Hellooooo Miiiiindy...

It's election time.

Forgive my cynicism but when election time rolls around I think about one thing and one thing only--the inevitable bombardment of political phone calls.

I don't know about you, but at our house, it seems like in the span of about two weeks, the number of politically-driven phone calls per day goes from "maybe one" to at least a half dozen....and most of those come between 4pm and 8pm.

Because I'm the one who generally answers the house phone (i.e. the landline phone), I'm the one who has to contend with all of the election-focused phone calls (taped and real-person).

Here's how these calls usually go:

1. The phone rings.

2. I think about whether or not I'll answer it. (Actually, this is how I deal with most phone calls. I'm not a big fan of the phone.)

3. If I answer it, I pick up the receiver and say, "Hello."

4. I wait for who, or whatever, is on the other end to respond.

5. If what I hear next is an obviously taped message, I hang up. If what I hear next is the voice of an actual, living, breathing human being who starts talking about anything political..... I hang up. (As I said, I'm not a fan.)

Yesterday afternoon, as I walked through the living room, past my dad who was engrossed (I thought) in his daily habit of absorbing The Seattle times, Dad stopped reading, waved me down and said, "Hey! Somebody called earlier, but it was a political somethingorother."

"Yeah, I know. It's election time. "

Dad threw up his hands and sort of barked, "I just hung up on them. " (Said the "mighty apple tree" to the "little apple.")

We exchanged a little chuckle and I kept walking.

Now cut to around 8pm that night. I was in my bedroom (far away, thankfully from the house phone).

The phone rang.

True to my custom, I thought about whether or not to go in and answer it.

But before I could make a decision, Dad picked it up! (I should mention........Dad got a new hearing aid last week and, since he can now hear a bit better than before, he has been choosing to answer the phone from time to time. (Apparently he was feeling a little frisky.)

Dad: HELLO!

Phone Person: Good evening sir, I'm calling from the Washington State of ........... (I have no idea who this person.....it was a woman......was representing.....couldn't really hear and it doesn't really matter because Dad totally cut the woman off mid-sentence.)

Dad: WAIT! WAIT! Who is this?

Phone Person: (She repeats her little speech again.....Dad cuts her off again.)

Dad: WAIT! Slow down! You're talking too fast!

Phone Person starts again, slower. Dad interrupts again.

Dad: WAIT! Who is this? What's your name?

Phone Person: Excuse me sir?

Dad: I SAID, What's. Your. Name?

Phone Person: My name is Mindy, sir.

Then there's a pause of about five seconds until Dad speaks again. But this time, he's strangely calm and weirdly flirtatious.

Dad: Well, hellooooo Miiiindy.

Phone Person: (click)

Heh, heh, heh. Election time just got a little easier.

It's a Privilege to Pee

There is definitely going to be a......ahem......running theme here.

The good news is, it doesn't involve poop.

I took a "ME" afternoon today (woohoo me!). Went to a movement workshop in Port Townsend. But before I left, I spent a couple of hours working on my audition monologues and songs. One of those songs is a little diddy from a musical called Urinetown. Some of you may be familiar, most may not. That's okay. Suffice to say, the title of the song is "It's a Privilege to Pee."

In a word, I spent the first part of my morning singing about.......well, singing about pee (which, I might add, is a far cry better than what I've been cleaning up the last few mornings.....but that's another story....or not).

Anyway..........I go to the workshop and, lo and behold, one of the exercises is to write one's name with one's clenched buttocks. I think the exact instructions were "pretend you have to pee really badly and write your name with a hypothetical pen that is sticking out of your butt."

Oh, did I mention the instructor is Italian? And speaks through a translator?

(And for the record? "Write your name with a pen sticking out of your butt" sounds wayyyyyyy more poetic in Italian than it does in English.)

Anyway, the workshop was a much-needed diversion, and I can't wait to go back tomorrow night for the next installment. But as I was walking to my car to come home, I couldn't help but think, "I should use the bathroom before I go, otherwise I'm going to really have to go bad by the time I get home."

But, of course, my next thought was, "Nah! I'm fine. Just get into the car and go!"

So I did.

Cut to home.

I arrive. I get out of the car with one thought, and one thought only--get thee to a bathroom first thing.

I open the door.

My father is standing in the kitchen. He turns. He gives me Shrug #2. (For those of you who missed the Shrug blog--Shrug #2 is the one Dad and I exchange that is code for "Mom is acting realllllllly weird and I have no idea what to do about it.") Then I hear Mom wailing from the hallway, "Is that Denise???!!!!"

Buttocks clenched. "What's up Mom?"

"I neeeeed.......yourrrr......hhhhhhelllllllp."

I look at Dad. He gives me Shrug #2 again. I tell him with my raised palm, "I got it" and I follow Mom back to her bedroom.

Now you're probably wondering what the "crisis" was?

It was..........

The TV Guide.....s.

Plural.

See..........Mom pulls out the TV Guide insert from the newspaper every Sunday so she can pick and choose what she watches (Even though the only channels she watches are CNN and the Western channel! But of course I always just let that go.......it's her TV afterall.).

The trouble is (at least the trouble for Mom today was).......we get two newspapers, each with its own TV Guide. So Mom has pulled out both guides (and they're both printed in that microscopically small font) and now they're both setting on her bed. Separately. One setting "over there"; the other setting "over here." But for some reason, she's clearly terribly confused at having two TV Guides and not knowing which one is the "right" one, or the "old" one, or the "new" one, or the......whatever.

Remember--I have to pee! So my patience is running very, very, VERY thin (that's patience with a capital P.....as in PEEEEEE!)

So I ask her, "Okay Mom, which guide would you rather use?"

She points to one.

I take the other one, "Okay, then you don't need this one" and I turn to take it to the recycle bin. Except..........my mother now has this aghast expression on her face like I just dismembered her favorite puppy.

So I stop. "Okay Mom, let's do this. You use the one that's on your bed. And I'll set this other one down on this chair over here. And if you think you need it, you can just go over to the chair and get it. Okay?"

A compliant, "yesssssss."

Then she says to me, "Do you have to go to the ladies' room?"

"What?"

And she says, "Well you're squirming around like you have to use the ladies' room."

And I chuckle and say, "As a matter of fact Mom, yes. Yes I DO have to pee. Really, really, really badly."

"Well then you should go," she says oh-so logically.

(Notice she had no trouble getting those words out. Weird how that works.)

Note to self: Go before you go.

Flu Shot

Remember those hypnotists that used to be on TV all the time? They'd pop up on The Ed Sullivan Show or The Tonight Show; they'd have volunteers from the audience thinking they were dogs, or cats, or dogs AND cats.

I never understood it. Never really "got" how people could allow themselves to do such crazy things. In public no less.

Several years later (well, realistically?, it was probably more like a decade or two later) I remember reading a book about hypnotism and the suggestive personality, and the whole "barking like a dog" and "meowing like a cat" under hypnosis thing suddenly made sense--Aha! The subject has to be OPEN to being hypnotized! Like........some little part of the subject's mind had to sort of "want" to do whatever the hypnotist asked them to do.

It not only made sense to me, it reassured me that NO hypnotist would ever be makin' ME get down on the floor in public and bark like a freakin' dog. No way I would EVER let that happen to me.

My father calls that being stubborn.

I call it being in control of what I do in public!

My mother.........well, she'd be the one on the floor barking like a dog.

So I was at Safeway the other day with Mom to pick up a couple of jugs of prune juice (the current anti-constipation choice at the Fleener Home For The Feeble). Mom waited in the car while I dashed inside.

Safeway had a big sandwich-board sign out front that said Flu Shots Today.

Mom saw it.

When I got back to the car, the first thing out of Mom's mouth was, "I need.........to get.......a...a...aaa......fl........fl........"

"Flu shot?" I said.

"yessssss." She answered.

"Okay, I'll check the schedule at CostCo and we'll all go in and get them."

Then I turned on the car and started to pull out of the parking space.

Mom again. "Where are you going?!" (Funny how she never has any problem talking when she's agitated....)

"I'm going home!" I told her, a little agitated because it was a heavy work day for me and I really needed to get home.

"What about the flu shot?!" she wailed.

The thing is.......my mother is one of the most suggestible people I have ever known. One little headline in the Peninsula Daily News about a robbery and she frets the entire day because she's convinced some criminal is going to break into our house THAT DAY and maul her to death. Seriously. I am NOT exaggerating.

So, guess what happened when Mom saw the Flu Shot sign? Right. She instantly became fearful that she was going to get the flu THAT DAY and she had better darn well get her flu shot immediately if not sooner.

I told Mom, "No, no, no, we're not going to get it today Mom. I'll check the schedule at CostCo and we'll get them there."

"ok" she said, her wheels still turning.

We came home. I went back to work. The afternoon passed. The evening came and went. Mom was getting into bed and I was still working in the office (which is next to her bedroom). I could hear her sort of whimpering and working herself up into a state. I went in to see what the problem was.

"What's up Mom?" I asked her.

And between whimpers she said, "I'm afraid.........to go...........to.........sleep.........because........I'm.......afraid.........I'll get......the......fl....fl......fl.......flu.......and die........and....and.....not.....wake....up."

Damn that sandwich-board. Damn Safeway. Damn having to go get prune juice. Damn constipation. Damn having a mother who could've been one of those barking people-dogs on The Tonight Show.

But you know what? Two can play at this game.

So I say, "Oh Mom, you don't need the shot until November. The doctor told you last year that getting the shot before then was pointless. So we'll get it the first week of November. Okay?"

And she stopped whimpering, and stopped fretting and looked up at me and said, "Okay." And suddenly she was feeling okay about going to sleep.

"Now Mom, could you get down on the floor and bark like a dog?"

Kidding! I'm kidding! I didn't really say that.

Oh yes, we have NO bananyas!

The blue and white porcelain fruit bowl is empty.

Empty.

Did you get that? It's E-M-P-T-Y!

Wait.....maybe you didn't quite understand me. THE FRUIT BOWL IS EMMMPPPTTTTYYYY!

The AlwaysFullOfBanayas, SeeminglyBottomlessBananyaBowl, MustAlwaysBeFullOfBanayasBowl is E.M.P.T.Y.

And more importantly? It's going to STAY empty!

Why?

Well, because.....Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down? Because, you probably should.

It's going to stay empty because.......I have declared a Banana Ban!

That's right! Hoist the flags! Free the prisoners! Bang the drums! Storm the Bastille! (sorry....getting carried away here)

Now I'm sure you're dying to know what prompted the banana revolt. I'm certain that you are sitting on the edge of your ergonomic office chair right now, waiting for me to fill you in on all the gory details surrounding this unforeseen rebellion against what has been such a stalwart mainstay in the Fleener kitchen.

Well I'm gonna tell ya.......

Poop.

That's right girls and boys--poop. Plain and simple, it was poop, or actually, the lack of poop, that led me to officially declare war on the almighty bananya. And trust me, you would've done the same had you been in my shoes this week.

In reality, it was really constipation that brought all of this on. Mom's constipation. And lemme jus' say........ya haven't lived until you've experienced an 89 year-old woman wailing and moaning her way through half a day's worth of really, really bad constipation. Suffice to say, I laid down the law--

No More Bananas and No More EatingAnEntireCartonOfCottageCheeseEveryDay (okay, okay, it was probably the cottage cheese that was really to blame for the constipation but, come on!, you gotta capitalize on your opportunities!).

So forgive me now. I'm overwhelmed with a sudden urge (no.....not what you're thinking!)

I think I'll go do something totally wacky and completely crazy and.........

PUT AN APPLE IN THE FRUIT BOWL!

Wish me luck.

Leakage

Scene: Waiting room at the local ophthalmologist's office. Dad's hour-long appointment. I had dropped Dad off earlier, then gone home briefly to check on Mom, then returned to pick him up. Four other people in the waiting room, along with three receptionists behind the front desk. All is quiet and calm, save for the soft sounds of the Sequim radio station purring some old Sinatra tune into the background. Then.......

Dad: (at full volume...as always) I THINK I'M ON THE VERGE OF INCONTINENCE.

I look around to see if anyone in the waiting room, or behind the reception desk reacts. They don't. All heads are down, engrossed in magazines or work.

Me: Really?

Dad: WHAT?!

Me: I said,.... Really? (Checking the downcast heads in my periphery. They're either just being polite, or they're all completely absorbed in their respective magazines. I think, what are the chances of the latter being true? I decide it's gotta be the former.)

Dad: Well, YEAH!

Me: That's uh......(searching for something to say just so Dad won't say anything else...)...well......that's uh.....

Dad: I'VE GOT LEAKAGE!

Up come the heads. Great.

I make some kind of semi-panicked epiglottal vocalization.

Dad: WHAT?! (He thinks I said something to him.)

Me: Nothing I.....

Dad: LEAKAGE!!

And now we have eye contact. From every person in the waiting room. And I just sit there, shaking my head in here-we-go-again disbelief. And, of course, Dad doesn't stop. He continues with....

Dad: THOSE PILLS THE DOC GAVE ME AREN'T HELPING. AND THEY'RE GIVING ME CONSTIPATION TOO!

And here's the really good part....

Me: (I lean into his good ear cuz I don't want to have to repeat this.) That's great Dad. And it's really nice of you to share all of that with everyone here in the waiting room.

Cue nervous laughter from the waiting room and receptionists.

Dad: (Who momentarily cracks up.) WELL WHAT THE HELL! IT'S A DOCTOR'S OFFICE!

Cue legitimate laughter from waiting room and receptionists.

Cue eye-roll from me.

BlogClogSkinMowCockaNuts

You're probably wondering about the title. Don't worry. It'll all make sense. Trust me.

OK. I'm just going to come right out say it. I'm having trouble writing the blogs.

It's not writer's block.

It's not apathy.

It's not a matter of having the time to do it.

And it's certainly not a matter of having enough material.

I can't tell you how many times I've found myself driving in the car and saying to myself (out loud.....I talk to myself a lot when I'm driving), "That thing that Dad did this morning.....I should write about that!" Or, "That conversation Mom and Dad had yesterday....I should write about that!"

Then I get home. And it never happens. It's not that I forget what I was going to write about. It's more about the motivation. I WANT to write. I just don't do it. I start to sort of dread the energy it takes to sit down and actually hammer out something on the keyboard. It reminds me of that lazy lumpy feeling I sometimes get before I workout. Like whining little kid who moans and groans because they have to take the trash out....I really don't want to do it, but I know I need to.

And the thing is......I always feel so much better after I've written a new post (again.....much like the workout). There's a certain exhilaration to it. I think, "Great! Another little chunk of this adventure recorded for posterity!" I even recognize, on some level, the multiple reasons I have for writing (again....like the workout). But for the last three weeks.........I have voluntarily avoided, purposely self-distracted, consciously re-directed myself from doing exactly that--from doing, in fact, what I am doing right now.

So.....woohoo. Yay me!..... I guess. But now that I'm here, rather than churn out all of those "great" ideas by writing one blog after the other, I think I'll present a nutshell version of each one. You'll get the idea, right?

There was the idea I had to write a piece called "Skin" that would somehow connect my recent observations of Dad's 94 year old skin (that I decided looks like a wadded up, flesh-colored sheet of ancient plastic wrap that was discovered in a tomb somewhere, unearthed, spread out, and then wrapped around my father's body) with the near-virgin skin of my 4 1/2 month old granddaughter (that feels like finely polished glass, if glass were soft and billowy, and smelled like.......well, like babies).

There was the one I was going to call "To Mow..." which would have described how Dad suddenly decided one day that he felt good enough to mow again (He had announced to me about two months ago that he was officially handing over the task of mowing to me, since he was feeling too much pain in his back and hips.), and how I watched him from my office, carving tracks out of the grass, back and forth, around and around, and then suddenly stopping in the middle of the 1/2 acre and just sitting there motionless, which caused me to jump up (fearing he was feeling dizzy or faint or worse, having a heart attack) and go out to see what was wrong, and walking up to Dad-On-Stopped-Tractor and asking, "Everything ok?" he replying with only, "Oh yeah! I'm just sitting here enjoying the beautiful day."

And finally, there's the one I was going to write called "CockaNuts" about Dad's recent craving for donuts which coincidentally started when my brother and I discovered a new local donut shop, CockaDoodleDonuts, and brought home a sampling. Let me be clear. Nobody, I repeat, NObody, knows the nutritionally vapid nature of donuts more than I. But Dad's philosophy is, "I'm 94. I've lived a great life. Now I'm going to do whatever I want." So now, he's decided he wants donuts. A lot of donuts. Fritters. Apple fritters. Regularly. It's crazy. I set out a plate of fresh donuts in the morning. And by the next morning, there is only one gnawed off half of a donut left.

Get the title now?

A Bird Better Than Vicodin

So...........Dad sprained his ankle last week and has been complaining of the pain every day since. He moans at almost every step. Groans whenever he puts weight on it. Winces at every turn. Retires earlier than normal so he can simply go to sleep rather than think about the pain. All of that being the everyday SOP (standard operating procedure) for nearly a week now.........until today. Specifically, until this afternoon.

Some people take pain killers. Some people drink. Some people use drugs. Some people eat chocolate. My father watches the Seattle Storm play (and defeat) Phoenix in the WNBA playoff game and magically, he is pain-free. Infused with the narcotic of professional women's sports, he lies on his bed, Sennheiser earphones firmly in place over his left hearing-aided-ear and right non-functional ear, LCD TV displaying in glorious flat-panel color, Dad focused intently (and ONLY) on the thrill of watching competitive women's basketball. From the living room we can hear Dad cheer Sue Bird and her teammates on after each Seattle score. We stroll down the hall to his bedroom to sneak a peak at him from time to time. Like a schoolboy screaming enthusiastically at his favorite team, Dad pumps his fists (yes, BOTH fists) every time the Storm takes the lead.

"SHOOT!" he shouts.

"Three points! Shoot it! Shoot it!!" he shouts louder.

The real "high" comes when the Storm finally proves victorious "with 23 seconds to go!" Dad is on his feet and not (I repeat, NOT, holding on to his walker at all) and filling the entire house with the euphoric pride of a devoted fan.

"Did you see that Sue Bird?! What a player!!" Then a short pause, and then......."Terr-IF-ic!" Grinning from ear to ear. The biggest smile I've seen on Dad's face in......well, in at least a week.

For those of you who have kept track, I have, from time to time, thanked several seemingly obscure entities for unknowingly contributing to my parents' ongoing welfare and sanity--Horsey's political cartoons in the Seattle PI; Maureen Dowd's editorial in the Seattle Times; Julia Roberts and her....well, whatever; cottage cheese with chives; CostCo; MochaMix. (A while back, I made a point of thanking the Chilean blueberry farmers so that Mom can enjoy blueberries on her Grape-Nuts even in the dead of the PNW winter.)

And now I can add one more simple pleasure to that list.

Today, Sue Bird and her team made an ailing 94 year old man very, VERY, happy. Thank you Sue Bird. Looking forward to the next game.