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.

 

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Juggling Monkeys

I thought I would have a free and clear day. There was nothing marked on the calendar on the fridge. I'd get the Young One to school, the Eldest to work, and then I'd be able to settle in and work on the book project. Maybe even have it finished by the end of the week.

As the Young One got ready for school, I took my morning tea and booted up my square headed spouse. The hum of the disk drive spinning up was meditative. The desktop widgets blinked to life. The Heath birthday countdown calender. Big Bopper's cheery "Helloooo, Baby!", the day's weather, monthly calendar, and the day planner. My eyes popped out of my head. It couldn't be. A 10:30 Weeble doctor's appointment? We were just there a week ago! It must be a mistake! Yes, that's it! A mistake. I marked the wrong date.

Before I left to take the Eldest to work, I made the mistake of calling the Weebles. Ma answered the phone.

"Do you have a doctor's appointment today?"

"Yes, at 10:30."

My heart sank at the loss of productive me time. At least I'm good at juggling monkeys.

Ma must have been in a good mood because she was yelling at Dad when I got to the house. She went to get dressed and Dad and I had a few minutes alone.

"Did that check clear?"

"No, the bank is still holding it."

"Do you still have the letter from the postal inspector?"

"What for?"

"Because I want to give him a call."

Dad gave the letter to me, one spy making a drop to another.

Ma's good mood held as we left the house. She yelled at Dad as she tried to maneuver around the metal folding chair that was on one side of the stairs. The bricks had come loose so she wanted to make sure no one would kill themselves on the loose bricks. Course, I don't know what she'll put out so people won't kill themselves on the metal folding chair. I helped Ma down the stairs. 

She took another breath in the car and began singing the "Your Stupid" song to Dad. I looked in the rearview mirror, and he was feverishly making the sign against evil. She sang repeated choruses from the parking lot to the lobby to the doctor's waiting room.

"Enough!" I yelled at her. "This is not the time or the place for that! Sit over here!" I'm not sure whether I'm their parent or the referee. The waiting room was fairly quiet so I wandered back to say hello to the lab tech and to hold an OPD Support Group meeting.

"Weren't you here last week?"

"Yeah, that was to see the middle toe doctor. This week they're here to see the big toe doctor."

"How are they today?"

I took a cautious peek around the corner. Ma was nodding off in her chair, and Dad was flipping through the pages of a magazine. "Good. Today, they're being good. How's your mother?"

"Oh, she's just wonderful! She had an operation, and it's like she's a new woman."

I wondered if the procedure was similar to what happens to the pod people in The Body Snatchers, but as I was about to ask, patients came in so I went to sit down in the waiting room.

As I was just getting engrossed into the latest happenings of the characters in the book I'm reading, another weeble lady sat down next to me. She was terribly concerned with the goings on of the trial for the body of Anna Nicole Smith. I refrained from rolling my eyes, smiled politely and turned back to my book. She didn't seem to notice, but happily kept on chattering.

A half an hour had drifted by, but the doctor hadn't sailed in. Rather frosts my fanny the office books appointments at 10:30 but the doctor doesn't show up for another half an hour or so.

Finally the doctor arrives and calls them into the exam room. My waiting room weeble neighbor asks me what time my appointment is.

"Oh, I don't have an appointment, I'm just the chauffeur."

The Weebles are in an out before I've finished my sentence. Ma had fallen earlier in the week. This now being a weekly occurence. She handed the doctor's prescription to me. He had written a prescription for Advil and Ben Gay. 

"We can go to the Stop and Shop to get these," I told her.

Dad decided to come in to the store with me to get the "prescription filled.

"Would she mind the generic Advil and Ben Gay because it would save you a few dollars?"

"No! You better get the real stuff, because they'll be hell to pay if it's not exactly what the doctor ordered." I rolled my eyes, but got the items. We headed to the check out. "Do you need anything while we're here? Bread, milk, juice? The bank?"

He shook his head.

I dropped them off at the house and was on my way home in hopes of salvaging some of my work day.

"Before you go, give your father a ride downtown to the bank?"

"To the bank? We were just there!" (there's a branch bank at the Stop and Shop) I roared. "Why does he need to go to the bank downtown?"

"I got another check for $2000 and he needs to deposit it."

I silently borrowed a phrase from Himself. No, not horse's patoot! Help me, Lord! All morning Ma and I had been dancing around the issue of the check. Both of us desperately wanted to tell each other "I told you so!" but the jury was still out for both of us.

Dad turned me toward the door as I was still sputtering. 

"You go on. I can walk. I need to get a haircut."

Yes, a walk would do him good. It would get him away from her for a couple of hours. He didn't need to hear the "Your Stupid" song being hammered out like "The Anvil Chorus." I was going back to the Stop and Shop to pick up a bottle of baby aspirin to eat on the ride home.

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.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Dance Band on the Titanic

The scam man phoned again only didn't leave a message on the voice mail. I had done a reverse look up on the first number he left, but that only told me it was a land line in NY. This time, I had a company name and number. I looked up the company in BB and found this company does business under 49 other names and all sweepstakes. Red flags went up. If one of his companies is sending junk to Ma, so are the others. The BB didn't have much useful information. The company did not have an unusual amount of complaints lodged against it.

A week or so ago, Ma had received a letter from a US Postal inspector about one of the checks she received as a prize. Because I don't get a complete story, I wasn't sure if the inspector's letter concerned the check Ma tried to cash on Tuesday.

I called Dad to try to find out the particulars. Only to find, she cashed the $250 check plus a few others she had. Seems she went crying to the neighbor next door to take her to the bank. Help me, Lord! The bank opened a second checking account for her, and all the checks were deposited into this new account. She was told she couldn't have access to the funds for at least a week.

I feel like I'm in the dance band on the Titanic.

I have a sick feeling about what will happen, but can't do anything but play the tune. The worse thing is if, on the long shot, one or all of the checks she deposited are legitimate, there will be no end to Ma's "I told you so." I can just hear her chortle and gloat. Depending on the time of day, God, Nostradamus, and her father have told her she will be a rich woman. She is, but she's looking in the wrong places.

So she took a gamble and maybe, just maybe, she beat the odds. I wish her Buona fortuna! The worst thing is the addiction will become even stronger. But Fortune's wheel swings round. Most gamblers know the House always wins. Always. In the mean time, I stand on the deck with The Dance Band on the Titanic by H. Chapin

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.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Thursday's Child

The sun was shining and though cold, it promised to be a beautiful day. Dad's eye doctor appointment had been changed from 10am to an hour earlier, and I was unable to give him a ride. I pushed down the momentary guilt and reveled in the thought I had crossed an imaginary international date line and gained a day. Since I didn't have a Weeble run, I had an extra day to work on the roll call book. Yes, it promised to be a perfect day.

I told the Young One I would do some work on the book, and we could spend the afternoon at the mall having lunch and shopping. In the middle of lettering, the phone rang and on the fourth ring the call was sent to voice mail. Most times, these calls are from telemarketers and charities. On the off chance it was the Eldest calling for a ride home from work because another water main broke, I dialed into the voice mail and saw red. Steam poured from my ears.

Seems Ma wasn't happy with the bank telling her the $250 check didn't seem kosher, she called the scam man who issued the check, and gave him my phone number so he could talk to me! I felt the blood pounding in my ears. How dare she! How dare she put me in the middle of her OPD stupidity! I paced, cursed, and spoke in tongues. I said the eff word several hundred times.

Long ago, and through the hard way, I learned to continue with my work if I was unhappy or in a bad mood, was disastrous. The work came through my hands in ugly puddles and rivers and would only need to be redone. Since I was writing in a book, I couldn't take the chance pages could easily be removed in order to redo. No sense trying to work with flames shooting from my eyes.

Just as I collected keys and kid, the phone rings. No psychic or caller ID to tell me the call was from Ma. She danced around the reason for the call. I didn't mention her scammer had called earlier. Finally, she told me about that damn check. I old her she's never to give my phone number out to anyone.

"I don't care if the Pope himself wants my number. You're not to give it out! Do you understand?"

She whined the man told her the check was good, and she should cash it. She was like a dog worrying a bone and no amount of reasoning or cajoling was going to work.

"If you want to cash the check, cash the damn check!"

I felt the familiar throbbing behind my left eye. I was determined she was not going to spoil the rest of the day. I wasn't  able to work, but I could enjoy the afternoon with my kid. It was near lunch time and I told the Young One we were going to be very naughty. We were going to have ice cream for lunch and the world could go to hell in a hand basket. The Young One was thrilled.

The weather was sunny and pleasant for a winter day. There was a feeling of Spring in the air. We went to the ice cream parlor, and I was disappointed to find there were no tables to enjoy the decadent treat inside. I wasn't adventurous enough to eat my ice cream outside. No worries. I promised the Young One we would be naughty. We headed to the bookstore. I ordered cups of chai and a double chocolate cheesecake slice for her, and a heated cinnamon bun for me. I tried to concentrate on the delight of the Young One and not Ma and that damn check. I wished I could make the draft spontaneously combust or to find a way to reason with Ma. Thursdays' child has far to go. (I was born on a Thursday.)

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.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Tuesday's Child is Full of Grace

I had Tuesday all neatly planned. Ma and Dad had a doctor's appointment mid-afternoon. Since it was school vacation week, I thought I'd drag take my Young One (born on a Tuesday) with me for a visit with Grandma before the appointment. I planned an hour and a half visit. We'd sit, have tea, whine and I'd score points as the Golden Child for bringing the grandchild for a visit. Perfect.

My plans didn't work out the way the way I had choreographed things in my head. They rarely do, but I'm ever hopeful. The minute we walked through the door, Ma wanted to go to the bank. I don't think she even noticed the Young One with me. She urgently needed to go to the bank to cash a check.

Every family has a skeleton, dirty secret, or crazy relative hidden in the attic. The dirty secret in my family is Ma is addicted to bogus lotteries, psychics, contests all promising prize money and riches. The amounts she sends out are small but over time it has added up to a hefty chunk of change. She dreams, wishes and talks about money. As if there's a celestial slot machine that will rain quarters on her. I'm reminded of the line from The Quiet Man "Money! Is that all you Danahers think of? I'm sick of the talk of it."

So that was the reason we had to dash to the bank. "Someone" had sent her a check for $250. No amount of telling her these things are scams penetrate gold fever. If I try to point out these letters with their checks (and we're not talking about one or two, but stacks and stacks) are scams or equity loans, she yells I have no faith in her. She's right, I don't. But "someone" has sent her the check, and she has to get to the bank. There is no reasoning with her. She's like a spoiled child hounding and whining for a treat. Some children need to learn lessons the hard way. I take her to bank so she can cash the damn check. Let some scam artist drain the account. It's bound to happen sooner or later, let it be sooner. I can have the satisfaction of saying "I told you so."

The Young One and I wait in the car, me with my book and the Young One with an electronic game. We are startled when the car door is wrenched open. It's only Grandpa speaking in tongues. Grandma must have started singing the "You're Stupid" song at the bank. Grandpa takes a few deep breaths and then goes back into the bank as Ma will need help coming out. The Young One and I watch from the car window. Soon Ma and Dad come out. The Young One remarks that Grandma looks sad.

"The teller wouldn't cash the check!" She is upset and very unhappy.

"And why is that?" I know the answer. I hope having a stranger tell her what we've been telling her all along will have finally sunk in.

"She said it looked funny and she wouldn't cash it. She said we need to go to the bank at the mall and have them cash it."

"No! The check is illegal. We don't have time to go to the mall and make it to the doctor's appointment."

"Why would she tell me to go to bank at the mall?"

Because if she told you to go to hell, she'd lose her job. "Because she didn't want to deal with a pain in the ( ! ) customer who wouldn't listen to her her when she said there was something wrong with the damn check.

Ma was not happy, but her mood improved when she came out of the doctor's office. She was beaming. The doctor told her for her 88 years old she is in top shape. He cut back her heart medication. She also has the blood pressure of a 25 yr. old woman. Dad also had a good report, much to his chagrin. Good news, the two of them are going to live forever.

Back at the house, she wants to find the envelope the check came in. I feel the familiar throbbing of the vessel behind my left eye. She has the blood pressure of a 25 yr. old woman. I can feel mine start to skyrocket.

Lewis Black - Old People Suck

 

In honor of the week

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.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Some Days It Just Doesn't Pay....

There are days, and then there are days. Friday was one of those days. Friday began earlier in the week with a phone call from Dad. Ma's shoes were in. Dad called to tell me she had an appointment for a fitting on Friday at 10am. Good! Himself offered to keep me company. Even better!

Himself took the Youngest to school at 7:45am. At 8:40, we dropped the Oldest at her cube farm, and then hopped on the Pike. Traffic moved steadily and at a good clip inspite of some light snow. We made excellent time and arrived at the Weebles at 9:30am.

Their driveway had an inch or so of slush on it. Himself found a shovel and began pushing the slush off the driveway while I went in to announce the arrival of the elder bus.

Dad greeted me at the door, trousers, undershirt, no socks. This was not a good sign. Weebles not ready. The bathroom door banged open. Another bad sign. Ma came out in her robe with a towel turbaned on her head. "You didn't tell me you were coming!" she screamed. She stormed off to her bedroom muttering things in Italian that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap. I looked at Dad, and he shrugged.

"Didn't you tell her the appointment was today?"

"I told her! She says I didn't tell her."

Oh, boy. I made the mistake of going into her room to see if she needed help getting dressed. She pounced on me. "I fell," she said "My hip feels like the bone is out of place."

I knew she must have given herself a good bang, but if her hip was dislocated she'd be in excruciating pain and unable to move. "Why didn't you call the doctor?"

"Because NO ONE WOULD TAKE ME!"

"You know that's not true." I tried not to look to the heavens in exasperation.

"You didn't call to take me."

"I'm not a mind reader!"

"I wasn't told you were coming today until this morning!"

"Look that's not my fault! I'm just the #%^&*#! bus driver!" Some days it just doesn't pay to gnaw through the straps. I went outside to warn Himself and to watch him finish the driveway. We went inside. I thought I would hurry things along as it was just past the appointment. I got Ma's pockabook. Hunted around the living room for her check book. Another battle erupted over which walker Ma was going to take, the tall one or the short one. After the brouhaha settled down and the walker decision had been made, we were able to load Weebles into the car.

Himself has his own way to get to the hospital where the podiatrist's office is located. Ma turned toward him and started to open her mouth. Nothing came out. I bit my lip so I wouldn't laugh. She so wanted to yell that Himself was going the wrong way!

Himself pulled up to the front door, and Weebles were offloaded. Himself took Ma's handicap placard and went to find a space and peace as he would wait in the car. I didn't begrudge him, but wished I could figure out a reason why I couldn't stay with him.

Ma sputtered into the building. Yelled at Dad because he didn't push the button for the elevator. The "down" indicator on both elevators was lit so there was no need as both were headed to the lobby. We got in one elevator and rode up to the third floor. We were a good 20 mins. past the official appointment time.

Ma was still mumbling as we entered the office. Fortunately, there were no other Weebles in the waiting room. The little bit of snow had kept other weebles home. The receptionist escorted Ma to the shoe room. Ma was griping very loudly, Dad asked the receptionist for the key to the lavatory and bolted out of the office and down the hall. I started to sing, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood..." The receptionist started to laugh.

The doctor arrived and the griping stopped as the shoe fitting took place. "Oh these are wonderful. Oh these look nice." The doctor escorted Ma back to the waiting room. "You are so wonderful," she said to the doctor. "I don't know what I would do without you!"

"Oh, so you're the golden child today", I said to the doctor.

"I guess so."

I so desperately wanted to say, "Good, you can take her home!"

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.

 Thursday, January 18, 2007

Television and OPD

Himself and I started watching a new television series, The Sopranos. It's not really a new series, just new to us as we don't get HBO. The series is being shown on the A&E channel. I'm really enjoying this program. I'm not watching it for the action or the drama. I'm enjoying watching Tony Soprano deal with his elderly mother and OPD. It's hysterical.

Tony loves his mother and is a devoted son. In one episode, in the middle of his business day, he calls his mother. She's sauteing mushrooms and forgets them on the stove. Next thing, flames shoot from the pan, but poor Tony can only hear his mother yelling, "Oh my God! Oh my God" Tony is able to get in touch with his wife to send her to check on his mother.

In another episode, Tony's mother is driving a friend home. The lady gets out of the car. Tony's mother goes to back out of the driveway, but forgets the car is in drive and plows through her friend. Mama ends up with a broken arm.

Tony moves his mother to a lovely assisted living facility. The old lady complains her son has "put her in a nursing home to die."

Poor Tony has panic attacks or in Italian acute agita. Tony talks to a shrink to help him deal with his OPD. He explains that the assisted living facility costs him four grand a month. It has lots of social amenities, but his mother refuses to participate thus making Tony feel very guilty. He says his mother makes him feel like he's "an Eskimo pushing her out to sea." Himself and I roared. Tony should try blogging.

I can hardly wait for next week's episode.

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.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Round One

The phone rang. I thought it might be the client to come see samples that I worked up last week. It wasn't. It was an irate Weeble.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

As I'm about to make a sarcastic remark he continues. "I thought you were coming here today!" There's a note of panic in his voice. The OPD almost infects me, and I begin to feel the panic start to surge through my system. Did I forget about her appointment to the foot doctor? I'm sure it's tomorrow. Happily, I'm sitting in front of the computer, call up Outlook, and breathe a sigh of relief.

"No, Dad, I'll be there tomorrow. Her appointment is tomorrow. Tuesday. Today is Monday." I hear pages shuffling as he consults his appointment book.

"Oh, you're right. See you tomorrow."

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 28, 2006

Only the Good Die Young

I've had me a day. Cut off twice, passed on the left in a no passing zone and all before 7:30 AM. I tried to tell myself this wouldn't set the tone for the day. After all, I was expecting delivery of my new photo printer.

I worked on a dreamcatcher for Red's Christmas gift. The smell of the leather and the tacky feel of the sinew were soothing as I wound and knotted my way around the ring.

Staples arrived with the printer, drum cartridge and paper. The driver stacked them neatly in the living room. Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance. Yes, the day had a rough start, but in spite of the cold, grey, drizzle, things were decidedly looking up. While the printer and drum acclimated to room temperature, I worked on the dream catcher, went to pick up Number 2 Daughter, and then sipped hot chocolate while chatting on the phone with my calligraphy buddy.

Call waiting is not really a good thing. Ordinarily, I ignore the beep if I'm on the phone, but I thought perhaps, this was Himself saying he would be getting out of school early and would be able to pick up Number One Daughter. I should have ignored it. It was my Weeble, widow neighbor across the street. She's screaming hysterically that she has an emergency, and she hangs up. I grab my jacket, dash across the street to find her Prissy-dancing in the kitchen with her hands flapping like loose birds. "Oh, I don't know what I'm gonna do. Oh, I don't know what's wrong."

Her oven is beeping incessantly, combined with Prissy's high pitched squeals, the muscles in the back of my neck to begin tighten. It seems the workman and his son had come to repair the furnace. Sonny thought he would be helpful and set the oven clock to the correct time zone.

The oven is modeled after one of the consoles NASA uses in Flight Control to launch the shuttles. There are no familiar knobs, just digital displays, touch pads, up down arrows. The oven was wailing, and a red door lock light was flashing. I pushed the Clear pad. The red light went out, the wailing stopped, but only for a second. F9 gleamed brightly at me in the display window. I took umbrage at the audacity of the oven to speak in tongues.

I asked Prissy if she had the manual that came with the oven. Fortunately, Weebles never throw anything away. She handed me the manual and while the display light kept mocking me, I tried to skim the trouble shooting section. I'm also wondering why Prissy fields her monkeys to me instead of her daughter. I'm cursing the daughter for picking out a Star Wars model oven for a mother who still thinks Flash Gordon is state of the art. Finding nothing helpful, I handed the book to Prissy and told her to call the 800 number on the back.

"Oh, oh, p-please," she snuffled as she dabbed a wadded Kleenex under her nose. "Would you call for me? I don't know what to do."

Okay, I'm...irritated (second choice word). I'm not only irritated with Prissy, but with myself for enabling her dependency and placing the call. You women out there, listen up! You don't need another person (DH, Significant Other) to make phone calls for you. You call the number, listen to the long menu, make a selection and wait in the queue. It is not brain surgery. If you have a problem with a piece of equipment, you call the manufacturer. Simple.

While waiting in queue hell listening to a cheery voice tell me how important my call was, I watched the clock tick closer to the time I had to pick up Number One Daughter from work. Letitia finally answered and walked me through steps to clear the oven memory. This involved cutting power to the oven. Fortunately, the service box was at the top of the cellar stairs behind the oven, clearly marked, and praise the Lord, she had circuit breakers! We basically rebooted the oven, twice, but it didn't work. I suspect Sonny in his infinite, good-hearted, stupidity had programmed the oven into the cleaning cycle. Prissy must have yanked the door open when the lock light came on. Letitia was telling me that contrary to what I thought F9 meant, it meant the fuse to the door was blown and would require a repair man. She kindly gave me the names of 3 companies in the area that serviced the make and model.

I explained to Prissy she would have to give them a call. After all, it was just past 5pm someone might still be in the office.

"W-would they come today?" Another piece of wadded Kleenex appeared.

My very first instinct was to say, "What are you," I didn't finish the thought, and I bit my tongue, looked to the Heavens and tried not to let impolite words bubble through my lips. "No, they won't come tonight." You'll be lucky if you see someone by the second Tuesday of next week, I finished to myself.

She pulled an envelope with the name of the contractor who installed the oven and handed it to me. Yes, I fell again, and I placed the call. Jim was sympathetic, only installed the ovens didn't repair them. He said to call the place where she purchased the oven, as it was only a year or so ago, the oven was probably under warranty.

I asked Prissy where she bought the oven. "On Southbridge St." This was not very helpful. She sank into a chair. This wasn't helpful either. I shuffled through a file folder of oven memorabilia, and found the receipt. Thank God Weebles don't throw anything away. I told her to call them, and dashed out the door without looking back.

Somehow, I've become a Weeble magnet. A comforting thought crossed my mind. I'm not going to die. Ever. Well, at least not for a very, very long time. Too many people depend on me. Besides, only the good die young and that leaves me out.

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.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Signs of Periweeblepause

I've been wondering when one officially becomes a Weeble, wondering what the signs for periweeblepause might be. I think I might have discovered one today.

This afternoon Himself and I went to Staples to research an Epson photo printer. I'd like to get one, but want to see if the colors print true, and if the quality of the photos look like they were done at a photo lab.

We went to the Staples in Auburn. They didn't have the models I was looking at online, but they had two. The sales clerk was very helpful in answering questions about the two printers. Neither model was set up for a demo.

We went to the Staples in Shrewsbury. They had the model we saw in Auburn, and it was set up for a demo, but had no paper. A sales clerk came over to help us. The printer gave an error message that the print cartridges needed to be replaced. He went to ask his supervisor and was told to switch the cartridges from the other model. He tried and the machine still gave an error message. I asked if he could open up new cartridges. He went to get his supervisor.

The supervisor told us the manager wouldn't allow them to "waste" $40 for a demo. We left and I began fuming in the car. I think this must be a sign of periweeblepause. They don't want to waste $40 to put cartridges in a machine set up to do a demo, but they don't mind the thought of losing a potential sale of $129 plus tax, plus photo paper plus tax? Doesn't it stand to reason, another person might ask to see the machine demoed? If they don't want to do the demo, don't have the machine set up for it. It doesn't make sense, it's just bad marketing.

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.

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 14, 2006

Another Week

Holidays always seem to take me by surprise. I always think there's one more week before I have to clean and prepare for the holiday.

I had taken Dad to another doctor appointment yesterday. When we arrived home, they started discussing holiday plans. Usually, the holiday plans involve Himself going to pick up the Weebles and bring them to our house. I stay home cleaning like a fiend and preparing the roast beast.

This year, Ma wants to pre-order the holiday meal from the grocery store. I've done it in the past when she had her stroke and brought meals on wheels to them. Dinner comes in a box. It's all cooked, from gravy to pie, and you just heat and eat. It's great. So, after several go arounds about "Don't worry, Ma, I'll cook and take care of everything" it was left that she would call, you guessed it in the cheap seats, Market Basket to order dinner.

I'm tearing down the Pike when it occurs to me. Thanksgiving is next week! And what's this about her ordering dinner? I'll have to fight through the Wednesday crowd to pick the damn box up!

I was much happier when I thought I had another week.

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 07, 2006

The Devil You Know

It always seems the grass is greener on the other side, but is it? I was musing what it would be like to deal with different Weebles. Would it be easier?

What would it be like dealing with Ruth Martin, Timmy and Lassie's mom?

"Bark, Bark!"

"What's that Lassie? Mom fell down the well again? Oh, for the love of...."

Hmmm, might be difficult haulin' the old lady out of the well.

Ok, what about Maureen Robinson from Lost in Space: "Danger, Mrs. Robinson! Danger!" Hmm, might not be so bad. The Robot could follow her around. Though as I recall someone was always yanking out his power pack. Not good.

And for you Big Valley fans, can you imagine having to deal with Victoria Barkley? Even before she hit the full blown OPD stage, she had all her children under her thumb. It only got worse when she started dressing like Nick in her short black leather jacket and tight trousers.

Victoria destined her daughter, Audra, to spinsterhood. After all, what young man in his right mind would call on the girl after Victoria shot and killed creepy Evan Miles? Yeah, I know she was trying to protect Audra from being raped, but she didn't have to use deadly force on Evan. She could have just whacked him upside the head with the rifle.

She treated Nick like a four year old. Remember in The Brawlers when Callahan come to the house and Nick is yelling at him? "Nick! You sit over there. I said!"

And poor Heath! Oh, stop groaning you two, you know I'm a Heathen! Poor Heath tried to be a gentleman by taking the reins and driving Victoria home after she had been buried under the church during an earthquake. She insisted she could drive and took over the reins. Heath ended up with an overdose of OPD and walked off the set. Missy wouldn't speak to him for 3 days. When she did it was only to ask if he had learned his lesson. To which he replied, "Yes, ma'am." Smart boy.

Her taking over the reins nearly got him killed when the wagon fell on him in the episode By Force and Violence. Heath should have walked off the set that time.

Off the top of my head, I can't think of an instance where Jarrod had to deal with her.

Ma can be very opinionated and demanding, but I don't think she's nearly as bad as Victoria Barkley. Ma hasn't caused a wagon to fall on me. Guess it's a case of the devil you know.

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.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

You Rang?

There are certain times of the day when the ringing of the telephone tolls bad news. When the phone rings at 2am, you can bet a wooden nickel you're not being notified you won Megabucks. A phone call an hour after you delivered your little people to school, is usually to inform you that said little person is tossing Cheerios in the nurse's office.

My telephone buzzed at 10 pm. I wrinkled my nose in annoyance as I thought the call would be from one of the election parties asking me to endorse their candidate. Caller ID flashed the Weebles number. An icy fist clenched my heart. A phone call from the Weebles at 10pm could not be good news. I wondered which one had fallen or had been taken by ambulance to the hospital. Adrenaline is coursing through my system. I can feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. I grab the receiver and bark, "What's wrong?"

Ma is on the other end of the line. "You didn't put the handicap parking card back in my pocketbook!" (This last is pronounced "pock-uh-book")

I look at the receiver in my hand as if I'm holding an object I have never seen before in my entire life. A glance at the computer clock indicates, it is indeed past 10 pm at night. Thoughts flash through my head at lightning speed. It's 10 pm, where the hell are you going now? You and your girl friends heading up to the Golden Banana? Why are you calling me about this NOW? Why didn't you call at 4pm? Or after supper?

To recap: Twelve hours earlier I had taken her to Target to pick up refills on her prescriptions. I had tried to tell her I could have Himself pick up the stuff on his way to school. She insisted she had to sign for them. As I headed up the road, she informed me "Your father doesn't go this way." (i.e. You are going the wrong way) I try to keep my voice light. "This is the route the number 9 bus takes. If you don't like this route, you can wait on the corner for another bus to come along." At the pharmacy desk, I ask the pharmacist if anyone could pick up a refill for Ma. We are cheerily told "Yes, you can even call ahead and we'll have it ready for you." I had the urge to stick my tongue out. So there!

"I put the card in your purse."

"Well, it's not there! I looked."

"Look again, because I put it in your purse." She puts the receiver down and goes to take another look. Pocketbook or purse is really a misnomer for the item Ma uses to carry her personal belongings. It is made of leather and that is the only resemblance to a pocketbook, purse, or handbag. It's made of leather and is roughly the size of a steamer trunk. It also has a thousand different flaps, pockets, nooks, and crannies. Some are open, close with a snap or a zipper.

"You put it in the wrong place!"

Mind you, my heart has been pounding and adrenaline has raced through my system. I can feel my short fuse now being ignited. "I put it in your purse." My reply is said tersely through my clenched teeth.

"What are you getting upset about?" I didn't give her a chance to finish with "You only made a mistake."

"Because I'm sick and tired of being told I go the WRONG way, and I put things back in the WRONG place. I put the card in your purse. If you don't like where I put it...." I can taste the word 'shove' on the tip of my tongue, and I quickly swallow it. "You can put it where you like."

She hung up the phone. Why didn't I just answer the phone, "Sorry, wrong number?"

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.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Magic 8 Ball

I had the opportunity to teach a children's workshop during February vacation week. The Weebles had a doctor's appointment scheduled for that week, and I called them to make sure there were no other appointments scheduled for the day I was given for the workshop.

Dad couldn't find his appointment book. While he tore the house apart, Ma talked to me.

"I thought you would show up today. I need you."

"No, not today, I told you maybe Friday, and that depends on what time the guy who pumps the septic system shows up. What do you need?" I'm thinking 24 more cans of beets to keep the 24 cans she has company.

"I ran out of my prescription."

"Today?"

"No, Saturday." I sighed heavily and looked to the heavens. I could hear Dad in the background speaking in tongues, and I had the urge to utter a few phrases. "Why didn't you call over the weekend?"

"I thought you would show up."

Third base! I debate about telling her I haven't perfected the art of mind reading yet, but I'm close. "I can ask Himself to swing by the pharmacy and get the pills for you."

"No, I have to take the paper to the pharmacy to have it filled. Your father can't find his appointment book, and the paper was in his book." She proceeded to tell me how Dad wouldn't be able to find his....um....head without a mirror and a flashlight.

So, looks like an emergency shuttle run on Friday, if the septic guy shows up early. Hopefully, Dad will have found his appointment book by then. My Magic 8 ball says: Don't count on it.