It's hard to admit it, it really is, when your life has become unmanageable. You have to be an alcoholic in recovery, seriously, or you have to work with these wonderful souls, to even be aware that there is such a thing, limitations, and that we should be respectful of our own.
Anyway.
It's why I haven't blogged since September. This proverbial sandwich, you know, people like me, the meat. I like the position, there seems to be power in there somehow, barging in and out of people's lives at their will.
Dad's been in and out of the hospital, each time it seems life-threatening, each time he leaves smiling that smile that says, "Did you see the fish I brought home? Have you ever seen fish like that?"
I'm deep in flashbackland. We're not talking about tropical fish, not the kind that I raise, but the type that real fishermen fish for, with a real rod and reel, real hooks and worms, whatever.
I can hook a worm, learned with the best. Caught a huge trout once, too. Huge.
There's much to say, so much to catch up on. This is one of the parshiot (Hebrew: rhymes with or sounds like, car-tree-oat) of life, chapters of life that is well worth recording. And even though it feels as if there certainly isn't time to record it, I intend to try.
The pasta is hot and in the winter, we Chicagoans get it while it's hot. The post says it published on New Year's Day, but the truth is, I wrote it on January 3, 2010.
Does that make me a bad person?
Flying Hopeful, if at all, despite the meshuganah kup who wanted to blow up that flight to Detroit.
Flying Bubbie
Showing posts with label sandwich generation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sandwich generation. Show all posts
Friday, January 1, 2010
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hobbies
Yesterday FD and I met with my brother and sister-in-law, had dinner at Bagel Country. We rode our bikes up to Skokie and I didn't even care how I looked. It's Bagel Country.
But we stopped off at my parents first.
"What's on your skirt?" first thing my mother says to me. I'm wearing blue culottes and there is some weird white chalky-looking something on my backside, something from the wash. I tell her it's very 9 days.
She's in the basement sweeping the floor and doing laundry, and my father is out buying plants for his award winning, were there an award in Skokie, garden. He has his landscaper put them in. His attention to this, when the doctors wrote him off just last week, is equivalent to mine with the fish tanks, but better.
Mother complains to me that my father has taken the car and gone to get some lunch, but it's been over an hour and she's worried. He didn't take his phone, either. He hasn't told her the truth, that he's buying plants.
We walk upstairs (I've fallen down this narrow stairway and cringe every time I see her do this, G-d should protect her) and I once again offer to install a washer-dryer in the bathroom upstairs. She won't do it, even if we pay. And she WON'T use the cane. This is for old people.
My father walks in the door he looks like he's about to say Shmah, seriously.
"Where've you been shmaying?" I ask. Now I understand the origin of this Yiddish for wandering.
"I can't talk," he says and sits down on the couch in the den. "Tired." He revives with a little with water, like his plants. My mother walks in and screams at him. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? He whispers something about flats of plants in the T-bird. I tell him how nice his garden is looking, and it is.
FD asks why the cell phones are on the floor. My father gives over the obvious answer. They're charging. "But you might trip on the cords. Why don't you. . ."
My father waves it away, whatever he's going to say.
Flying North
But we stopped off at my parents first.
"What's on your skirt?" first thing my mother says to me. I'm wearing blue culottes and there is some weird white chalky-looking something on my backside, something from the wash. I tell her it's very 9 days.
She's in the basement sweeping the floor and doing laundry, and my father is out buying plants for his award winning, were there an award in Skokie, garden. He has his landscaper put them in. His attention to this, when the doctors wrote him off just last week, is equivalent to mine with the fish tanks, but better.
Mother complains to me that my father has taken the car and gone to get some lunch, but it's been over an hour and she's worried. He didn't take his phone, either. He hasn't told her the truth, that he's buying plants.
We walk upstairs (I've fallen down this narrow stairway and cringe every time I see her do this, G-d should protect her) and I once again offer to install a washer-dryer in the bathroom upstairs. She won't do it, even if we pay. And she WON'T use the cane. This is for old people.
My father walks in the door he looks like he's about to say Shmah, seriously.
"Where've you been shmaying?" I ask. Now I understand the origin of this Yiddish for wandering.
"I can't talk," he says and sits down on the couch in the den. "Tired." He revives with a little with water, like his plants. My mother walks in and screams at him. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? He whispers something about flats of plants in the T-bird. I tell him how nice his garden is looking, and it is.
FD asks why the cell phones are on the floor. My father gives over the obvious answer. They're charging. "But you might trip on the cords. Why don't you. . ."
My father waves it away, whatever he's going to say.
Flying North
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