Dad's World of Dad About Dad For Dad

Maybe he's 95 and entitled to be self-centered and inconsiderate.

Doesn't make it any less annoying.

I fix myself a salad, Dad comes into the kitchen, sticks his nose into my salad and yells in my ear, "WHAT'S THAT?!" And before I can answer, he says, "IS THAT A SALAD?" And before I can answer that, he says, "PUT SOME BEETS ON IT!" (I hate beets. He knows this.) And before I can remind him (again) that I don't like beets, he says, "DON'T YOU LIKE BEETS?" Then, before he can dis on my salad anymore, I grab a fork and my beet-less salad and flee to the relative solitude of my office. This, or something very similar, happens more frequently than I can tell you.

I buy two of Amy's Green Tamales and put them in the garage freezer. A couple of days ago, I brought one into the house freezer so I could have it later in the week. This morning, Dad wheels into the kitchen and says, "HEY! I ATE THAT TAMALE LAST NIGHT FOR DINNER..." And before I can explain that that tamale was, in fact, for me, he proclaims, "DON'T GET IT AGAIN! IT WAS TERRIBLE!"

A few weeks ago, I took a stick of butter out of the fridge, unwrapped it, and set it out on a plate, on the counter so I could make cookies later on in the day. Dad wheeled into the kitchen, somehow homed right in on that solitary stick of butter setting on the kitchen counter, wheeled over, picked it up, took a big ole bite out of it and said, "WHAT KIND OF CHEESE IS THIS?!" (eeyup. He seriously did this.) Then he complained, "IS THIS CHEESE? HUH?! TERRIBLE! DON'T GET IT AGAIN! NO FLAVOR!" And then, and this is the most infuriating part, he threw it into the trash.

So, okay, Dad is 95. He's old. He's oblivious to most of what goes on around him because he can't hear or see most of what goes on around him. I love my dad. But chomping on my stick of butter without asking what it is first and then tossing it into the trash because you thought it was flavorless cheese is just plain annoying!

Everything but.....

Before I forget, and it drifts into the recesses of my cache memory, there is a topic I simply must address.

The contents of the basket of my mother's walker.

I'll be brief.

Because the contents are not.

As background, you should know that my mother is extremely territorial, and this quality has only been amplified by mom's age and her increasing dementia. You should also realize that in an A.L.F., frequent uninvited visitors to one's room is not an uncommon occurrence. And along that same line, the frequent disappearance of personal items is also not uncommon. I guess that's why everything, and I mean every thing, that belongs to a resident is permanently marked with their name. Of course, this doesn't prevent the unintentional pilfering, but it does help the staff to return said items to their proper owner.

Back to my mom's walker.

She has one of those walkers with a storage compartment under the seat. Within the compartment, there are also several pockets, some zippered, some not.

We're not talking about a large storage compartment here. It measures probably 24" in width by 12" in length by 8" in depth. Not huge, right? And yet.......

So here's what's in Mom's walker compartment:

two spare Depends, a hardcover book (currently, Carol Burnett's biography), a bag of Werther's Sugar-Free caramels, a box of plastic dental flossers, a square box of Kleenex, a brush, a few recently sent greetings cards from family members, a one pound box of See's candy (soft centers only), selected family photos, the current Vermont Country Store catalog, six pens, five pencils, Mom's reading glasses case, a can of Pepsi (and ONLY Pepsi), the key to her room (so she can lock herself in at night and keep the pilfering PeeBlossoms out), and five bottles of Afrin nasal spray hidden in the zippered side pockets (but don't tell anybody cuz she's not supposed to have those).

You know how they say you can tell everything about a person by looking at their checkbook?...

Just A Wet Dog

So....it rained all night.

And the dogs went out this morning for their early pee break.

They got all wet.

ALL wet.

And so Dad wheels into my office about a half hour ago, in his tidywhities, without his hearing aid (this is key), and yells, "UMA'S (one of the dogs) ALL WET. SHE'S IN THE FIRST STAGES OF HYPOTHERMIA!"

And I answer, "No. She's just wet."

And he says, "HUH!?" (because, of course, his hearing aid isn't in and he can't hear a word I'm saying). Then he turns to wheel out, shaking his head in disgust like he always does when he attempts to have a conversation without his hearing aid.....like it's the other person's fault. Geesh. So irritating.

Before he actually leaves the office, he turns back to me, all huffy and puffy and nose out of joint and skivvies in a bunch and yells, "SHE'S IN THE FIRST STAGES OF HYPOTHERMIA! SHE'S ALL WET! HOW'D SHE GET ALL WET ANYWAY???"

My brain goes into overdrive with all of the possible responses. Hello. We live in the PNW. Or, hello. Dad you just woke up, your brain's not working yet, go back to bed. Or, hello. Dogs get wet. Or, hello. Uma grew up in Michigan. In the snow. Hypothermia? I don't think so.

I opt for the simpler, "She's fine. It's raining."

To which he immediately blares angrily at me, "HUH?!" (because he still can't hear me because....well, you remember)

Then he turns, now completely disgusted and frustrated, and begins to wheel out of the office. Except, as he's turning, the other dog (Emily, also wet, but not, apparently suffering the early stages of hypothermia) steps on Dad's foot, and makes a little skin tear which promptly starts bleeding all over the rug (old people = thin skin = frequent skin tears = lots of blood).

Thus, I've spent the last half hour, bottle of Resolve in one hand, paper towel in the other, cleaning up blood spots and bandaging up Dad's foot.

Oh yeah....Uma's fine.

Wet.

But fine.