Oh, I am pleased. He did awesome. There was actual thought involved, and a demonstrated knowledge that he's been paying attention. Now, I should probably be embarrassed to say he nailed it when I tell you what I actually got, but you people know by now I have no pretensions to maturity or good taste. So, book: Stuff on My Cat. And DVD: Weekend at Bernie's...II. (I already own the original, yo.) Don't judge me. There is nothing funnier than a corpse in sunglasses and bad late 80's/early 90's clothes. And I'm sticking by that.
Now, if I can only train him to actually wrap presents (by which I mean, stuff them in a gift bag with some tissue paper crumpled over them) before he presents them, he will be well on his way on another step towards being a sweet, considerate boyfriend for some lucky young woman some day. If, y'know, we can ever get him to, like, leave the house and socialize. Sigh. But, believe me, ladies, I am reinforcing all his natural impulses towards *not being a dick* to the best of my abilities in preparation for that day. I was going to say "gotta fight his father's genetics" but that would be petty, huh? Ha!
In other news, I did lose my shit at my dad this morning, when, once again, he told me I didn't "buy anything for him" after I spent $150 on groceries. Let's count the things that are solely or primarily for him, shall we? Motherfucking Cheez-Its. Entenmann's danish. Devil Dogs. Raisin bread. The coffee he drinks, which is different than the coffee I drink. Apple juice. Vanilla cookies. Two out of the three kinds of sandwich meat. Bananas. Then there's the rest of the food that we all eat. Plus, can I just tell you? I've managed to put three pounds on him in the almost-month since I began trying to purposely fatten him up, so don't tell me he isn't eating plenty of high caloric crap. I guess he didn't get the memo about *not being a dick.* Forgive me. I know he's just a needy, cranky old man and I will probably be as annoying as fuck when I'm 83 too. I just needed to vent. The end.
Happy Mother's Day.
xoxo
9 comments:
I love me some Andrew McCarthy. Happy Mother's Day!
The fact that there was never a WAB's 3 is all the proof I need that the golden age of Hollywood is, indeed over. (But oh, it was fun while it lasted). Great show by the D-man.
As for dad's behavior, perhaps you could sit him through a showing of "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" and point out that folks in need of caregiving can sometimes do worse. (Now THERE is a classic Hollywood romance for your other film project).
In any case, congratulations that, in spite of there never being anything for him in the house, your Dad has managed to put back 3 pounds. In honor of his passive-aggressive nit-picking, you might suggest he keep a little list by the fridge or wherever that jots down the stuff he'd like to have replenished, and then referring to it (or its absence) whenever the complaints arise.
I know you guys are probably just humoring me in the Andrew McCarthy/Weekend at Bernie's appreciation, but THAT'S OKAY.
As far as dad...one time, I dunno, last year (?) when I lost my shit at him, he said to me it was a good thing he wasn't physically frailer, because if he was, I would probably beat him. I said, "what? you think I couldn't take you? C'mon, old man, let's go, right now." And then we laughed like hell and the tension was diffused. But, really, I was not proud afterwards b/c if you're yelling at someone with such rage that they seriously consider whether you might assault them, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. (But, as someone once observed, your parents usually always can push your buttons, because they're the ones who installed them in the fucking first place.)
As far as the writing down a grocery list, besides the Helen Keller issues, there's the hand shakiness which makes writing pretty much... not a go. Let me tell you all this story: So, my dad gets a pension check, that, unlike his SS, does not go directly into his checking account, but is sent to the house. Usually a day or two before the first of the month, but dated for the first. So, the first of the month, my dad always signs it, so in case he dies, I can still deposit it, because as long as he's alive on the first the money belongs to him. He literally says that every month. Well, the last several months, his signature has gotten worse and worse, so that now, whenever he says the above, *I* say, "That's okay, dad, if you die without signing it, I'll just get a chimp to do it." And then we laugh and laugh. But it's true. It doesn't really resemble human language anymore.
Which *isn't to say* he can't verbally tell me when he's running out of something or having a craving for something--which he does--but when he forgets, *obviously* that's my fault for failing to read his thoughts.
Or, you could get one of those big huge whiteboards (big and huge so you can write extra-big on it to be readable by those with failing eyesight) where you can write out all his "usuals", with a space in front for a big red "X", that it'll be his job to put on there when he wants something.
Or, you could put a big carboard box in the kitchen, into which he could toss the empty cartons when it's time to replenish the Entenmanns and such.
Or, you could agree with him up front on his standard minimum "inventory", and keep track of the stock and replenishment yourself. (Reorder quantities met when down to two Entenmann's raspberry coffee cakes, three 15 oz. cans of Delmonte peaches, and/or a half pound of the substandard coffee upon which he insists/subsists...)
Or, you could put D on keeping track of all of it, cuz you know he wants to make you happy. ;-)
(previous version deleted so as to maintain anonymity for the innocent and not nearly innocent)
See, you're approaching this from an engineering/problem-solving viewpoint, which I appreciate. But the psychological reality is, he's just pissed at the universe that he can no longer just blithely drive to the supermarket whenever he gets it into his head that he wants/needs x, y, or z. The only acceptable solution in his subconscious mind is either that I be always available at his beck and call to immediately go out for him when he wants something, or better yet, that I know what he's going to want before he wants it so it's available instantaneously.
Since neither of those things are going to happen, maybe we ought to turn our problem-solving skills onto how I can deal with his inevitable whining without *anger management issues*. Got any ideas about that? More acupuncture, maybe. :-)
Observing that treatments for conditions must always consider the whole patient in order to be successful, I'm inclined to start with a suggestion that includes "more sex". ;-)
Another option would be to displace his anger by employing a personal shopper for him, like Dan Aykroyd hiring Morgan Freeman to drive Miss Daisy. You could cajole D into getting his drivers license, and then...
(And so we see why engineers are rarely put in charge of things in the real world).
I *knew* you were gonna tell me that the answer to my anger management problems is more sex, not more acupuncture.
Um, not that I'm disagreeing. :-)
Speaking as someone who is chronologically midway between the shaky handwriting and whining solution and the more sex solution, I would still opt for the more sex solution ;)
Actually, it's probably good that you can act out toward each other. My parents didn't live long enough for us to get to that stage and OMG would that have helped.
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