Nebulous Mooch

My parents like to know that they are getting the best deal possible. My mother is especially proud of her frugality. She loves to tell you about what she saved by shopping at the dented can store. But, my mother’s thriftiness when it comes to food and household items is out matched by my father’s nose for a good deal on a used car. That’s why we told him to start looking for one for us when we decided we would buy a car to keep in Florida. He’s got some nerve too. He’ll offer someone $1000 for a car they’re asking $3000 for. “It doesn’t hurt to make an offer. Maybe they’ll take it,” he says.

There is one aspect of his method of finding cars that I find a bit disturbing though. My father called me the other day to tell me that one of his neighbors died. “She was up there three days before anyone found her,” he said. Then he asked the next obvious question. “What do you think they’re going to do with her car?”

As soon as someone dies my father sees it as an opportunity to get a new vehicle. I’ve even heard him speculate about people who haven’t died yet. “He’s really sick. He’ll probably die soon. I bet I’ll be able to buy his car for cheap. That’s a good car too.”

If I point out his insensitivity he responds with, “What? They’re gonna have to sell it to somebody. It might as well be me, right?”

I guess his method works. No one had to die for us to get our car, but we did get a really good deal.

I used to have quite a problem with depression, but that has gone away. I’m telling you this because today when I talked to my father on the phone he asked me if I was happy. “I mean you haven’t been depressed or anything have you?” he asked.

When I told him that I hadn’t he seemed pleased. Then he said, “That’s because you’re married now and you have a good husband.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “I thought it was just because of all the butter I’ve been eating. Butter makes everything better.”

Don’t believe me. Try it. You’ll find that it’s true. I believe in butter.

I wonder if worrying is genetic. My father is a chronic worrier. He sits on the sofa rubbing his bald head and worrying about any number of things on a regular basis. Sometimes, he calls me up just to discuss his latest worry. Usually his worries are about his health. Most often, they’re about his blood pressure.

My husband says I do the same thing. I tend to deny his accusations, but I have to admit that if I look at the situation honestly, he’s right. Don’t tell him I said that.

About a week ago I started to have a nagging pain in my low back. I should have realized that this pain was the result of sitting in the same position curled up on the couch for hours on end while editing my latest novel. I am a massage therapist afterall. I know about back pain, but I jumped to the worst conclusion possible instead. I decided that my kidneys must be failing.

Once I made that decision, I wasted a few days looking up all the information I could find about kidneys and kidney failure. I convinced myself that if I went to see my doctor she’d tell me that my kidneys were shirveled up and I’d have to go on dialysis. So I decided not to go to the doctor because I’d rather die than be on dialysis.

I didn’t let the fact that I had none of the symptoms of kidney failure sway me. I knew my kidneys were failing. I just knew it. I started making burial plans and wondering what my family would do without me. I put off renewing the lease because my husband probably wouldn’t want to stay in our flat after I died. I even started composing a will, but then I realized I had nothing to leave to anyone.

Even though my back pain went away eventually, I still wasn’t convinced my kidneys had recovered. The slightest twinge in my lower back still sends me into a spiral of possible kidney failure senarios.

Everyone has hobbies. Some people collect stamps. Some people hunt. Some people dress their pets up in ridiculous outfits. I worry. It’s a family tradition.

There’s something about a dog that can even entertain people who claim not to like dogs. That’s why they’re used in so many advertisements. Of course, it’s appropriate to use a dog to sell dog food or dog medication or some other thing a dog might use, but when is the last time you saw a dog using toilet paper.

My sister recently bought a dog. It’s a cute mutt with one ear that flops down and one that stands up. My parents visit her more often than they used to just to see the dog. My father scolds it like a child. My mother uses her friendliest voice to talk to it.

“You need to have a kid,” my sister said to me one day. “Mom and Dad are ready for grandchildren.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“The other day they showed up at the dog park with the camera to take pictures of my dog. I mean really! It’s a dog!”

My sister is currently dog-sitting a goofy boxer. It’s bigger than her dog and in need of more attention. She had a cookout for the holiday. It rained so the party turned into a bunch of people sitting around the living room watching the dogs play. They rolled around on the floor wrestling and bashing into every one’s shins and the party guests were all enthralled. When it was time to go even my stepson, who is terrified of dogs, didn’t want to leave. He was enjoying watching the dogs.

Some people fall asleep easily. I envy those people. My father often falls asleep on the sofa with the newspaper on his lap and his glasses perched on the end of his nose, or sometimes while supposedly watching television. He’ll snore loudly during one of the many crime dramas he likes to watch at night and my mother will have to wake him before going to bed. My father complains almost daily about not having slept the night before. “I didn’t sleep at all last night,” he says while rubbing his bald head. My mother says that, one night, she might leave him on the sofa to see if he’ll sleep there all night.

When my husband says he’s going to take a nap, he is usually able to fall asleep within seconds of laying down. I know he’s sleeping because his fingers start to twitch, then his arms, then his legs and finally his feet. I don’t know how he can sleep through that. Sometimes it wakes me up. I’m convinced that his twitching is one of the reasons he finds it so difficult to gain weight.

I have difficulty sleeping, especially napping. As soon as I lay down my mind starts racing. I’m a worrier by nature. Apparently, worrying is best done while trying to sleep. I refuse to take sleeping pills. I don’t want to add any pills to my list of addictions. Lost and Burt’s Bees Lip Balm are enough. Though I’ve never actually tried counting sheep, I don’t think it would work. Sheep are not particually sleep inducing creatures–all that baa-ing would keep me awake. I think that counting something a little slower, quieter, and less interesting might work better–like turtles (not sea turtles because they swim quite fast) or sloths. I think turtles are silent but I don’t know about sloths. A friend once told me that if I pictured my worries exploding in giant balls of light, that would help me sleep. I tried it and it didn’t work. It just gave me an awful headache.

My sleeping problems have lessened since getting married but they still haven’t gone away completely. I once saw a middle aged man sleeping while standing on a crowded subway train in Korea. I regard him as some kind of superhero, able to sleep anywhere, anytime! Now that’s a quality I respect.