The Dryer Incident

Laundry is really not an interesting topic, especially, in my household. As you recall, I’ve mentioned the large quantities of occupants I dwell with, so the sound of a continual washing machine is commonplace around here. Last night, the dryer broke. It just stopped. No more bellowing out the sounds of shoes thudding inside or a zipper clanking. Just call a repair man and have it fixed, you say. End. of. story.

I wish it were that simple.

My Father, "The Bishop" is quite worthy of repairing many things. He has decided he will repair the dryer.
I'm quietly doing some research in another part of the house when I am summoned to the Laundry room. Upon my arrival, I find the dryer is completely disassembled. There is a giant hollow tube in the middle of the room that looks something like a metal barrel without ends on it. This is obviously the spinning device used to circulate the clothes. Even I can asses this. There is also two sides and a bottom of what once looked like a dryer. My father is standing behind the shell of what is left  holding a small black box with some sort of gauge on it and wires extending from it to the dryer. This is a multi-meter I am told. Something to do with measuring voltage or ohms or something. Anyway, he is testing the dryer and needs me to push the button, his hands are full. We determine whatever he is testing is working just fine. He informs me he will be moving the dryer and all of its remaining pieces into the garage, (with the spare refrigerator, I mind you) to continue his exploratory surgery and since "Gadget" has moved in, we can use his dryer until ours is back in service. He'll bring it in from the garage. Great. Case closed.
This afternoon, I walk out into the garage and find "the bishop" hunched over sandpapering his dolly. (a two-wheeled device used to move heavy objects). Without word, I look around and the garage has been transformed into what appears to be a surgical room for a junkyard.

Against my better judgment, I ask, "what are you doing, dad"


“What does it look like I'm doing!  I'm sandpapering rust spots off my dolly.”

“What about the dryer?”

“The dolly has to be painted before It can be used to move the dryer.” 

Again against my better judgment, Why?

“Well. because. it. looks. bad.”

(This is where I really show my stupidty).

"So does the dryer, now."

No you can't push Great Grandma in the pool, she's my mother, let me help....

We've all heard of coke bottle glasses right? The big thick lenses with thick black frames; well, forget the coke bottles, I'll have enough empty vodka bottles by noon, and I’ll be able to take over Lenscrafters.
I touched a little on the colorful people in my life in yesterdays post. I mentioned the dysfunction dynamics that makes up my family. Today I’d like to elaborate a bit more on some of that. My Parents. Super good people, Love Love Love them to pieces. At times, little, tiny, crunched up, squished pieces. But none the less, I adore the shit out of them. They spent a lifetime giving me and my sisters everything we needed, wanted and often shouldn't have gotten. They loved us, nurtured us, taught us, wiped our asses, feed and clothed us.
It was a trick. PAYBACK .

Exhibit 1. I am in the yard, I am in the process of hooking up the pool vacuum. My mother, hmmm what shall we name her for future reference, How bout Queen. OK, so Queen comes out, stands at the pool edge and proclaims “the pool needs to be vacuumed” I look at her shocked.
My grandson, whom is two, sneaks over and puts his hand behind her as if to teasingly push her in the pool, first instinct…Let me help! Reaction... no baby you can’t push Great- Grandma in the pool. Thought racing through my mind…only I get that pleasure. Now this may sound mean and spiteful at first glance, but let me first introduce…

Exhibit 2. A warm sunny afternoon, birds are chirping, sun is shining and all that, I walk in the house, Queen and hmmmm, what to call Dad, Bishop. Anyway, Queen and Bishop are eating some ice cream and strawberries with my visiting sister. I sit down to visit as well, and my sister, whom we can call Mrs. Martini, grabs a bowl off the counter to give me some ice cream and berries as well. So nice right? Anyway after I finish, the queens smirks and says that was the bowl I gave my dog ice cream from. This is when I hear the sound of a needle screeching across a record. What!?!? Rewind, why are you disclosing this NOW?!?! Well, he licked it so clean I didn’t know, Mrs. Martini claims. You had already taken a bite and my mouth was full my mother says. This brings us back to exhibit 1. Understand???

Exhibit 3. My sister’s neighbors are two sweet little old ladies. They are in fact, sisters. Said sisters are in the middle of a foreclosure and would like to sell their refrigerator before they move. My mother decides she wants to purchase it as an additional refrigerator so we have some extra space for holidays and what not. Not a bad idea. We do have half of the county residing with us at this point.

The new refrigerator…. Thanks old ladies next door! This morning, our father is measuring several different spots around the 18 inch by 18 inch room we call the laundry/pantry. This said mammoth refrigerator will not fit, I mean it will, if it's never, ever opened and no one wishes to ever carry a load of laundry through the room again. My suggestion, how bout put it in garage, it’s right outside said laundry room. “Nope, Nope, no”, that won’t work my father insists. Why? I ask. “Well, it won’t get used for one thing.” Keep in mind, the garage is maybe 20 feet from the existing refrigerator we use in the actual kitchen. Now I’m no expert on distance, but it doesn’t appear to be all that far. Ok, Dad, well there’s always the option of duct taping it to the ceiling and doing a dash by opening of it, allowing the contents to drop to the floor each time you want some left over green beans. He scowls. An angry scowl I might add. “But hey, call me crazy, I'd rather not eat them off the floor that no one can walk on because there's no room.” So on to Dad’s next idea, how bout we put wheels on it and attach it to the door that goes into the garage, if you want to go out the door, you just turn the door knob and the door opens with the entire said mammoth refrigerator attached. I can't believe I didn't come up with this brilliant idea myself. How revolutionary. Again, I had the stupidest idea ever, how bout put it 6 inches farther which places it just OUTSIDE the door in the garage. Wellllll, silly girl of lesser intelligence, that won't work because no one will use it and it will cost more to have it IN the garage. Apparently, I hadn’t been clued in on the secret fact that electric companies charge more for outlets used in a garage rather than a house. I'm going out on a limb here and making a broad spectrum statement to all of the world, if you can't effin walk an extra 3 steps to the refrigerator, then really you don't need to eat from it in the first effin place. God help us all, I'm going to teach my Grand babies to be very, very careful of what they do to piss off their parents, because one day, ONE DAY, the sneaky fuckers WILL get them back. No more diapers kids, pee in the toilet from birth, trust me on this, you'll thank me one day!

In all seriousness folks, dealing with aging parents can be very trying and will require patience and large quantities of Vodka. It can be a challenging responsibility and it's very important to develop good observation and communication skills and to allow them to make as many decisions as possible to make them feel in control and give them a sense of value. Keep your eyes open and pay attention to any changes in their ability to make decisions, attentiveness, attitude and demeanor.

This is exactly why I highly recommend looking at life through the bottom of a vodka bottle. Things are much clearer now.

The AARP has some extremely helpful information on this subject at
http://www.aarp.org/families/caregiving/caring_parents/

Cheers!
C

My obsession with Vodka and the likes....

So I woke up this morning and on my rush to the bathroom, tripped over a transformer action figure and skidded into the loo with the help of a matchbox car. It's apparent my two year old Grandson has moved in with me, along with his entertainment committee, which we will call his parents. I have a houseful of colorful people. Let me elaborate, I have 3 children, of the boy kind. Two are grown with children of their own and one is still in his torturous teenage years. My oldest son and his family have recently relocated to my spare bedroom. My elderly parents also reside with me. I know your thinking, wow it must be a big house....well not big enough! I am going to be taking on life through the bottom of a vodka bottle, or possibly any kind of alcohol I can get my grubby little hands on in bulk. Said teenage son, whom we will call "Ace", simply because he is an incredible student/child. We are so proud, but question his relation to us, he has turned 16 and would like a car. He has several in mind, but lacks funding to match his taste, so that we will be "working" on. Anyway, the eldest, whom we will refer to as "Gadget" because he is always fucking with shit, has become ill and needed a place to reside while recovering/unable to obtain gainful employment. However, this blog is not going to cover any of the above today, no today is about Middle boy, who we could refer to as "Stu" simply because he is, well, stubborn. Just like his mother. Again off topic. "Stu" has decided to enlist in the military. Now, like many of you might be, I am proud of this decision to join millions of Americans serving this great country of ours, I think it's very respectful and honorable. But I'm the mom, SOOOO I kinda hate it too. Only because we are in the middle of a war that may never end. "Stu" is only 19 and the only combat he has had involved a nerf gun. I mean sure he hunted a bit growing up, so he is familiar with guns, but not so much as a weapon of war. I guess he'll undoubtedly learn many things I'm anxious for him to learn and he will have a complete understanding of teamwork and responsibility and many other important factors, and he will have some job security in an ever increasingly poor market. But I find myself kind of wishing he wanted to be a Rockstar. They have treatment for that. It's just the mom in me screaming the words to "Simple Man" by Lynryd Skynryd. “Stu” will be transported via U.S. Military to this swearing in ceremony, which I was told I couldn’t go. I’m not sure if this is a Military rule or a “Stu” rule. Either they don’t let mommy go because they don’t want them begging them not to sign on the dotted line, or “Stu” is afraid I may beg them to come to my house and take them all away. Either way, I feel very out of the loop or ill-informed at best. We spend so many years teaching our children what we think is important and then one day they just up and do it. Sneaky little shits, I didn’t think they were listening.