I've long-talked about what a mess the men in my life are. My father, my husband, my children. Not so much a "dirty" mess, just a mess. Most of the time, a "mess" isn't a bad thing, it's usually an affectionate reference.
I always try to take the opportunity to jot down the things that fall from my father's mouth, along with the things that fall from my children's mouths--especially Dustin. Dustin's brain being wired exactly like my father's, it can be quite frightening to witness their thought processes in action. As if that isn't bad enough, they have the same fashion sense: non-existent. Dustin knows his clothes don't match and has announced as much to me, "I know it doesn't match, Mom, and I don't care." Well, that settles that. The announcement made by my father, "If your Mother knew I was in town dressed like this she's throw a fit." Then, of course, if it's hot out, you will find Dad minus his shirt. Mind you, he wears his suspenders AND his belt, but no shirt. Apparently it's okay for folks to see his bare chest, but he's still not free enough with our body to let folks view all of his ass, only a select portion of the crack. Enough said.
I was in the garage one day with Dad when he started grumbling, struggling into his t-shirt. "Your mom wants me to put a shirt on. I don't know why."
"Perhaps she just can't take it," I quipped sarcastically, as if that physique were irresistible.
"You must be right. It's a lot to take in," he giggled.
Yes, that and there's need for a fork for each eye...
Along with his incredible fashion-sense, my dad has his own "language". Translation is required. I was talking to him on the phone Monday morning, when he said, "I wanted to tell you something else, but I've forgotten. It was on the edge of my mind."
Really? Maybe it was the tip of your tongue.
Dad's Associate Producer, Keith, broke his leg last weekend. Dad relayed what the doctor told Keith, "Well, they gave him more vike. Vike...vike," obviously struggling, I suggest, "Vicodan?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"They did the NMRI on him."
"MRI?"
"Yeah, that's it. They gave him a prescription for maureen."
Maureen is your aunt, honey, "Morphine?"
"Yeah, that's it. They give that to cancer patients, don't they? Wow."
Lately, those in my life have been painting. I just re-painted our "master" area of the house, my mom re-painted her bathroom and my in-laws are re-painting their entire house. This has caused quite a dilemma for my mom. She's wanting a new sink and faucets in her bathroom; however, the style she has selected she cannot locate matching faucets for the bathtub. The bathtub faucets are thirty years old. She's having a difficult time with this problem. Since she's painted, she has also changed the hardware in the bathroom. As Dad is retired and usually pretty handy with power tools, she assigned him the task of putting new handles on the cabinets. Apparently, these new handles and drawer pulls are unlike any others Mom has ever used before.
Dad relays this information to me on Thursday when I was there to clean their house. "So, your Mom gets these handles, and I put them on the cabinet doors and she tells me I put them on wrong. There's no other way to put it on, so I know I did it right. But she wants me to show them to Dick when he stops by and see what he has to say about it. Can you believe that???" He is floored that my mother does not trust him with her handles. I cannot repeat anything else that was said, as it really isn't fit for mixed company. I laugh loudly over this obvious insult.
I called him this morning and we had this conversation: "Yes, your mother is still waiting to hear what Dick thinks about these handles." He's a little sarcastic about it, so I was surprised to hear my mom in the background. I'm thinking that Dad must be a little bold and full of himself this morning...
My mother, who is NEVER so rude as to butt-in on a phone conversation makes a crack from the background. Dad repeats it, "Second opinion. She calls it a second opinion. Can you believe that???" I hear Mom's voice again, "Oh, she says if you go to the doctor you might want to get a second opinion and that's what she wants for her handles, a second opinion."
This time her muffled voice causes Dad to laugh, "Oh, she doesn't really trust my opinion because my shirt was buttoned up wrong."
"She says, 'Why would I trust you to tell me it's right when you can't even button your shirt right???' Can you believe that? I even try to button it right and I still screw it up. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to town only to realize after I've gotten home that my damn shirt was buttoned wrong the entire time. And you know that would just driver your mom nuts."
