Contagions

My grandmother has recently moved into the new nursing home that they've built in our town. It's easier for her there, because though none of us are from this godforsaken place, there are many more family members here than there are back home to care for her. We are better able to visit, or we can spring her out from time to time when we're having a function.  I go there as often as I can, and it's always a riot. 

My grandmother has her good days and bad days though. Sometimes she'll be completely lucid... other days she'll be telling you about the hot young stud that she's met that she's about to shack up with. Sometimes her supposed paramour is the Reverend (he's frisky!). Then there are the days when she's sad, which are the hardest to take.  The last time I went to visit my grandmother, I was not prepared to have it affect me so deeply as it did.

When I walked in, she was sitting in her recliner as she usually is but she wasn't in her usual jovial mood, ready to laugh and joke about old times. We talked as we usually do about how she was keeping, how many pills she takes, if she takes more pills than the lady next door, (she doesn't but hers are bigger, for the win), the bingo game she won big money at that morning, how she'd had her hair done since I'd seen her on the weekend, and then we stopped after a short chat about the latest geezer gossip. Man, those old birds love to bicker!


Then it took a serious turn. 


She spoke about how hard it was for her when my dad died; how hard it was to lose her favourite son. How hard it must have been for me to grow up without a father. I started to get teary eyed when she did, and I pictured how it was that day at his funeral. As she told me about how windy it was at the cemetery, I could picture her and I holding each other at the grave site, weeping.  How the fact that it was a sunny day seemed like it was the Universe spitting in my face.  How can the world go on?  Why did the entire world not stop when my father died, since mine had? 

I hugged her and told her it was going to be okay, that he was in a better place and so on because I know she believes in that kind of thing, that he was waiting for us in heaven and all that, like you would... But I started to break down, crying and thinking about how much my dad means to me. I was thinking about his funeral and how we played "Electric Avenue" because it was his favourite song and the sole reason that Daddy always assumed that he was a fan of Reggae music.

I was getting really into the crying. Not just dainty little tears, but big ugly sobs with dripping nose included. I must have needed a good cry, and being a naturally melancholy person I was up to the job of letting a good one out. Grandma and I cried a little, and hugged each other. She may have rocked me at one point, but the rest becomes a little hazy; this was when I started to snap out of it.


The problem is, you see...

My dad is not dead.

My dad is very much alive.  He can attest to that himself and knowing him, I'm sure he'd tell us more information than is really necessary to prove how young and alive he really is. 


Yes, I can picture him dying, and it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. The very thought devastates me entirely! I got so swept up in the moment that I lost all form of self control and logic. Not to mention what I myself must have inflicted on my poor grandmother, needing to be comforted by her! I was a liability to her in her grief because even though she's knows that my dad is alive, to her at that moment her grief is real.  I was not supportive in the least and felt terribly for it later. 

Shame on me for being such a flake! I think from now on I'll make sure my visits coincide with Bingo or pub night, and I'll stick to the tried and true subjects when I'm talking to Grandma. Like who takes the most/biggest pills, who's the hottest ticket in the place, and who does the minister favour more? Always winners, and not quite so likely to make me emo. She deserves to be happy and joyful at the age of 90, otherwise, what do you have?

My sister always did joke that Dementia was contagious, and I didn't believe it until now.  So in that spirit, I will offer you a musical selection in honour of my Daddy:

That's all,

Twills

XOXO

Dads Say the Darnedest Things: The Back Seat

It's time for another story about Dear Old Dad.  This one goes way back.  Heck, I wasn't even born to tell you the truth.  As usual, everything that comes out of that man's mouth is pure gold from a comic standpoint.  This is some kind of a "warning story" or something that my dad always used to tell us girls as a cautionary tale.  Somehow, we were expected to learn from this lesson and apply it to our own lives.  Don't ask me why; it only makes sense in Dad-speak.

Let's set the scene here:  Uncle Dave, a recurring character here at "Dads Say the Darnedest Things" and Daddy were out for a night on the town with their cronies, Davey and Francis.  This took place in Toronto, but all four were from back home in Newfoundland.  It was the seventies.  You can just imagine what they must have been wearing: velour shirts and patterned bell-bottomed pants, gold chains with exposed chest hair.  Added to this was the style in which Daddy was then wearing his hair:  a flaming red white-boy afro.  Sexay!

Whenever drugs of any kind were mentioned, or if we spoke about routine traffic stops done by police to check for drunk driving, which around here are called "The Ride Program", this story would be rolled out and dusted off.

The boys were driving around in Davey's gremlin that night, presumably cruising for chicks.  Davey stopped off and got some beer, which they then proceeded to drink while they were cruising around the area of Toronto in which they lived.  This area, though considered rough even then, is now one of the most dangerous 'hoods in Toronto where no one would want to be seen at night.  They each had a beer, but Davey was having two for each one of theirs, all the while still cruising the neighbourhood.  What kind of lesson is this, Daddy?  Drinking and driving?  For shame!!!

Well it got worse, apparently.  Francis, who really always did love his ganja even later in life (or so I've heard), lit up a joint.  There they were driving around while Davey and Francis were passing the joint back and forth.  All of a sudden they come up to a Ride Program.  The driver was drunk, with a joint in his hand!  Daddy and Uncle Dave are in the backseat!  Cops are everywhere!

Cue the panic!

By some stupid twist of fate, they managed to get through the road block escaping the notice of the police officers.

The End.  Thud.  That's all.

This was apparently the end of the story.  Anti-climatic, no?  This is some important life lesson?  Where are the repercussions for your actions, and all that sort of thing?  We could never seem to figure out what it was that we were supposed to be learning from this experience.  It wasn't until years later when I was an adult and my dad was my friend that finally when he told that story again my sister and I looked at each other funny.  I said, "Daddy, as if you were just sitting innocently in the back seat!"

My sister thought for a minute and said, "Yes.  With your hands clasped in your laps like two little church boys!"

All three of us looked at one another and suddenly could not stop laughing.  For years, we had been missing the point!

Daddy nodded his head at me, grinned and said "See?  You didn't know your poor old father was cool, did you?"

In that moment, we finally realised what it was that we were supposed to have been learning all those years.  Yes.  

Our dear old dad...

At one time...

Was COOL.

Thank you Dad.  You've hit another right out of the park.

TMI: The Gina

Like Pina, I grew up in the kind of household where we didn't discuss bodily functions of any kind. My mother never talked to us about our bodies, and any questions we had were met with copious giggling and avoidance of the issue. She just figured that it was the school's job to teach us all about this stuff. Imagine my surprise when they sent the boys out of the room and drew the curtains closed for the first time! I can say in all honesty without one word of embellishment that I fainted that first day in health class.


This of course is a strange background for a person to have when they went on to teach sex ed to their peers in high school. Oh yes, I did. People, I even did the "Health Announcements" over the PA in the mornings, wherein I would have to say things like "vaginal secretions" and "smegma". Chlamydia is such a happy sounding word when facing down some of the alternatives, no?


When I had children of my own I knew things would be different. I don't have any shame at all when speaking of body parts or answering questions about changing bodies or baby making. I refuse to call the genitals by any kind of pet name. Call a spade a spade. A penis a penis. A vagina a vagina. We let it all hang out at our house, both literally and figuratively.


I think what we need to work on is precisely when it is considered okay to use such words in public.


First thing in the morning, I'm rolling up into Home Depot with my dad and my two year old son Zen (nickname). Dad was talking to a sales girl about something or other, and just as she turned to go check her computer for my dad, Zen yells out, "She hass boobs!"


The boy does have good taste. Those knockers were huge!!!


But my dad, who had been flirting with this woman, was trying to shush him. Zen was cramping his style!


"Pa, she hass boobs!!!"


I don't think my father ever got the answer to his question... He was too busy trying to steer a shopping cart through the aisles at breakneck speed before the poor woman heard what Zen was saying. As my dad pushed the cart further and further away, Zen would yell it at me louder and louder, "Mama! She hass boobs!" I know I could have done more to shut that down, but I was laughing too hard to be of much use.


Eventually we collected the items we went in for and lined up for the cash register. Zen was playing with his "Lady Lego Man", which he carries around with him everywhere. The cashier started to speak to him while she was ringing our things through and said, "What's that you have there?"

Zen: Lady Lego Man. She hass a 'gina!

Dad: Shush!

Cashier: Pardon me? I didn't catch that.

Zen: Lady Lego Man hass a 'gina!

Cashier: I'm sorry, I didn't understand you.

Dad: Oh, it's okay. Really, it's his Lego Man.

Zen: Lady Lego Man hass 'GINA

Cashier: Really?

Zen: Yeah, Lady Lego Man HAS A 'GINA!!!!!!!!! *breaks out into loud guffaws for someone who is so small*

Cashier: Oh, wow! Isn't that cool! Aren't you a lucky boy!



The woman, thankfully, did not understand Zen's garbled baby language. My dad was mortified! I don't think he's ever said the word vagina in his entire life! I know for one that I've never spoken such a word in front of him, as much experience I've had using such terminology in front of hundreds, even thousands of people.


How about y'all? How are you with discussing such things with your parents versus discussing them with your kids? Any difference? Similar instances of "Too Much Information" or TMI? Discuss.



That's all,

Twills
XOXO

Daddy Goes to the Psychic

My whole family went through a phase a few years ago, wherein they thought it was at the height of entertainment to visit a psychic. My aunts, grandmother and my dear old father would make it a habit of attending various psychic fairs, and also of trying out all of the local psychics in turn. They were trying to find "The One" and the more scarves, crystal balls and incense involved, the better. Like a chain-smoking Professor Trelawney.

Then their favourite psychic had a heart attack. She didn't see it coming! They were forced to find a new one, and pronto. How could they have gone on without knowing deliberately ambiguous events that could possibly happen in the future?!!

One afternoon the aunt who was the most invested in the project called with a revelation. She had found one! The vehicle was loaded with as many relatives one could fit into a Pontiac Sunfire and off they went to seek the spirit.

Of course my sister and I were anxious for him to return so we could find out how it went. We were worried that the bitch was going to rat us out for all of our pseudo-delinquent behaviour! That last wench told Daddy that she'd like to kick my sister in the ass for not realising her true potential, and he wasn't telling me anything she'd said about me, so I knew that bitch spilled the beans.

This particular visit did not go so well. She wasn't a proper psychic, dammit! She was an energy healer! They wuz robbed! Apparently she was able to remove the negative energy from everyone except for my father. I didn't know if he felt worse because he just didn't "mesh" with the woman, or if it was because someone thought he had negative energy that was impossible to purge.

We asked him how she would go about doing such a thing as removing one's negative vibes, and he said this:

"She took a pillow and put all of our negative energy into it, then she made us punch it while she shouted, 'Harder! Harder!'. I tried my best, but I was worried that her husband was going to walk in and think that I had his wife bent over the table or something and that I was giving it to her!"

Gah! Burn that unholy image from my eyes! Erase it's sound from my ears!

Thanks, Dad. I know we're your buddies, but there are just some things that should only be said in a locker room and not to your daughters.

Daddy has since given up on the psychic realm, and lives one day at a time; I like to think that he holds onto much less negative energy than he once did. He's still telling his daughters his stories, such as they are. Should I mention that I wish I had a stepmother who could relieve some of this burden?

Tea-agra: Dads Say the Darndest Things

So where we left off... We were having some tea with dear old Dad. Tea. Reminded him of another story about tea. Dad and my Uncle Dave were sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Twillingate, Newfoundland. My Dad was most likely sitting in a spot within the restaurant which would allow him the very best vantage point for gawking; a family trait. Their conversation went as follows:

Dad: So Dave, who owns this place now?

Dave: Well, they say the woman who owns it is hot to trot, 'by.

Dad: They do?

Dave: Yes, they say she's hot to trot because she was living here with an old man before and they were running it together, they thought those two were married, but then he left and a younger man came in and now she's with him.

*enter waitress*

Dad: *flirting, as he is wont to do* I'll have some green tea. Dave, you should have some, too.

Dave: No, I can't say as I'd care for that.

Dad: Oh, but it has tremendous health benefits, Dave. Could you please tell my brother Dave here that green tea is good for him?

*Waitress puts her hand under the table and raps her knuckles on the underside of the table top rhythmically*

Waitress: It stand you up, right like that!

*exit waitress*

Dave: See, 'by? I told you she was hot to trot.

The 'Cock' Roach: Dads Say the Darnedest Things

Some of you may have read this before on my *other*, slightly more anonymous blog which is now defunct, for others this will be new. What it stems from is the fact that my father in recent years has come to regard my sister and I as his buddies and has started to tell us slightly inappropriate yet hilarious stories. I hope I can remember them all and that I can manage to write them down with efficacy.

Setting the scene, my father, cousin and I are having a spot of tea. Tea is serious business in our family; almost ritualistic in nature, but that doesn't mean that we're ever serious while drinking it. A lot of great conversation in our family is centred around tea-drinking. This day was no exception and netted me not one, but two priceless Dad stories. The other one will follow when I get around to it, dammit!

Back story: My father works at a zoo. Literally, a zoo. So this one fine morning, my father was doing his rounds to check on all the machinery and take readings, etc. such as he always does. As he explained to us, he spied a newspaper in the recycling box in one of the pavilions, and thought that it would be a good idea to take his break and read the said paper -- on the toilet.

Dad is sitting there (and I know, right? Ew! But it gets worse), and when he opened up the newspaper he felt something drop out of it... he looked around on the floor and so on but saw nothing. So by and by he was reading away... when all of a sudden he felt something. In his words, "My lord, there was something tickling my balls!" Squeals of horror from the girls at hearing this! Traumatised!

When my dear father looked down into the toilet to check out what was going on down there, there was a GIANT COCKROACH clinging to his ball hair! Cue more squeals of horror from the girls! Jumping sky-high and trying not to have a heart attack was apparently enough to knock the giant roach off of his balls, allowing him enough time to flush the fucker down before it tried to sexually assault him any further. That'll teach him to read on the john.

I don't know what was worse, thinking about the horror of the giant bug, or the horror of my father talking about his balls. It's a toss-up, really.