Posts Tagged ‘Family’

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The homecoming that sucked

Wednesday, February 24th, 2010

Dear Dirtbag Who Broke Into the House of an 88-Year-Old Man with Alzheimer’s:

I hope whatever parts dangle from your body whither and die. I have no idea what you were looking for in the mess you scattered across two rooms, but I sincerely hope it was gonorrhea and that you found it. As far as I know, my Dad does not have gonorrhea, but there’s a lot of stuff in that house, and he WAS in the Army, so you never know.

The fact that your scumbag hands even touched my mother’s wedding album makes me want to sterilize it before I open it again. My one comfort is that the bag you rifled through and left on the bed was full of cat shit not that long ago. I hope you bite your nails.

That is all.

Sincerely,
Dirty Hooker

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I apologize in advance

Saturday, February 20th, 2010

Devon and I were chillin’ in the living room, Devon playing a video game and me not playing a video game, since I’ve given up World of Warcraft for Lent. (I’m a recovering Catholic, so there’s no reason I need to observe Lent except that I want to.) We flipped on the TV for Dad, who is spending the night with us, and Dad said…

Look, I’m sorry, I don’t even know how to phrase this without sounding like the biggest dick in the world. I’m sorry, really. Sorry that I think this is funny and need to blog it and sorry Dad said it.

But Dad said, “What’s up with all the negroes?  They’re all over the news.” This was in response to Gov. Paterson and Al Sharpton appearing in back-to-back segments.

My dad is 88 and has Alzheimer’s disease, but I’m pretty sure he would have said the same thing 20 years ago.

Like I said, I’m a dick because I’m still laughing. Sorry.

In other news, I finally had a movie-worthy cabbie experience going from Queens to Brooklyn. I spent last night at Dad’s, and we took a cab back to my apartment. Through the rear-view mirror, I watched the cab driver fall asleep. You heard me. I said FALL ASLEEP. He even did the deep-breathing thing people do when they are FUCKING SLEEPING.

Then his girlfriend called. To his credit, he asked her not to curse, since he had to put her on speakerphone to avoid getting nailed by the fuzz. (Yes, I just said “fuzz.” Deal with it.)

Apparently, his girlfriend was perturbed because he was sleep-working when he should have been home taking care of her sick ass. Literally. Through the speakerphone, I heard: “You motherfucker sonofabitch. I’ve got stuff coming out of everywhere, my mouth, my asshole….”

I love New York.

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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.

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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?”

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Happy New Year, youse guys

Tuesday, January 5th, 2010

I know, you’re all wondering, “What did you do for New Year’s Eve, Dirty Hooker?” What, you weren’t wondering that at all? Shut up, yes you were. If you guessed “partying like it’s 2009 in a drunken urban orgy,” try again.

It was my turn to watch Dad for the weekend, so Dad and I spent the day repeating the same three conversations a dozen times each and paying bills. When Dad suggested we have a drink at about 4 pm to celebrate the New Year, I was happy to oblige. Alcohol is probably contraindicated in half of the dozen or so medications he’s on, but I figure, he’s 88 years old, and if he wants a drink, I’m not gonna be the one to tell him no. So I poured him a small glass of some B&B we had in the cabinet.

While I sipped it delicately, because this stuff is strong, he pounded that shit like he was on leave in the army. He’s awesome like that.

Then, when Devon got home from work, Dad had a couple of glasses of wine and a glass of champagne with us. He’s hardcore.

He was morose for only a few hours before the clock struck midnight, but still, it sucks waching an old man cry. The next day he’d forgotten it was New Year’s, so all was well again.

This past week off from work was the greatest gift in the world. I got to play WoW and bake cookies and sleep a ton and generally decompress from the high-intensity second half of 2009. We topped it off with turning my desk from a horizontal shit catcher into a real, functional office space and turning one of the closets in the second bedroom into a usable craft center.

Devon installed shelves. I think I will keep him.

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Pop Quiz, Hotshot

Thursday, December 24th, 2009

Guess which one of the following items DID NOT make it through airport security.

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Box-Cutter-Knife-4679

If you guessed the box cutter, you should not be working for the TS-Fucking-A.

When we moved into our new apartment, Devon picked up a bunch of box cutters, and I slipped one of them into my purse in case I needed to cut someone someday. I forgot about it completely. This razor blade made it all the way through airport security, while my Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion did not.

Something ain’t right here.

To be fair, I never get shit stolen confiscated leaving New York — only when trying to navigate Denver International Asshats — so there’s a good chance I would have gotten an anal probe from the TSA Saturday upon my return home.

But do you know what happened as a result of me bringing this deadly weapon onto the airplane? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I’m an ordinary person trying to get from point A to point B, just like I was the day the TSA protected the world from my overpriced girly products. Just like the vast majority of travelers.

Thank God they remembered to make me take my shoes off. Who knows what could have happened.

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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.)

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How do spoiled brats do it?

Monday, November 30th, 2009

I must be the only chick in the world that people have to scam into accepting gifts.

Don’t get me wrong: I like stuff, especially nice stuff. But there’s something about expensive presents that makes me want to give them back and tell people to save their money for the inevitable apocalypse, when the cost of sulfur-proof umbrellas will skyrocket. This isn’t a “problem” I can share with people. “Oh, your birth mother gave you a thousand dollars with instructions to spend it on something diamond-y? You poor thing. How ever will you cope?” No, people are more likely to be all, “Go die in a fire, skank.”

So the super-awesome pearl necklace I got over the weekend is a result of Devon expertly timing whipping out his credit card as I looked through my bag. He’s a gift ninja.

He objected to me spending only a fraction of the money Maureen gave me, so now I “have” to go buy something shiny. Maybe shiny new ironic quotation marks, since I’ve clearly blown through my share in this post.

My necklace is pretty sweet. I fantasize that I am Audrey Hepburn*, navigating through a sepia world where people do things like dress up for the theater and sacrifice true love so Czech resistance leaders can save their country. In reality, I spent Sunday playing World of Warcraft in shorts, a t-shirt and pearls.

Close enough.

*Ingrid Bergman co-starred in Casablanca, but Audrey Hepburn rocked pearls like no one else.

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It’s the little things

Thursday, November 26th, 2009

Sometimes, my dad is awesome.

I was making cheesecake for Thanksgiving and asked him whether he wanted to lick the bowl.

Dad: No, I don’t…[he sticks his pinky in the bowl and licks it tentatively.] Mmm, this is good. Give me a spoon.

So I let my dad slurp clean the remains of a bowl of cheesecake batter all by himself. Either I’m a very good daughter or a very, very bad one.

Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a good night.

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This is war, Facebook

Sunday, November 22nd, 2009

Facebook says I should reconnect with Devon Jones. I think Facebook has gone too far in poking its Mafia Wars-lovin’ face into my personal life. You don’t know me, FB! You don’t know anything about my relationship! Devon is sitting 4 feet away, sending email in his pajamas.

God, Facebook is a pushy wench.

In other news, we continue the never-ending battle against bodily fluids. Yesterday, Devon cleaned up more cat pee out of his chair and off of the floor, and I cleaned up a puddle in the bathroom. During the night, I mopped up two separate puddles outside the bathroom. This morning, Sahrah vomited another cat (probably the same cat the Fatass fired out of her ample bottom).

In Fitz’s defense, her pee pad really is disgusting and needs to be changed. I wouldn’t step on that, either.

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