The Downsides Of Living With Your Elderly Parent

It’s time. Time for me to break the silence.

I’ve kept quiet about this for far too long.

There are what I will call downsides of living with your elderly parent. Some of you may know about these because you’ve lived with an elderly parent. Some of you may have been born to older parents, and even gotten some experience with it before leaving the nest.

Some of you will be completely oblivious to any of this. It is you I wish to educate.

The Temps

As I sit here in a pile of my own sweat, wondering how many pounds I have lost just by melting into the couch…stripped down to the thinnest pair of yoga pants that I own and a tank top that is in and of itself too hot…

I realize that the temps are the absolute biggest downside of living with your elderly parent.

Old people get cold. My father – who has lived with us now for going on two years – is 73. As soon as he turned 70, a switch flipped and suddenly he was cold all the time. All the time.

I realized it once he went out of town with us and shared a hotel room, something we will never do again (the sharing of the room). I woke up at about 3 in the morning, drenched in sweat and thinking there was something wrong with me.

Nope. Nothing wrong with me, my dad had just turned the heat in the hotel room up to 84.

Now at home, if the heat is not turned up at a minimum to 78 degrees, my dad wears something that looks like a parka, walking around the house with layers of blankets draped all over him, whining and bitching about the cold in the house. Finally, at some point, it became so intolerable that I just said ‘screw it’ and turned up the heat.

So we all swelter while my dad walks around all smug in his short sleeved t-shirt.

27552851

The Candy

Old people have a thing with candy. And cookies. And cake.

If there isn’t a healthy supply of candy and cookies and cake around, old people get crabby. Every night, around the same time, my dad comes downstairs and asks where the candy is. If I say there is none he opens the pantry and says “don’t we have any cookies or any chocolate cake?”

Nope, not on the regular, dad.

Then he goes into a rampage about how there’s never anything here he wants or can eat, which is strange because there is always a ton of food he likes and can eat. It’s just not typically candy or cookies or cake.

The Thirty Minute Questions

My dad asks a lot of questions.

He needs help with the Wifi. He doesn’t understand the cable. He has a question about Microsoft Word. He needs to ask for opinions on how many new pairs of socks he should buy.

What seem like quick and simple conversations with another human being immediately become a minimum of a thirty minute commitment when the elderly are involved.

It’s just a fact.

9313528_orig

The McDonald’s

I cook every meal that we eat of the day. We never eat out, except for the rare occasion that we go to In N Out.

I make really good and full meals too. There’s always multiple fruits and vegetables per meal. I worry about proportions of meat to grain to produce. What I’m saying is that I put a lot of planning and effort into every meal, and yet for some reason my dad always prefers to eat at fucking McDonald’s.

I make gluten free meatloaf with homemade whipped potatoes and corn on the cob with steamed asparagus and green beans?

Dad wants fucking McDonald’s.

I get up excessively early in the morning to prepare fruit-stuffed waffles with scrambled egg casserole and a fruit slush salad?

Dad wants fucking McDonald’s.

I spend four hours hand rolling homemade gnocchi, making from scratch a large batch of pasta sauce and homemade noodles, making sure to cut the noodles in the different shapes that everyone in the family likes?

Dad wants fucking McDonald’s.

The 9 o’clock Bedtime

It is 9:06 pm. My dad just told me he’s going to bed.

The children don’t even go to bed that early.

It’s not a problem because the living room and his room are far enough apart that there should be no problems with noise.

Although every once in a while he complains that we were too loud later in the evening.

The real problem where this comes in is when he gets up earlier than everyone else in the morning and bangs and smashes around the house until we’re all up. And I’m making  a huge breakfast,while sweltering in the house that is now clearly over 200 degrees, only for him to go to McDonald’s anyway.

64124027

 

 

Advertisements

I Have Another Baby, and This One Is My Favorite

10471266_754622653543_1511210079449926239_n

If you are a close and personal friend, or you follow me on any number of my social media outlets (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest – I’m a bit of an Internet whore), then you know I got a dog roughly two months ago. You would know this because my dog is basically all I’ve talked and posted about since bringing her home from the shelter.

I’m like a new parent. You know them, maybe you are one of them. Constant talking about your new baby. Every discussion leads back to your philosophies as a parent. Suddenly you are an expert at everything related to babies and kids, and by the way you are also the first person on the planet – apparently – to have one. At least thirty Instagram photos of the precious, new baby daily.

Only with me (this time), all this stuff is happening over a dog.

Today when the worm head from her tape worm finally came out as she shat in the living room, because she’s a puppy and completely un-potty trained; as I inspected the worm head in both horror and intrigue, I even considered posting a photo of it to Facebook. You know, to get back at all my friends that share photographs of dirty baby diapers, and exploding baby butts. Or because I was proud. Also because I wanted to discuss the efficacy of our deworming pill of choice.

You see what I mean?

1797629_743115439093_1755179033319100415_nWhen I say I have a new dog, and by that we’re talking about a puppy; I mean I feel like I have a new baby, as I said as though I’m a new parent. This creature; this new entity; my newest little-bitty baby is my favorite of all the people in our house that I am responsible for. This includes, but is not limited to, my husband.

You know kids always ask their parents “who is your favorite,” and you’re supposed to say “I love you equally,” or “you’re all my favorite?” None of that bullshit here. My favorite is the dog.

Everyone’s just going to have to wrap their heads around it, because that shit is not going to change.

Here are some details to help you understand how I came to this conclusion:

She’s about one. She’s a shelter dog – because really, who buys bred dogs anymore? – and she was likely attacked before being brought to the shelter, as evidenced by her utter fear and terror of other dogs. So basically she’s a new baby. A needy, new baby.

I’m a big needer of others in need.

oh-you-breed-dogs-i-didnt-know-there-was-a-shortage-3c5bc

We named her Melia. It’s short for Amelia Earhart, the pilot. I am the only one allowed to refer to her as Amelia.

When she came home from the shelter, she basically sat on my lap and slept the entire first two days. Shelters can be pretty exhausting, and she seemed to be really overwhelmed; so for two days she slept on my lap. I even considered buying a baby carrier so I could get some shit done.

Maybe this was a ploy to wrap me around her little paw. If so, it worked.

When we take her out, she always comes in smelling like oregano and rosemary. There are no oregano or rosemary plants outside, and the bushes don’t smell like anything particular. But somehow, it happens every time.

Those happen to be my two, favorite seasonings.

I bought her a bed for every room in the house. That way she’d have a place wherever she was comfortable – I mean, our house is pretty big, and I didn’t want her to feel as though she was left alone. So she got three beds.

And yet she sleeps in my bed. Either under the covers at the foot, or on my husband’s stomach. It’s something he’s learned to deal with.

1904248_750944434723_343723457368307545_n

Melia is a Norfolk Terrier, so she’s pretty tiny. She weighs about 8 pounds, and I say “about” because she’s filled out since we first brought her home. So she may be more. This might be a good time to mention that I make her dog food from scratch. Every two or three weeks, a big batch goes in the crockpot and is frozen in separate baggies.

10474284_747818229663_4030891692269052227_n

I am that pet parent.

Above everything, though, she is a very good dog. She listens and is obedient. She comes with me just about everywhere, and is polite and quiet. She rarely barks. She never bites, unless she’s trying to play which is a nip and she’s just about beyond that.

In fact, the only nipping she does anymore is when she bites me in the ass to try and get me to play with her. Literally. In my ass. She might be trying to tell me something, though…

So basically: besides the biting my in my ass thing, she’s much nicer to me than everyone else in this family.

10473115_750085740553_243068384676887694_nWhy Amelia is my favorite of all these people around here, though, is that she – as is the case with many other dogs  – seems to be more in touch with human emotions than even some humans are. When I am happy, she plays. When I am sad, she sits on my lap and doesn’t leave my side. If I am in need of snuggles because I had a bad day, she just so happens to nuzzle her wet nose in my neck, falling asleep like an actual, little baby.

My husband never nuzzles his wet nose in my neck when I’ve had a bad day.

Perhaps it is just a coincidence, or – again – nothing more than a dog manipulation device. Inside her tiny, quiet, little head she’s calculating just how far she needs to go to get exactly what she wants. How to get me in the palm of her paw, permanently. Some people would argue that. I, on the other hand, can’t fathom such a thought.

 

Sorry fellas, but I’m taken… (a video blog book trailer)

When you watch this video, you’re going to fall into one of two camps:

1) You will be a man and find yourself kicking yourself for not having found me before I met and married my husband; or,

2) You will be a woman and find yourself taking notes on how someone can be as glamorous and classy as I.

I’m just kidding, you’re going to think I’m a slovenly hillbilly with zero class and a complete lack of manners. If you do, the point will have been made.

For the record, I never realized this, but belching loudly is actually a really hard thing to do. At least for me.

Are you intrigued enough to watch the video?

Hurry up and watch before I lose my gumption and take it down. I mean the Internet is – like – forever-ever, and this is perhaps the most humiliating public display I have ever made, and on so many levels.

In case you missed the memo, I have another humor book coming out, March 1st. Prepare yourselves with this book trailer…

PLEASE: No Outside Food, Turn Off Your Cellphones, Silence Your Assholes

1098401_184942645012006_2101961229_n

Those of you that know me, or have been reading this blog for a while, know that I am not a fan of flatus jokes.

You know what I’m talking about. I’m sure you make them all the time. Maybe you post comics on Facebook about blowing them under the covers; or you tell jokes about your husband ripping them in the privacy of an intimate 20-30 person family party.

Then again maybe you are more comfortable with the wind that comes from the assholes of everyone. Perhaps you are like that woman that I saw once – years ago – on Lifetime’s Wife Swap reruns. She would pass her horrifying (and quite frankly excessive for a woman,  in my opinion) gas into empty plastic bottles, then close the bottles to PRESERVE THE SCENT TO EXPOSE TO HER CHILDREN AS A JOKE LATER IN THE DAY.

Yes. You just read what I wrote. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

My husband sometimes is the worst because he does not say what all men should say in the presence of a fucking lady, such as myself – “excuse me.” Or even “sorry.” Every once in a while I get up and walk out of the room, screaming as I go like the stark-raving lunatic that I am, something along the lines of: “why don’t you just drop your pants and take a shit in front of me while you’re at it!” Other times I say nothing because I’m fairly certain he would if he thought I wouldn’t mind.

It comes from his dad. Sometimes I think he (my father-in-law) tears the lining of his asshole, he just does it so much and so violently. Violently, like bring in the SWAT guys with the protest beating sticks-violently. Then he’s proud of it. He’ll try and waft it around the room (as if this is even possible) with his hands, then he’ll do it again only that time you think it might be time to call a doctor, or possibly even 9-1-1.

My mother-in-law gets pretty mad about it sometimes too, about as mad as I do towards my husband. You see how this goes.

A few years ago I was in the post office and this lady leaned over the counter, grunting and looking to be in a considerable amount of pain. I almost went over to ask if she was OK; though I’m glad I didn’t. It turned out she just needed to get some wind out herself. I blogged about that, so you’re welcome to read about it HERE if you want.

But first…

As I said, I am not a fan of gas jokes. The F-A-R-T word is NOT allowed in our house. I just think it’s crude and disgusting, and sure I get that everyone does it. But everyone takes a shit on a regular basis too, are we doing that publicly as well? No. No we are not. (At least the majority of us…the others, well you know who you are…) It is not and never will be socially acceptable, in fact I’m pretty sure if I were to drop my pants and take a dump in the middle of the grocery store I would very likely be assumed mentally ill. Even if I didn’t drop my pants but still took a dump while in the butter aisle of my local Vons, things would not go over very well. Why then can people putter around the store as though there’s a trombone festival coming out of their assholes while they pick out their Rice A Roni and applesauce?

You get my point. I’m not a fan of talking about these things. Or witnessing them – especially witnessing them.

UntitledYou can all imagine then my shock and horror, and absolute disgust, when I was sitting in a waiting room and this man sitting there waiting for his appointment kept blowing them over and over, and over again. I was waiting for my daughter, who was dealing with her jerk father in Texas (who has ironically taken a shit publicly in a box and put it in a coworker’s locker, but we’ll save that one for another blog post some other time…).

For forty minutes, or so, I waited with this gassy man and his anus.

It wasn’t even just that. He was sitting there on his computer. A laptop. Tip-typing away, while I read on my Kindle, waiting. He just tip-typed and I knew I had seen him there before. Worse, I will very likely have to face him again. We were just sitting there, then all of a sudden he would blow one. It sounded something like a very long, very slow, trumpet. Then he’d laugh and say “sorry” out loud (at least he apologized, I suppose); but never once did he look up from his typing.

And I say never once because it happened again, the same way. Very long, very slow trumpet. Followed by a “sorry” and continuing to type. Then it happened again, and again, and then another time – until it had been a total of NINETEEN TIMES that this guy had blown his butt bugle slowly, without looking up or getting up to – oh, I don’t know – deal with whatever was going on with his intestines that required him to blow so much air out of them in a relatively public place.

It was just awful.

There’s a sign in the waiting room that says “please no outside food, turn off your cellphones.” This is – quite obviously – for the courtesy of all the rest of us that are sitting there and may or may not be interested in smelling your day-old Chipotle burrito; and/or listening to a loud conversation you have on your cellphone with your Aunt Mable about your cousin Jimmy knocking up his step-sister. I feel like they should add another thing on there. For the goodness of humanity and – at the very least – my sanity.

Because the next time that guy does something like that, I may just do something crazy. Like drop my pants and pee in the artificial tree in the corner of the room, just to show this guy how much fun it is to witness another person’s bodily functions to such a magnanimous degree.

Then again something tells me he might enjoy it.

Flatus

…I know… so much to wrap your minds around on this one. Perhaps this video of a deer in the woods with its own wind-related issues will help you get over this post. Now may we never speak of any of this again.

We’ve Been Watching A Lot Of Documentaries Lately…

… and I’m not sure why.

Maybe Netflix is starting to get more lame than usual. I mean they just took Planes, Trains, and Automobiles off the Instant Streaming – just how in the shit am I supposed to watch it at least once a week now?

Really I think it’s that we go in cycles as to what kinds of movies we watch. Sometimes we go for marathon cartoon shows, like the Simpsons. Twenty episodes in one day and all that. Other times we go for scary movies or funny movies. Or new ones.

I should mention that we don’t watch regular television at all, with the exception of sports, so it’s either movies, On Demand, or Netflix…

Or nothing. Often it’s nothing.

ANYWHO, so we’ve been watching a lot of documentaries lately. And I’m not sure why. And all of them have a little bit of weirdness to them.

Here are the three we’ve watched this weekend:

Mansome

My husband and I watched Mansome Saturday night. Of course anything Morgan Spurlock and/or Jason Bateman is going to be a necessary win, though it was a little horrifying in and of itself in content.

I mean it was all about men and their grooming practices. And their balls.

It also prompted me to look up Jason Bateman on Wikipedia. You know, while I was sitting there next to my husband. I wanted to know if Bateman was in fact “happily” married. You know, while I was sitting there next to my husband…

So he is. And I didn’t realize that his older sister was the one that played Malory on Family Ties. No shit, right? Well I clicked on her Wikipedia page and BOY… does she look awful now. The 80s and Family Ties and show business really did a number on her…

Back to Mansome. So the best parts of this film were when they interviewed this total weirdo with a really long, red beard. Which was totally different in color than the hair on his head, I might add. He won some European beard contest – a little weird to travel across the world to participate in, but whatever gets you going.

And I should mention that – sure – he was all up on taking care of his beard, but in the scene that showed him getting in his car we learned that he wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about taking care of his car.

I’m saying his car was a total piece of shit. Maybe not relevant, but maybe it is. I mean if a guy is worried so much about his beard but not his mode of transportation…

The other completely off-the-hook part was when they showed the product creator and the focus group for this product called Fresh Balls. Basically it’s a gel that men rub on their junk to stop chafing and “batwings” (which I had no idea existed until watching this highly educational film).

And I suppose close seconds in terms of “greatest parts” of the film were when this totally closeted gay guy has his eyebrows threaded to remove five rogue hairs (he called himself metrosexual … I mean, who does that?); and, when the professional wrestler has his friend shave his ass with an electric razor.

Talking Heads: Stop Making Sense

This afternoon, my husband decided he was going to force all of us to sit down in front of the television and watch this.

He said it would be an experience. That it would be a musical experience we all should appreciate.

Now I can appreciate the nostalgia of remembering a few of the songs. And I can appreciate the aesthetics of the post-punk, avant garde era that made up the Talking Heads of the 80s.

But after a while it just got old. Very, very old. And could that bass player be any more doped out, in her 80s pantsuit that had its own wings? Obviously not batwings, because she didn’t (I don’t think) have testicles; but wings flapping out the side of her pants that just made me think of the whole batwings thing. Then I laughed out loud and my husband got mad.

Thanks a lot. Bitch.

At a certain point in the whole charade going on in this concert film, the tall, skinny, lanky, wiggly guy that is the lead singer just randomly started running around the stage like a complete moron. I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life – he just started jogging. Then sprinting. Then jogging a little bit more. Then at a point he got on the ground and sang while dry-humping the air. Then he went back on another jog around the stage.

It was just too bizarre for words.

Microcosmos

Finally, this evening, I was bored and we had nothing else to do but vegetate like broccoli. So I decided we would turn on another documentary.

Because you know. The others weren’t enough for the weekend, or anything.

I decided on Microcosmos for no reason other than I was seriously fucking tired of scrolling through the Netflix que. For those of you that do not know of it, this is a French documentary that utilized miniature cameras and specialized microphones to film bugs.

Insects. You get it? Fucking tiny little bugs. Spiders and flies and shit.

Here were my responses:

“Those caterpillars are complete morons.”

“Bees can seriously kiss my ass.”

“Jesus, could those snails suck face any harder? Need to get some Barry White up in there.”

“I think I have eaten one of those beetles on accident.”

“Hey look it’s like the 405 [freeway] only with bugs.”

“What’s so scary about those things is they’re fucking ugly.”

“That’s not a salamander, that’s an underwater dinosaur.”

“Wow look at that bird eat those ants… it’s like a trip to Hometown Buffet!”

“Is it weird this movie is making me hungry?”

So I highly recommend that you guys check out these movies. I’m not sure why. Probably because after all this poking fun and making random commentary I’m afraid of the legal ramifications by the filmmakers. Just kidding, I actually think you should watch them. If anything, for a good laugh.

Now here’s Snail Beauty, or as I like to call it Two Snails Get Busy.

Buy My Book Now, Or Else My Next One Will Be About You

313834_664153838773_1767884925_n

Kidding. (Not kidding.)

Okay you guys, my book was set to come out on Tuesday, June 4th. Tomorrow for me. Today at this point for some of you. Then I got an email today saying it would be delayed because of some bullshit on Amazon. I was so devastated. I threw myself around for about an hour. I asked tons of people for advice (because the Kindle and independent publisher DID have it available, so it would only be the Amazon thing holding up the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT). I emotionally ate probably ten times more calories than I should have.

Then I got home from running a bunch of stupid errands (because of course, on a “me” day when the MIL has the Pookies, the only natural thing to do is run errands rather than doing something actually for … me …); I got home from running those errands and I was like you know I’m going to look up the Kindle version of the book to make sure that is indexed properly too. If there was a screw up with one, there might be a screw up with the other right?

And then it happened. I saw that the snafu had been resolved. My book is available in Paperback on Amazon, as well as for a Kindle device or Kindle App.

OH MY GOD. MY BOOK IS AVAILABLE ON PAPERBACK ON AMAZON, AS WELL AS FOR A KINDLE DEVICE OR KINDLE APP.

… have you all regained consciousness?

MWABBUTTONSFor those of you relatively new around the block, I wrote a compilation book of never-before-seen tirades about being an adult, being a mom, and how I think men and husbands are absolutely horrifying. It isn’t just for moms or wives or women. Quite frankly, I think men could consider it a manual of what not to do (in spite of the fact that it is probably going to be considered by many as the most emasculating, man-hating book on the planet….).

To be clear: I am not a man-hater. I am just honest.

But because of this honesty, I thought it best to dub this one an investigation of sorts. Is it OK to be a bitch? Is there something true about anything I say – in my books, as well as on my blog? Am I insane, or do I really actually say things a lot of people think?

All questions answered in the book.

So here’s the deal. You are all going to watch the trailer for My Wife’s a Bitch. Right here! On this very blog post!

Then you are going to click on the picture below that best describes how you prefer to read your books. And you are going to buy the book.

Or else my next one will be about you.

You think I’m kidding? I mean I am (not really). But once you read the book, maybe you will take me more seriously. (Or not.) Only time will tell.

The last thing you are going to do (or suffer my wrath) is post a review on Amazon, like the book on Amazon, post your comments about it on Goodreads, and MORE THAN ANYTHING – share this motherfucker into the ground. SHARE SHARE SHARE!

You remember in health class in high school when they did that glitter thing to prove how fast STDs spread? One person got some glitter on her hand and had to move around the classroom, suddenly there was glitter everywhere and we were all cowering in fear that this might have meant we somehow caught some weird form of chlamydia. I want you to share this bitch right now like you shared that glitter chlamydia in high school health class.

So without further ado, My Wife’s A Bitch. Because I am.

To buy for download on your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle APP ($4.99)

MWABKindleClickthrough

To buy an unsigned paperback from Amazon.com ($9.99 – marked down to $9.24)

MWABPaperbackClickthrough

To buy a signed paperback directly from the author ($24.99 – free shipping in the United States)

MWABSignedCopyClickThrough