birthday. Saturday is the 22nd anniversary of his death.
I was told once, "You never entirely get over it. You still miss that person, no matter how long they've been gone."
I've learned that this is true. I was 21 when he died. The Toad was exactly 3 months old. We'd spent those last months, as a family, dealing with Dad's mortality--he was terminal with lung cancer, and there was no doubt that what time we had was exactly all the time we'd have.
Some years, I just feel blue and out-of-sorts. Other years, it hits like a ton of bricks. I used to think it was the milestone years that it would hurt more, but it's not. This year, it's already knocking me flat. I suppose I could justify it by saying that the last 18 months or so have been emotionally difficult, but I don't know that's the answer.
Rather than depress everyone around me, I'm trying to concentrate on the things that make me feel better when I remember him. He loved practical jokes. The good kind--the kind that follow the rules of 1) no personal damage to body or property; 2) no public humiliation or lies; 3) it'd be funny if someone did it to you.
So, in that spirit, I give you one of the funniest things he ever pulled--something that still makes us crack up laughing when we talk about it. My sister, at some point during later-childhood/not-quite-teendom, acquired a rubber bat. She was forever putting it in my dresser drawers, coat pockets, etc., mostly because I hated it. I hated the surprise of "what is this" and I hated the feel of the thing. It was squooshy in a way that just didn't feel right. I would also scream like a little girl (I'm told it was a heart-stopping, high-pitched, blood-curdling scream.)
My brother would get in on the fun by taking it and shoving it in my face at various moments--which lead to the aforementioned screaming, and cause my sister to yell and try to beat the tar out of him. Which also meant that all three of us would get hell from my mother.
My father decided one day to get my brother to stop his insanity (he was also, at this point, on a jag where everything that could be turned into an annoying physical gag was going to be.) My brother also had gotten into the bad habit of swinging his coat over his head as he stuffed his arms into it, knocking things and people out of the way.
So, my dad took two or three feet of fishing line, and tied the rubber bat to my brother's coat. He then made some excuse to get my brother to put on the coat. Dad made it sound very urgent that my brother hurry to get that coat on... My brother grabbed the coat. He swung the coat. A bat swooped at him. He swung the coat at the bat. The bat swooped again. My brother, by this time, is yelling and screaming. My dad is laughing so hard he can't breathe. My brother is still swinging the coat and the bat is still swooping at him, with an audience. Finally he subdued the bat by throwing the coat on the floor and stomping on it.
He is not amused, although everyone else in the family is.
Is it any wonder I'm as goofy as I am?
I was told once, "You never entirely get over it. You still miss that person, no matter how long they've been gone."
I've learned that this is true. I was 21 when he died. The Toad was exactly 3 months old. We'd spent those last months, as a family, dealing with Dad's mortality--he was terminal with lung cancer, and there was no doubt that what time we had was exactly all the time we'd have.
Some years, I just feel blue and out-of-sorts. Other years, it hits like a ton of bricks. I used to think it was the milestone years that it would hurt more, but it's not. This year, it's already knocking me flat. I suppose I could justify it by saying that the last 18 months or so have been emotionally difficult, but I don't know that's the answer.
Rather than depress everyone around me, I'm trying to concentrate on the things that make me feel better when I remember him. He loved practical jokes. The good kind--the kind that follow the rules of 1) no personal damage to body or property; 2) no public humiliation or lies; 3) it'd be funny if someone did it to you.
So, in that spirit, I give you one of the funniest things he ever pulled--something that still makes us crack up laughing when we talk about it. My sister, at some point during later-childhood/not-quite-teendom, acquired a rubber bat. She was forever putting it in my dresser drawers, coat pockets, etc., mostly because I hated it. I hated the surprise of "what is this" and I hated the feel of the thing. It was squooshy in a way that just didn't feel right. I would also scream like a little girl (I'm told it was a heart-stopping, high-pitched, blood-curdling scream.)
My brother would get in on the fun by taking it and shoving it in my face at various moments--which lead to the aforementioned screaming, and cause my sister to yell and try to beat the tar out of him. Which also meant that all three of us would get hell from my mother.
My father decided one day to get my brother to stop his insanity (he was also, at this point, on a jag where everything that could be turned into an annoying physical gag was going to be.) My brother also had gotten into the bad habit of swinging his coat over his head as he stuffed his arms into it, knocking things and people out of the way.
So, my dad took two or three feet of fishing line, and tied the rubber bat to my brother's coat. He then made some excuse to get my brother to put on the coat. Dad made it sound very urgent that my brother hurry to get that coat on... My brother grabbed the coat. He swung the coat. A bat swooped at him. He swung the coat at the bat. The bat swooped again. My brother, by this time, is yelling and screaming. My dad is laughing so hard he can't breathe. My brother is still swinging the coat and the bat is still swooping at him, with an audience. Finally he subdued the bat by throwing the coat on the floor and stomping on it.
He is not amused, although everyone else in the family is.
Is it any wonder I'm as goofy as I am?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
This 'Splains A LOT
Saturday, the Howler went off to Chuck E Cheese with Bonk & his Mom. I worked all dayumed day, and so did My Sweetie, so it was great--free babysitting.
I scurried out of work to be home and save Bonk's Mom from the hell-that-can-be-the-Howler, and she wasn't at her house. She wasn't at my house. She weren't nowheres I could see her. (Bonk & the Howler weren't here, neither.)
So, I called her. She didn't answer her phone, which I was hoping meant that she was driving, on the way home (ol' Chuck's place is about 1.5 hours from here--I'm not sure, because I have never once, in my *cough cough* years, set foot in one of those demon holes.) I called her house, too, just-in-case.
She called back about 20 minutes later. They were just getting in the car at that point. Stopping at Dunkin' Donuts (sure, makes sense: 2 spawn in the car, sugar 'em up for the trip home) and they'd be home as soon as they'd be home.
While awaiting the homecoming, the Gator called. She asked if the Howler enjoyed her day. I said yes. She asked what time the Howler got home, I said "she's not home yet."
"So, how do you know she enjoyed it?"
"cuz she said she did when I talked to Bonk's mom"
"what? how? if they're not home yet?"
"I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone." (mind-blowing concept, that.)
"Oh. Did you talk to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone?"
"Yes. I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone."
"Did she say how soon they'd be home, then?"
"They're on the road as we speak. They'll be home in about an hour or so."
"So, they'll be home in about an hour or so?"
"Yes, they'll be home in about an hour or so."
The rest of the conversation went on like this for several more minutes. I know it wasn't that conversation psych shit that they teach you to be sure the other person knows you're listening...the Gator weren't listening. She was testing me to be sure I was listening to her--and to be sure I wasn't lying to her about anything.
Kill me now.
I scurried out of work to be home and save Bonk's Mom from the hell-that-can-be-the-Howler, and she wasn't at her house. She wasn't at my house. She weren't nowheres I could see her. (Bonk & the Howler weren't here, neither.)
So, I called her. She didn't answer her phone, which I was hoping meant that she was driving, on the way home (ol' Chuck's place is about 1.5 hours from here--I'm not sure, because I have never once, in my *cough cough* years, set foot in one of those demon holes.) I called her house, too, just-in-case.
She called back about 20 minutes later. They were just getting in the car at that point. Stopping at Dunkin' Donuts (sure, makes sense: 2 spawn in the car, sugar 'em up for the trip home) and they'd be home as soon as they'd be home.
While awaiting the homecoming, the Gator called. She asked if the Howler enjoyed her day. I said yes. She asked what time the Howler got home, I said "she's not home yet."
"So, how do you know she enjoyed it?"
"cuz she said she did when I talked to Bonk's mom"
"what? how? if they're not home yet?"
"I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone." (mind-blowing concept, that.)
"Oh. Did you talk to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone?"
"Yes. I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone."
"Did she say how soon they'd be home, then?"
"They're on the road as we speak. They'll be home in about an hour or so."
"So, they'll be home in about an hour or so?"
"Yes, they'll be home in about an hour or so."
The rest of the conversation went on like this for several more minutes. I know it wasn't that conversation psych shit that they teach you to be sure the other person knows you're listening...the Gator weren't listening. She was testing me to be sure I was listening to her--and to be sure I wasn't lying to her about anything.
Kill me now.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Who's On First?
My Sweetie has been married before. Before me, I mean. His first wife was, basically, his HS sweetheart. They were on-again-off-again for their entire history. And they got married (by his admission) because both of their families thought that they should be married, not just shacked up. Their actual marriage lasted less than a year, although they were still together after the divorce. (He'll be the first to admit that his so-called romatic history is fraught with strangeness. Lifetime Channel Movie-of-the-Week strangeness. If someone had been murdered, Ann Rule would love this story strangeness.)
When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.
Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.
Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)
That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:
I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.
Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)
It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?
My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.
No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.
My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.
Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.
My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.
Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.
The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)
And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.
When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.
Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.
Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)
That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:
I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.
Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)
It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?
My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.
No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.
My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.
Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.
My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.
Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.
The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)
And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Fa La La La La...
There's a reason I hate the holidays. And most of it involves my mother, and her controlling perfectionism. That gets totally swollen and out-of-control starting about....today.
She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.
She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.
Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.
She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.
She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)
Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.
This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."
The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)
Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.
She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.
She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.
Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.
She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.
She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)
Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.
This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."
The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)
Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Clash of the Titans
So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
Sunday, November 14, 2010
He's a Keeper
And here's why:
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Hussy
Another adorable Frodo story:
Last night, at close, I had to run from returns to customer service. When I got there, Frodo asks me, "So are you a natural redhead or what?"
Because, apparently, working with me for 10 years, he'd never noticed before. Duh.
I just laughed. He sez, "Yeah, I thought so."
Since he knows my Aunt--she of the asshole questioning--I tell him a funny story.
When I first started coloring my hair red, my aunt comes to the Howler's birthday party and sez, "What in the haaaaillll did you do to your hair?"
I sez, "Why? Don't you like it?"
"You look like a goddamned hussy."
I laugh. She asks My Sweetie what he thinks of it, and he says he likes me as a hussy. (bwhahahahahahahaha)
Later on, we go to visit his family, and when I get out of the car, his father sez, "Oh." snort "I din know he liked redheads."
"Waaaallll, he likes this one!" big smile.
I confide to My Sweetie that his Ol' Man had a run-in with a redhead, and therefore, doesn't like 'em. I confide same to my mother-in-law. Neither of them know anything about it.
A year or so later, I get a phone call from my mother-in-law, informing me that they were going through some old pics of when the Ol' Man was in the service...and found pics of this woman who dun him wrong. She was a redhead.
HAH!
Last night, at close, I had to run from returns to customer service. When I got there, Frodo asks me, "So are you a natural redhead or what?"
Because, apparently, working with me for 10 years, he'd never noticed before. Duh.
I just laughed. He sez, "Yeah, I thought so."
Since he knows my Aunt--she of the asshole questioning--I tell him a funny story.
When I first started coloring my hair red, my aunt comes to the Howler's birthday party and sez, "What in the haaaaillll did you do to your hair?"
I sez, "Why? Don't you like it?"
"You look like a goddamned hussy."
I laugh. She asks My Sweetie what he thinks of it, and he says he likes me as a hussy. (bwhahahahahahahaha)
Later on, we go to visit his family, and when I get out of the car, his father sez, "Oh." snort "I din know he liked redheads."
"Waaaallll, he likes this one!" big smile.
I confide to My Sweetie that his Ol' Man had a run-in with a redhead, and therefore, doesn't like 'em. I confide same to my mother-in-law. Neither of them know anything about it.
A year or so later, I get a phone call from my mother-in-law, informing me that they were going through some old pics of when the Ol' Man was in the service...and found pics of this woman who dun him wrong. She was a redhead.
HAH!
Monday, October 04, 2010
Bible Quiz
So, once upon a loooooooooooooooong time ago, My Sweetie was on his church's Bible Quiz team. I believe him when he says it was because there were pretty girls on the team, because he certainly remembers very little scripture from it.
Recently, the Howler moved up to the next level of AWANAS. No more foolin' around! She needed a Bible, and we need to work with her on those verses. So, the former Bible Quiz Guy decided he would also begin reading the Bible.
He starts, of course, at the beginning. A few chapters into it, he announces that "all those begats and whose dad is whose is pretty boring. And hard to follow." Well, yeah. Why do you think I'm not also reading it? He also discovered that there are no guys in Genesis named Bob, but decided that any names he couldn't pronouce would be simplified into Bob and Bill and Biff. But I remember when I created a book of the Bible for the Toad called Inertiates, and made up verses, he said I was "so very wrong. Funny, but wrong." But he doesn't remember that Vince is a prominent figure in Inertiates, either.
Last night, though, he proved for once-and-for-all that the Howler's parents are really not the kind of people who should be helping the Howler understand the Bible: he sez, "You know, in the Old Testament, if a guy thinks he's not getting enough kids from one wife, or two, he just takes a few handmaids too."
I responded with, "So, you've made it as far as Jacob, then?"
He seemed a little surprised that I knew that much, since, as I stated before, I don't read the Bible, unless I have to. And I've never mentioned Jacob to him, so that must be part of the Black Hole that is my less-than-Christian accumulation of knowledge.
Then he tells me, "Yeah, and that guy Jacob would stick it in just about anybody."
There you have it: Bible Stories from Heathen Headquarters.
Recently, the Howler moved up to the next level of AWANAS. No more foolin' around! She needed a Bible, and we need to work with her on those verses. So, the former Bible Quiz Guy decided he would also begin reading the Bible.
He starts, of course, at the beginning. A few chapters into it, he announces that "all those begats and whose dad is whose is pretty boring. And hard to follow." Well, yeah. Why do you think I'm not also reading it? He also discovered that there are no guys in Genesis named Bob, but decided that any names he couldn't pronouce would be simplified into Bob and Bill and Biff. But I remember when I created a book of the Bible for the Toad called Inertiates, and made up verses, he said I was "so very wrong. Funny, but wrong." But he doesn't remember that Vince is a prominent figure in Inertiates, either.
Last night, though, he proved for once-and-for-all that the Howler's parents are really not the kind of people who should be helping the Howler understand the Bible: he sez, "You know, in the Old Testament, if a guy thinks he's not getting enough kids from one wife, or two, he just takes a few handmaids too."
I responded with, "So, you've made it as far as Jacob, then?"
He seemed a little surprised that I knew that much, since, as I stated before, I don't read the Bible, unless I have to. And I've never mentioned Jacob to him, so that must be part of the Black Hole that is my less-than-Christian accumulation of knowledge.
Then he tells me, "Yeah, and that guy Jacob would stick it in just about anybody."
There you have it: Bible Stories from Heathen Headquarters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)