I'm tired

I came up over the Easter weekend, limited time, but I made sure to fly since the train would have eaten up a lot of valuable and possible family time.

Just once . . . just once . . . I would like a weekend or a visit without having to run errands, or pay a bill, or renew some license for the car. I joked about being Tim the tool man Taylor, but I am that and more.

The water filter is wrong. See, they don't tighten it up, so it leaks. So they need to get rid of it. Besides, I'm told, it needs a new filter. No, I explain, we got a new one in it last time I was here.

Well, we just need to get rid of this one and get another one that works.

Hell, I'll take this one back with me! I fracking bought it.

Then . . .

Today, after Service, I find out that we need to renew the license plate tags because they have expired. Why couldn't they do it earlier? Well, the proof of insurance just came in. No, the proof of insurance starts next month, this month's you have had. Dad doesn't read the dates.

So, why not ask their daughter, who lives ten minutes away, for help. Oh, she's too busy. Michael is too busy. She doesn't have the car.

Honestly, I am tired of having everything wait for me to get here so it can get done.

I am not the savior.
I am not the rescuer.
I am not The One.

I want a weekend just visiting and enjoying, not traveling, covering, buying, renewing, fixing, repairing . . . and other such ings.

Is this what getting old is all about? Parents who are so needy they don't see they have other options? Do they not see what's going on?

If it weren't for the fact that my sister and I talk quite a bit and catch up and tell each other what's happened with mom and dad, I think that it would be different. I don't think mom realizes it but she has been playing favorites for a while now.

Its pissing me off.

Yeah, I'm venting, I'm bitching . . . get over it.

So they lend the car to a friend, someone they know. A car that is NOT in their name, they gave it to me, but they lend it away. They called before someone else needed it, but not this time.

Did they check to see if they had insurance? I wonder.

Did they check to see if MY insurance covered it? No.

Did they explain how the alarm works? Doubtful.

So their friend's wife goes somewhere. The car alarm goes off.

What did she do? She had he alarm ripped off. Its sitting in the back seat of the car right now.

What good is it now? A car alarm that doesn't make noise?

Help.

I'm stuck in loony-ville.

The windmills of my mind

According to the Catholic Church, a child enters the age of reason at age seven. They now know right from wrong, are aware of what they do, and know what they do. Therefore, what better time to introduce the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

If that age is correct, and I have no reason to doubt it in any way, then I have been tilling at changing my mother for the past forty five years. Or at least I have been aware of this for forty five years.

I have quite the Quixotic challenge here. She refuses to change, I refuse to leave her alone. And so the dance goes on.

Allow me to elaborate. Today, for example, we were going to get some food for dinner. Why? Because mom was tired of the food we had. I jumped on my trusty but dilapidated steed and challenged the windmill.

We have plenty of food at home. Its silly to buy more when we have so much. (They had to take out the vegetable drawer from the fridge so they could add more food)

But I am tired of that food.

I read into that statement . . . “But I want you to have something else to eat. I know you like chicken strips. Let’s get some.”

I think I found the mistake. I am trying to interpret her statements. Give me some credit here, I have only been doing THAT for about oh . . . forty five years. I am a lousy interpreter, in case you were wondering.

A short side track here . . . I’ve been battling a sore throat and cough all day. OK, back to the game.

I bravely stood my ground and said that I make food on Sundays that I eat the rest of the week. Being single I can do that. Well, I have to do that. Hard to cook for one me.

The windmill responded by throwing a bag of potato chips onto the cart and saying that “The salt is good for your sore throat.”

Nice one mom. Nice one.

I made up my mind then. I would go and buy me a nice bottle of whiskey and make a hot toddy for my throat tonight. Better tasting that potato chips.

Its hard to change an eighty one year old’s mind. Specially when they think you are making such a huge sacrifice by merely showing up. Between you, me and Sancho Panza here . . . its not. I love riding the train and I look forward to getting away. Maybe not for this long, but I do.

I don’t know if it is a sacrifice. I don’t see it as such. To me a sacrifice is hard, difficult, tough . . . something like a Herculean task.

Yeah, like changing my mother’s mind.

Sacrifice to me is what I will be doing when I get back to the ATX. I am changing my whole diet. Going vegetarian for about two weeks and then adding WAY more veggies and fruits into my diet.

That’s a sacrifice. A needed and possible sacrifice.

But a sacrifice.

On a rather interesting note, my windmill just came to check to see if I had fallen asleep with the lights on.

What’s the big deal?

Its not good for you.

Like her falling asleep on the couch in the living room with the TV on is good for her.

See what I deal with? See my task? See my windmill?

I also see the fact that I have been tending at this windmill for quite a while now.

Dad’s another story.

He sleeps.

A lot.

Today I caught him waking up and saying mom’s nickname for him . . . “Manolín.”

I don’t know what to do about him.

He does laundry but never cleans the lint catcher. It was like padding by the time I took it out. You could have used it in clothing.

He sits next to me while I am checking out my Facebook admiring the use of my fingers when I click on this or that.

He manages to press the wrong button on their computer and away goes all the information in the computer. All of mom’s work, all the emails, email accounts, etc.

Gone. With the wind. With the windmill.

He tried to read the book I gave him and he seems to be able to do so. I tell him he needs new glasses. He knows it. That’s about the extent of it.

He just sits and watches. Doesn’t do a thing.

He doesn’t say anything to mom.

He just allows her to go through all she has to go through.

He just lets her be.

Wow.

I have a pretty wise dad.

Patience, people . . . for the Lord is laughing.

God has a sense of humor. No really. Look around. Look in the mirror. Look at what happens to you.

His funniest bit is when you ask Him for something and he puts you in situations where you will have to use whatever you asked for. Kind of like when you ask your boss for more money, and he makes you work more. Not quite what I wanted but, I get it.

Case in point: patience. If you ask for patience, He will create some interesting circumstances around you.

Walmart, haven for patience.
Elderly parents, creators of situations for patience.
Me? I felt like a frustrated innocent bystander.

Let's start with Dad deciding he likes those little electrical carts. He can walk OK. His knees give him some trouble. Just yesterday he was Speedy Gonzalez all over the supermarket. Today he is on the electrical scooter. Mom laughs it off. I'm wearing flip flops and can only imagine the possibilities.

So we are trying out a new recipe. Calls for rice. Mom gets Uncle Ben's (that's the instant stuff). Me: "Its supposed to be regular rice." Mom: "That IS our regular rice."

Commence eye rolling. I can hear God giggle.

Scene: walking by the seafood section. Me: "Catfish. That's my next challenge. I want to learn to cook it and not fry it." Dad: "Don't like it. Its farmed." Me: "Lots of fish are farmed now. Too much demand." Mom: "Its like having artificial children."

God just snorted. Heard it? I did.

Dad: "I don't like what they add to farmed fish." (Actually, I don't either. I'll buy it wild caught when I can). Me: "Mom just bought some chicken. Do you know what they add to chicken." Mom gives me her usual sad eyed look. Dad: "Yeah, but that chicken is for you."

Out loud laugh now.

I know this is funny. And if it didn't happen to me, I would think it is hilarious. Sometimes, I just feel frustrated. I don't want to be a rock that will gather moss and stay the way it is no matter what. I want to be able to adapt and change.

Only, I'm a bit afraid to ask for that.

Did you hear that? I heard a giggle.

Los achaques de la edad

That's a hard word to translate. Achaques. According to Google translator it is "aches and pains." That's as far as it goes. It does not explain the slow down, the fall asleep anywhere, the lack of energy, the waking up at all hours even if you don't need to go to the bathroom, the cold compresses on joints . . . oh so many things.

Achaques.

Sounds like attacks doesn't it. The attacks of old age. Matter of fact that's what my spell checker would like to change it to. Attacks. Old age does attack you. Sneaks up slowly. A pop here, a groan there, besides the odd and permanent grey hair. The girth just, well, its just keeps on doesn't it?

Seems like I need to exercise a hell of a lot more now to lose way too little. Youth is definitely wasted on the young. They have NO idea how good they have it.

Then again, I like my age (that'll be 52 by the way). I feel like I hit my stride. I can focus and stay on focus (well, most of the time). I have experience. I have knowledge I did not have when I began my teaching journey. I feel like I am slicker than ever.

My doctor once told me that we are (and we both are about the same age) at a great time in our lives. That between the knowledge we have, the experience we have and the lack of fear . . . well, we can sure get a lot more done than all those young puppies companies and districts are pouring money into.

We are just inconvenient to those large corporations, etc. We are inconvenient because we are paid more due to the amount of time being with them.

Inconvenient? Inconvenient is that I need reading glasses to write this. Inconvenient is that I don't have the muscle mass of some of my 16 year old students. But I am a sly, well seasoned old cat. What I don't have in muscle, I have in cunning.

Part of the achaques I guess.

Achaques. Funny word. Achaques.

My grandmother would explain her aches, pains and overall lack of health as "los achaques de la edad." Never mind that she knelt for a good part of the evening, on tiled floor, while saying a few rosaries and other prayers in her candle lit room. I am sure even God was laughing - "¿Achaques? Mi'ja. E' que tu no te cuida'." (Attacks? My girl, you just don't take care of yourself). I gave God a puertorrican accent. Seems to go well with the God I grew up with.

Oh I have your inconvenient muscle spasm. And the now becoming more popular groans. And those damned grey hairs cropping up everywhere. But I also feel better than ever. I can do this. I can be even better than I was when I began.

I am up for retirement in about two years. Will I retire then? Doubtful.

What to do on my next life? Don't know yet.

But I will be great at it. And very well seasoned.

And oh, those achaques will make it a bit more fun.

Yeah, this post was for me. I wanted to do this for me. I'll ad more info on my parents later since I am here for the week. But this one. This one. Mine, all mine.

On your marks, get set . . .

Warning - random - unplanned - just a conglomeration of thoughts . . .

I am so ready to get home. Home to Austin that is. It may not be home as in where the family is but it feels like home to me. My parents are wonderful, don't get me wrong. They just have a way of pushing certain buttons that need to be left alone.

Some times, Dad believes he has to tell me where to go, how things work, how to do certain tasks . . . he has to be a dad no matter what. I don't know if it has to do with his feeling that he can't do anything so he might as well talk to me about it or if he honestly feels the need to tell me because he believes I need the help. He tells me everything from directions to certain places (it is practically impossible to get lost in this town) to what to buy and where.

I am an adult . . . right?

Other times, I wonder if my parents understand what I am saying. It reminds me of that scene that everyone quotes from "Waiting for Godot." Let's go. Yes, let's leave. (Stage direction - everyone stays still). You get the picture don't you?

We had to get a plumber to come see the drain pipe for the washer this week. The man was amazingly funny, from Louisiana, and did a great job. He also told me that the problem was a part on the washer that needs to be replaced. The drain pipe was OK . . . but the part creates a lot of water in the garage.

Today I set off to work on their washer . . . I did mention I've become Tim the tool man Taylor, right? So I take off the back of the washer . . . and I get the part . . . it won't come in until after January 7. So I put the washer back together. I mention not to use it, that it still leaks.

Dad proceeds to inform me that the plumber did not know what he was talking about that the drain pipe was the problem that the part probably broke later that this has been relatively recent that . . . well, I just had to leave it alone. Actually, after a bit of discussing the subject, I left it alone.

Honestly . . . its crazy around here.

The garage is full, full of boxes. Some with stuff from years ago that no one knows or even remembers whats in it. And the whole bottom layer of boxes is wet, and moldy and falling apart. But it was all the drain pipe's fault, right? I don't want to sound morbid . . . cause it does sound like that to me . . . I'm just not looking forward to opening those boxes after they die to see what was so important that they could not just chuck it.

Oh, forgot, funniest thing . . . my sister took motorcycle driving lessons. Have no idea f she wants to get one or not but the lessons were fun. I mentioned that I would love a motorcycle . . . mom practically fell apart. No, your sister is going to get one . . . why do you say that . . . cause she took the lessons . . . interesting jump to conclusions, mom, ever thought of asking her? . . . no, its none of my business.

Mom complains that she doesn't like to see me drinking (alcoholic drinks that is) - there are nights that it is not enough!

Dad has been getting worse about getting up and walking around. He does have a hard time getting up. Its on a three count by now. On the third try he finally gets up. He also falls asleep in no time . . . and wakes up talking to the dream (which freaks me out some days). Mom has sort of become his mom. And now mom is talking that she will finally retire. That this will be the last year teaching.Wonder what will happen next.

I know they love me, I know it. I also know they drive me crazy some days.

Thank you for listening . . . reading.

And in more uplifting news . . . I am a Great Uncle. Elena Clare was born on December 30.



Happy New year.

Patience, party of one.

Oh I try.

I really try.

I love my parents, I really do. But sometimes it takes all I got.

Today we went to a well known import store ( I'm not promoting free advertising for anyone). OK . . . fine, I have mentioned Walmart before. It was Pier 1. Mom decided she needed some candles. Some smelly candles. Some Christmas tree smelling candles. Some unbelievably strong smelling Christmas tree candles.

Mind you, one candle was enough of an assault on the nasal passages. Two would send you over the top.

She got four.

She wants two for the living room and two for the dining room.

One is plenty. Two is much. Four is an attack. A full frontal attack.

Breathe.

We went to Walmart . . . And she kept on buying a lot of food. I finally asked why not wait. We can get it later. She is so used to not being able to drive that she was packing up for later.

We still got a buggy's worth of food and stuff.

Laugh. It is kind'a funny.

Panadera messed up our order tonight.

I didn't feel like arguing about it. We ordered chips with our plates. Two got chips, one got bread. I gave dad my chips and took his bread. No arguing. Just hungry.

Mom opened up her bag of chips and poured almost all into my plate.

BREATHE!

So as Mr. Brady used to ask the kids after a bit of trouble . . . What have you learned?

I should just try to adapt to them and not expect them to adapt to me. They DO live here and they do have their way of doing things. I just need to figure out how I can adapt to it and not expect them to adapt to me (cause I believe I know best).

Breathe. Just breathe. A lot.

And laugh. Just laugh. A lot more. Cause they are funny in their way. They do funny things and things that, if you don't laugh, you end of screaming. And screaming is not how I want them to remember me or me remember them.

Hug and kiss a lot. If you think it is too much. Go a little more. Cause you can never show them love enough.

And take loads of pictures. Silly ones. Unapproved ones. "ay Ignacio" ones. Just take them.

It'll somehow make you feel better later.

Augh, Augh, Augh . . .

Examine these pictures . . . mom and dad's tv set died while working just fine. And so began an interesting series of events that STILL make me reel.

OK, I was watching TV . . . nothing new there . . . when it just went out. Called cable. That wasn't it. It just died. Then the jokes began, and they were good. "Wow, didn't even have a chance to give (him) an aspirin. (He) just went." "Wow, just like real patients. It had such a good picture and all. Just got better before (he) died." Morbid and funny jokes if you ask me.

My sister offered her old TV set (They recently bought a flat screen) and we took them up on it.

Here we go.

I suggested going to the re-sale store and see if they had any furniture that would work. We are not even 30 seconds out of the driveway when dad said "You know, maybe we could just take out the old TV and put it the one your sister gave us." Why did you NOT say that before we left?

Came back home. Took it apart with dad's tools. OH, dad's tools. They are a collection of pieces found and bought at discount stores that may or may not work and that by now are missing vital and important pieces. All in a Tupperware container. Get the picture?

So we undid the back . . . it is all ONE UNIT. Who makes these things? Bizarre.



SO . . . off we go.

When we walk out, there's the next door neighbor changing the oil on his car. Dad looked at me and said "ask him if he needs help." If HE needs help? I want to be a good Christian too . . . just I don't think this was the time.

So, the re-sale store. Closed. Walmart . . . found their furniture. Black, brown or cherry? Cherry. OK, let's get it. Came back home. And now my dad has a great thought (could he have had it sooner?) why not put the new TV set on top of the old TV set. (Sounds like a 'you might be a redneck' joke or even 'you know you are ghetto when') My sister had the same thought.

So, I unplug, open curtains (damned dark living room even with a large window) unhook wires, put new (well, relatively new) tv on top . . . some wires don't work. Cable does so the important spots are covered. He just tells mom that the wires don't fit and they are not long enough. He doesn't tell her which wires and how the cable works. My dad and his 'jokes' that my mom doesn't even laugh at anymore!




Anyhow, there it is. Working. Martha Stewart on the TV. And some shawl to cover the old TV. Looks like some weird beast growling at you.

At least dad will not have to look down when he decides the TV is too far and he has to be up close to watch it. He can look at it "in the face."

It all sounds so petty now. I was unbelievably frustrated before but now I look at it and see it was damned little. Funny how that works.

Gotta go. Going to The Shack (as Radio Shack wants to be called now) to get some wires so the VCR (Yup, VHS rules this household) can be plugged into the TV.

Gotta love'em.