Posts Tagged ‘Domestic crap’

It’ll be fine

Monday, June 14th, 2010

We’re cleared to bring Dad home Wednesday. Full disclosure: I’m so nervous I wish I had a permanent catheter, ’cause I want to pee myself.

I keep telling myself it’ll be fine. I turned the living room into a functional hospital room when Mom came home, and Dad is in much better shape than she was in, so it’ll be fine. That’s my new mantra: It’ll be fine.

The nurses will finish teaching me how to change the colostomy bag Wednesday. They’ll tell me everything I need to know to take care of the catheter. They’ll tell me how to bathe him to prevent the catheter from getting infected, and where to go to buy all of his supplies. They’ll give me prescriptions for all his new medications. I’ll get the wheelchair and bathtub chair off of Amazon if Medicare won’t cover them. The home aides are set up and ready to go. Still need the weekend aide, but that’ll get done in time, too. I’ll do the food shopping, since no one’s been living in the house for almost three months. It’ll be fine.

Most of the time I feel woefully incompetent, like: “Who the hell put me in charge of this? Shouldn’t we get an adult over here?” And then I’m like, “Wait, I’m 32 years old. How the hell did I get to be 32 years old and know so goddamn little?”

I was promised wisdom! Understanding! I’ve been robbed!

It’ll be fine.

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What are husbands for?

Thursday, June 3rd, 2010

So dad had another setback. He’s in the hospital now because of blood in his urine and painful urination, likely related to the cancer, and he may need the catheter permanently. This and other bummers prompted this IM conversation between me and Devon.

me:  Will you do me a favor?
Devon:  what?
me:  When I get home tonight, smother me with a pillow until I stop twitching.
Devon:  sorry, nope
me:  Oh, come on, it’s just this one little thing.
Devon:  how about smother in kisses?
me:  Are your lips coated in deadly toxin?
Devon:  nope
me:  Then that won’t work. Unless you plan to throw yourself over my face for a few very long minutes.
me:  What’s a girl gotta do to get her husband to kill her around here?
Devon:  see, american husbands just don’t stack up to wahabbists in saudi

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Waldbaum’s now run by Guilt, Inc.

Monday, May 10th, 2010

Before dad went into the hospital, I did his grocery shopping online. I have to say, Waldbaum’s online grocery service is quite bitchin’. Good selection, reasonable prices, all delivered to my Dad’s door so I don’t have to go to the store. Rock on, Waldbaum’s.

So I was a little stunned when I got this email from Waldbaum’s today:

“We miss you!  Where have you been?  Was it something we did?

We are always listening to our customers and would like to ask you a few questions about why you have stopped using our online service.

Please take a minute to complete a brief on-line survey and tell us how we can make this service meet your expectations.

We hope to see you soon.

Waldbaums of  Valley Stream Customer Care Team”

My actual response:

“Give it some time, dudes. I was buying for my father, who has dementia and doesn’t do his own shopping. He’s in the hospital now after major surgery and eating crap like individual-serving applesauce.

Way to run your business like an Italian grandmother, with all the guilt, by the way. I promise, I’ll start buying from you again when Dad gets home from the hospital. And I’ll call home more often and visit on Sunday, too. Just don’t give me with switch!

Thanks.”

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Touchdown in Maui

Saturday, April 17th, 2010

Thanks to a couple who missed their plane, we made it to Hawaii. Continental overbooked, but we caught a break at the expense of the misfortune of others. I sit here now listening to the sounds of the Pacific Ocean and drinking a margarita as Devon marinates the fuck out of some chicken for tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll make some brownies later, because this is the sort of stuff we do on vacation.

I wasn’t sure we’d make it. Last Thursday, I spent the night in the ER with Dad, whose colon decided to go rogue and strangle his small intestines. That’s the way colons are sometimes, going bad when you least expect it. Dad survived the surgery and is recovering fairly well, minus part of his colon and sporting a colostomy bag. He had a pacemaker put in today, since he has also developed a heart condition. The time in the hospital is not doing good things for his cognitive function. Most of our travel plans seem to be up in the air until we actually leave.

I spent part of the 10-hour flight falling in love…with Walt Whitman. Few people make me as happy to be alive as Whitman. Dude was actually fired from his day job  for writing Leaves of Grass. People thought he was a big ol’ perv. I’m not a big fan of poetry in general. I spent too much time in college listening to too many emo kids whine about their pain, I guess. But Whitman is the shit, y’all.

We’re getting married on Monday (me and Devon, not me and Walt Whitman), and I’ve suggested Devon run from the crazy lady while he can. He is marinating chicken instead. He can’t say he wasn’t warned.

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Daybreak in the spare bedroom

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010

“I can finally literally touch the back wall. That hasn’t happened in a long time. It’s like a fat man seeing his penis after a decade.”
– Devon, on clearing some boxes out of the spare bedroom


Now that we can see our figurative penises again, we should be able to get the back room into shape. We both want a well-ordered, domestic home, but we are not particularly well-ordered people, which is why we still have unpacked boxes after six months.

We have too much stuff. WAY too much stuff. The amount of stuff that would be appropriate for people who have been married for a decade and are living in a large house. In fairness, we were married for about six years total, just not to each other.

Mentally, we do not accept the fact that we live in an apartment in New York City. Devon just bought me a freezer for my birthday. A freezer. Because the one that came with our fridge just wasn’t good enough. The freezer will be going in the spare bedroom, which is why Devon was clearing boxes. We have a juicer, an espresso machine, a coffeemaker, a bread machine, a deep fryer, a pressure cooker and more pots and pans than you could shake an infrared thermometer at, and we have two of those.

We haven’t decided to toss much. We rented storage space so we could move some out. In other words, we rented an apartment for our stuff. We hope to have a house someday, but for now, we pay rent for our things.

But damn, that freezer is gonna be awesome.

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