Posts Tagged ‘Death’

Wake-up call from Chase Bank

Saturday, February 13th, 2010

A conversation about Dad’s bank account that I had with a rep from Chase at 8:30 this morning, three seconds after being  jolted awake by the phone:

Chase guy: I would like to speak to yadda yadda about his account.
Me: Yadda has dementia and is deaf and doesn’t do well on the phone. Can I help you?
CG: I need to speak to someone authorized to speak on his behalf. May I speak to his wife?
Me: His wife is dead.
CG: I’m very sorry to hear that.
Me: You can speak to me. I’m his daughter and should be listed as a contact on his account. (We went through that process the last time I needed to speak to someone on Dad’s behalf. I gave him my name.)
CG: You are not listed as an authorized contact.
Me: I don’t know what else to say.
CG: May I try calling back this afternoon?
Me: Dad will still be deaf and have dementia this afternoon.
CG: Well, I can’t speak to you without authorization.
Me: OK, bye, then.

As hard as it is to believe, I’m not usually snarky with strangers. Dude was just doing his job. I guess my social filters need time to kick in when I first wake up.

Goddamn it, Fitz!

Monday, February 1st, 2010

Devon and I awoke to a nasty surprise this morning in the form of a large pee stain in the middle of the bed. I know I didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it. Fitz was curled up on the bed as far from the pee as possible. Needless to say, she’s going to be crated at night for the forseeable future. Devon pointed out that what separates adult humans from every other lifeform is responsibility for one’s urine. He noted this after spotting the cat pee in his chair. Again. It’s their special way of telling him to fuck off when the litter box is dirty. So Fitz was too lazy to get her ass out of bed and over to the pee pad, and the cats were just spiteful.

The Adult Urine Theory also applies to Dad, who got pissy – ha ha! – with me when we were at a friend’s house and I insisted that he change his diaper and let me blow dry his pants.

In other news: I started the process for carving mom’s name into the headstone. She used to joke that if she kicked it before Dad, she would be buried between her first husband and second husband – a man sandwich. Would it be inappropriate to carve “Bow chica bow wow” into the stone?

I am wholly inappropriate.

Random funny from Devon, as we were walking on the subway platform: “If people commute together long enough, do their Metrocards sync up like periods?”

Print: BP is dropping

Monday, January 25th, 2010

This is hard to write considering I earn my paycheck from the profit fumes of the newspaper industry, but there comes a time in every adult’s life when she needs to suck up an unpleasant truth: Print is dead, and it ain’t coming back.

Print doesn’t know it’s dead yet. Its zombie corpse is still flailing about, threatening to eat our brains, but I have accepted the loss and moved on. I expect my job will disappear within the next few years as newspapers take their last gasp, but you know what? I love my nook. Love it, love it, love it. (Don’t tell the Amazon ads all over this blog, but the nook was wearing a tight skirt, and well, you know how it goes.) I love having my news and books delivered straight to my nook and not having to deal with piles of dead trees. I love getting my news online instantly. I love seeing photos and reading reports from people who live where the news is happening.

I’m sorry, print. We had a good ride, but I’ve met someone else. It’s not me, it’s you.

I’ve been accused of blasphemy by my peers and friends who still love the feel of pages turning. I admit to a certain fondness for stacks and stacks of books, with all  the promise held within. When I learned to read, it was like I’d been given access to a magical language. I used it to read a lot of Choose Your Own Adventure and Encyclopedia Brown books, but still.

I’m filing my affection for paper books and periodicals into the part of my brain that longs for a return to the use of calling cards and proper handkerchief etiquette. I’ll be sad they’re gone, but it’s time.

I am less pleased about the related death of invegstigative journalism. It’s expensive and doesn’t bring in the readers, which means we get endless stories about the latest freak-show Octomom-Balloon Boy-Kid Who Got Suspended For Bringing Utensils to School. I’m clinging to the hope that we’ll figure it all out eventually.

Looking for some cheer here

Tuesday, December 8th, 2009

I seem to have misplaced my Christmas spirit. Until about three years ago, I was so amped for Christmas that people had to tell me to calm my shit down, because it was just embarrassing in a grown woman, and I would tell those people to stuff it, because I had some Christmas cookies and eggnog to devour. Then I would waddle myself over to the TV and watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” under the explosion of Christmas lights and decorations.

Christmas is always nice (last year I spent it in Rome, which was awesome), but I haven’t felt that giddy excitement in awhile. Maybe it’s because global warming has fixed it so that New York hasn’t even seen snowfall yet. More likely it’s because so many of my Christmas memories have centered around tradition — making Italian cookies that take all day to make, even with three people; decorating the tree; making highly alcoholic eggnog punch; mom telling me not to put so much booze in the eggnog punch; mom begging me to open one of my presents early, because she liked giving them even more than I liked getting them.

When I mentioned that I wanted to start creating some traditions of our own, Devon pointed out that those things tend to evolve naturally. Not sure I agree with that, since traditions happen because people make them happen. At any rate, we don’t tend to do the same thing twice, which makes it hard to create traditions, so I’ve decided to create some of my own. I was too wiped to do cards or decorations this year, but I’m going to do one festive thing if I have to kill people to make it happen.

What do you guys do for Christmas that has meaning for you? (If you don’t celebrate Christmas, let me hear your other holiday traditions. I’m a fan of yule.)

Kneel before Zod

Thursday, December 3rd, 2009

Devon has been kicking around the idea of creating a zombie plague for a while now, especially since the whole “meat in vats” idea got snapped up by someone else. I have determined that the only way to stop him is to create zombies before he does. My idea: Think of the children. Yeah, you heard me.

We take a population of people that is prone to violence and irrational behavior anyway — children under 4 — and we hop them up on sugar and caffeine. Then we eliminate naps. And adult supervision. And lock them all in a room with one toy to share. Instant zombie plague! And wiping out all the children is guaranteed to trigger an apocalypse, which is one of Devon’s criterion for an effective zombie plague.

Oh, stop looking at me like that. Devon’s PCP-induced zombie rage idea was certain to wipe out all the children anyway, but at least now adults can enjoy the rides at Disney World for a little while before the end.

I am so awesome.

Dead chick walking

Thursday, November 12th, 2009

Like I needed to give Devon another reason to kill me.

I was updating my medical insurance info, and I got to the part about “insurance beneficiary.” My company offers 1x base salary in life insurance at no charge to employees. Let’s just say that, should I accidentally shoot myself three times in the back of the head, Devon stands to make enough money to…throw a slammin’ pizza party. Maybe.

In other news, my future killer did me a huge favor by driving my dad’s car, which we animated temporarily by putting in a new battery, back to Queens. It can die a horrible death there for all I care. Good riddance.

Road to hell paved with good intentions

Monday, November 9th, 2009

Since my dad is never going to drive again as long as we can keep car and keys from meeting, I decided to try and sell the thing. Lo and behold, it is actually a piece of shit. It is 16-years-old, so that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it was fine last year, and I was led to believe that it was in pretty good shape.

Since my friend is not going to buy this piece of shit after all, we decided to bring it back to Dad’s and let it rot in the driveway, since one of Dad’s meltdown triggers is this car. Unfortunately, the car decided to make its last stand next to a curb in Jersey.

It is dead. Not mostly dead, but completely and utterly dead, dead, dead.

I was going to have it junked, but now dad is melting down daily because the car isn’t there. So I’m going to have to pay several hundred dollars to have a dead car towed back to Queens so my dad can see it from the window and calm his shit down.

This is what I get for taking initiative. Initiative: bad.

When my responsibility to my dad is over, I am going to crawl into a hole with a stack of books and some yarn and crochet hooks and never come out, because I never want to be responsible for another person’s well being ever again.

The anti-Match.com

Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009

When I told Devon I called him a serial killer again on my blog, he said, “At least people won’t be Googling me for dating purposes anymore.”

That said, now I have to make sure he can never find another date with anyone who can use a search engine. So here goes.

Devon Jones steals from homeless children.
Devon Jones is gay, gay, super gay, Liberace gay.
Devon Jones watches “Rock of Love” while he slaughters puppies.

And this is what I do to people I LIKE.

Romeo and Juliet, and cell phones

Monday, October 5th, 2009

It’s been said before that Romeo and Juliet would have resolved much more happily had T-Mobile been around in Shakespeare’s time. Juliet could have sent her beloved a text: “Hey, Romeo, luv u 4evah, don’t kill urself.” And Romeo could have replied: “U wanna hook up? C U in the crypt.”

It would have been awesome, and the Montagues and Capulets could have had a good, long laugh about their little rapscallions’ behavior.

Which led me to think how even more awesome it would be if they had IM.

CapChick: O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo. Deny thy father, ’cause his shit is whack.
LoverBoy: No worries. He’s watchin’ porn on his laptop. LOL.
CapChick: Can u come over 2nite? I Netflixed “Othello.”
LoverBoy: Talk about whack. Those dudes make me wanna kill myself. Depressing shit. BRB.

LoverBoy: OK, back.
CapChick: Where’d u go?
LoverBoy: Had to pee. Sorry.
CapChick: So, r u coming over? I miss u.
LoverBoy: Waitin’ 4 Dad 2 pass out in his beer. OK, BITCH.
CapChick: Did u just call me a bitch?
LoverBoy: No, BITCH. Means Basically in the Clear, Homey.
CapChick: Does not. U just made that up.
LoverBoy: No, really, I got it off of netlingo.com.
CapChick: U r sooooooooo lame. But I love u anyway, pookie.
LoverBoy: U know I would die 4 u. B there soon.

Actually, now that I think about it, we’re all better off that they killed themselves.

‘Every once in awhile, they stick a finger up your ass’

Friday, August 28th, 2009

I took my dad to to the urologist yesterday to find out why his PSA level is so high, and he screamed like I’ve never heard a dude scream before.

When we were done and waiting for the cab, Dad said: “He stuck a finger up my ass. It reminds me of the Army. Every once in awhile, they stick a finger up your ass. Every once in awhile.”

Dad’s PSA level is 87, and his doctor says they’re not going to do a biopsy, since the only possible explanation is prostate cancer. So Dad has to go for a bone scan and a CAT scan to see whether it has spread, and, if so, how far.

Despite this diagnosis coming so close on the heels of mom’s death, I’m not too worried. Dad’s tough, and prostate cancer is slow. Plus, the treatment is merely pills and an injection once every four months, so we won’t be putting him through the horror that is chemo.

Still, I kind of wish every major medical consultation didn’t end with “You have cancer.”