6 Father's Day, new dog

06-28-04 Mayatime 12.19.11.7.2 13 Ik 5 Tzec

Yesterday one of my friends called and I told her about my father and she cried. She didn’t say she was crying, just that she was sorry, but I could hear her. She is the first person to do that.

Will & I took my parents out for Father’s Day yesterday. (We never go out on the actual holiday–too crowded and we had a bad experience at a non-chain restaurant once, where they had a special hand-lettered “Mother’s Day” menu and all the prices had been jacked up.) We went to Red Lobster, since my father loves shrimp cocktail and clams over linguini and all sorts of nasty fish. I had my usual, chicken fingers and biscuits. I had repeatedly told him on Wednesday that we were going there and he could have his shrimp cocktail (“you know, dad, the shrimp on the side of the glass with the red sauce?”) but he couldn’t remember what the shrimp were. As soon as he saw the picture (thank god for pictures) he knew. He ate the whole order himself. It makes him happy. I wish I could afford to buy him shrimp cocktail every day. He also ordered linguini and clams (well, my mom ordered for him) but they were out. Horrors. So he got something else, which I think was probably better for him since it came with vegetables.

We had dinner with Grandma at night. He had already forgotten the name of the restaurant where we’d had lunch. At the end of the meal, Grandma was handing out ice cream but Dad was still eating his salad (for some reason he likes to eat it last, not first) and chicken. The platter of chicken was also still on the table. We asked him if he wanted more chicken and he said no so we cleared the table. A minute later, he’s looking for the chicken (he called it turkey, close enough, better than “that stuff” right?). I reminded him that he’d just said he was finished and my grandmother starts in on ME–“Don’t you correct your father!” Argh!! My family is going to drive ME crazy long before my dad ends up in the looney bin.

But my grandma (86 years old) is sharp as a tack, there’s no problem with HER brain, no sir. I wanted to get a stamp from her to mail a flyer to someone who saw my ad in Wisdom magazine. I had forty cents. She gave me the stamp and didn’t want the money. We’re walking out and I saw some change on top of her clock radio on the dresser (her door is in the bedroom, it’s an efficiency apartment) so I dumped the 40¢ on the clock when she was distracted by a box of ancient hats she wanted to show me. She showed me the hats (a drag queen’s dream) and then noticed the change. She made me take it back. As we left, Will dropped it in a different place on her dresser. We’d gotten about ten feet from the door and she yelled “Look at that, they left the money after I told them not to!”

My parents had been waffling over whether to get another dog like Alf (miniature long haired dachshund). I know someone who breeds them and she’s willing to trade a puppy to me in exchange for Reiki training. But my mom decided it will be too much for her to take care of my dad and a puppy and the insane Jasper cat. I would get the puppy for myself (I miss Alf) but Will doesn’t like dogs very much. He would want the dog to live outside all the time, and those dogs are too small to live outside year round (and they’re too cute). My grandma doesn’t want a puppy or a kitten (she’s allowed to have them); she’s happy to visit with Jasper (and occasionally my Zen-Zen) on Sundays. (665)