Tag Archives: dad

Rainy Tuesday

From somewhere on Facebook; mom-isms made in to inspirational posters.
From somewhere on Facebook; mom-isms made in to inspirational posters.

Today is Tuesday and today it rained.  My dad used to answer our pestering-kid questions wanting to know WHEN something was going to happen by telling us “a week from the next rainy Tuesday”.  This answer always made me sigh and roll my eyes and stop asking, but it also made me promise myself that I would keep track of the days of the week and note when it rained and thus be way ahead of the game.  Of course I never did, and if that Tuesday from the last rainy one ever did roll around I would have long forgotten what the question was anyway.  Which was no doubt his intent.

So that’s what I was thinking about this morning when I got up early and went out in the rain and off to the lab for my 8:15 a.m. appointment with the doctors requisition slip for fasting blood work stuffed in my bag.  I had eaten nothing since about 7:00 p.m. the day before.  Unfortunately I had also had almost nothing to drink.  Perhaps somewhere in the back of my little pea sized dehydrated brain I got the prep rules for this mixed up with those for surgery where you can’t even have water.  And because it was earlier than I usually take my meds and I would probably be home in about twenty minutes, I did not take my diuretic.  And I had no coffee.  And the last thing I did before leaving the house was use the bathroom, because mom always made us do that when we were going somewhere, whether we needed to or not.  Obviously my parents were both very influential people.

Can you see where this is going?  I swear there were no check marks at all in the little urinalysis box on that paper, but after I happily gave up three vials of blood the nurse handed me the dreaded styrofoam cup with my name on it.  Saying I didn’t think I’d be able to do it just got me that mom look.  So I asked for some water and headed off to the bathroom.

I was in there for a good twenty minutes.  I drank enough water to drown a horse, until it made me gag.  Then I started to sweat because it was damned hot in that tiny room with my hoodie on, but why take it off when I’m going straight home, right?  Who the hell ever thought peeing in a cup was a good idea?  I couldn’t do it.  I came out with the empty cup in my hand and told them I was going to sit in the waiting room for a bit.  They said they were wondering what happened to my sample, and would I like some water?  Double gag.

Alternately reading emails on my phone and watching the clock from 9:00 to 9:30 with still no urge whatsoever to urinate, I felt like a complete failure.  Asked to do ONE SIMPLE THING and unable to get it done.  Not knowing if giving up was an option.  Would they let me come back later?  Would I have to get another requisition?  What would happen if I smashed the damned cup and told them all they were ridiculous?  I was definitely not living in the moment, and fervently wishing to be somewhere else.

Finally after another fifteen or so minutes of extreme discomfort from all that water and embarrassment for being there so long and senseless frustration with myself I had some small degree of success.  I wonder if that might have been the most minute urine sample ever submitted for testing, but opted not to stick around to find out.

I drove home in the pouring rain, took my medication, drank two cups of coffee and then headed off to the pharmacy to fill my prescriptions and do some shopping and pick up the mail and guess what?  Could not wait to rush back into my house to use the bathroom.

The moral of this story is to always be prepared for whatever is happening being the opposite of what you thought you wanted to happen and have faith that everything will work out exactly right a week from the next rainy Tuesday.  And this Tuesday, even though it is indeed a rainy one,  doesn’t count because the rule is it has to be the NEXT one.

Glad I got that all sorted out.  And you wonder why I don’t like to leave home.

Rocks

rocks

A couple of days ago, Michele at Life As A Garden ….(she has a beautiful blog – you should check it out) (go ahead, I’ll wait right here)…..wrote this comment on one of my posts:

“You could be talking about rocks and I would find the reading interesting and entertaining.”

After reading this one lovely little sentence there were so many thoughts tumbling around in my head that I was unable to form a coherent reply.  Although that’s nothing new.

I love getting comments, by the way, which I read mostly on my phone, thinking I will go back to them later when I’m on my laptop and reply to them properly.  But time goes by and I don’t get around to it and I feel bad about that, so I try to convince myself that the commenter by now has totally moved on and maybe doesn’t even remember what he or she said, or more likely who I am, and how embarrassing would it be to post a reply now, RIGHT??  So it’s not personal.  It’s just me being a super procrastinator.

But back to those tumbling thoughts I mentioned.  Here’s a few of the highlights.

1.  Holy cow, somebody finds me interesting and entertaining.  Yay!

2.  Huh – she’s right.  I rarely write about anything earth shatteringly important.

3.  And, I’m not about to start doing so any time soon, or most likely ever.

4.  Because my best posts are quite often about completely stupid things.

5.  Hey! Wait a minute!  I have a story about rocks!

Way back in 1969 or somewhere thereabouts, my dad was Reeve of our little Ontario township and got invited to go to a Good Roads Convention in Alberta, all the way at the other end of the country.  He and mom decided it would be a great idea to take their three daughters on a road trip.  We would travel to the convention, and then continue on all the way to the west coast.  We were all excited to see the Pacific Ocean for some strange reason which totally escapes me now.

We borrowed my brothers car, because he was a great mechanic and always had cars that could be trusted to drive clear across countries getting great gas mileage and not breaking down.  For me, travelling has always been something one endures in order to leave one place and arrive at a completely different place.  I’m getting better at enjoying the journey, but not much. I should have taken lessons from my mother when I had the chance.

She loved every single minute in that car, pouring over road maps and reading aloud every sign we passed, calculating how far we’d go and where we’d stop for breaks and gas and where we’d sleep.  She wrote down what we spent and the weather we encountered and what we had for breakfast, for all I know.  And every time she stepped foot out of the car, she picked up a souvenir rock.

We were all encouraged to appreciate and exclaim over the special characteristics of each unique chunk of the landscape that mom tucked away in the trunk or under the seats or in the glove compartment all the way to the coast and back. I thought she should write on them so she’d remember where they came from but she said that would spoil them.  I didn’t know that was possible, but I guess that’s how you spoil a rock.

The other thing we collected was a glass bottle full of Pacific Ocean water, complete with some kind of goopy green seaweed and a few shells and some sand.  If we had only kept the bottle sealed we might still have it hanging around somewhere looking all murky and mysterious.  But a couple of weeks after returning home we realized it smelled really bad and dumped it down the laundry tub drain.

You may be wondering what mom did with all those precious rocks she collected, and the truth is, I’m wondering too.  I’m wondering if the fun was in the collecting and she really had no firm plan for them at all.  Maybe she lost track of their numbers or just got tired of hauling them out of the car when we were unpacking.  Or she may have meant to go back for the rest of them and never got around to it.  (I did get a few of her genes).

My brother brought dads car back and picked up his own and drove it home. He probably took it to a car wash to clean it off and vacuum it out, because it wasn’t too long before we got his phone call, wanting to know why the hell his car was full of rocks.

Well you really couldn’t pretend not to know.  We told him they were moms, and he should bring them back, because she worked so hard to gather them up and haul them thousands of miles.  But Dad told him to just throw them out, so that’s what he did.

The funny thing is I don’t know where the rest of them ended up – did mom take any of those rocks out of the car?  She certainly never mentioned them again in all her ‘wonderful trip’ stories.  I guess it’s just one of our family mysteries which will remain forever unsolved because probably no one but me even remembers it.  Hey, it’s a story about rocks.  I didn’t say it was going to be exciting.

Anyway, thank you Michele for your inspirational comment.  If you never say anything to me again for fear of getting me started,  I totally understand.

Thank You Alanis

Happy Fathers Day
Happy Fathers Day (Photo credit: spaceyjessie)

It’s a travel Sunday for me, starting with a cab ride to the airport at five a.m.

Happy Fathers Day to all the dads out there who are spending their day in a more sane manner.  Every time I travel I think of my mom telling me before a visit – We’re coming to see you, dead or alive!  Well maybe you had to know my mom to get how funny that is.

Thank you Alanis for being grateful for all kinds of weird shit.

Thank you to the airplane Gods for safe flights.  Catch you on the flip side.

Father’s Day Close Up

The photo challenge this week is “Close”.  And it’s Father’s Day.  So I’m combining these two themes and giving you this.

My beautiful granddaughter and my handsome son.  It’s from a few years ago, and one of my most favourite Father-Daughter shots ever.  You can never be too close to your dad and it’s impossible to love your kids too much.

On Bumping Into An Ex

If you suddenly ran into your most recent ex, what would be your first response?

Ex Boss:  She still has the power to make me cringe and feel ill.  So I would smile and say hello and imagine what it would feel like to strangle her.

Ex Almost Son-in-Law:  Even though he’s kind of an idiot, I would tell him I’m happy that he keeps in touch with his daughter, and be thankful for the bond they have with eachother.  She loves her dad.

Ex Boyfriend:  I’d say something tactfully brilliant like OMG, I thought you were dead!  Either that or I wouldn’t even recognize him.  Because that’s already happened.

Ex husband: I don’t have one.  Yet.  HAHA!  Just kidding W.  Probably the only way you’ll get rid of me is if one of us dies.  Not trying to give you any ideas or anything.

Ex friends on Facebook:  You deleted me as your friend!  I can’t believe it!  And I would have noticed sooner if I hadn’t had you on ignore for so long that I forgot you were my friend!  Seriously, I’m crushed.  Please reconsider, so that I can ignore your friend request.

Ex Paper Boy:  I’ve missed you.  Your replacement is a spastic unreliable little twit.  (It’s your brother?  Oooops.  Sorry.  I’m sure he’ll figure it out…..)

Mastering Words

With five grandchildren to choose from, it’s not an easy decision to pick the absolute funniest thing that any one of them has said. I’ll just share the one my dad loved to hear me tell.

A bit of background info first – his favourite book was “Catcher in the Rye”, where there are delightfully expressive expletives on every page. He never swore himself, but he could appreciate the use of swear words to get a message across. A joke that made him laugh was the story of an old man who gathered his four sons around him to make a sorrowful confession.

“I’m sorry to tell you this boys, but your mother and I were never married.” Sons one through three express surprise, disbelief and dismay. Son number four, having nothing new to add says “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you bastards, but I’m tired and I’m going to bed.”

I took my granddaughter (then age 3) to a playground once where she was happily climbing on the wooden construction that had ladders and ropes and tunnels and stairs. An older boy (perhaps around 5) began to pop up in front of her to block her way, and jump from behind things to try to scare her. Since she didn’t seem to be too annoyed by him I didn’t intervene. But I guess he did it one too many times, because suddenly she turned around and stomped over to me, put her hands on her hips and exclaimed “That boy is being a little MASTER.” There was no mistaking the tone and the inflection and what she really meant to say.

The expression became one of my dad’s favourites, and thus a family joke. Whenever someone was being bothersome or irritating he would ask them to please stop being a little master.

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If I Could Relive Any Day of My Life

Torn sunset.

It would be the day I went to see my parents who shared a room in a Care Centre and because I’m such an incredibly interesting person, they both fell asleep. It was time for me to go, and I decided not to wake them. I didn’t say goodbye. I just walked away and left them. I could have gone back the next morning before I left to drive to the airport, but I was rushed and I didn’t. Mom passed away a few days later.

I have always hated to say goodbye, but if I could go back and relive that day I would just suck it up and do it. I’d turn myself around and walk back to both of them and nudge them awake and say the things I should have said and not be such a blubbering sobbing mess all this time later just thinking about it.

Gawd. Maybe that’s not the greatest day to relive. Last Wednesday when I went to see Toy Story 3 with my nine-year-old granddaughter. That was a good day. I think I’ll opt for that one instead. Although I ended up crying at the end of the movie when Andy said good-bye to his toys, so maybe we could just skip that part. And maybe add some extra butter on the popcorn.