TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Tuesday, It Must Be Vivaldi

Today started with the blues. The thermometer in the sunroom was pointing to 20. That's Fahrenheit and not Celsius. Sigh. I couldn't sip my morning cup of tea in the sunroom without watching a scum of ice form around the rim. Is it August, yet?

The car had a glaze of frost on the windows which I had to scrape off before I drove The Youngest to school. Why is it that car manufacturers can put the thin, heating wires in the back window, can heat the side view mirrors, but can't heat the @%$*@$ windshield without it having to be scraped?

On top of everything, I had an emergency Weeble run because Ma had to have a flu shot. That would be a 45 minute trip down, a five minute trip to the doctor, and then a 45 minute trip home.

I was whining about my morning to The Youngest, and she serenaded me with the world's smallest violin. Smart ( ! ) see if Santa brings anything for you!

I arrived at the Weebles at a quarter to 10. the appointment was at 10:30 and the doc's office is around the block. Ma was in fine form complaining. Dad didn't get up early enough to make the coffee for her. He didn't bring her a cup of coffee. He doesn't do anything. I started tuning up my own violin. "You're not that much of an invalid that you can't make your own coffee." She asked me why I was sitting down, and I told her we had plenty of time as her appointment wasn't until 10:30. She said it was at 10 and started putting her coat on. Then she called for a cup of coffee. I sat down before she ordered off with my head.

Dad couldn't find his house keys. No matter I have keys to the house and can lock the front door. I herd them to the car, lock the front door, am halfway downstairs when Ma shouts: "Where's my pockabook?" My first instinct was to shout, "What am I? The World Book of Information?" I remembered never miss an opportunity to keep your mouth shut. The purse was on the doorknob of the closet where she retrieved her coat, but I kept my mouth shut, opened the door and returned with her purse. Got everyone buckled in the car and headed down the road.

When I'm out and about, I try to observe other Weebles to see if they behave like my Weebles. My Weebles constantly bicker. Ma is the instigator, and she hits her stride when she has an audience, and the more public the venue, the better.

As we got out of the elevator, a Weeble lady got in. I held the door open for her. She starts griping, "Where is he? Oh! He must be talking!" At first, I thought she meant Dad. A quick glance to my right showed me, she was exasperated with her Mr. Weeble. "He's being a gentleman and holding the door open for my parents." She clammed up.

Lots of Weebles were lining up for flu shots. I thought it would take a while so I wandered down back to the lab to hold an OPD Support Group with the lab tech. Misery just loves company. I told her of the emergency ride call I received. She said: "They knew a week ago." I looked for a spot on the wall labeled Bang Head Here. She regaled me with a tale of hunting through stores for a specific lotion for her mother. When the lotion couldn't be found, her mother said, "Well, any lotion would do!" Bang Head Here.

The shot line was short, Ma was in and out quickly. We get down to the car and Ma announces she needs Dad to go to the post office downtown to check out why a contest letter was returned. I hate driving downtown. All the streets are one way, parking is limited to parallel parking which I haven't done since I took my driver's exam. I grit my teeth and head to the post office. Downtown was very crowded. Even if I could parallel park there were no spaces. We pull up in front of the post office. In frustration I scream my favorite four letter word. No, not sale! The other one. MA grits her teeth. Dad is chuckling in the back seat. He can speak in tongues fluently in two languages! He mutters "Chip off the ol' block." Miraculously, the handicap slot in front of the post office opens up and because it's the length of a luxury bus, I'm able to pull in. Ma digs out the handicap parking placard and Dad goes into the post office and comes back out.

"Well, what did they say?"

"I have to ask the postman." I'm wondering who the heck is in the post office, but I keep my mouth shut. Dad mumbles he didn't bring the letter in question with him. Fireworks begin as I am detoured down Clarendon St. "

"You're stupid!"

"You're stupid!"

"No, you're stupid!"

"You're right! I married you!" Zing! Though I think a flag was thrown on the play. I try not to laugh.

"Go down Washington St."

"I know, Ma"

"Go down Washington St. "

"I know where I am, Dad. That's Mary Anne Sullivan's house. There's Dougie Horton's house. There's Jimmy Paquette's house."

Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.