Nebulous Mooch

Anyone who knows my father knows that he likes to be the center of attention. He’s an entertainer; his job is being the center of attention. Sometimes this need to be the center of attention can manifest itself in negative ways.

My mother shattered her shoulder, the result of a scooter accident, and had to have joint replacement surgery last week. My mother is tough, almost to her detriment and reluctant to admit that she’s in pain. When she was going to get the surgery, my husband and I joked that she would probably tell the doctor that she didn’t need anesthesia, she could just bite down on a belt. Surprisingly, after surgery she actually took her pain medication and didn’t go to work for almost two weeks.

About six days after the surgery, we agreed to go to my parent’s place to help with some heavy furniture that needed moving. When we arrived, my father was walking with a severe limp and began to tell us how much his foot was hurting, that he didn’t know what was wrong with it. He then proceeded to help lift the heavy furniture without any apparent problem.

The next morning, my mother called to tell me that she had taken my father to the emergency room. He had woken her up in the middle of the night because he was in so much pain. The day before this he had told my mother that she shouldn’t try to go back to work yet because she was in no state to drive. My husband or I could’ve taken him to the hospital, but they didn’t call us until after the fact. So, she drove him to the emergency room, and using her good arm and her stomach, pushed him through the hospital in a wheelchair. The emergency room doctors told them that a stubbed toe was not an emergency and told him to see his primary care physician. So, she pushed him in his wheelchair to the other side of the hospital so that he could register to see his doctor.

His doctor sent him for x-rays. Finally, my father asked if someone else could push him to the x-ray room as his wife had a bad arm. His toe is not broken but he insists that on a scale of one to ten, his pain level is a ten. The doctor wrote him a prescription for pain killers and explained that they are a strong narcotic so he shouldn’t drive after taking them. My mother had just taken one of the same pain killers before driving him to the hospital. Then they gave him some crutches and sent him on his way.

Now my father has taken over the recliner that my mother has been using since her surgery because he needs to have his feet elevated. He keeps insisting that his foot is swollen up like a basketball. He puts on a show of hobbling around their condo. I wonder if his foot really does hurt. If you imagine pain long enough do you really feel that pain? Whatever is wrong with his toe, it will probably go away about a week after my mother goes back to work. It might linger a little longer. He could have a relapse on Thanksgiving Day and have to go back to the hospital.

Sorry I didn’t post anything last week. I was preoccupied with trying to make a website. I know nothing about website design so it was quite a difficult task and used up a lot of my time. Check out my site. I’m still working on it.

Ever since my husband borrowed my father’s copy of A People’s History Of The United States by Howard Zinn, we get to listen to atrocities while we eat. He keeps the book open at his spot at the dinner table, ready to be read.

Usually, he just reads to himself as he eats, but when what he is reading is particularly heinous, he reads it to all of us. Oh, the joy! As I eat my salad, I watch him and wonder what atrocities I might get to hear about with my main course today. Sometimes there are none, but usually they abound.

Tonight I got to hear about how early starving Virginia settlers dug up the grave of someone who had been dead for three days and ate the corpse. He also read a story of a settler who slew his wife as she slept, salted her meat and devoured every part of her but the head. He told us this while we ate spagetti. Luckily, I have a strong stomach.

He’s finished the chapter on the early settlers, Columbus, and the American Indians. Now he’s starting the chapter on the history of racism in this country. I wonder what revolting stories he’ll read to me during dinner tomorrow.

I have a confession to make. I hope I don’t disappoint you too much, but I’m addicted to Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. I keep it on the shelf next to my bed when I sleep, so that I can re-apply in the middle of the night. I have it in my pocket or purse whenever I go out. I’ve even turned around and come back home to get it if I realized I’d forgotten it. If I can’t find it, all I have to do is say, “Where is Burt?” and my husband will help me look for it. It just feels so soothing, cool and refreshing. I love that pepperminty tinkle.

I started out as a child using Vaseline to soothe my parched lips. Chapped lips have always been a problem for me. My mother says I was born with chapped lips.

Soon I could no longer get a fix off of Vaseline. As a teenager, I wandered into a drugstore alone one day and came out with my first tube of Cherry Chapstick. Cherry to make my lips redder like I was wearing lipstick. Like marijuana leads to heroin, Vaseline led me to Chapstick.

Before I knew it Chapstick wasn’t working for me anymore either so I made a bold and dangerous leap to Blistex. Unfortunately it was too much too fast and I had to go back to the Cherry Chapstick before my lips suffered irreversible damage.

Now I’ve moved on too Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. The bright yellow plastic tube it comes in brings me great joy. I apply and re-apply a hundred times daily. But I don’t really need it. I mean I can stop anytime.