Egg Night at the Crazyhouse

TCG:  Before we go for eggs, will you check in with Mother and bring her today’s mail, tell her we’re going for eggs, and ask if she wants us to bring her a parfait from Foster’s Freeze.

UCC:  Uh, okay…

WISIMH: I know you’re sick of her too, bless your little heart. Then again, she is your mother.

Later

UCC:   (To DOB) We’re going for eggs. Would you like us to bring you back a parfait?

DOB:            No thanks. I’m in bed for the night.

WISIMH: Of course you are, bless your heart.

UCC: Would you like me to close the blinds?

DOB:            If you like.

WISIMN:             Then, I probably won’t bother, bless your little heart.

UCC:  Do you want me to close the…

WISIMH:  …fucking…

UCC:             ….shades or not?

WISIMH: I know you never ask for anything, thus justifying inside your little mind that you are indeed not the slightest bit of a bother to us. But you know what? You are. And you would be a butt-load less of a bother if we didn’t have to fucking guess what the hell you need, perhaps even as a matter of life or death. Much less of a bother.

DOB:            (Hating to be such a bother as to ask me to close her curtains) Okay then.

WISIMH:  And….. thank you?

UCC:  Ok, they’re closed. Have a good night. ‘Night, Sandy.

Later, on the drive to get eggs:

TCG:  How as mother?

UCC:  She didn’t want the parfait.

TCG:   (shocked)

UCC:            Yeah, she was in bed for the night. If you can call kitchen light on, laying on the bedspread fully clothed and covered with a ratty blanket “in for the night.”

TCG:            She thinks you hate her and you’re trying to steal her money.

UCC:             She’s half right.

WISIMN:    BTW, it may surprise you to know that I don’t hate her so much as I resent her. And the fact is, she’s stealing my money. Not to mention sending my spouse into ill health and an early grave. He is a 67-year-old man with COPD who has to sneak out of the house each day to secretly smoke a cigarette- the high point of his day, both pulmonarily and relaxatory. He doesn’t have the energy to care for himself, for all the aggravation you give him. So guess who does? Plus additional aggravation we both know I give him for being not wild about having lived with his mother in his house for every minute of our entire fucking 22 year marriage. 

Then there was that argument we never speak of where you shamelessly said you had to put up with my spoiled latchkey daughter during her terrible teens, and I replied perhaps you’d like to do the math on how long she was under your roof vs. Yo Momma.

I even admit I nurse childish fantasies about having you predecease her, and me giving her 30 days notice. I also admit to feeling catholic guilt about having such bad thoughts. But she’s such a demented pain in the ass. And having the two of you sucking at my soul and draining my energy like a teenage girl alone in her car in a snow storm, mashing her foot on the starter as you hear the battery turn over and finally emit that slow death-rattle of a drained battery. I feel like that girl’s car’s battery. I also fear getting old and crazy myself, but there’s not much time for me to wallow in such day-mares. Besides, it might already be too late.

Great Muppet Expectations: Adult Content

TCG: Listen. (Doing your best Milhouse impression with the inhaler) I’m taking albuterol.

UCC: I’ll alert the media.

TCG: I’m going down (a driveway with the distance and elevation change of two full flights of stairs) to get the mail. I’m taking my phone so I can call you, or maybe call a cab if I can’t make it back.

UCC: Well, if you call, use the house phone (here beside me) because I have my cat asleep in my lap and I don’t’ know where my cell is.

WISIMN: Actually, what I did was go to my happy place, which is greatly aided by having a cat asleep on my lap. I asked myself the question vis-à-vis Muppets: where are they now? Note to self, always keep a list of daydream topics handy, like that list of emergency numbers to call if reality suddenly turns ugly on you.

Back-story
In case your lost recreational drug generation wasn’t spent watching the very early Sesame Street, you may remember that some Muppet characters were children when you were. So, you may be wondering how they did when they grew up in the real world, miles and miles from Sesame Street. To save you the trouble of trying to choreograph a lucid dream about where they are now, I share my vision.

Take the androgynous, mysterious dynamic duo: Bert and Ernie. Gay or not gay?
It’s been said they are meterosexuals™, but the plain truth is that they died before they ever came out. You may recall that Bert was clubbed to death by some White Supremacists who thought (sadly, incorrectly) that he was the guy who started the Stonewall Riot, aka the beginning of the End Times. Ernie’s fate is best not brought up in polite company unfamiliar with the appearance of a Muppet corpse discovered about six muggy summer months after an overdose of crack.

Beaker, for godssakes, what happened to Beaker?
Think about it. His fate probably depended on whether or not he was covered by Worker’s Comp. If you’re a socialist liberal Nazi, then Beaker is now blissfully medicated and attended 23/7 (sic) by his special care assistants in a lovely private home in some upper-class suburb you could never hope to inhabit unless you too won a personal injury lawsuit. If you’re a burnt out cynic who figures that Obamacare is a Bad Idea, and if Jesus Christ is your personal savior, then Beaker died of complications associated with untreated bedsores, exacerbated by the effects of years of chronic incontinence.

The prototypical, archetypical Imaginary Friend, Big Bird?
Dude. You’re a grown up now. Do you still have an imaginary friend? Big Bird was put on the Endangered Specious Creatures List during the Clinton administration. The reign of Bush II however, left us with more than thousands dead and continuing to die in an Imperialist Grab for Oil, a greater rift between the upper class and the proles, or an economy flatter than road kill on Route 8. Don’t you remember my best-selling expose, “The Big Bird Conspiracy”? Sorry, it’s no longer in print. I’ll summarize.

Following a warrentless wire-tap, a BB was tried in a secret FISA Court for plotting terrorist activities, including but not limited to: engaging in enhanced interrogation activities and brainwashing of innocent children whose own imaginary friends tended to be Illegal Avian immigrants; causing troubled adolescent nightmares of BB dressed in a TSA uniform and putting on rubber gloves, and thus requiring years of counseling; shoplifting at Starbucks; Identity theft; and associating with fellow travelers who are registered as independent voters and failing to cooperate with the authorities in his own prosecution.

So, now that we have all put away our youthful recreational drugs in favor of Big Pharma prescriptions and Internet searching for the drug that killed MJ, you can take it. Sorry to harsh your mellow. Dude, Big Bird is dead.

Calculon Cookie Sheet: The Sequel

The cookie sheet has been removed from the counter! This morning it was in the sink, with some cleanser rubbed into the burned up corner.

UCC: So, I see you're still trying to revive the Calculon coookie sheet. I thought it was dead, and I was going to take it outside to use on my potting table.

TCG: Yeah, do that. I can't get it clean.

WISIMH: Yet moving it from the counter adjacent to the sink into the sink was all you had the energy to do. The idea of actually taking it out to the trash or otherwise disposing of it would require initiative. And you've got the initiative of a tube of toothpaste.

In other news, I went into DOB's room to get her laundry. She's still sick in bed going into her second week with flu.

UCC: How are you doing today?

DOB: Blah blah, blah, still sick, blah blah.

UCC: It's already over 90, you should close the window and turn on your air conditioner.

DOB: I turned the heat on (in the faux fireplace) because it was cold earlier.

WISIMH: You did what you demented sow? It's going to get over 100 today AGAIN! If you can't close your window, at least don't run the freaking heat!

UCC: Well, it's going to get over 100 today again, so perhaps I could turn it off for you?

DOB: Well, I turned it on because it was cold earlier.

WISIMH: Which is as relevant as, say, telling me your dog is a good boy. BTW, did you notice he has more open sores on his legs, and don't tell me the other ones are healed, because there is always another new sore.

Breaking Cookies Sheet News

Since I last roasted tomatoes to can (Friday, August 21) one of the cookie sheets has remained on the kitchen counter, with a greasy scummy layer of soapy water, “soaking” to facilitate cleaning the caramelized remains. It has remained there exactly 7 days today.

UCC: I’m going to roast the tomatoes I got at the farmer’s market yesterday. What’s the status of the cookie sheet?

TCG: The cookie sheet cannot be saved. We’ll have to buy another one. I was going to take you to On The Table (aka, Sur La Table) to get a new cookie sheet. The Calculon (Actually it’s calphalon™ but we delight in calling it Calculon – the clueless movie star robot on Futurama – to the annoyance of Jim, the sales clerk at On The Table, who is apparently not a Futurama fan) I can’t get the old one clean.

UCC: Can’t I just use the old cookie sheet? I could use the silicone pad, would that help?

TCG: No. You need a new silicone pad too, I can’t get it clean any more. Can’t you use the stainless steel cookie sheet instead? That cleaned up easier than the Calculon sheet.

UCC: No. the stainless sheet is too thin and it’s bowed somehow so one corner lifts up and all the oil drains off and the tomatoes burn in that corner.

TCG: Well, I suppose you could use the Calculon sheet one last time. Don’t bother with the silicone pad, it doesn’t prevent goo from sticking under it, and it just adds one more thing to clean.

UCC: Very well. Rest in peace, Calculon pan.

WISIMH: Too bad all the heroic efforts to clean the Calculon pan failed in the end and the patient slipped into an irreversible coma. Pulling the plug on the Calculon pan one week to the day it was last used to roast tomatoes is a bittersweet experience. We had some good times together, me and the Calculon pan.

But what pisses me off most of all in this traumatic experience is having the damn pan sit on the counter for an entire week, in intensive care, so to speak, only to pull the plug on it. I truly hate a messy kitchen. It causes me real psychic pain to have to work around that stuff. Our arrangement is that you “wash the dishes.” I do all the cooking, cleaning counters, putting away dishes and sweeping the kitchen floor. I also do at least two loads of dishes while I’m cooking, leaving only the actual serving plates to be washed, which can happen anywhere from 24 to 36 hours after use. I also wash my dishes and cups from breakfast and lunch simply to assure I’ll have a clean coffee cup tomorrow. You’re a lazy slug and I’m getting tired of humoring you into thinking you’re carrying your weight wrt/kitchen upkeep.

TCG: I said you could use the Calculon pan one last time.

UCC: I heard you. I said I’ll use the stainless pan out of respect for the passing of the Calculon pan. It’s better to let it die with dignity than to use it one last time in it’s comatose state.

WISIMH: Besides, if I used the Calculon pan, the encrusted goo marinating in greasy dishwater for a week probably wouldn’t contribute to the tastiness of today’s tomato sauce. It’s like the circus left town, but you’re still here. Is it happy hour yet?

One Man’s Poo is Another Man’s Fantasy

Went to the gastroenterologist today to follow up on the old man’s chronic diarrhea, one of the tougher topics to tackle in the morning and without any controlled substances stronger than caffeine. By the time we got home, the outside temperature was over 100, with a relative humidity a bit drier than the breath of doom from a mouth-breather with gum disease and a bad cold. But first, there was 30 minutes of the predictable toilet-chair-toilet routine, of course. Interspersed with coughing spells with sound effects like the worst teenage barf movies in Dolby stereo. That’s before we left the house! More fun was in store.

‘Kay, the drive to the doctor. So we finally get in the car, back out of the carport, park and return to house for his cell phone and then actually depart. New fun fact. Did you know that when you cough, you have to take your foot off the accelerator, regardless of the ambient speed on the freeway? But for an even bigger thrill, picture this. I’m in the suicide seat, adjusting the vents on my dashboard air, and trying to drink my coffee before we got to the parking lot and began circling for one of the closest three spaces. We’re halfway there when TCG grabs my wrist and squeezes quite painfully hard. This is the understood signal, in lieu of any verbal input, to convey the imminent likely possibility of a fainting spell or a coughing seizure by the driver, for which he wants to apologize wordlessly in advance to his doomed passenger. I, of course, duly over-respond, are you okaying and all, make an anguished facial expression indicating extreme distress. There! Ahhh, if only I knew what you were trying to say…

UCC Are you ok? (trying not to draw the driver’s attention to a partial unannounced lane change at a comfortable 45 mph)

TCG: No words, but sounds approximating that I imagine would be made by a zombie before he slaps his fish-hands in your face, who is at that very moment being anally raped in a three-way by the bastard child of Boris Karloff and DOB, by an angry postmenopausal woman suffering from spousal dementia, and finally, by your mamma. Between dramatic, desperate, wordless puppy-eye looks, continuing to emit sound effects from your worst drunk driving nightmare, or the fuzzy way your teeth felt the morning after prom night, or the way the sound track to my life is played in the background.

UCC: (With a bit more drama) Are you ok?

WISIMH: Ahhh, if only I knew what you were trying to say… Are you trying to remind me of the recent sad news that Ted Kennedy has lost his brave battle with brain cancer? Is there breaking news about whether Sandy is Still a Good Boy? Has the Coalition of the Willing scheduled a reunion and not invited Hungary? Are you asking me to describe the way your kisses taste after you have licked a camel’s butt and not removed and/or cleaned your dentures in a coon’s age? Are you remarking on the improbable fate of the Soviet Union, which so filled our teenage cold war nightmares of Armageddon, and yet ended spawning a bunch of impotent backward post-communist market kleptocracies that have too much oil and too little understanding of the seriousness of environmental pollutions? Are you saying I was a latchkey mother, and now I’m paying the price? Wait. What? Are you saying Muppets don’t have souls?

Needless to say, we made it home alive, or, I’d be blogging this from heaven, which could happen you never know. The doctor was this 6 foot tall Nordic blond with a Kissinger accent who performed TCG’s colostomy a while back. He was on iv Valium that day. Good times. As TCG said, she knows him in a way no other women does nudge nudge wink wink. I will spare the details of our double entendre poop/sex joke-filled discussion with the lady gastro. I have evolved a remarkable ability to decline to be embarrassed in public by TCG. Like Dad said, in a shit-throwing contest, the winner isn’t the guy who throws the most, but the guy who has the least sticking to him. Or, was it that life is a shit sandwich: the more bread you have, the less shit you taste?

By the time we got home, outside temperatures were up to 106. Seriously. It’s too hot to even try to hand water the parched yard. Think tumbleweed blowing through, dust-bowl breezes pushing the air pollution around and heating it up. Nothing a good news joke won’t cure:

The good news:
A propylene glycol-tini looks like an apple-tini, tastes sweeter, has fewer calories.
The bad news:
An antifreeze-tini will kill you. Too slowly.

Cookie Sheet Update

It's been two days now and the dirty cookie sheet is still soaking on the counter.

In other news, the empty suitcase was removed from the living room after about a week, so all hope is not lost for the cookies sheet.

Breathing and Coughing

Last night, sitting in our matching recliners in front of the TV.

TCG: Whooo, hoo. (Pause) Whew hoo.  (Repeat endlessly. Think audible pursed-lip breathing, with an added moan/groan attempting to convey the weight of the entire world on one’s exhausted shoulders. Then think of this as part of the ongoing background 24/7. I mean, even when I pull up into the carport and exit the car, he opens the front door, leans out, and starts woo hooing as I walk up the sidewalk.)

UCC: Ok. New Rule. You can make those noises when you walk or otherwise engage in any aerobic activity. But you can’t do it just sitting there in the chair between hacking up phlegm and examining it in the Kleenex before tossing it in the trash.

TCG: But it helps me breathe.

UCC: But it helps drive me crazy, and we wouldn't want that, would we?

WISIMN: Don’t care about the breathing any more. It helps me want to strangle you in your sleep. And you might also consider dropping the habit of making your hand tremble when you know I'm watching, or of closing your eyes and acting surprised out of a coma when I come within earshot. Or not.

This Morning:

TCG:  (Washing dishes sitting in a stool in front of the sink) Listen. I washed the big cookie sheet, and your silicone mat. But this other cookie sheet will have to wait for later. I just don’t have the energy now. 

UCC:  Exercising amazing self control to remain steadfastly silent.

WISIMH:  The cookie sheet has already soaked with soapy water for >24 hours. Philip K. Dick said reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. So, believe it or not, this is the reality of my life. And that’s why I don’t consider my habit “recreational” drug use. It’s a condition of my very survival.

Later this morning:

UCC: Here’s the pomegranate juice you wanted. How are you today?

DOB:  Well, I cough, then I cough again. Then, I cough a third time and bring something up. Not much, but a little.

UCC:  That’s wonderful. It sounds like you’re feeling a little better.

DOB: Well, I cough once or twice, then on the third cough I usually can bring something up, but not a lot.

UCC:   That’s wonderful. It sounds like you’re feeling a little better.

DOB:  Yes, I had a better night last night. I usually have to cough about three times to bring something up. But it’s not much.

UCC: That’s wonderful. It sounds like you’re feeling a little better. (This is actually fun).

WISIMN:  I wonder if you could try to bring a little something like a fucking clue, or possibly any thought that gets us off this broken record déjà vu merry go round. Better yet, I have a question: Shut the fuck up.