150 Days

The last two days have been relatively uneventful. However, there is one observation which continues to suprise me on this journey…

It is weird how you notice things about your family once you’ve moved away for a while. Subtle behaviors that make no sense, but were probably totally unnoticed for the duration of your childhood.

In the last two weeks I’ve noticed that Sunday is the day that nobody eats. For whatever reason, my parents wake up and have coffee and a snack for breakfast. That is the last time either of them sets foot in the kitchen for the remainder of the day. My mom has even commented “If you didn’t make that yourself you wouldn’t be eating. We don’t eat here on Sundays as I just hate to make anything”.  I don’t even know what that means. If I didn’t make something I wouldn’t be eating – that just seems obvious. If I hadn’t made the sandwich then it would never have been made and, yes, I would not have one to eat. But what’s this nonsense about not eating on Sundays because of not feeling like ‘making anything’. I’m hoping that the same attitude does not prevail for personal sanitation, waking up and life in general. It would suck to have a starving set of parents who have over slept, stink and lack all motivation, just because they don’t feel like it on that particular day.  I guess these are the benefits of retirment. You can just say screw it  – although a necessity of life like eating wouldn’t be my first choice on things to give up.

Only 134 days left.

Unfortunately, today was the first day for Christmas shopping. It’s early, which isn’t really my style, however the purpose of being early (I’m told) is to beat the rush and take advantage of the retail selection. After spending 45 minutes trying to find a parking spot, I’m not convinced this is actually true. Today’s visit to the mall should be a quick one. I have a general idea of what I need, so it should be a targeted retail operation – no longer than 1 hour, preferrable 25 minutes.

My parents call just after I arrive at the mall. On my way out today I asked what they wanted for Christmas. “Nothing…actually I think there is one thing we want…what was that one thing we wanted again?”(conversation goes on to explore various options and discussions that may or may not have happened in the previous weeks). They are calling because they must have finally remembered what it was they were thinking of. A Panini maker. Obscure, but simple, I don’t challenge the choice and head directly to the department store. It just so happens these appliances are on sale, which is a bonus, so I snap one up and the cashier jams it in a bag. Now I have a forty-pound Panini maker in a plastic bag. As I leave the store and smash some poor lady in the back of her knees with my oversized shopping bag, I realize that buying this item first was just stupid.

Too proud to go to my car, I tell my wife that I’ll just carry the Panini maker – hoping that my anguish will assist me in exiting this mall within my one hour deadline. As so often occurs during these situations, my wife has omitted the fact that she had additional plans to shop beyond the short list of original items I was given. I should have known, this is a classic tactic used by most women to extend their visit to retail paradise. As we browse through shoe stores packed with screaming teenagers, clothing stores with arrogant sales clerks and odd holiday stores that sell wooden replicas of reindeer, elves and holly, the only consolation to my increasing misery is the Panini maker at my side. It continues to abuse all who stand in its way. The number of bystanders who are throwing looks of hatred in my direction is substantial. I’m pretty sure it un-intentionally knocked the arm off a manikin as I tried to manoeuvre it away from a lady’s stroller.

Seven hours have passed. The forty pound Panini maker feels like a Volkswagen. It is now accompanied by six or seven other bags that hold bundles of holiday joy for those who will be given them in a few weeks. I am barely hanging on. There is only goal now – to leave. I’m not even mentally present, I’m a vessel holding bags accompanying a women through the mall. Only as we approach the exit do I arrive and notice it is dark outside. Perhaps it’s been longer and a whole day has passed. A day I will never get back.

Only 136 days left.

Doctor Oz told my mother to belly dance.

Not in the literal sense, but through the magic of television. His show is just one of the dozens my mom records to watch at her leisure. The good doctor, dressed in his surgical scrubs, entertains a studio full of middle-aged women every afternoon to tell them how to overcome whatever tragic situation these women have stumbled upon in their suburban, baby-boomer lives.

Looking up from the red pepper I was not-so-skillfully cutting, I saw my mother awkwardly thrusting about in the family room. “What the hell?” I delicately exclaim “Dr.Oz asked us to belly dance.”

I’m pretty sure Dr.Oz wasn’t talking to “us”. I think his invite went out to the 250 members of his studio audience. The fact that this was pre-recorded on my mother’s PVR only supported my view that the good doctor had no intention of asking my mother (or her family) to belly dance at 7:00 on a weekday evening. That wasn’t enough to deter her from attempting whatever life changing result this exercise would lead to. I couldn’t really hear the Dr.Oz’s promises from across the room, but I’m pretty sure the only impact this Doctor/Patient (TV viewer) relationship had created was an awkward silence and uncomfortable environment for me to eat dinner in.

Only 137 days left.

Today was a big day. My parents invested in a new fridge. It’s huge – bigger than the remote control. You may recall that the last fridge was leaking water into my bathroom in the basement. An entire new fridge should remedy that problem, and by the look of the beast it may allow for me to store my own food in it, rather than in the fridge in the garage.

I know this fridge is the best in its class. This isn’t because I know anything about fridges. It is because my father only buys the best in class of any product. I can remember living at home  and seeing four of the same picture mounted on the old fridge. Above them was a note “Which picture looks the best?” Followed by check boxes for each photograph. My father had purchased a new printer. Actually he purchased four new printers – each had positive reviews from various consumer reports, so he purchased all of them to decide which would be best for his daily printing needs. I would advise any salesperson who has the fortune of assisting my father to avoid spending their commission checks within twelve months of any transaction he is involved in. A week after the four photos on the fridge, some poor sales guy had three printer sales removed from his commission check.

My folks purchased the fridge three days before it was delivered. Although the fridge was not yet in their possession, my father managed to score a copy of the manual. This provided ample opportunity to review the features of his new 55 cubic foot refrigerated unit. Occasionally he would mention one of its features to me while I passed by him in the living room. “What size do you like your ice cubes? I can preset the sizes.”

I look forward to the official opening of the new refrigerator. Maybe I’ll pick up a bow so that we can gather around, smash a bottle of Champaign off the side and cut a ribbon.

Only 138 days left.

Before moving back to my parents house I barely watched television. Now that my private living space has shrunk down to two rooms has proven to be an adjustment. Television has made a resurgence into my life and it is being pushed into my eyes by the PVR that resides in the basement. I don’t even need to follow a programming schedule, I just watch whatever I can over a three-hour period after I get home. Since I’ve moved home I’ve killed three entire seasons worth of shows. I didn’t even know they existed until I moved in, now I’m leaving comments on fan pages wondering when they are returning to air (that’s a lie, I haven’t done that yet).

I think that television has been my chosen distraction as I get to choose what I watch and I don’t have to think. As most things in my life involve thinking, TV seems like an obvious break in the daily routine. I think my previous TV consumption took a drop once my wife discovered TLC. I would have hoped that at this stage in my life I would know far less about wedding dress purchasing, home makeovers, jean sizes that fit body types, families with multiples and various medical conditions that leave you deformed (accompanied by self-explanatory and demeaning titles like “Tree man: The man whose body looks like wood“).

As you can tell, it was a slow day on the “ridiculous stories about my family” front, so I’ve turned on myself. Actually, that’s not entirely true.  The other reason I prefer to watch television in the absence of my folks is not because they don’t enjoy the pastime. They actually enjoy it immensely and watch their shows from the moment I get home to the moment I go to sleep most days of the week. Two days ago we watched one of the HBO series’ that makeup the PVR library. My mother provided a running commentary of the program, while throwing the odd question into the mix just to have the room confirm what is actually going on. This looks like a regular exercise, one not done for my benefit, as I’ve noticed the same dialogue occurs during any show that is on the television. My father is a little less engaged, but will take the opportunity to answer my mother’s questions or perhaps debate the plot line or future plot line during the commercial break. Overall, the two provide a unique viewing experience that adds more depth to most television viewing than I customarily prefer.

I need to avoid the PVR. Nothing good can come from so much television consumption.

Only 139 days left.

I may have mentioned that my arrival home has involved me using my man chore skills to fix or replace things around my parents house. As a result, my mother continues to bug my father about being shown up by his son in the handy guy department. Adding to this misfortune, my father is a competitive man. Today I witnessed the aftermath of such competition. During Day 1 when I was looking for a bucket to hold the water that I was about to release from the ceiling, I noticed that the sink in my parents garage was leaking. It is a plastic basin sink that is often bumped into on the way to the back of the garage. The constant movement caused the PVC pipe below the drain to snap, so that any water leaving the sink proceeds to pour onto the floor.

My dad took it upon himself to replace this broken pipe. His mini-project started off well, just like the front door lockset did, but quickly derailed. Rather than securing the new piece of pipe to the existing piece of pipe and then attaching it to the sink, he decided to attach it to the sink and then wedge it into the existing drain pipe. Unfortunately, the new piece was too long and the old piece was getting worn out from all the attempts to jam the two together. In only a few seconds the entire drain pipe and trap had separated from both the wall and sink. A bigger problem than what previously existed.

Plumbing is a tough thing and hind sight is twenty/twenty, so exploiting my Dad’s skills in this situation is not really the purpose of my story. The 85-year-old plumber who came to fix the mess is the story. I’m not sure where my parents found this guy. They don’t exactly have connections to the labour force and have definitely never met this man before. A nice guy with a labour cost structure from 1935,  my parents only had to pay him a couple of bucks to show up, replace the parts and get themselves back in business. There is something oddly off-putting about an 85-year-old man who is not related to you, enduring strenuous labour – even if he is paid. It is kind of like watching a six-year-old attempt to mow the lawn. It just doesn’t look right.

The guy did a great job and my mother was especially pleased that his rates were 353% lower than the average. I’m pretty sure they get the neighbours kid to shovel the walk way for about the same price. My worry now is that any hired hands who make their way into this home will need to be old enough to vividly remember the Great Depression. I’m still not sure what that sink in the garage is to be used for, the house already has four other sinks, so I’ll wait it out as I am sure someone will direct me further on its particular purpose.

Only 140 days left.

My dog woke up today with one eye closed.  She doesn’t say much, so I couldn’t get her to tell me what was going on.  When my dog changes her daily routine it’s a big deal. At four years old, she has racked up enough vet bills to buy me two new cars and place a hefty down payment on a home. In the first 18 months of her life, we visited the vet 24 times. She’s had four surgeries and is a regular pill popper. When I walk in to the vet they don’t even talk to me. The whole place just stops and says “Lucy!” like we’re in some 80’s sitcom with Ted Danson. Here, I am just a credit card holder with legs and arms.

A pure-bread Chow Chow, the breeder convinced me that her blue colour was exotic and awesome. Which it is. However, blue fur means bad skin – which takes up 1/4 of her annual vet allowance (trust fund, whatever).  At 7 months, Lucy went to Puppy Kindergarten to break her independent spirit and put her in-line with the other dogs. Her spirit was unbreakable (no dog of mine can be broken on my watch) however her legs were not. She was walking around the little circle like an ancient beast. It turns out she had loose bones in her elbows…and that was the start of her vet issues. Now with her closed eye, she has an ulcer on her cornea. It’s a surface abrasion. I’m not sure what that would come from but it looks disgusting- but not disgusting enough that a couple hundred dollars can’t take care of it.  A couple of drops, no sunlight – and Lucy is on her way to recovery (hopefully).

My folks aren’t really dog owners, so it was a challenge trying to convince them that, although Lucy is not telling them her eye is as painful as hell, they will have to trust me when I say “please don’t walk her or let her look out the window’. Tonight, after returning home, Lucy greets me with a face covered in wet sloppy dog spit. They took her for a walk and “she met some friends”.  I try to reiterate the previous discussion about painful eyes, bleeding cornea ulcers  and blindness.

Only 141 days left.

Tonight we ate dinner as a family. My family + my parents. This is not something we want to make a habit of, as I get home late from work and would rather eat alone than worry about what time my mom should put the roast in the oven. During dinner we were discussing the days events. My mother randomly decided to mention how the house down the road had recently been broken into and cleaned out. I’ve been trying to convince my wife that our temporary neighbourhood is about as safe as one could be, especially compared to the town we previously called home. The local gossip my Mom was announcing was not going over well.

My wife is the type of person who uses the home alarm system 24/7. Every night she sets it. Even when it’s on, it’s not uncommon for me to find myself roaming the hallways in the dark with my dog loyally by my side as we attempt a clean sweep of any criminal elements that may have entered the home (and bypassed the alarm). Explaining to her that the alarm will sound when someone enters the house is not usually enough. Also, explaining that it is a pet safe alarm, so that only a person under the weight of 25 lbs would be able to successfully navigate passed the motion detectors is never enough to keep me from checking the furnace room at 3 a.m. for some intruder looking to rob us of whatever it is you take from a furnace room.

You can imagine my dismay to hear my mother’s tale of the local B and E. My concern was only intensified by the fact that, upon returning today, I noticed my father’s continued attempts to be handy have left our front door absent of a door handle and lockset. The two holes bare from hardware had been stuffed with a rag to keep the draft out, while a footstool leaned against the door as a security precaution. From the look of my wife’s face as she listened to my Mother, the situation at the front door did not go unnoticed either. I begin to realize that the restful sleep I was hoping to endure this evening is quickly being replaced with a night watch patrol to secure the premises. Fearing for my own sanity, and with the most selfish of intentions, I offer to fix the front door lockset.  It turns out that my father was going to drill holes into the door as the new lockset appeared to by the wrong size. As I suspected, this was not the case and over the next hour we installed the lockset using the instructions provided. This process could have been a whole blog post, but the relief I feel in avoiding a night of paranoid patrol outweighs any frustration felt during the lock installation process.

Only 142 days left.

Today my parents returned to their home. It happened while I was at work. I have been worried about the possible activity that could occur in my new personal space in my absence, and today my thoughts were justified.

About four years ago, I moved into my first home with my wife. In an attempt to add to the modern feel we were hoping to create in the house, we bought one of those novelty mini bamboo plants. It did well. The damn thing grew like a weed until it was three feet high and I needed to lean it against the wall so it wouldn’t fall over. Three homes later, it was still kicking it in the spare bedroom when I was packing the house to leave. This thing had earned its life, so I decided to drag to our new basement home. That’s when this bamboo plant had a life changing event.  A four-year old scraggly bamboo plant is not the pinnacle of flora beauty. This was immediately noticed by my mother. A woman of action, I should have not been surprised to find my four-year old bamboo plant cut into several smaller pieces and jammed into her own mini bamboo collection in the kitchen. This looks like it took some effort. My mother would have had to find my bamboo, take it upstairs, rip it out of the fashionable modern pot it called home and cut two feet of roots and three feet of foliage off it nimble structure. Finally, each piece would have had to have been wedged in between the new round glass vase that my mother’s bamboo sits in. Man, she moves quick. What else has she gone through?

It may be just a plant, but I can’t say I would be comfortable going into her room and grabbing the Christmas Cactus, uprooting it and re-potting it into several smaller installations around the house. I’m sure it would instigate a crisis of epic proportions.

I decided to keep quiet for now. I have been trying to figure out a way to clearly illustrate the necessity for boundaries, and I believe I may have been just handed the perfect segway.

Only 143 days left.

The house has been quiet. We’re still enjoying the space while my parents are away. With the additional space, I’ve done some exploring. It’s been almost ten years since I lived here, and the room orientation and decorating have undergone an evolution of sorts. The professional decorator who made her way through most of this house about five years ago would be pissed to see that a collection of antiques, old furniture and odd photos have made their way back into public viewing.

One such curiosity is the presence of ancient wool fabrication equipment. I’ve counted five separate pieces of the human-powered wool pulling, stretching, collecting and wrapping equipment that would have been used before the dawn of electricity.  These were never here when I grew up. I also cannot remember a single visit home that I saw, heard or smelled a sheep or any of its wooly animal cousins. Come to think of it, I don’t know of any relatives in the last fifty years who have owned such a collection of animals. My childhood isn’t filled with sheep shearing memories at Grandpa’s farm, or I never had to wear an uncomfortable wool sweater that some kids were forced to sport during Josten’s picture day in elementary school. So why the hell does my family own a 1880’s wool factory assembly line?

I’ve come to the realization that I am the last generation to know what a loom actually is. I knew enough about it to recognize its place in the assembly line and even fix it when I knocked it over trying to tuck my guitar amp in beside it. My children and grand children will never know the miracles of ancient wool refinement…and I don’t really care. I couldn’t care less that this textile process will be forever lost and replaced with massive factories smeared by the scandals of child labour (although I do not condone child labour). So despite the charm these little rickety contraptions add to a living room, kitchen, hallway or even garage, I see no possible circumstance where I own one and help keep their memory alive. Oh well.

Only 144 days left.