My Dad, Father’s Day, Menace to Society

This was taken on Christmas day, and he’s dressed in anticipation of the Great Blizzard of 08, in Southern California. 

Which never happened. 

Father’s Day

We spent Father’s Day at his house.  I took some steaks and fixed lunch for everyone, and it’s just wonderful when you do something like that and it all comes out just right and the steaks were not over-done.     No one argued about politics, nor even brought it up.  I helped my sister hang new curtains in his bedroom to keep the room a little cooler in the afternoon, then Mr Pie installed tiebacks for the curtains and a handrail in the bathroom.  He has trouble rising from a chair now, and I wonder how much longer my sister will be able to take care of him without outside help.

He’ll be 90 in four weeks. We are planning a large party; it was originally going to be a surprise party but we discovered that we needed his help with the guest list because we didn’t know whom to invite: we were worried that he’d outlived all of his friends and most of his relatives.  So, yesterday we let him in on the secret and he was thrilled. 

Then today I got an invitation to a birthday party for his cousin’s husband Max, who will also be 90, and the date is two weeks before his birthday.  I laughed a little because they are stealing Dad’s thunder.

Menace to Society

He’s still driving.

I tried to get his doctor to help us out and ask the DMV to have him tested behind the wheel, but no dice.  I have kept an eye on his driving skills for the past five years, but recently the skill level has dropped and I’m alarmed, so I called around today and discovered that I can send a letter to a Safety Bureau and they will request that he come in for a drivers’ test. 

He just announced that his license is due to be renewed on this birthday, and bragged that he only has to take the written test.  I don’t know how the state can allow something like this, but I know that they do. 

Dad told me yesterday that an acquaintance had his license taken away.  Doug is younger than Dad, and Dad was a little horrified that it had happened.  I pointed out that Doug’s license should have been taken away 30 years ago for general incompetence having nothing to do with age, because Doug is an idiot.  Dad had to agree with that, but I know that he is worried that he will lose his license, and I know that he will take it very badly if he does.  He lives with my sister and her daughter, and I visit him at least once a week; there are neighbors who will give him rides if we aren’t there, as well as a local shuttle bus, but all of these will feel like a poor substitute to him. 

  He’s never been a sissy.  He had a massive stroke nearly 25 years ago, was paralyzed on his left side, and you’d never know it unless you knew him really well.  The only tell is his left hand  which doesn’t work too well these days, only because he didn’t keep up with the exercises. 

It isn’t just the getting old that’s hard, it’s the being old.

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The Bitch is Back, part III; Extreme Geriatric Sex

So, she, Marilyn, the floozie Marilyn, not my cousin Marilyn (pay attention!) called my dad and called and called and called my dad, and said she was sooo sorry, said she’d make it up to him…. and picked him up yesterday and took him to San Clemente.  Cod only knows what they did together.   He says he had fun.

Extreme Geriatric Sex. 

He’s 88, nearly 89.  She’s 72. The idea that they might be having sex is not as horrifying as I… expected the thought to be. It’s kind of amusing that he thinks he’s such hot stuff. He really thinks he’s a ladies’ man, he really does.  His father would be shocked, his grandfather would laugh. 

The old geezer was a bit of a handful himself.

This is my great grandfather who  was so vain about his looks and fancied himself so attractive to the ladies that he lied about his age and made up stories about being a wealthy oil man from Texas. He was sued for “heart’s balm” aka “breach of promise” when he was 82. It made the newspapers, much to his son’s (my grandfather’s) shame, and much to our raucous delight. My grandmother thought it was shameful, but she kept the clippings anyway.    The acorn may not fall far from the tree, but I’ve noticed that this Bad Boy Behavior seems to skip a generation. 

There are two articles about the naughty old boy, but you have to click on the picture to read both of them:

If Dad wants to marry the floozie, fine; I hope I am wrong about her. I really do.  I want him to be happy.  My problem with her is that I think she wants his money and doesn’t realize that he may outlive her even though he’s 16 years older than she.  

Heh. 

Wouldn’t that be a bitch, to marry an old coot for his money and have him outlive you?  Not that Dad’s an old coot… well, maybe a bit of an old coot. He is an emotional bully, and she is very prissy.  I don’t think the combination sounds so very good, and I think that’s why they keep breaking up.  I’ve known teenagers with less complicated love lives.  

Dad and my sister have been looking for a house to live in together.  They are not shopping for the house together, because that would be logical and rational.  Dad is going out with his realtor, my sister with hers.  In the meantime, she is fretting about selling her place, says she wants to keep it and rent it out but really can’t afford to do that, but hasn’t done a thing to make it either salable or rentable.  The place is like a cave and has too much stuff in it.  It is a ground floor apartment that became a condo.  The only windows are at the front and the back of the building, and making it a dark hole. I am afraid that she is turning into one of those older women with too many cats…  maybe she’s already there: she has the cats and she’s a Certain Age.   We have offered to come and help her paint it but she always postpones it when we set aside the time. The place also needs new carpet, plumbing work, new linoleum, new kitchen counters (I don’t think hot persimmon is a color that’s In this year), and a match dropped in a bucket of gasoline.  I am tempted to buy her a new countertop (I think I can barely afford that) just to get things moving, but torching the place is still very tempting.

They both call me and complain about the other’s taste in housing: she wants something old that has character, he wants something newish and bland.  He is drawn to houses that will be the death of him, houses with  sunken living rooms, and steps up or down throughout the house.

I can’t figure how Marilyn fits into this picture of domestic bliss. What will happen if they get married?  Will my sister try to lock him in his room if she comes over? My sister hates Marilyn to the point of irrationality.  Ok, rationality is not her strong suit to start with, but it’s not even in the same county when the subject comes up.  

I am tempted to move to Turks and Caicos and not have a phone nor a computer. They’d have to write to me or come visit me in order to complain.

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