There is nothing a daughter wants more than to be able to give back…to her parents! It has been my pleasure to do so for approximately, 6 years, 114 days, 22 hours and 7 minutes. But who is counting?
And, though, it has been a learning experience; the in’s and out’s of aging, frivolity among the elderly and loving the bratty senior..I would on some occasions be willing to exchange those spurts of growth with say…being housed in a small confined space with an angry, in heat, feral cat.
For example, the other day, whilst picking up assorted, snort rags, mouth rags and handi-wipes…because my father’s OCD, has gone un-medicated; I discovered a Parenting magazine. This piece of literature may have its place in a newborn’s home. What it was doing in stacked against National Geographic and AARP’s special Oscar issue, is anybody guess.
Matter of fact, I am still curious and after addressing the issue with my mother.
“What’s up with the Parenting magazine? Are you pregnant?”
Mom’s quick reply?
“Oh, that? I don’t know where it comes from. We get it every month. Not sure why!”
I have noticed the more direct the question with my parents…the increased possibility of evasiveness occurs. Almost the same kind of behavior portrayed by myself…as a rebel without a cause…teenager.
The above mentioned situation lead me to think of various other things…I should understand but, simply, do not.
People who drive their motorcycles in the winter time. Now, I get it, in New Hampshire there just is not enough sunlight and warmth. And, after you’ve just put 5,000 down on the new Harley…riding is all you want to do. However, it is often been said,
“The most deadly combination known to man is low IQ and high testosterone.”
― Jarod Kintz
Daylight savings?! What does that even mean? No one really knows what time it is anyway. And, those of us over forty, are not particular fond of how quickly time flies. I say, leave it alone. Every time it happens I have to go out and buy a new cheap digital watch from Wal-Mart.
Went missing? The other day, unfortunately, a small child went missing…channel 9 reported! What does that even mean? If you go somewhere, you went there. If you miss placed your bong…it is gone…M.I.A. There is no in between! The child did not specifically to the beater car, to be missing…A car that was running with the windows up. If the sentence were to make sense. It would need to go like this:Lucinda Lou went to the 89′ Chevy Cavalier without exhaust. She went there to be missing. Lucinda Lou’s mother concurs, when the child went there to the car, something was missing.
Felonious sexual assault! Cut it out! Rape is rape is rape. Why must we be so politically correct? Are we attempting not to insult the sensibilities of a…rapist?
The River dance, Celtic woman, Blue Man group and Trans Siberian orchestra? If any of these groups are one of your favorites…Most likely, you are reading the wrong blog! Can you say, ‘pass me an Ambien and let’s call it a day?’
Who’s your daddy? I know where my daddy is. He’s sleeping at stop light somewhere. Yet, another perk of senior sitting! Who is he? He’s the asshole arguing with Concord P.D., stating, ‘laws are always up to interpretation!’
Just the other day, my father, who is one of the most intelligent people I know. Claimed…
‘Have Ruth open the skylight. She should be able to reach it!’
My father also has some issues with lucidity and stubbornness!
‘Yeah, I’m about three inches taller than dad!’
Father follows with…
‘What’d you mean? I go to the gym once a week. Been doing up to ten sit-ups! I’ve lost five pounds…I’m taller! Almost your height!’
What does that even mean? My father wasn’t even the same height before senior shrinkage happened. Does this mean that weight is not actually lost? It just puts on an inch or two? Perhaps, he meant to say,
My height, my weight and my sanity…went missing. For further information consult your latest subscription to Parenting magazine!
Lately, I’ve witnessed my father with a 10 pound Clairol hairdryer…standing in two feet of snow, trying to warm his truck.
He’d also been out in the middle of the night, boiling hot cup of coffee in hand, dousing a frozen car lock.
He’s also shown me how beautiful his geriatric window-scraper is. The blade made of brass and the handle cracked… hard to hold. While asking to borrow my bought at the five and dime, full length scraper.
My mother? Weird/ Maybe not, but she is just as mischievously odd. Watching Alaskan wilderness shows at two in the morning. Offering up quips and advice on how I can address my lesbian partner.
‘They say, it is proper to refer to a married lesbian couple’s partner, as wife. Not partner. Not spouse. It is more hetero sounding or something like that…’
Devout Catholics and very hip to the ways of the world, my partners have always been freaks. Oafishly original and damn proud of it.
Truck drivers would be embarrassed at the language I grew up on and therefore, made my own.
Often times I wondered…
How does my father know what a rat’s ass looks like?
Often times I sat in my not sheltered world pondering…
Who is Jesus H. Christ and was does my mother seem to think he is up in the ceiling?
My father has begun to see that life is of the essence and made the adult decision that cursing and/or swearing by the boatload… will not get him behind the pearly gates….No matter the vast amounts of money he drops in the bucket at Mass.
Now he is out in the yard…Upset with Mother Nature…The snow, the cold and the wind…and his, my father’s inability to let nature be,
‘F—ing weather. I worry about you kids! I won’t be around to see the earth shit the bed. Goddamn if we’ll ever know the damage we’ve done. What is it ‘they’ call this kind of frigging stuff…global warming?’
On and on and on. Ranting and raving all over the fact the earth is feeling sore. My father and mother..sitttin’ stage right in front of the TV watching the Weather Channel. Waiting for the end to come.
What does f—ing mean: a way to avoid the obvious word, fuck. While surrounding it with other naughty words.
F—ing church wants more and more money…I go in there, assholes that come only two times a year. They don’t give a goddamn what Christ is all about!
Let the weirdness continue with me…
Current old list of swear words that confuse the crap out of me:
Hemorrhoid: name given to any dog owned that causes discomfort.
I.E. vomiting on the coffee table, humping a Cop’s pant leg, shitting on your grandmother’s makeup case.
Pecker Head: frequently spoken when putting stack-able washers and dryers in a space the size of a shoe box.
I.E. I had to go to the hospital…That pecker-head air conditioner from 1960 fell out of the window…the doctor said, my head should pop out of my neck any week now!
Holy Shit: when your mother discovers the fact that you enjoy mild porn…The visual way!
I.E. Holy shit…I didn’t know cows could lay in that position!
Suck my Ass: term used in the middle of a New Hampshire snowstorm…behind a person who believes using a blinker is a suggestion.
I.E. Did you see that Mass-hole? Cut me right off without thinking twice. Go back to your toxic state…asshole!
My favorite vintage swear? Well, it would most likely qualify as a , provocative suggestion:
Doing the sign of the cross, looking up at the ceiling, chanting the words,
Jesus H. Christ! Jesus H. Christ! Jesus H. Christ…you wait until your father gets home!
As a child, when my mother produced this action, fear would blanket my body! If the sky didn’t break open and get me…My father would!
Should I have addressed my father…standing in the snow, electric appliance in hand? I actually did!
The following was bestowed upon me:
What do you think I am? A f—ing numb-nut? I have rubber soles on my sleepers! Your mother’s so upset…she could give a rat-ass about what’s going on with the weather!
There is a quiet, and I am assuming, gentle little man that can be found at my local Gandhi convenience store. Gray haired, ashen and a bit on the pudgy side…Roger can only be unearthed at the Franklin Shop Express. He is either inside grasping his heart and being rude to customers. Or, he can be found outside, dirtying the earth with his Marlboro Red cigarettes. He is not an employee. No one is really sure where this Mickey Rooney knock off came from. He just is and he just arrives…out of the blue!
I chat with Roger…because he and I are on the same wave length: save the bullshit for the youngsters, we should be glad we get along.
I mention Roger because he seems to be doing the growing old thing with some style and with some sort of weird twist on ‘kick the can’…the New England way; crusty, cranky and stubbornly!
Roger is not a ‘teenaged’ senior…like my parents. Roger is a S.U.O. (senior of unknown origin). The type you would like to bring home to meet your centurion grandmother!
What is the requirement to be a teenaged senior?
Older, galavant-ly matured persons…Little seniors fighting their own private technological war!’ These persons buy products to which Shark Tank would 0ffer a thumbs down and a middle finger up. And, to which, the gadget industry displays as infomercials on Sunday afternoons. Right after reruns of the Match Game’ and right before the Leave it to Beaver marathon!
Teenaged Seniors are usually found off in the woods…in a home built for two. Set in a rustic setting with log cabin paraphernalia and artsy pictures of Covered Bridges. What sets these seniors apart from ‘normal’ ones? The loud noises! Everything is loud. The shutting of the refrigerator is a buxom boom, the wrapping of the known to everyone Christmas gifts can produce sounds equal to or louder than a show tune by Liberace volume 10!
Why is it so loud? No one can hear each other…So they talk over each other…Therefore, we, they, just keep talkin’ over… each other. No one is heard but the good thing is? You get to tell and/or hear the same old story over and over again!
These persons pass retirement and built with grit are willing to ‘pay for things they used to get free!‘ Paper bags, plastic bags, elastics, pens and pencils, candy from the jar at the bank, catalogs and the newspaper. These newly acquired objects of ‘another person’s trash is a senior’s person treasure,’ are often scattered about the house.
Last year, I had been able to construct my own Shanty town out of newspapers, church flyers and L.L. Bean catalogs. This Shanty town was placed on my Teenaged Senior Parent’s lawn for the times when the whatchaMAcallits die!
Jack and Jackie’s of all Trades but electronics…this worrisome group loves the following gadgets:
GPS, Tablets, Blue Tooth and/or anything that plays games.
##It should be noted that recently, an elderly woman from a local town had gone missing. She was last seen trying to get Candy Crush Soda app on her GPS while searching for the nearest Dollar Store on her hand held Yahtzee game and taking her blood pressure with her Tablet!
Seniors with maturity issues often come not only in pairs but in foursomes. Two small dogs, neurotic and pedigree generally find themselves a home with Teenaged Seniors. They are neurotic to begin with because they were adopted from a breeder on Craig’s list whose only recommendations were the NRA and the Moose Cutter’s Union. They continue on with their mental maladjustment by living in a loud house with persons that shower them with bling off the QVC network.
In ending, you have caught yourself a Teenaged Senior if the following has been witnessed:
A man or a woman in a bathroom and sleepers with two extend A leashes and two coked out dogs! This person has just had a ‘spell’ in the a foot of snow and has fallen and is now yelling to their partner in crime. Their partner in crime is also in a bathrobe… It is 1: am….They are preparing to set out for the city to pay an insurance bill that has gone unpaid. Everyone has their perspective phones but none are on. There is music playing in the background…’your lights are on but no one’s home’!
My parents are Teenaged Seniors and have often been know to cook a steak at midnight. Forgotten to go to church though they have been going since Christ was a child. My mother currently holds the record for the largest collection of plug n play devices…for persons over 65. My father is currently adding to his screw driver set…he now has twelve in the bathroom, 16 in the family room, 10 in the office and none in the basement where they belong.
Last I saw of them, my mother had fallen because she needed that one last present out of the truck and could not wait. I’ve been told, ‘ssh, don’t tell your father!’
My father was listening to Raspberry Beret by Prince while heading to the 24 hour Pet Store at 3: am., to get a Thunder calming shirt for his over the top dog.
Me, I am just sittin’ around wondering…where’s roger?
This blog has designed specifically for those with selective sight!
Selective Sight: choosing to see only those things that we want to see!
-support your mental health everyday…humor and a good bowel movement should do the trick!