What would the holidays be without family...relaxing?...enjoyable?...stress free? Oh, did I say that out loud? I meant boring, sad and stressful .
I love my family. Really. But based on last week and Christmas of last year, I am thinking of joining the witness relocation program. I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year.
You see, the problem is that my parents have thankfully enjoyed good health, my father in particular. He prides himself on the fact that he has not needed a doctor since he was in the navy, so last Christmas, when tragedy struck, it was, well, tragic.
The day after Christmas, my dad was literally blown off his feet by an unexpected gust of wind and thrown to the ground. Fortunately, he just ended up with a boo boo on his bottom and a pulled muscle, according to the ER doctor. And our doctor five days later. And the x-rays. And Web MD. And Marcus Welby. And the entire cast of Gray'sAnatomy, and The Practice.
But no matter what everyone told him, he was convinced he might never walk again...and have to live with us instead of flying back to Florida with my mom.
For an entire week, we had to hear, in great and excruciating detail, about his boo boo. We were treated to vivid descriptions of the size, location and severity of the bruise. We lived through his brave attempts to walk five feet without the walker, cane, forklift, or tow-line. We grinned and bore hearing about the indignity of sitting on a glorified whoopee cushion for meals.
We tried to distract him with the Food Network, Angry Birds and his granddaughter, but nothing captured his attention or imagination the way his boo boo did. He just knew the doctors were all wrong and he had broken something. He was sure that he had at least torn a ligament or severed a tendon. It was the beginning of the end. He would end up bedridden for the rest of his days, eating gruel and making macrame potholders.
So, to ease the pain (ours), we gave him drugs. The doctor had prescribed pain pills and muscle relaxants, but the man who was never sick or injured a day in his life didn't want to take them. We told him it was him or us, but those drugs were going to put someone out of their pain.
This, of course, opened up a whole new set of issues.
While I am totally consumed with my dog's poops--size, frequency, form and texture--I really, really, really do not need to even know about my father's.
"Do you know that it says here this medication can cause constipation?" he demanded, waving the sheaf of papers at me that now come with every prescription.
"It also says it can cause you to cluck like a chicken or spontaneously break into the dance of the sugar plum fairy, but hey, let's look on the bright side, and maybe it will just make you feel better and your biggest worry will be finding a six-fingered glove for the new thumb that will sprout."
Every day, we got a potty update, along with dire predictions of being unable to board the plane for home when the holiday ended.
"I'm fine flying back alone," my mother chirped, seeing a light at the end of her tunnel.
I believe our response was something along the lines of, "Look, we love dad to death, but he is getting on that plane if we have to buy an extra ticket and strap him to our back like a piece of carry-on luggage."
Fortunately for everyone involved, he got on the plane.
Last week, it was my mother's turn. She had a doctor's appointment here, so she flew in the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Monday morning, I drove her to the doctor, and waited for her. After about a half hour, she came out, looked surreptitiously around the empty waiting room, and said, "I'll tell you what the doctor said later."
Thinking she meant in the privacy or the car or back at the house, I nodded in agreement. No such luck.
As we entered the elevator, the crowded elevator, she launched into a blow-by-blow account of her visit...which would have been fine had we been at the eye doctor, but we had unfortunately been to a doctor for women's issues.
I am still waking up at night in a cold sweat.
At first, I tried to pretend I was just some poor, random stranger this woman had targeted to share intimate details with. "Uh huh," I murmured half-heartedly as she used the V word for, like, the forty-seventh time in three minutes. I wondered what the penalty was for pulling the fire alarm. I even briefly contemplated actually setting myself on fire. My mother, oblivious to the lack of response, chattered on.
"So you thought the doctor was nice?" I desperately tried to nudge the subject onto a path strewn with less personal information when I could no longer pretend I didn't know her.
"Oh, yes. She said..." And she was off and running again with things that had people bailing out of that elevator like it was a 70's disaster movie, and the director had just called "Action!".
And the best part of it was, it never ended. Not in the lobby, not in the elevator down to the garage, not in the car, not at Toys R Us where we did some Christmas shopping. I kept hearing about parts of my mother that I don't even want to know exist. And there was no escape.
By the time she flew back to Florida, I was waxing nostalgic over my father's boo boo and ensuing poop issues.
Can't wait for Christmas this year.
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Love Is A Battlefield
This past weekend, our nephew got married, and like most weddings, family members gathered together to celebrate...and aggravate.
The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner. Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.
"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.
"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.
"Helloooo. I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.
Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.
"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.
"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year," And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.
"Really?!!?" he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised. "That's all? I am ten years older and I thought they were my age. They are the youngest?"
Uh oh. Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old. We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely. He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.
"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.
"That's what we all say," Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah. And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.
Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking. See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."
"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.
Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray. He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
"No. Really. I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.
"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared. As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off. "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."
The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.
Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.
It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms. The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.
We turned on a light, we blew a fuse. Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse. Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse. Lit a match, we blew a fuse.
And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak. As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B. he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.
Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz. Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.
Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it. He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room. I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."
"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance). He won't want to change in a hot room." My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.
At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"
No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter. A direct hit!
Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh. Hello Walter," and then walked away.
The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner. Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.
"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.
"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.
"Helloooo. I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.
Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.
"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.
"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year," And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.
"Really?!!?" he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised. "That's all? I am ten years older and I thought they were my age. They are the youngest?"
Uh oh. Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old. We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely. He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.
"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.
"That's what we all say," Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah. And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.
Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking. See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."
"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.
Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray. He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
"No. Really. I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.
"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared. As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off. "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."
The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.
Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.
It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms. The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.
We turned on a light, we blew a fuse. Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse. Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse. Lit a match, we blew a fuse.
And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak. As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B. he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.
Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz. Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.
Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it. He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room. I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."
"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance). He won't want to change in a hot room." My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.
At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"
No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter. A direct hit!
Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh. Hello Walter," and then walked away.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Parents Say the Darndest Things
The other day, I called my parents from Bed, Bath and Beyond to ask what color wood, walnut or black, was the furniture at the condo.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
For the last few years, they have had one lonely little collage frame on a rather large, otherwise blank wall, so I thought I'd pick up a variety of frames to fill the empty space. Sort of like a giant collage.
"Don't get too many," my dad warned me. "I don't think I have that many really good pictures of Cait from this year."
Umm. Hellooooo. I am aware that Cait, your only grandchild, otherwise known as the cutest, most perfect, smartest, best child of all time on the face of the earth is the main focus these days, but aren't you forgetting something? Something like, gee, I don't know, your three children?
I mean, I know we can't even begin to compare with Cait, but maybe you could include us in at least one picture? Just a group picture perhaps, where we're all standing around looking at Cait. Maybe you could photoshop her into the center of daVinci's Last Supper painting and do it as a mural on the whole wall. The rest of us can be in the background somewhere, or hey, we could be the wait staff.
I have come to accept that gradually, over the last three years, our old photos have been replaced with ones of Cait. Sometimes, I have even been grateful for the Caitmania that has gripped my parents.
I really don't need to be confronted with photos of me from the 80's looking like a linebacker in drag. And who wants to be reminded of those unfortunate years before braces, contacts and clearasil had worked their magic? And did we really need to have the ghosts of Christmases past photos keep haunting us year after year? Wheee! Look at us frolicking in the snow with our tacky winter sweaters and smiles that make us look like we're trying to pass kidney stones!!
It was beyond time to say good-bye to those photos, but I didn't know that also meant we were being cut out of the family tree as though we had dutch elm disease.
Ahh, but this is just the most recent affront to our vanity. The last attack was about a month ago.
Tim had had his back surgery and Pat had undergone surgery on her shoulder. My dad and I were talking about how small their scars were and how good they looked considering the amount of work that had been done, when he said, "Well, it's not as if we have to worry about either one of them winning a beauty contest anyway at their ages."
Slam!!! An unprovoked attack where he picked off the two of them with one shot. The best part is, he wasn't even trying!
"I mean, not that they're ugly or old, or anything," he began to backpedal. "I meant because of the scars. Not that they're bad, they're not. You can hardly notice them."
Wow. Maybe we should just shoot those two poor humpbacked wildabeasts and put them out of their misery. Maybe we could borrow the elephant man's cover-up and they could take turns wearing it when they go out in public. You know, so they don't send poor little children running screaming into the night.
Knowing that no force on the planet would be able to keep me from cheerily repeating his comment to said wildabeasts, he kept trying make it better, but it was too late. It was out there. In the universe. And I was texting even as we were speaking. Hehehe.
Not to be outdone in the faux paux department, my mother has had a moment or two of her own. The one that sticks out the most was last year when we were throwing Pat a birthday party.
We decided to gather up a bunch of old photos of her and run a slide show during the cocktail hour. Since my mom had years ago divided up our childhood pictures (to each his/her own), we asked Paqt to bring the photos over to the house for us to pick what we wanted to use.
As we sat at the table, sorting through the pictures, my mom held up one from many years earlier and reminisced, "This was when you were thin."
As Tim and I fell howling on the floor, Pat huffed with indignation. "Thanks. When I was thin. Before I became Tillie the elephant. Hang on, P.T. Barnum is calling to ask which of the three rings I'd like to perform in tonight."
My nother tried to mount a defense, but at that point, anything she said just made it worse.
"No, you were young then." she protested.
"As opposed to the old, fat whale I am now?" Pat sputtered.
Tim and I, of course came to her defense. NOT! And like any good, older sister, I still remind Pat of this any chance I get. Hehehe.
Can't wait for the holidays to see what they come up with this year.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
We Should Have Called Her Houdini
Our dog, Chloe, is crate trained...more or less. Less than more.
Every night she goes contentedly into her crate (okay, we put it on the edge of the bed where she can't get a toehold, duck her head, tuck in her paws and try to shove her into it while she somehow manages to grow eight more legs and cover herself in grease. Imagine trying to stuff a giant squid into a thimble and you're halfway there.
"I was framed, I'm telling you. I'm innocent," she protests vehemently.
Every day, her first order of business is to liberate every item in her crate. "Run and be free," she tells Bedtime Bear and Mr. Winkles as she tosses them hither and yon around the bedroom. "Quick, everyone over the wall!"
Oddly enough though, given her feelings regarding anyplace with walls and a door, she allows herself to be put in her playpen during the day with nary a peep (okay, so we have to leave treats, toys, the TV remote, phone, laptop and gold Am Ex card). Which is why I was excited to find a travel version made of canvas and mesh. No need to worry about our precious bundle of hair frying herself on a lamp wire or ingesting a couch, bed or other tempting and tasty hotel room paraphernalia that they have for the sole purpose of luring good little puppies down the wicked path of ruin.
Chloe was not quite as excited about it as I.
Where I saw a safe and familiar environment, she saw a network game show challenge. It was like watching Win It In A Minute as she charged the sides, teeth, hair and paws flying about in a frenzy while she hurled all six pounds of herself repeatedly at the sides until it resembled a No. 2 pencil instead of an octagon.
She proudly looked up at me from atop the mound of pee pads, dishes, toys and bed crammed into a six-inch space at one end as I surveyed the damage that hurricane Chloe had caused.
"Look what I did, mom," she panted excitedly. "And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"
Believing myself able to outsmart the dog, I wedged the playpen between the bed, nightstand, ottoman, four chairs, eight maids amilking, seven swans aswimming and a partridge in a pear tree. Satisfied that would hold her, Tim and I went out to dinner.
Upon our return, I put my finger to my lips and shushed Tim as we silently crept back into the room and peered down into the playpen...to see nothing!
"Chloe, Chloeeeee," we called imagining masked marauders dog napping our precious baby and holding her for a ransom. Quick, where was the number for the navy seals, the green berets or the A-Team?
Suddenly,we were hit from behind by a small, fuzzy projectile of joy. "Aren't you proud of me? See, I escaped! Watching all those David Copperfield specials really paid off, huh?"
Incredulous, we examined the playpen, looking for the escape hatch. It seemed improbable that she had scaled the four foot sides, and the zippered door was still firmly zippered shut, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that one of the velcro straps joining the sides had been opened. What we still can't figure out is how, since it was closed on the outside of the playpen with a buckle! Like any good magician though, she refuses to share her secrets.
Still thinking I was maybe at least as smart as she, I brought the playpen with me to visit my parents two weeks ago. This time, I not only surrounded it with massive pieces of furniture, I sprayed all the velcro closures with a bitter apple dog deterrent. Ha! I win!
Yeah. For about five minutes.
I should have just dunked the whole pen in bitter apple, because when she found she couldn't push the sides or bite the velcro, she simply latched her sharp little puppy teeth onto the mesh and pulled. Faster than you can say origami, she had twisted the shape into something beyond all recognition containing about four inches of real estate.
"Help! Help!" she yipped, looking balefully at me as though this were all my fault (the mother always gets blamed)."Maybe I should have said bibbidy bobbidy boo instead of abracadabra."
Totally defeated, I was investigating other options like crying, calling Tim up and whining, calling the Super-Nanny and whining, or sending a note up the chimney for Mary Poppins to find, when my father declared he could contain Chloe. Foolish, foolish man.
"We'll close the baby gate to the family room(which is at the back of the house)" he rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist, "unfold the pen, brace it against a few chairs, the bookcase, velcro it to the floor and tie it off. There. That ought to hold her." He stepped back, overly pleased with himself.
"I don't know..." I shook my head. He clearly didn't understand who he was up against.
"She's a dog," he scorned. "If she can figure out how to get out of there, I'll shake her paw tonight."
She met us at the front door when we returned, paw extended, head cocked to one side, superior little smile on her lips. I just wish we had bet some money on it.
So now the challenge was on. Chloe vs my father. They each took it as a personal challenge to thwart the other. It was kind of like watching Wile E Coyote trying to outsmart the Roadrunner. You just knew that whatever he's ordered from Acme is going to blow up in his face. I kept warning my dad that he was outgunned, but he was nothing if not determined.
In the end though, my father did win. He only had to rearrange the family room furniture, add the kitchen chairs, table, stove and refrigerator as reinforcements, tie off the playpen with kitchen twine, put the lock on the baby gate, and bolt a few things down to the floor. Chloe was finally safe, and trapped in her playpen.
Victory came at a price though,which was that while she couldn't get out of the family room, we couldn't get in. No family room. No TV. His system made Fort Knox look like it was was secured with a flimsy latch and a battered "Beware of Dog" sign.
Even though she was well and truly trapped, somehow, I think that putting him to so much trouble might have been Chloe's next trick all along.
Every night she goes contentedly into her crate (okay, we put it on the edge of the bed where she can't get a toehold, duck her head, tuck in her paws and try to shove her into it while she somehow manages to grow eight more legs and cover herself in grease. Imagine trying to stuff a giant squid into a thimble and you're halfway there.
"I was framed, I'm telling you. I'm innocent," she protests vehemently.
Every day, her first order of business is to liberate every item in her crate. "Run and be free," she tells Bedtime Bear and Mr. Winkles as she tosses them hither and yon around the bedroom. "Quick, everyone over the wall!"
Oddly enough though, given her feelings regarding anyplace with walls and a door, she allows herself to be put in her playpen during the day with nary a peep (okay, so we have to leave treats, toys, the TV remote, phone, laptop and gold Am Ex card). Which is why I was excited to find a travel version made of canvas and mesh. No need to worry about our precious bundle of hair frying herself on a lamp wire or ingesting a couch, bed or other tempting and tasty hotel room paraphernalia that they have for the sole purpose of luring good little puppies down the wicked path of ruin.
Chloe was not quite as excited about it as I.
Where I saw a safe and familiar environment, she saw a network game show challenge. It was like watching Win It In A Minute as she charged the sides, teeth, hair and paws flying about in a frenzy while she hurled all six pounds of herself repeatedly at the sides until it resembled a No. 2 pencil instead of an octagon.
She proudly looked up at me from atop the mound of pee pads, dishes, toys and bed crammed into a six-inch space at one end as I surveyed the damage that hurricane Chloe had caused.
"Look what I did, mom," she panted excitedly. "And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"
Believing myself able to outsmart the dog, I wedged the playpen between the bed, nightstand, ottoman, four chairs, eight maids amilking, seven swans aswimming and a partridge in a pear tree. Satisfied that would hold her, Tim and I went out to dinner.
Upon our return, I put my finger to my lips and shushed Tim as we silently crept back into the room and peered down into the playpen...to see nothing!
"Chloe, Chloeeeee," we called imagining masked marauders dog napping our precious baby and holding her for a ransom. Quick, where was the number for the navy seals, the green berets or the A-Team?
Suddenly,we were hit from behind by a small, fuzzy projectile of joy. "Aren't you proud of me? See, I escaped! Watching all those David Copperfield specials really paid off, huh?"
Incredulous, we examined the playpen, looking for the escape hatch. It seemed improbable that she had scaled the four foot sides, and the zippered door was still firmly zippered shut, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that one of the velcro straps joining the sides had been opened. What we still can't figure out is how, since it was closed on the outside of the playpen with a buckle! Like any good magician though, she refuses to share her secrets.
Still thinking I was maybe at least as smart as she, I brought the playpen with me to visit my parents two weeks ago. This time, I not only surrounded it with massive pieces of furniture, I sprayed all the velcro closures with a bitter apple dog deterrent. Ha! I win!
Yeah. For about five minutes.
I should have just dunked the whole pen in bitter apple, because when she found she couldn't push the sides or bite the velcro, she simply latched her sharp little puppy teeth onto the mesh and pulled. Faster than you can say origami, she had twisted the shape into something beyond all recognition containing about four inches of real estate.
"Help! Help!" she yipped, looking balefully at me as though this were all my fault (the mother always gets blamed)."Maybe I should have said bibbidy bobbidy boo instead of abracadabra."
Totally defeated, I was investigating other options like crying, calling Tim up and whining, calling the Super-Nanny and whining, or sending a note up the chimney for Mary Poppins to find, when my father declared he could contain Chloe. Foolish, foolish man.
"We'll close the baby gate to the family room(which is at the back of the house)" he rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist, "unfold the pen, brace it against a few chairs, the bookcase, velcro it to the floor and tie it off. There. That ought to hold her." He stepped back, overly pleased with himself.
"I don't know..." I shook my head. He clearly didn't understand who he was up against.
"She's a dog," he scorned. "If she can figure out how to get out of there, I'll shake her paw tonight."
She met us at the front door when we returned, paw extended, head cocked to one side, superior little smile on her lips. I just wish we had bet some money on it.
So now the challenge was on. Chloe vs my father. They each took it as a personal challenge to thwart the other. It was kind of like watching Wile E Coyote trying to outsmart the Roadrunner. You just knew that whatever he's ordered from Acme is going to blow up in his face. I kept warning my dad that he was outgunned, but he was nothing if not determined.
In the end though, my father did win. He only had to rearrange the family room furniture, add the kitchen chairs, table, stove and refrigerator as reinforcements, tie off the playpen with kitchen twine, put the lock on the baby gate, and bolt a few things down to the floor. Chloe was finally safe, and trapped in her playpen.
Victory came at a price though,which was that while she couldn't get out of the family room, we couldn't get in. No family room. No TV. His system made Fort Knox look like it was was secured with a flimsy latch and a battered "Beware of Dog" sign.
Even though she was well and truly trapped, somehow, I think that putting him to so much trouble might have been Chloe's next trick all along.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Driving Me Crazy
At our usual Sunday night family dinner, our fifteen year old niece was talking about driving. When I admitted that I did not get my license till I was 21, there was an audible gasp around the table.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
It may be unusual not to get your license until you are that old, but I had my reasons. Two of them. And they were called my parents.
My dad's idea of driving was like watching somebody play Beat the Clock.
"Did everybody go to the bathroom?" he's ask as we started off on a 2000 mile car ride. "Cause we're not stopping till we get there. I figure I can make it in eight hours or less."
Then he's buckle up, synchronize his watch to the local bank clock, get into the passing lane, press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, and keep it there. He knew every detour, side road and alternate route just in case he hit traffic, construction or anyone doing under 90mph.
"We're five minutes ahead of schedule," he'd gloat as we passed a predetermined landmark (that usually had a bathroom we all looked at longingly).
And if he could shave fifteen minutes or more off the entire trip? It was like his birthday, Christmas and the fourth of July all happened on the very same day.
My mother's driving style can best be illustrated by an incident that occurred my freshman year of high school.
Back in those days, it was safe for the male upperclassmen to "hitch" a ride to school in the mornings. One of them made the mistake of getting in our car...once. As my mom bobbed, weaved, coasted through stop signs and generally drove like a contestant in last place on The Great Race, he turned pale, began to shake, and seemed to be either praying or composing his own eulogy.
"You can't believe the crazy woman I got a ride with this morning," I heard him say to his friends after he stumbled out of the car and kissed the sidewalk.
We thought we saw him hitching again a few day later, but it was hard to tell from the angle we had. After all, pretty much everyone's backside looks the same as they are diving into the bushes to hide.
Finally though, it was my turn to drive, so I signed up for driver's ed. The poor teacher never had a chance, or should I say teachers. For some reason, after usually only one lesson each, they suddenly developed some mysterious malady that made them unable to sit in a car. Well, my car.
The first poor soul decided after fifteen minutes or so of driving around the parking lot, that I was ready to hit the open road. As I raced down the street ala mom, he cautioned, "A bit slower."
Slower? I was only doing sixty. My grandmother could walk faster than that. Any slower and a snail would pass us.
At the end of the block, I approached a yellow light and instinctively did what either of my parents would do...I gunned it.
"Brake! Brake! Brake!" the instructor screamed as his fingers dug holes into the dashboard and his life flashed before his eyes.
Confused, I slammed both feet on the brake and skidded to a halt with a flourish a Hollywood stunt driver would be proud of. I turned to the teacher. What was his problem? Had he only ridden in a horse and buggy before?
After he scraped himself off the front windshield and realigned his nose, he suggested that perhaps we should save challenges like lights for the next lesson and stick to parking lots for the rest of the day.
Lesson two was a different teacher (Geez, you'd think they could find people who were not afraid of their own shadow to teach driver's ed.), who decided that I was ready for highway driving. Hehehe.
You'd think he's never been on the Dodge Em's ride at the amusement park or seen an Indy 500 race the way he carried on. I mean, isn't that why there are two lanes, so you can weave in and out and beat everyone to the exit? Clearly they needed to screen the instructors better to find people who didn't get dizzy from the scenery flashing by at 80mph. Back to the parking lot.
And so it went, until I finished the course. One instructor actually made it through three whole lessons (I believe they awarded him the Bronze Star).
Before I could get my actual license though, my dad decreed that I needed to learn to drive a stick shift since I would be driving my mom's car and not his. (The rule in our house has always been that nobody, but nobody drives my dad's car. The man could be in a coma with both legs in traction, but if he heard someone even touch his keys, he would hop up and bolt for the door shouting, "I'll move my car out of the driveway! You take your mom's car.")
And now we come to the real reason it took me so long to get my license. My dad was not born to be a teacher. I didn't realize I signed up for boot camp when I got behind the wheel for the first time. It was bad enough I had to work the clutch, gas and shift at the same time, but he was continually upping the ante.
"No, no," he'd correct, loudly, as he made me stop halfway up the hill in front of our house. "You're doing it all wrong. How are you ever going to be able to stop on a ninety degree mountain path in a blinding snowstorm with 200mph winds, pulling a tractor trailer and start up again without rolling back 1/4 of an inch if you can't do this?"
Uh. I'm thinking that if I ever find myself in that situation, I am going to have bigger problems than rolling back down the hill a foot or two. How about at that point, I just admit defeat and call you?
"I'm a car," he'd say, standing on the line of a parking space, "park next to me and see how close you can come without hitting me. Oh, and back in without using any of the mirrors. You should know where your car is."
Really? Are you sure you want to do this? Cause I'm pretty sure I can get away with an accidental homicide charge. Maybe some community service or counselling.
But my favorite teaching tactic of his was when he (finally) let me out on the street.
"Turn when I say turn. As soon as I say turn," he'd tell me.
Easy. Right? Not so much. As I'd be passing an intersection, he's suddenly yell, "Turn! Now!" as though someone had thrown a live grenade into our foxhole.
Usually panic-stricken, I'd jerk the wheel, press the gas, brake, clutch, cover my eyes,ears and mouth, pull out the rosary, worry beads and holy water...and end up on someones front lawn shaking like a leaf.
"Let's try that again," he'd pronounce, unruffled. Patton could have taken lessons from this man on drilling the troops.
But I had had enough. In defeat (which was probably his plan all along), I handed over the keys and resigned myself to committing the bus schedule to memory.
It wasn't until Tim came along, and in the ignorant, confident, flush of youth decided to teach me to drive. It has to be a testament to true love that he married me anyway. Then again, his driving, if not his teaching style is very similar to my parents'.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Little Bit of Knowledge
Two years ago, my dad wanted an iphone. Okay, so he was dragged kicking and screaming into the store after his phone died and they told him that they had stopped making that model at about the same time the mullet went out of style.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Driving Directions...Don't Leave Home Without Them
My father has always had a good sense of direction. Give him a map and a destination, and he'll plan a trip Triple A (or, as my mother calls it, AA) could only dream about.
We learned at an early age that if we were careless enough to mention an upcoming trip, he'd run out to the car and produce folding maps for pretty much every state east of the Appalachians.
"Now, here is where we are," he'd say, stabbing at a point with one hand, while simultaneously unfolding three more maps with the other. "You'll want to take 81 south until you come to 83 South, then cut over....Wait a minute," he'd interrupt himself," there is construction at exit 51, so you'll want to get off at exit 49, follow route 13 for 4.5 miles, then get back on 81 here..."
Very soon, the dining room table would resemble Churchill's war room bunker except that my father's plans were slightly more intricate and better mapped out. You knew you were in real trouble when he grabbed the highlighter and headed for the copy machine though. We were always half afraid we'd have to eat the resulting map after memorizing it so it wouldn't fall into enemy hands.
Which is why it surprised us when he got a nav. system last year. Somehow, I thought he would see it as a demotion from 4-star general to foot soldier. Not so. He delights in plugging in random destinations, then playing with the options to see how many different possible routes he can get it to generate. Slow night on TV? Grab the Tom-Tom and head off for a virtual trip to see Aunt Jean in Cape Cod, or maybe nip down to watch the Kentucky Derby.
But it is not just new and exotic destinations he enters. He chortles gleefully as he challenges it to find places he is already familiar with. His eyes take on a special glow as he waits to see if it will direct him to what he already knows is the best route, or if it will offer up a poorer, safer choice clearly meant for someone with less skill and knowledge of each and every alley and secondary road in the greater tri-state area.
He does use it for practical things as well though. For example, he recently used it to plan out the route to Florida two months before they left, scouting out possible overnight stops, comparing the distance of hotels from the exit, their proximity to restaurants and determining, to within a tenth of a mile, exactly how far it would be door to door, stops included.
And, since they've arrived, he uses it in conjunction with the phone book he began carrying around to learn the area. Winn-Dixie? A left, a right and a right. Town Center? Do you want the scenic route or the business route? Same distance, but watch the speed limit on the scenic route. It takes 3.4 minutes longer, or you risk a speeding ticket from the police who constantly patrol that stretch of road.
Coming from the airport when we visited, Tim and I got very specific directions, right down to which lane to be in for the final turn onto their street (the right hand lane of the two left turning lanes after you cross the railroad tracks, because you have to make an immediate right into the development).
For the entire week of our visit, with every new restaurant or activity came the opportunity to play "beat the Tom-Tom". If it wanted to take us on surface streets, my father would hop onto 95 and then pick up the directions from the nearest exit because it was faster. If it wanted to send us on the interstate, he would zoom down the back roads to avoid the traffic tie-ups he was sure we would find at a certain time of day.
All of this was well and fine until the last day when we headed back down to the airport to meet my brother at a nearby restaurant. Since he was just arriving, and we were leaving (we did the family thing in shifts this year), it was decided that Tim and I would drive my parents down in our rental car, and Mike would take them back in his to spend the next week with them.
There was some separation anxiety with the Tom-Tom, but we convinced my father that it was a fairly direct route...95 South (for both of us) to exit 26, then a left at the first light and follow the signs for the restaurant. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, for one thing, my brother apparently missed the exit for 95 when leaving the airport. And, since he was on the phone with my father at the time, we got a blow-by-blow account, until, that is, my father began walking away from us back toward the main road. I'm not sure what he was hoping to accomplish by it, but I suspect he may have been going to send up a flare, or maybe flag down a passing motorist with a nav system and commandeer their vehicle.
He had spent the last month learning a new area, but this was outside of his realm. His worst fears had come to pass. We might never see my brother again. What if he ended up shooting past us and landed in Miami? Or, worse yet, a whole other state, like (gasp) Georgia?!?
"Where are you?" he yelled frantically into the phone for the tenth time.
"Exit 10," my brother replied, equally calm.
"There is no exit 10 on 95. You're on the wrong road," the frustration was building.
"How do I get on 95 from here?" (Gee, maybe use mapquest before you left home?)
"I don't know. I don't have my Tom-Tom!" Oh yeah, much calmer now.
"Then you're not helping me!!" No kidding.
Finally, by some miracle, my brother eventually made it to the restaurant (The rest of us were very concerned. We spent the time watching an iguana eye up some ducks and then went and had a drink at the bar. Hey, there was no reason for everyone to be upset.)
One thing is certain though. By the time we return for our next visit, my father will intimately know the area around the airport, and he'll never leave home without his Tom-Tom again.
We learned at an early age that if we were careless enough to mention an upcoming trip, he'd run out to the car and produce folding maps for pretty much every state east of the Appalachians.
"Now, here is where we are," he'd say, stabbing at a point with one hand, while simultaneously unfolding three more maps with the other. "You'll want to take 81 south until you come to 83 South, then cut over....Wait a minute," he'd interrupt himself," there is construction at exit 51, so you'll want to get off at exit 49, follow route 13 for 4.5 miles, then get back on 81 here..."
Very soon, the dining room table would resemble Churchill's war room bunker except that my father's plans were slightly more intricate and better mapped out. You knew you were in real trouble when he grabbed the highlighter and headed for the copy machine though. We were always half afraid we'd have to eat the resulting map after memorizing it so it wouldn't fall into enemy hands.
Which is why it surprised us when he got a nav. system last year. Somehow, I thought he would see it as a demotion from 4-star general to foot soldier. Not so. He delights in plugging in random destinations, then playing with the options to see how many different possible routes he can get it to generate. Slow night on TV? Grab the Tom-Tom and head off for a virtual trip to see Aunt Jean in Cape Cod, or maybe nip down to watch the Kentucky Derby.
But it is not just new and exotic destinations he enters. He chortles gleefully as he challenges it to find places he is already familiar with. His eyes take on a special glow as he waits to see if it will direct him to what he already knows is the best route, or if it will offer up a poorer, safer choice clearly meant for someone with less skill and knowledge of each and every alley and secondary road in the greater tri-state area.
He does use it for practical things as well though. For example, he recently used it to plan out the route to Florida two months before they left, scouting out possible overnight stops, comparing the distance of hotels from the exit, their proximity to restaurants and determining, to within a tenth of a mile, exactly how far it would be door to door, stops included.
And, since they've arrived, he uses it in conjunction with the phone book he began carrying around to learn the area. Winn-Dixie? A left, a right and a right. Town Center? Do you want the scenic route or the business route? Same distance, but watch the speed limit on the scenic route. It takes 3.4 minutes longer, or you risk a speeding ticket from the police who constantly patrol that stretch of road.
Coming from the airport when we visited, Tim and I got very specific directions, right down to which lane to be in for the final turn onto their street (the right hand lane of the two left turning lanes after you cross the railroad tracks, because you have to make an immediate right into the development).
For the entire week of our visit, with every new restaurant or activity came the opportunity to play "beat the Tom-Tom". If it wanted to take us on surface streets, my father would hop onto 95 and then pick up the directions from the nearest exit because it was faster. If it wanted to send us on the interstate, he would zoom down the back roads to avoid the traffic tie-ups he was sure we would find at a certain time of day.
All of this was well and fine until the last day when we headed back down to the airport to meet my brother at a nearby restaurant. Since he was just arriving, and we were leaving (we did the family thing in shifts this year), it was decided that Tim and I would drive my parents down in our rental car, and Mike would take them back in his to spend the next week with them.
There was some separation anxiety with the Tom-Tom, but we convinced my father that it was a fairly direct route...95 South (for both of us) to exit 26, then a left at the first light and follow the signs for the restaurant. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, for one thing, my brother apparently missed the exit for 95 when leaving the airport. And, since he was on the phone with my father at the time, we got a blow-by-blow account, until, that is, my father began walking away from us back toward the main road. I'm not sure what he was hoping to accomplish by it, but I suspect he may have been going to send up a flare, or maybe flag down a passing motorist with a nav system and commandeer their vehicle.
He had spent the last month learning a new area, but this was outside of his realm. His worst fears had come to pass. We might never see my brother again. What if he ended up shooting past us and landed in Miami? Or, worse yet, a whole other state, like (gasp) Georgia?!?
"Where are you?" he yelled frantically into the phone for the tenth time.
"Exit 10," my brother replied, equally calm.
"There is no exit 10 on 95. You're on the wrong road," the frustration was building.
"How do I get on 95 from here?" (Gee, maybe use mapquest before you left home?)
"I don't know. I don't have my Tom-Tom!" Oh yeah, much calmer now.
"Then you're not helping me!!" No kidding.
Finally, by some miracle, my brother eventually made it to the restaurant (The rest of us were very concerned. We spent the time watching an iguana eye up some ducks and then went and had a drink at the bar. Hey, there was no reason for everyone to be upset.)
One thing is certain though. By the time we return for our next visit, my father will intimately know the area around the airport, and he'll never leave home without his Tom-Tom again.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Travel With Dad
My father was in the navy and saw the world. Therefore, he doesn't need to ever leave home again. Pyramids still there? Seen 'em. Eiffel Tower? Check. Vesuvius still puffing away? Been there, done that.
Of course, this attitude drives my mother crazy. They have a new Starbucks in Berlin? Let's go. Target opened in Melbourne? Need to check it out. A new painting was hung in the Louvre? She's there.
And so, for the last several years, my mom has hopped on various planes, trains and automobiles and covered five out of the seven continents with various family and friends while my dad has contentedly sat home experiencing it all through the magic of TV and the Travel Channel.
Finally, two years ago, we figured out a way to get my dad to actually experience the joy of modern day travel first hand.......an anniversary gift. There was no way he could refuse if it was a gift, right? Wrong. He tried everything from claiming he couldn't take off from work (the man has not had a vacation since the Nixon administration) to the house not being there when he got back(okay, so this one almost really happened...a small brush fire in nearby woods that came a bit close....coincidence or ???? hmmmmm. No,no,no).
When his excuses fell on deaf ears, he changed tactics. He whined. The seats are too small and there is not enough leg room for a man of his height. The flights are too long and there is nothing to eat on them. The movies are lousy(he was really reaching with that one, but he was desperate by then). And then came the coup de gras. The airline would lose his luggage( of course they would...this is, after all, modern day travel).
A full month of phone calls detailing the luggage plight followed. One big bag, or two smaller ones? Definitely a carry-on, but how big could it be? His was twenty-two inches, but the airline only allowed a twenty inch bag. Did that mean they would take it away from him? If so, what was the point of taking a carry-on? How would he replace his posessions when his bags were sucked into the black hole of luggage hell? After all, our destination was the ends of the earth, a place where no civilized man had ever gone before...Vegas!
Fortunately, for all concerned (meaning me, my husband and my mother), the luggage made it to our destination. He got on with his grossly oversized carry-0n and those extra two inches of baggage didn't cause the plane to plummet to the earth over a corn field in Kansas. Although after the whole house-not-standing incident.... Hmmm. No, no,no.
Flushed with the success of our first venture, we struck out again last year for San Diego. After the requisite month of anguish and angst over luggage, flight schedules, seating, etc., we all enjoyed a few days of R&R in beautiful southern California. And then disaster struck. A cancelled flight, missed connection, a night in a Chicago airport hotel where the AC was not working and the windows didn't open. Eeekkkk!
Was this the end of family travel? Would my mother have to throw herself on the mercy of friends and family whenever she wanted to leave home? Was the very thread of civilization coming unraveled?
Boldly, we made plans again for this year. It is still two weeks out, but the calls have begun. We have a direct flight, so no missed connections. We have business class tickets (oddly enough, they were cheaper than coach...I think this is the cosmos way of saying we will be blown out by a freak hurricane when we arrive at out destination). So what is left to worry about?
Bedbugs. Apparently, there has been an outbreak of bedbugs at hotels here on the east coast, and due to the early morning departure time, my parents and sister(we finally suckered her into coming along) will have to spend the night at an airport hotel.
Did you know that you can't see the little devils and they will only come out at night, after you are asleep and then it's "party time"!!!! They belly up to the smorgasboard and feast until dawn, and you don't even know you've been the main course until it's too late.
So, he's thinking of spraying the sheets with Deet, except that if he puts it in his luggage it will get lost, or his carry-on will explode midway through the flight, or..........stay tuned for next year!
Of course, this attitude drives my mother crazy. They have a new Starbucks in Berlin? Let's go. Target opened in Melbourne? Need to check it out. A new painting was hung in the Louvre? She's there.
And so, for the last several years, my mom has hopped on various planes, trains and automobiles and covered five out of the seven continents with various family and friends while my dad has contentedly sat home experiencing it all through the magic of TV and the Travel Channel.
Finally, two years ago, we figured out a way to get my dad to actually experience the joy of modern day travel first hand.......an anniversary gift. There was no way he could refuse if it was a gift, right? Wrong. He tried everything from claiming he couldn't take off from work (the man has not had a vacation since the Nixon administration) to the house not being there when he got back(okay, so this one almost really happened...a small brush fire in nearby woods that came a bit close....coincidence or ???? hmmmmm. No,no,no).
When his excuses fell on deaf ears, he changed tactics. He whined. The seats are too small and there is not enough leg room for a man of his height. The flights are too long and there is nothing to eat on them. The movies are lousy(he was really reaching with that one, but he was desperate by then). And then came the coup de gras. The airline would lose his luggage( of course they would...this is, after all, modern day travel).
A full month of phone calls detailing the luggage plight followed. One big bag, or two smaller ones? Definitely a carry-on, but how big could it be? His was twenty-two inches, but the airline only allowed a twenty inch bag. Did that mean they would take it away from him? If so, what was the point of taking a carry-on? How would he replace his posessions when his bags were sucked into the black hole of luggage hell? After all, our destination was the ends of the earth, a place where no civilized man had ever gone before...Vegas!
Fortunately, for all concerned (meaning me, my husband and my mother), the luggage made it to our destination. He got on with his grossly oversized carry-0n and those extra two inches of baggage didn't cause the plane to plummet to the earth over a corn field in Kansas. Although after the whole house-not-standing incident.... Hmmm. No, no,no.
Flushed with the success of our first venture, we struck out again last year for San Diego. After the requisite month of anguish and angst over luggage, flight schedules, seating, etc., we all enjoyed a few days of R&R in beautiful southern California. And then disaster struck. A cancelled flight, missed connection, a night in a Chicago airport hotel where the AC was not working and the windows didn't open. Eeekkkk!
Was this the end of family travel? Would my mother have to throw herself on the mercy of friends and family whenever she wanted to leave home? Was the very thread of civilization coming unraveled?
Boldly, we made plans again for this year. It is still two weeks out, but the calls have begun. We have a direct flight, so no missed connections. We have business class tickets (oddly enough, they were cheaper than coach...I think this is the cosmos way of saying we will be blown out by a freak hurricane when we arrive at out destination). So what is left to worry about?
Bedbugs. Apparently, there has been an outbreak of bedbugs at hotels here on the east coast, and due to the early morning departure time, my parents and sister(we finally suckered her into coming along) will have to spend the night at an airport hotel.
Did you know that you can't see the little devils and they will only come out at night, after you are asleep and then it's "party time"!!!! They belly up to the smorgasboard and feast until dawn, and you don't even know you've been the main course until it's too late.
So, he's thinking of spraying the sheets with Deet, except that if he puts it in his luggage it will get lost, or his carry-on will explode midway through the flight, or..........stay tuned for next year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)