Would you mind wobbling it a bit??

As Pop would say "would you mind wobbling it a bit?"

This is a story that was told to him during one of the worst times of his life. He was living in Toronto, had no job, no money and was depressed to put it mildly. He was taken out to eat by a friend of his who proceeded to tell him a story which has gotten him (and also me) through some rough times:

Years and years ago a man went to a pub in England and drank and drank until he could do nothing else. This was in the days before air-conditioning and lo and behold there was a theatre (look at me using the English spelling) that was "air-cooled." Stumbling drunk he bought a ticket, went to the balcony and promptly fell asleep.

When he awoke he had to urinate something horrible so, whether it was because he was so drunk and didn't care or because he was so drunk and full of beer he couldn't make it to the bathroom he opened his zipped and "let her rip" (that would be Pop's terminology). As he was receiving great relief from his decreasing bladder he heard a voice from down below.

"I say old Chap, would you mind wobbling it a bit as I seem to be getting it all."

That is how I feel right now -so would y'all mind wobbling it a bit.

Pop's 90th birthday

Thanks,
Dorothy

Are you kidding?

This morning's conversation:

Pop - "Dorothy can you come out here and smell this. Something smells bad."

Dorothy (trying to enter Scentsy orders on the computer) - "Give me a second and I'll be right there."

I come out to the living room where he smiling. I am terrified I have to clean up dog poop. I can't smell anything so I spell some air freshener (White Tea Cactus for you Scentsy people) and come back to finish entering orders and making phone calls."

Pop walks in not smiling. "Don't worry about the smell. It's me. Did I shower yesterday?"

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

Really??

So Pop informed me last night that he planned on dying in three years. Of kidney failure. And doesn't want dialysis. Isn't that painful? Or I would kill him in a car wreck - I don't think I could live with myself if that occurs. I think that is a crappy way to decide you are going to die (this coming from a person who has always said I would be murdered) but as long as he is not in pain I'll be somewhat OK. And people wonder why I am so strange?

Last night...

he came into my room wearing a wifebeater and underwear. On his head was a hat. A Shriner's hat. "Dorothy why do I have a Schriner's hat on my head? Do you know?"
"No Pop. How would I know?
"Well I found it and brought it in to show you but am I a member of the Schriner's?"
"Pop I don't really know. But I do know that if you don't wear pants no one is going to notice that you have that damn hat on."

Running out...

This just happened - again. It happens often but I always forget how strange it is. Every night around 6, possibly 7, Pop teeters (yes he teeters - he has had 4 cups of wine) to bed. He comes to say Good night to me first and to see where my "baby" is (I'll get a picture of the "baby" up here soon - it's a pitt bull). Then about half an hour later he appears at my bedroom door to tell me that he ran out and he's having another glass of wine. Once a friend was over and asked what he meant.
He ran out of sleep.
Only Pop.

Yes he drinks 4 glasses of wine before bed (Franzia Chillable Red if you are coming over FYI). The man is 90 damn years old. I love him dearly. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. He loves his wine. If, at 90, he wants 8 glasses of wine before bed then by God he'll have them and I'll put him to bed like I do many nights. If that man wants to try cocaine I'd try and figure out where to get him some. He is 90. He deserves it.

And people wonder why I am not a doctor....

So I read a LOT of blogs because, really, what the hell else am I going to do while I sit here with Pop? I cross stitch yes and I sell Scentsy and I even have 12 different farms or frontiers or cities or whatever but I wanted a blog. I do have some stuff to say about this whole caregiving deal - that is a lie. I have stuff to say about everything but I'm trying to focus this on three things - caregiving, scentsy and cross stitch.
Anywho, I have a domain name - have had it for years (because I wanted to own my own name). Now I have a blog. The idea has crossed my mind that maybe these two should meet and my BLOG could go on my domain name. What a concept!!
Now I am not very computer literate. I mean the basics I have down (except this new computer has a camera - WTF do I do with that? Now I have to put makeup on before I get on the computer? FUCK - but I don't know html and although I know what I want (it's simple, really) I don't know how to make that happen (although I did have someone who does design websites for as much as $50,000) but I want to be one of the cool kids. I want y'all to like me and accept me - warts, pimples and all (actually I am wart free FYI). So who would I ask where I could get someone who knows this HTML crap?


um, the fucking internet Dorothy. The people you have been reading for years. Those are the people I want to impress so those are the people I should ask. So here I am, asking.

So if anyone by chance stumbles upon this post please answer - who do i get to design a website?

Thanks,
Dorothy

"I can't hear you." "WHAT?"

I love you Pop. Lord knows I do but you are driving me crazy and I have taken more Xanax in the past two months than I have in my life. I can't tell you what all drives me crazy because I don't want to hurt you so here goes.

1. I am not a morning person really. I am definitely not a morning person until I pee and smoke a cigarette. Walking into my room to "see if I am awake" and then wanting to take to me about the state of the economy or some such bull shit will never work.

2. "I can't hear you." Jesus fucking Christ you can to hear me. You can hear Glenn Beck on television fine. If I whispered that I won the lottery you would hear it. You don't WANT to hear me. As proved by:

Me (four months ago) - "Pop I think that something is wrong with your ears because you aren't hearing very well all of a sudden."

Pop - "Oh don't worry Dorothy. They (I do not know who they are) send me a postcard every month and they clean out my ears really well - even better than Jose (his doctor)does. They get lots of shit out of my ears. I just have to wait for the postcard.

Me (two months ago) - "Pop 'they' never sent you a postcard. Something is really wrong with your hearing. Why don't you tell me who "they" are so that I can call and schedule an appointment to get your ears cleaned?"

Pop - "I have told you they send me a postcard every month. Didn't YOU hear THAT?

This week was the fourth of July. His other daughter and his grandson drove through Texas and we had dinner and breakfast with them. When he got bored or whatever he would just say "I can't hear you. Dorothy is supposed to make me an appointment but she won't."

He won again. Also, the day I say "I can't hear you" please just shoot me now.

Mama said...

there would be days like this. She just didn't tell me that she would be dead when they happened.
Seriously, on a scale of 1 to 10 this day has been a negative 10. And I am going to cover my head with my covers and cry about it.
I wish I had something good to say but I don't.
Anyone know anything good??

Introduction......

I have tried to do this a million times but have never quite mastered it - so here we go again.
I am the primary caregiver for my 90 year old father who I call "Pop."
My Mother died in December 15, 2008. The proper word for that is "suckage."
I sell Scentsy and would love for you to order from me or join my team (mayer.scentsy.us).
I also cross stitch and sell those as well - mainly baby announcements as those are fairly small and easy to do but I would be willing to do almost anything as long as we can agree on a price.

I spend all my time with Pop. Literally (no we don't have to sleep together). Once every two weeks I get an hour to go to my therapist - love her (her nickname will be Mother Earth). The other day I had to go for my yearly gynecologist appointment. Here is how that conversation went:

Me - "I have to go to the doctor on Tuesday. Write it on your map (no clue why he calls calendars maps) so you don't forget..

Pop - "But you just saw Mother Earth last week, checking his "map," on Wednesday. Is this a real doctor? Are you sick? You have to quit smoking. I heard you coughing the other day? Is it something bad?"

Me - "Pop I am fine. I just have to go to the doctor. I'll be home in two hours."

Pop - "Maybe I should go with you."

Me - "No Pop. I'll be fine. I just have to go to the doctor."

Pop - "You still haven't told me why."

Me - "The gynecologist Pop. You know for my girly parts."

Pop - "Well I don't know why you wanted me to go to that appointment. Those doctor's offices are like baby making factories. I wouldn't have wanted to go anyway."

Me - "Yes Pop. I know. Can you just write it on your map?"

A couple of days later he asked me what a baby factory was. A little perplexed I asked him what he was taking about. I looked at the map "DAM - baby factory 2 pm."

I have spent years, literally, reading blogs and feel like I know some of you like we are best friends. Yet I have never had my own blog for you to comment on - had an ex and was trying to maintain some anonymity. Now I just don't care anymore. I am who I am. Some people like it. Some people don't. It's cool. Some days I don't like myself either. Somehow once my Mama died I quit caring what people think. I don't have to impress anyone anymore. I just have to be me and every day I try to be a better person. I am not perfect. I don't think I am. Even the guy who "loved me more than he could ever love anyone" knew I wasn't perfect. Only my dog thinks I am perfect - and if I could convince him to quit shitting in the other room he would be perfect also.

You can email me at caringscents at live dot com.

Thanks y'all,
Dorothy