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2007-03-10 - 10:02 p.m.

The Roller Coaster Story

Have you guys seen the movie "Parenthood" with Steve Martin?

Grandma can wax poetic over life symbolism, and pontificate all she likes about the exciting ride (then proceed to sit in the neighbor's car), but I PREFER the merry-go-round to the roller coaster.

For the most part.

Right now, I have so many things in the hopper I can hardly keep them all straight.

First off, I'm currently the high bidder on a pristine sheet of 1970's stamps that feature the highlights of the decade. I'm mainly interested in the Secretariat Triple Crown stamp, but how can I pass up the yellow smiley face and the advent of the VCR? (Yes, I was surprised to know that one made the cut as well).

As it happens, I already have a single Secretariat stamp (somewhere), as well as a big framed poster of it. Gotta round out the trio (triple, get it?), so my life becomes complete. Plus, whether I win the auction or not, the money goes to my favorite charity. Very cool non-profit beans.

Next, I'm awaiting ordering information on a show ribbon won by Seabiscuit movie star, Rich In Dallas. That money goes to same charity as well. I had the pleasure of meeting him twice; the second time I helped give him a bath. He's DOE DWEET. How could I pass up an opportunity to get one of his very first horse show ribbons? Ok, so maybe it's only for 5th place...but STILL. He was just learning the ropes.

And I know I mentioned this many moons ago, but do yourself a favor and read Dallas' blog. Very funny and cute.

Let's see...what else?

I need to finish knitting my scarf. I'm almost at 36" now, with a goal of 50+, because you know I like 'em big.

Scarves, that is.

I've been dying to try out different stitches on scrap yarn for practice. And I still have so many basic things to learn, like adding in a new color, decreasing/increasing rows, casting off, etc.

Meanwhile, surfing blogs of other knitwits has kept me busy.

Busy doing everything BUT knitting lately. I've done a few rows a day, so THERE.

And soon it will be time for me to head back to Kentucky. It'll be bittersweet. I've gotten so used to not being alone now, things will seem strange back at my place. The feeling will pass in a few days though, and I'll be back in my regular unemployed routine.

I don't relish the 1,000 mile roadtrip, or how I'm going to fit all the stuff that I've acquired while in Houston in the car. One of my mottos is: "Don't worry, I'll MAKE it fit." (As well as "Oh shit, that was a bad idea.")

And I certainly am NOT looking forward to conducting a job search when my moolah starts getting low. Makes me want to scream "Don't make me! I don't wanna!" while clutching the bedsheets and kicking my legs in protest.

Dammit. I better call Mac over at Stuckey's and check on the haps. Hopefully I won't have to work the afternoon blowjob shift. With any luck, SallyJo will be back from medical leave by then. Although the "gearshift incident" was rather unpleasant, at least she's not pregnant anymore. I tried to find her a card depicting a cloud with a silver lining, but they were fresh out at the dollar store.

I guess I'll just get her a CD by Hole in the clearance bin at Sam Goody's. That SallyJo is a trooper, with a sharp sense of humor.

But seriously...I need to call Mac.

And in other news, which has (seriously) popped the cozy bubble mom and I so lovingly created before and after the emergency trip to visit Dad in Baton Rouge: We don't have to worry about having to go back there before I leave.

Because he showed up at the house last night here in Houston at 9 pm. GOOD. FUCKING. LORD.

I had a whole draft of a rant prepared, but I'll spare you (for now). Bottom line, we'd gotten word through the grapevine that Dad had been BANNED from returning to work by his boss for at least a week, or until his health improved.

Basically, he looked like hell on Thursday, and a co-worker was forced to drag him to the doctor. The doctor (an associate of his regular internist) read Dad the riot act: "You have deliberately disobeyed everything you've been told, and if you keep drinking more than a liter of fluid a day, you have two choices: 1) Wind up in the hospital again in worse shape than you were in before, 2) Die. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Word is that Dad's boss called from Dallas and told him he was not allowed back at work until he received written authorization from the doctor. Well, this doctor felt that Dad would be better off in a environment where he could be monitored, instead of home alone, so he signed the goddamn authorization for him to return to work! Which is exactly what Dad wanted!

So Friday rolled around, Dad still looked like hell and bossman had to call him AGAIN to put a stop to this. He said Dad's condition was disruptive to his co-workers and the work environment, and that he must stay away from work for at least a week to rest and heal. Dad supposedly replied that he didn't feel safe being alone. So his assistant mentioned going to Houston.

Thanks a fucking lot! Should we tip you?

We heard that he might be headed our way when he left the office that afternoon, but no one was sure. He had his cell phone turned off, so we couldn't reach him. For hours, the whole family was wringing their hands wondering if he went home to rest, or was on the road (endangering god knows how many people since he can barely stay awake/think straight), or would collapse over the weekend and we'd get a call from the morgue on Monday.

Anyway, the good news is that he's stopped drinking his Dad Smack (diet Dr. Pepper) and is limiting his water intake. He spends most of his time in the family room (about 15 feet away from where I'm sitting in the kitchen) sleeping in one of the wingback chairs.

The bad news is that he spends most of his time in in the family room sleeping in one of the wingback chairs. Last night he kept us up past midnight. We couldn't go to sleep until he'd taken his PM pills and we'd helped him up the stairs to the guest room (which we had to run around and Dad-ize).

He dozes and wakes up asking what time it is and what's going on. Mom and I have no real privacy anymore. We can't talk too loud, or increase the TV volume, or put the A/C on because he gets too cold. I have to be extra careful with the dogs now (he gets annoyed if they get curious and go up to sniff him). Why he can't just rest upstairs instead of down here for hours on end, I have no idea.

We have to make sure he takes his pills, has his blanket, his tissues, something to prop his feet on...and scurry around getting him snacks and meals (we're trying so hard to give him things with low sodium), putting "only a few" ice cubes and "a little" water in his glass, and generally tending to his every need. When he's awake(ish) he mumbles the same stories and (old)newsbits over and over.

We said we wouldn't cater to him, but he's so goddamn pathetic, it's hard NOT to (plus, we're used to it -- mom and I have been on serving duty with him as long as I can remember. He's old school. We're women. It's expected.)

I know, I KNOW. But if I had a hammer...

I love him of course (he was awake a few minutes ago telling me how much he wants to get better, and how good my dogs are, that "Midnight is the bus to sleepyland," and asking me about fun times I remember as a kid), but sometimes...DAMN.

His sweet reminiscences about our trips to So. Cal, Chicago, Pennsylvania, Michigan and Colorado suddenly turned to defiance again: "I gotta work, I need to get this THING taken care of, so I can go back to work. Everybody made a big damn deal because I only wore one shoe to work."

YOUR FEET WERE BLOATED LIKE BALLOONS AND ONE WAS OOZING PUS. YOU CAN BARELY WALK OR BREATHE. YOUR SKIN WAS YELLOW. YOU CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED 2 MINUTES AGO.

But there is no use in saying such things. Promptly ignored. I tried to discuss with him the finer points of resting and taking it easy, but he's looking at this is as some sort of forced vacation. "Do the time," then resume work as if nothing happened.

You're lucky they've kept you on this long, Mr. Man. They have bent over backwards to accomodate you. Your co-workers are NOT your hall monitors and nursemaids!

When he's sharp and honest(ish), he harps about mistakes he made with money (spending spending spending and never saving -- Ferrari, BMW, Mercedes, Corvette, 2 Packards and a huge addition to the house within 3 years of us going to college -- without setting a cent aside for our college fund!), then he talks about how nice it was that we had money to provide us with the chance to travel and create memories, because before you know it, you're old and you can't do those things anymore.

Mixed message there? (Ya think?)

But when any of us in the family have tried to tell him to get his paperwork in order and ducks in a row, just in case, he blows us out of the water. "It's in a box, at the house," he spats.

WHICH box?! I peeped in the steel one under the kitchen counter in Baton Rouge....and old car insurance policies don't cover it, bubba.

Last night, when he was mumbling somewhat coherently, he mentioned to mom that they should set up accounts for their two grandchildren and teach them the value of saving their money.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Then tonight, he asked me when I planned to get another job. When I replied "soon" and that I was living off a tidy sum of money I'd SAVED from a previous job, he said "You're not 22 anymore."

"And I'm not 45 either. I don't have a family of my own, or a mortgage either," I shot back.

"Well," he replied "you need to eat."

REALLY? Because I didn't know that. Thanks for the newsflash, Dad.

Let's just say I'm a bit more eager to get back to Lexington now.

Mom and I knew the minute he showed up that "our time" was over. Does he realize he popped the bubble? Does he care?

Hell no!

Mom tried to talk me into leaving this weekend in an attempt to spare me from his wrath. I appreciate the thought, but no can do. I can't leave her alone with THE DAD MONSTER. Anyway, there's no way I'm driving 1,000 miles back to Kentucky only to find out 2 days later I need to board my dogs and catch the next plane because he toppled over headfirst while reaching for his Ex-Lax.

He's a ticking timebomb. And the results ain't gonna be pretty.

Life is certainly a bitch. Thank god I have my knitting, my job search and my "Law & Order" reruns on TiVo to look forward to.

Does anyone have a hammer? Seriously.