Death by absent-mindedness

My dad's home from the hospital and driving my mom crazy already. Oh, I guess he's not behaving too badly for a stubborn, 78-year-old man. However, the doctor doesn't want him to drive for the next couple of months until he's had a chance to adjust to his new blood pressure meds. You can imagine my dad's reaction to THAT advice. My mom and I have explained ad nauseum that these medications can cause dizziness and lightheadedness--not conditions you want to experience behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle, right? (Um, I don't know how much cars weigh, but "two-ton" is more euphonious than "800-pound" or whatever, so just go with it.) He's not eager to go back to the hospital anytime soon, so I suspect he's more willing to listen and follow instructions than he might be otherwise.

##########

I certainly don't want my son to have to go to the hospital to make him more biddable, but he's going to send me to the loony bin if he doesn't stop acting like a senile, dotty old man. Daniel's always been a tad absent-minded, but when he was 6 and couldn't find his Lego pirate, it wasn't such a big deal. Now he's 18, and when he can't find his freaking cellphone, it's a slightly bigger deal. He lost the damn thing not once, not twice, but three times while he was home for Christmas. That's roughly once a week. One time he left it at his dad's, and his dad discovered it under the covers of Daniel's (unmade) bed.

Misplacing a cellphone, by itself, isn't that bad, I'll grant you, but here's a short list of other things he's misplaced or lost recently: He left his debit card at a game store in Indianapolis (when he was home for Thanksgiving), he left his iPod in a girl's car, he left a T-shirt at a friend's house, he lost the Purdue hat Kevin gave him for Christmas, and he lost his room key 5 minutes after he'd unlocked his dorm room Sunday when we were moving his stuff back in. (He finally found the key on his desk, but if you could see his desk, you'd understand how something could get lost on it.)

I've saved the worst for last. Sunday I'd taken him to the bookstore to get his books for the semester and used my card to buy them (400-something-dollars, yikes). Monday, he decided to change two classes, so on Wednesday, he took the books he no longer needed back to the bookstore to return them and buy books for his new classes. However, he couldn't get a refund unless the cashier had my card. Being the lovely, helpful person I am (and, of course, I had no objections to any excuse to drive up to Purdue to see Daniel), I agreed to come up Thursday after his botany lab. I pulled up to his dorm, and he came out looking upset. He got in the car and said, "Mom, I can't find the receipt."

People, I almost fainted. The books he was returning added up to $240! We searched his room: no receipt. I asked him where the bookstore bag was, and he said he threw it out, and then added, "Uh, I think the receipt was in the bag." And of course he threw the bag in the trashcan out in the hall that's emptied every night, not in the wastebasket in his room.

I was feeling slightly sick by this time, but I suggested we go to the bookstore anyway and see whether we could persuade the cashier to get a refund. Two of the books had "Used" stickers on them with the bookstore's name, so I thought there was a chance the cashier would believe the books came from there, not from another bookstore. The first cashier we approached--a harried-looking young woman--snapped "No receipt, no refund!" but grudgingly agreed to find the manager for us.

The manager, thank God, was a bookish, middle-aged man, and I'm very good with people of the bookish male persuasion. I'm not embarrassed at all to confess that I went into full-on Southern belle, sweet-talking mode. I flattered him shamelessly and flirted mildly. I threw my own son under the bus without a second thought and bemoaned his typical freshman carelessness, and the manager and I commiserated over the tribulations of dealing with college-age children. The whole time, however, I was thinking impatiently that this idiot had a computer record of my transaction and could easily pull it up, compare it to the number on my card, and verify the books against the record. Finally, I worked around to suggesting gently that he do just that. He pontificated about the unreliability of computer records and said condescendingly, "Well, you know technology is a wonderful thing--when it works." Christ on a biscuit, buddy. JUST GO LOOK. I swallowed my vitriol and smiled sweetly, however, and finally, finally he pulled up the damn record and lo and behold, found the transaction.

I managed to hang on to my smile until I had the new receipt in my hands and the refund credited to my card. The second we were done, however, I grabbed Daniel by the sleeve and marched him out of the store, hissing "And you hang onto THIS receipt, kiddo, or I'll come up here and wait outside your dorm, holding a hat and gloves and fretting over how my baby never dresses properly for the weather IN FRONT OF YOUR ROOMMATE AND FRIENDS."

That damn kid is going to kill me.

Even Blogger is chortling about "erectus"

Despite the writer's strike, a new episode of The Daily Show was on last night! All is right in my world again. I am, I realize, a wee bit obsessed with Jon Stewart, but the past six weeks or so, I can't tell you many times, while watching the news, I'd think "I bet Jon is dying to comment on that story!" Hey, he knew I was thinking about him. Primary season is going to be much more enjoyable now.

##########

Last night, Kevin and I were watching a show on Discovery Channel about the "human hobbit," which is a skeleton of a tiny human found on an island near Indonesia that's sparked fervent debate among bearded scientists about whether it's an example of a new species of human ancestors. I was feeling rather smug and faux-intellectual about us watching a science-y show, and then Kevin, who's normally a fairly mature person, snickered unexpectedly when an Australian anthropologist suggested the "hobbit" was related to Homo erectus. I, who am fairly immature and always eager to join in on 14-year-old humor, said "Homo erectus is also the mascot of the Viagra race car team!" Oh, how quick I am to throw the benefits of intelligent TV out the window.

##########

My dad's improving, but more slowly than he'll admit. The doctor is taking the temporary pacemaker out today, so he can finally get up and walk around a little. When I talked to him this morning, he claimed he's going home tomorrow morning. Uh, according to my mom, that's unlikely--it's more like Thursday. Keep your fingers crossed she can bully him into accepting he's not leaving tomorrow as easily as she bossed him back to life, will you? I have a lot of faith in the Power of Bossiness, but my dad is the King of Stubbornness. The nurses had better be cautious entering Room 1103 of that hospital to avoid my parents, Scylla and Charybdis.

##########

I did some Christmas shopping at Half Price Books about a month ago and got a free calendar that included several 15% off coupons to use throughout 2008. The other day, I pulled the calendar out to clip the coupons and stick them on my refrigerator. Before I threw the calendar away, I flipped through it to check what famous literary people were born on certain days and noticed the calendar also had "green" tips for each month. I was a little horrified to see how much power I'm wasting by leaving my cellphone charger plugged in all the time instead of only when I'm recharging my phone. So sure, I can unplug my charger when I'm not using it. That's simple enough, but reading green tips always makes me feel guilty and wasteful, as though I'm stomping around leaving a giant Ugg-sized ecological footprint instead of a small, dainty, uh, thong sandal of a footprint. (One day I'll be able to complete an analogy skillfully.) My anti-guilt immune system is practically nonfunctional, I know, but why don't I feel all motivated and charged up when I read about simple things everyone can do to have an impact?

(By the way, Blogger flagged "erectus" in this entry with a red underline. I know it's a spell-check thing, but I like to think Blogger is giggling childishly.)

No more hospitals!

I have an announcement: If you're a friend or related to me, you're not allowed to be admitted to the hospital this week. Thank you.

Why the bossiness, you ask? Well, first, my friend Janet's lung collapsed last Thursday, and she's been in the hospital since, getting transfusions and God knows what-all, and bless her heart, she's been freaking me out. Her pitiful little voice on the phone makes me want to cry. Second, after having Daniel home for almost a month, I had to take him back to school yesterday, and the combination of saying good-bye and spending $400 on his books did have me in tears. (OK, that event has nothing to do with a hospital, except that my wallet might need to be put in the ICU.)

Then this morning, my mom called at 8:00. That's early for her to call, so I knew something was up. And it was something, all right: My dad almost died yesterday afternoon. He's been on a slew of medications for his kidneys and blood pressure and has had several spells of dizziness and weakness the past few months. He had another one yesterday afternoon, but he passed out and stopped breathing. My mom had already called 911 and still had the operator on the phone, so she yanked him out of his recliner, got him down on the floor, took his top teeth out, and gave him mouth-to-mouth. My frail, weak, full-of-aches-and-pains mom! She said, "Lisa, you know how bad my knees are--I haven't kneeled on the floor in 10 years. But I got down on the floor to give him CPR, and in between breaths, I kept screaming at him that he's NOT ALLOWED to die on me now." Only my mother could boss someone back to life, I swear.

He started having a seizure while my mom was giving him CPR, but she said his eyes were wide-open the entire time, which scared the crap out of her. Right as the EMTs got there, he started coughing a little, so she figured he was breathing again. However, his blood pressure wasn't even registering, and his heart rate was down to 25. After they got him to the hospital, the doctor had to put a temporary pacemaker in. I don't know yet whether he'll need a permanent one. If his medications get adjusted better, he might be able to avoid that. One medication he's on, Coreg (I think), does tend to slow the heart rate; it's helped quite a bit to control his blood pressure, but its side effects seem too strong for him.

I talked to him this morning for a few minutes, and he's already feeling well enough to grumble about going home. He thinks he's just fine, and everyone's overreacting. Oy. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the doctor is probably going to keep him there at least another night. I did tell him I have the number to the nurses' station (which I do), and if he gives them a hard time, they have my permission to duct-tape him to the bed. It made him laugh, but I was only half-kidding. He's a sweetheart, but I know he's going to pester those nurses to death about going home. Actually, I wouldn't put it past him to get up and try to get dressed and walk out of there. He's just that stubborn. Good thing I didn't inherit that quality, right? I'd appreciate any good thoughts you can send his way (perhaps thoughts about the value of patience!)--and maybe a few for my mom in dealing with him.

I've been on an archaeological dig in my office for the past month or so in an attempt to get this space clean and organized. Oy, the papers and books and mementos and just plain crap I have to wade through! Some days I get a lot done. If need be, I can be ruthless about getting rid of useless items. Why, earlier today I even tossed a pile of old computer books I'd edited 10 years ago. (Of course, first I tore out the acknowledgements pages where the authors waxed poetic about working with me and saved them in a folder. I'm not embarrassed to admit I reread them occasionally as a ego boost.)

Other days, I unearth an envelope of photos--a six-year-old Daniel dressed up in his homemade wizard Halloween costume; the white rabbit we named Runaway Bunny after one of his favorite books, who ate a good chunk out of the dining room table leg, nibbled his way through an entire folder of important papers, and shortly afterward went to live on a farm (seriously, a real farm, not the "farm" parents use as a euphemism); cast photos of the play I was producing when I met Kevin. I can't just throw them all in a box to await their final resting place in an album, which should happen by the time I'm approximately 72, I figure. No, I have to go through them and reminisce, snort at pictures of me on bad hair days, and get maudlin over Daniel's gap-toothed grin. Needless to say, I don't get much organizing and cleaning done then.

However, I was making some progress this evening until I came across a pile of old letters and cards. Not many people write letters now, do they? Maybe that's why I've saved most of the letters I've received, especially my grandma's because she wrote exactly the way she talked. Getting a letter from her was like sitting down at her kitchen table and chatting while she shelled peas. One thing about her letters used to crack my Aunt Joan and me up, though. Grandma had a martyr streak in her, so she always managed to work in a heavy-handed hint about her children and grandchildren not visiting her lately or a description of some ailment, but she always assured us she'd get through it, thankyouJesus, and maybe we could remember her in our prayers, if we had the time? Bless her heart.

Anyway, I found this letter tonight, and I felt as though Grandma was here for a short visit. I've retyped a little of it, with her own grammar and punctuation. I'd written her a letter for her 83rd birthday in October, 1994, a few months after I moved to Indianapolis from Chicago. Here's her reply with a few comments from me:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

10-26-94

Tues Morn

Dear Baby,

I was so surprised to get the sweet letter from you, I was real happy to get it. So glad you moved closer to your Dad & Mom, I just know they are thrilled too.

I had a very nice birthday, I did not feel like I would since I knew that none of my children would be here with me. [Subtle hint, huh? Heh.] Then I get this call from Italy with the familiar voices [I think my aunt and uncle were in Italy on vacation and called her. Or maybe Grandma was just hearing Italian voices, but ones she'd heard before--that's reassuring!] Joan and Buddy called me too and I got a lot of nice gifts. I was real happy, it's not so hard being 83, is it? Ha ha.

Honey, I hope you can read this but since I cut my hand 2 years ago, I just don't write very good (wasn't too good before).

It sounds like Daniel is some boy. How I wish I could see him. Why don't you and Daniel come down for a visit? Tell Daniel I'll cook him some peas and cornbread. Remember when he was real little, I don't think he could walk, we were at Jerry's, and I cooked him some peas and cornbread. I'm still doing most all my work at 83. However, Eddie [her third husband--Grandma was a hussy] do help a lot. If he did not help as much as he do, I could not get along as well as I do.

I think I better hang it up. I have a headache. [Ha! Love this closing.]

Let me hear,

Grandma

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This picture of her with Daniel, when he was about five months old (I think), is one of my favorites. She had the magic touch with babies. Give her a fussy, colicky baby, and in less than two minutes, she'd have him or her cooing and smiling angelically.

What? It's 2008 already?

Long time, I know. I don't want to bore you with a long-winded explanation of why I haven't written, so I'll just say "Depression, blah, busy work schedule, blah blah, assorted problems, yadda yadda, major empty nest syndrome, etc., etc." and let it go at that.

I don't do New Year's resolutions; instead, I have two Stupid People stories I'm dying to tell. (If I made resolutions, my first one would be vowing to reduce the number of idiots in the world.)

1. The other day, I was checking out at the grocery and noticed a display of lighters at the counter. They had cartoons of current presidential candidates, and the one of Barack Obama was a particularly funny drawing, so I decided to buy it. The cashier made a disgusted face and sniped "I've been trying to persuade people to buy this lighter and then crush it!" Taken aback, I asked "Why?" (And yes, I should have known better.) She said "Well, I'm no racist or nothing, but I'm not gonna have a Muslim for a president."

Uh. I tried to be polite, but I told her he's not a Muslim and asked what made her think that. She claimed he "took an oath on the Muslim Bible." I said "First, it's called the Koran, and second, I don't know what your source of information is, but that NEVER happened." Unfazed, she went on to call Hillary Clinton "a raving bitch," and I threw up my hands and walked out, clutching my Barack Obama lighter. I swear, I have to get the hell out of Mayberry one of these days.

2. New Year's Eve afternoon, Kevin, Daniel, and I went to see Sweeney Todd, which I've been dying to see. My favorite musical ever, plus two of my boyfriends are in it (Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman). When the credits rolled, the row of people in front of us got up immediately, and one guy said to another, in a disgusted tone, "Well, that was no Pirates of the Caribbean, that's for sure!" ARRRGGGHHH. Yes, Pirates is the standard by which all other movies must be judged. Help me.

Call me "shorty," and I'll fire you!

Not to beat Don Imus with a dead horse (but come on--how much fun would that be?), but I did want to say something else about the issue. Yes, there's a double standard at play, in that not everyone using offensive terms gets chastised the same way. However, the difference between Don using "ho" and rappers calling women "bitches" and "hos" is that Don used a disrespectful term (and good Lord, let's not forget "nappy-headed," as Anita pointed out--I think I'm more aghast at that term than "ho") over public airwaves. To hear most of the offensive terms used in songs, you have to buy the CD, although I realize plenty slip by on some radio stations and in music videos on TV. As I haven't watched a music video since approximately 1987, I wouldn't know. I don't mean the medium or forum in which something is said should be used as a moral yardstick, but in terms of whether firing someone is justified, it could make a difference. Possibly.

Let's be honest, though: Don was fired not because he used an offensive term, but because sponsors were pulling ads from his show. Money talks, and no way was MSNBC going to lose that much money. So applying the same "punishment" to others who use offensive terms is difficult. How are you going to "fire" Mel Gibson or Michael Richards? As a movie or TV producer, you can decide not to hire them, of course, and as a consumer, you can always refuse to watch whatever TV show or movie they're involved in. I don't know about Mel, but I suspect Michael Richards's career is dead in the water, anyway.

I'm still surprised there weren't any major repercussions for Isaiah Washington. Did any sponsors threaten to pull commercials from Grey's Anatomy? I don't recall hearing about many people threatening to stop watching the show, either (but that's probably because they HAVE to know what's going to happen after George and Izzy sleeping together). What bothers me is that his use of "faggot" was motivated by hate, whereas Don was downright ignorant. Not that ignorance is an excuse, but hate-filled epithets seem worse somehow. I don't know. Being that ignorant is pretty appalling, too!

So that's my 42 cents worth on the topic. Should have been 2 cents, but I'm incredibly wordy.

A stupid quiz and stupid people

A woman I barely know, but who is very sweet, added me to her e-mail list and is sending me up to 10 e-mails a day with warnings about "dangers" (all decade-old hoaxes), exhortations to get a mammogram and other breast-cancer-related info (thanks, just had mine), "jokes" (and I use that term loosely), and hug certificates (shudder). She's so nice--and I am such a giant wuss--that I'm reluctant to tell her to lose my e-mail address. So I'm answering a survey she sent out today to . . . I don't know. Make me feel better about getting her stupid e-mails? Also, no way in hell am I e-mailing my responses to her. I don't want to encourage her! Y'all probably know most of this stuff about me anyway, so feel free to skip to the end of entry, in which I rant about stupid people.

1. Were you named after anyone? Nope, my mommy just liked Lisa Michelle--and she swore my dad would name me Inez after his mother over her dead body. Heh.
2. When was the last time you cried? Last night thinking about Picard.
3. Do you like your handwriting? Yes
4. What is your favorite lunch meat? Lemon-pepper turkey
5. If you were another person, would you be friends with you? This kind of question makes my head hurt. And seriously, what kind of psycho would say no??
6. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I use it when I deem it’s called for.
7. Do you still have your tonsils? They were taken out when I was six and grew back. So far I've shown no signs of regenerating other body parts.
8. Would you bungee jump? Maybe if I could read while doing it.
9. What is your favorite cereal? Kellogg's Start Smart
10. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Not for tennis shoes, but sometimes for boots.
11. Do you think you are strong? I'm freakishly strong, like Monica Geller.
12. What is your favorite ice cream? My current favorite is Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide, but I love any coffee-and-chocolate combination.
13. What is the first thing you notice about people? I had to think about this answer pretty hard. I think I look for a general air that I'd find appealing, such as a sense of humor or a look of intelligence. To be honest, I check to see whether someone's home upstairs, if you get my drift. Vapid or blank people annoy me.
14. Red or pink? Blue-green.
15. What's your least favorite thing about yourself? My indecisiveness. I think. Or maybe my lack of height. I'd have a great figure if you stretched me out about eight inches.
16. Who do you miss the most? Leslie. You would have been 53 on Monday, honey. I wish I could have teased you about it.
17. What color pants and shoes are you wearing? Denim blue pants and white socks.
18. What was the last thing you ate? Coconut yogurt
19. What are you listening to right now? The sound of my freaking furnace blowing because it's 30-something degrees and SNOW FLURRIES fell this morning!
20. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Periwinkle.
21. Favorite smells? The top of Daniel's head when he was a baby, Kevin's neck, oranges, freesias, honey. I could go on and on--I didn't realize I liked so many smells.
22. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? The tech support guy to find out why my e-mail is acting up. (Answer: "We're experiencing latency issues for which we have no ETA for resolving.")
23. Hair color? Red
24. Eye color? Blue-green-gray. Like me, my eyes are Libras and can't decide.
25. Do you wear contacts? Occasionally
26. Scary movies or happy endings? Uh, a happy ending to a scary movie?
27. Last movie you watched? For Your Consideration. I'd watch anything Christopher Guest did.
28. Hugs or kisses? Gah, I hate questions like this one! Both during sex. How's that?
29. What book are you reading now? I'm rereading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix because the movie comes out in July, and I'm a complete HP geek. I'm also reading Hominids and The Queen of the Big Time.
40. What's on your mouse pad? It looks like a miniature Oriental rug.
41. What did you watch on TV last night? Haley finally getting booted from American Idol. Oh, and Medium.
42. Favorite sound? Daniel laughing. I like the sound of my wind chimes when I'm on the front porch reading, too.
43. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Well, I like early Stones stuff, but the Beatles top them any day.
44. What's the farthest you have been from home? California
45. Do you have a special talent? Yes, it involves a cherry stem. Oh, I kid! Close your e-mail windows.
46. Where were you born? Macon, Georgia

Now for stupid people. I just read Jane's entry, and she was saying no one in the "blogosphere" (heh) had said anything about Don Imus, which surprised me. For years, I'd get annoyed whenever I turned on MSNBC in the morning and saw him slurring and mumbling away; I couldn't seem to remember MSNBC aired his show in the mornings, and I always changed the channel as fast as possible. So clearly I didn't think highly of Don Imus, but I never thought he was a big enough moron to call a group of young women HOS. Correct me if I'm wrong, but "ho" is a shortened form of "whore," right? So Don Imus, exactly how much DID you drink before you aired those comments? Does the name "Michael Richards" ring any bells for you? Did you think people would chuckle indulgently and forget the next day?

Since that incident, I've read about the camp he runs for children with cancer and all the money he gives to charity, and I'm sure he has many fine qualities, but none of that negates his downright idiocy. My opinion isn't based solely on the racist tone of his comments, either. As I recall, his remarks included his assessment of the attractiveness of the Rutger's women's team, and I'm sick to death of stupid people judging women on their looks when their looks have no bearing on what they do. If you're judging a Miss America contest, your opinion of the contestants' beauty is relevant. If you're making fun of Madeline Albright because she's not Miss America material, keep your damn mouth shut. I don't want to hear it.

OK, one more stupid people rant, and then I'll shut up. People who take nekkid pictures of themselves to a photo-developing center are idiots. Generally, naked pictures aren't supposed to be developed, but in practice, many photo developers do it as long as the pictures aren't extremely graphic and don't involve children and animals. Most people use digital cameras, so I didn't think racy photos were a concern anymore. I was surprised to find out how many people get prints made from their digital photos, however--AND photos of themselves in various states of undress. You don't know who's developing your photos! He or she might be a twisted pervert who takes home a few copies for personal "use" (ick) or gets the bright idea of using them for blackmail purposes or posting them on a public forum, such as, oh, I don't know, the Internet. Highly illegal, of course, but why risk it?

Also, your photo developer might know you. Personally. Why, one photo developer I know (ahem), in the eight months he's been processing pictures, has come across naked pictures an average of once a week and recently developed a batch featuring a young woman he worked with at a different job--and sees occasionally around town. She had taken her photos in to her local drugstore in a neighboring small town, but that drugstore routinely send its photos to a store here for processing because it has high-volume machines. Gah! People's capacity for stupidity never fails to astound me.