Shhhh

Poor Whine, sorely neglected. Apologies. When we last met, Ma was recovering from a fall. Just before Christmas, she took another, more serious spill. To say things were at sixes and sevens would be an understatement. After another vacation in the hospital and rehab, Ma is home again and things are returning to normal. Bang head here.

I had a little list of anecdotes, but I seem to have misplaced the scrap of paper. Fallout. I'm turning into a weeble.

I have one piece of news, but you have to swear you won't say a word to the Weebles. I usually operate on the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy of the military where the Weebles are concerned. And when confronted, I take my cue from Senate hearings. "I have no recollection of that at this time, Senator."

Down the road apiece, about 5 or 6 miles, a new grocery store opened up last week. Yup, you guessed it in the cheap seats, it's a brand new Mahket. Just like the one I take the Weebles to only newer, shinier and cleaner. So I'm told. Himself went shopping there on opening day. I have yet to set foot in the store, and if I play my cards right, I won't ever have to.

Illegal Use of Hands

After her two week vacation in the hospital and rehab for her dislocated shoulder, Ma had to see the orthopedic surgeon for a follow up. Her appointment was a day or two before a mahket run. With her arm in a sling, I didn't want to deal with Ma trying to maneuver the scooter around the store. She can barely control the damned thing with two hands. I couldn't imagine her trying one handed. Can you imagine the havoc she'd wreak on the poor Little Debbies?

After having an x-ray, the doctor told Ma her shoulder was healing. She had torn the rotator cuff and other ligaments in her shoulder. She will never be able to reach overhead, but as long as she can get herself bathed, dressed, and fed, we'd call it good.

The doctor was about to dismiss us when I moved closer to him so I could talk without Ma really being able to hear.

"Tell her she can't go to the Mahket."

"There's no reason she can't go shopping."

"Tell her," I hissed.

"You tell her," he said looking at me perplexed. I know what the young doctor was thinking. To him, I'm a weeble so he was wondering what the heck my problem was. He could tell I was agitated, but he didn't know I was worried for all the lives of the fruits and vegetables and Little Debbies if Ma careened around the store on the scooter one handed.

"She won't hear it from me. You're the authority figure. You tell her," I inched closer and nudged him in the ribs.

His eyes grew round, and he looked from me to Ma.

"Ma, you can't go shopping. You need to keep wearing the sling. I'll see you again in three weeks"

Ma nodded.

I beamed at the doctor. Such a pleasant young man.

"Thank you, Doctor."

So How Do You...

I had heated leftovers in the microwave for my lunch. Two small rolls would make a yummy addition, so I popped those on a paper plate and set the microwave for 12 seconds. I turned to get utensils from the drawer and was anticipating a nice quiet lunch in the sunroom.

Suddenly, I became aware of the smell of smoke. My rolls! I pounced on the open door button of the microwave which would open the door and stop the microwave. Smoke roiled out of the microwave chamber and filled the kitchen. The smoke wasn't that pleasant, blue, haze that fills the kitchen when frying bacon. This smoke had the acrid tang of charcoal.

I could barely make out the 2 rolls in the microwave. The paper plate began to smolder like a funeral pyre. I slammed the microwave door shut before I set the kitchen on fire. Obviously, I had set the microwave for 12 minutes and not 12 seconds. Only a minute or so of time had gone by. I think. Hard to tell exactly how much time had elapsed since some of the LED lights have burned out on the microwave timer. The countdown just shows lines in patterns instead of numbers. Single lines. Double line. Horizontal parallel lines. The countdown looks like some sort of alien language like Klingon.

I turned on the kitchen fan and the fan in the dining room in hopes of dissipating the smoke before the smoke detector went off. The old smoke detector with its blaring horn blast freaked out the kitty. The new smoke detector has a pleasant female voice who calmly calls out "Fire, fire, fire." Sometimes the smoke detector voice calls out "Supper, supper, supper" as sometimes burning food and supper time coincide. The smoke detector remained mercifully quiet.

The smoke was so thick in the microwave chamber, I couldn't see the little rolls. The fans had done of a good job of clearing the smoke though wisps of smoke were leaking from the microwave. I took my lunch to the sun room and waited until I could open the microwave door without causing a backdraft and immolating myself.

A half hour later, I was able to retrieve two lumps of pure carbon and dumped them in the trash. No delicious rolls and no diamonds for The Little Princess. When Himself called later in the day, I related my sad tale.

"You are such a Weeble!" he laughed.

"I know!"

The rolls are gone, the mess cleaned up. So how do you get that burned smell out of the microwave? I carefully heated up a bowl of water and lemon juice. That didn't work. I ripped open a pouch of activated charcoal used to absorb odors in the kitty litter. That didn't work. Any advice?

Your Weeble is Showing

Friday is approaching. Friday is another trip to the Mahket. Yeah, I can hear you all tittering with glee. As usual, I'm not looking forward to it. Besides hating the expedition, I'm worried. The last two times we went to the Mahket all the little scooters were in use. Ma had to use her walker. Pushing her trolley took a lot out of her. I barely was able to get her up the stairs into the house.

I'm also nervous about a repeat performance that happened to me last time we went shopping.

We were in the produce department. A display of personal watermelons caught Ma's eye.

"Get me one of those."

Personal watermelons. I looked at the sign. Looked at the produce and looked at Ma. She had shuffled off to the about to rot markdowns.

Personal watermelons. Look like little watermelons except they are round. They are about the size of a 10 pin sized bowling ball. I need to make that distinction because here in New England, we play candle pin bowling. The bowling ball is the size of a grapefruit.

Get the picture? Bowling balls piled in a pyramid. I went to take one from the top and the whole pyramid began to slide and one watermelon jumped and hit the floor with a sickening splat. It looked up at me with a wide, red, watermelon grin.

Ma turned around from looking at the display.

"I don't want that one."

No duh! I felt horrible. I had murdered a watermelon. Me! I looked around and there was no one around so I moved the watermelon under the counter with my foot. I grabbed another candidate and turned to put it in the carriage I was pushing. Another woman near the rotting produce had seen my interaction. She gave me a cold look. Her mouth in a taut line. J'accuse.

Ah Ha

Three Stooges fans, Himself and I had enjoyed the clip from The Three Little Pirates. Himself was passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom.

"Ma ha?"

"Ah ha."

We continued with the routine and burst into a gale of laughter. At this time, The Young One happened by.

She gave me a side-long look. "Scary," she said.

"I'm scary? You don't know scary. Wait until I'm 90. I've seen my future."

Himself's voice floated out from the bathroom. "It's not pretty."

Oldies

Himself and I finished running errands so we picked up The Eldest and headed over to the local ice cream stand. Friday night and the place was packed. We stood patiently in line and over the noise, I heard a radio piping music out to the crowd.

"Oh! I haven't heard this song in a zillion years!" I told Himself.

And I started humming along to the Everly Brothers Devoted to You. I love the oldies from the 50's and early 60's Most of the oldies radio stations only play Beatles and stuff from the 70's.

We placed our order and I hummed along as Ricky Nelson crooned and Chuck Berry rolled over Beethoven.

"Man, I wish I knew what radio station they had tuned in."

The young girl at the window passed The Eldest's and my order and we headed to the car leaving Himself to pick up the tab and to get his order.

A few minutes later, he settled himself in the car.

"I asked the girl what radio station they had on. You know what she said to me?"

"What?"

"Why? Is it that terrible?"

Oldies, indeed.

Your Weeble is Showing

While talking on the phone to Dad, I reminded him of The Brother's birthday.

"You might want to give him a call to wish him a happy birthday."

"Yeah, I was going to do that. How old is he?"

"Let's see. He was born in '49 so..."

"No, he was born in '59."

I laughed.

"No, Dad. I was born in '55 and he's six years older than me. So that would make him..." I paused to do the math. "Oh my gawd! He's sixty!"

"He's an old man!"

A case of the pot calling the kettle black. And I'm not that far behind.

Just for you, Kid. A picture of your role model.

Your Weeble is Showing

Dad called the other day.

"How much do you pay for Medicaid for the year?"

"Um, I don't pay for Medicaid."

"You don't?"

I could hear the Weeblnomics wheels turning to find out how I didn't have to pay for the insurance and how he could get on the gravy train.

"I'm only 53. I don't qualify for Medicaid. Don't rush me," I laughed.

There was a pause.

"What about Himself?"

"Dad, he's a year younger than I am."

After we hung up, I wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted by Dad's question. Am I so mature Dad thinks of me as a contemporary? Or is my weeble showing? Guess it's time to turn my brown hair blue.

The Ancient Mariner

The Young One and I were watching a program.

"Water, water, everywhere. And not a drop to drink," quoted The Young One.

"Water, water, everywhere. And all the boards did shrink," I added. I was pleasantly surprised she knew the quote. "Did you read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in school?"

"No."

"We spend thousands of dollars on your tuition, and they don't teach you the Classics?" My favorite rant.

She fixed me with "the look" as only a teenager can.

"That's because no body cares."

"I care," the English major in me said indignantly.

"That's because you were around when all these guys wrote this junk."

Looks like the mariner isn't the only one that's ancient.

Your Weeble is Showing

After the performance of the Shaolin Warrior Monks, we walked back to Park St. Station to catch the outbound subway.

As we descended the stairs, I breathed in the stale air. I’d been riding the Green Line since I was 7 years old and was taken with a wave of nostalgia. The stations have been cleaned up considerably. When I was younger the stale air had an underlying tang of beer, beer waste and by product and unwashed derelict. I sighed. Even without the pungency, entering the station felt like a homecoming.

We walked through the station took the stairs down to Park St. Under to the Red Line and then climbed another flight of stairs up to the Outbound side of the track.

The platform was crowded and I was surprised how many people, especially young people, were milling about waiting for the Outbound “D” train to Riverside.

My Young One was taken with the novelty of riding the subway and she looked up and down the track searching for the train. I reached a hand and pulled her behind the yellow caution line. As a youngster, I remembered stepping over the line with The Brother as he laid pennies on the track. We would watch with glee as the old green trolley cars would flatten the pennies into thin sheets of copper. With so many pennies laid end to end and stacked five high, it’s a wonder we didn’t derail any trains.

A blast of stale air, bright light from the tunnel, and a roar announced the arrival of the train. Even though the hour was late, the train was crowded. The doors whooshed open and we surged with the crowd like salmon swimming upstream. We moved to the back of the first car where it joins the second car. There were no seats available so I grabbed the hand hold on one of the seats. I poked the Young One to hold on. Himself was standing at the back of the first car and a glance behind him revealed all the seats in the second were filled too.

Sitting in a single seat facing me was a young man. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. “Excuse me,” he said. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked me.

I knew seats would be available after a few more stops so I declined. Then I caught sight of Himself hanging onto a hand hold and desperately trying not to laugh as the train lurched forward.

Now, I was perfectly happy thinking the young man was being polite and chivalrous. He couldn’t possibly have offered me his seat because he thought I was a old.

Himself pressed his lips in a tight line in an effort to stop them from curling into a smile. He quickly looked away from me and became engrossed in one of the advertisements across the aisle. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

After several stops, the young man disembarked and other seats became available. The Young One and I sat in a double seat and Himself sat behind us. We swayed and lurched through the dark to the end of the line.

As we walked to the car, Himself started to laugh.

“He was just being polite!” I said sharply.

“He probably thought you were as old as his grandmother!”

“Shut up."

Stamp of the Weeble

We had just dropped the Eldest off at work.

"I need to go to the post office."

Himself paused a the edge of the parking lot, tongue sticking out, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out which direction the post office was in.

"The Sutton post office."

He snorted.

"What?"

"You sound just like your mother! 'You have to take me to the Framingham post office,'" he mimicked.

"Hey! It's not like I'm mailing a sweepstakes entry or sending a request to Nostradamus! I have to make the 3pm truck." I had an oversized package to mail to a client.

He laughed .

"Jan will take care of me."

He laughed again.

"Shut up, and take me to the post office."

"Yes, your Weebleness."

Juggling Monkeys

I thought I would have a free and clear day. There was nothing marked on the calendar on the fridge. I'd get the Young One to school, the Eldest to work, and then I'd be able to settle in and work on the book project. Maybe even have it finished by the end of the week.

As the Young One got ready for school, I took my morning tea and booted up my square headed spouse. The hum of the disk drive spinning up was meditative. The desktop widgets blinked to life. The Heath birthday countdown calender. Big Bopper's cheery "Helloooo, Baby!", the day's weather, monthly calendar, and the day planner. My eyes popped out of my head. It couldn't be. A 10:30 Weeble doctor's appointment? We were just there a week ago! It must be a mistake! Yes, that's it! A mistake. I marked the wrong date.

Before I left to take the Eldest to work, I made the mistake of calling the Weebles. Ma answered the phone.

"Do you have a doctor's appointment today?"

"Yes, at 10:30."

My heart sank at the loss of productive me time. At least I'm good at juggling monkeys.

Ma must have been in a good mood because she was yelling at Dad when I got to the house. She went to get dressed and Dad and I had a few minutes alone.

"Did that check clear?"

"No, the bank is still holding it."

"Do you still have the letter from the postal inspector?"

"What for?"

"Because I want to give him a call."

Dad gave the letter to me, one spy making a drop to another.

Ma's good mood held as we left the house. She yelled at Dad as she tried to maneuver around the metal folding chair that was on one side of the stairs. The bricks had come loose so she wanted to make sure no one would kill themselves on the loose bricks. Course, I don't know what she'll put out so people won't kill themselves on the metal folding chair. I helped Ma down the stairs. She took another breath in the car and began singing the "Your Stupid" song to Dad. I looked in the rearview mirror, and he was feverishly making the sign against evil. She sang repeated choruses from the parking lot to the lobby to the doctor's waiting room.

"Enough!" I yelled at her. "This is not the time or the place for that! Sit over here!" I'm not sure whether I'm their parent or the referee. The waiting room was fairly quiet so I wandered back to say hello to the lab tech and to hold an OPD Support Group meeting.

"Weren't you here last weeek?"

"Yeah, that was to see the middle toe doctor. This week they're here to see the big toe doctor."

"How are they today?"

I took a cautious peek around the corner. Ma was nodding off in her chair, and Dad was flipping through the pages of a magazine. "Good. Today, they're being good. How's your mother?"

"Oh, she's just wonderful! She had an operation, and it's like she's a new woman."

I wondered if the procedure was similar to what happens to the pod people in The Body Snatchers, but as I was about to ask, patients came in so I went to sit down in the waiting room.

As I was just getting engrossed into the latest happenings of the characters in the book I'm reading, another weeble lady sat down next to me. She was terribly concerned with the goings on of the trial for the body of Anna Nicole Smith. I refrained from rolling my eyes, smiled politely and turned back to my book. She didn't seem to notice, but happily kept on chattering.

A half an hour had drifted by, but the doctor hadn't sailed in. Rather frosts my fanny the office books appointments at 10:30 but the doctor doesn't show up for another half an hour or so.

Finally the doctor arrives and calls them into the exam room. My waiting room weeble neighbor asks me what time my appointment is.

"Oh, I don't have an appointment, I'm just the chauffeur."

The Weebles are in an out before I've finished my sentence. Ma had fallen earlier in the week. This now being a weekly occurence. She handed the doctor's prescription to me. He had written a prescription for Advil and Ben Gay. "We can go to the Stop and Shop to get these," I told her.

Dad decided to come in to the store with me to get the "prescription filled." "Would she mind the generic Advil and Ben Gay because it would save you a few dollars?"

"No! You better get the real stuff, because they'll be hell to pay if it's not exactly what the doctor ordered." I rolled my eyes, but got the items. We headed to the check out. "Do you need anything while we're here? Bread, milk, juice? The bank?"

He shook his head.

I dropped them off at the house and was on my way home in hopes of salvaging some of my work day.

"Before you go, give your father a ride downtown to the bank?"

"To the bank? We were just there!" I roared. "Why does he need to go to the bank downtown?"

"I got another check for $2000 and he needs to deposit it."

I silently borrowed a phrase from Himself. No, not horse's patoot! Help me, Lord! All morning Ma and I had been dancing around the issue of the check. Both of us desperately wanted to tell each other "I told you so!" but the jury was still out for both of us.

Dad turned me toward the door as I was still sputtering. "You go on. I can walk. I need to get a haircut."

Yes, a walk would do him good. It would get him away from her for a couple of hours. He didn't need to hear the "Your Stupid" song being hammered out like "The Anvil Chorus." I was going back to the Stop and Shop to pick up a bottle of baby aspirin to eat on the ride home.

Productive Morning

The problem goes back well over a year ago when Himself raped the hot water faucet in the bathroom. Just didn't know his own strength and ripped the knob from its moorings. He turned the hot water in the bathroom off. We still had running cold, running water. I was not bothered by this fact as I usually wash my hands in the kitchen sink anyway. (Just an old idea from childhood that water from the bathroom sink came from the toilet) This was also the impetus to finally get the bathroom remodeled and it was supposed to happen this past summer. The project came to a screeching halt trying to coordinate between the demolition guy, the plumber, and a miscommunication as to who was serving as general contractor. No worries, next summer for sure.

Somewhere around Tues. of last week, the youngest child began complaining about water pressure dropping during her shower. I sang the usual "if you didn't stand in the shower like a statue while the well was draining dry, you'd have plenty of water" song. The following day her sharp cry of "HEY!" sent me dashing into the bathroom to see her head completely lathered and two drops of water dripping from the shower head. Houston, we've got a problem.

Pressure had dropped throughout the line. Not much pressure in the sink, none in the bathroom sink, and the toilet was filling trickle by trickle. Houston, we've got a big problem. Living out in the boondocks, we own our own well which has good and bad points. Good, because we know what's in our water. Bad because we can't be sure whether the problem is a straight plumbing problem or something to do with the well. To complicate matters, there's the water filtration system to remove the iron and manganese from the water. There's also the boiler mate which makes and stores our hot water. Who ya gonna call?

Talking to my friend, Red, she had a similar problem and it turned out to be the boiler mate. I wasn't so sure, but I called the heating oil service as the water is heated through the furnace. It was a place to start. At least I knew I would get a return call. I wasn't so sure of a return call from the plumber.

The receptionist was very nice. Said she's send someone over, at least if it wasn't their problem, he could point me in the right direction. Service was schedule for after 9:30am on Thurs. Promptly at 9:30 am, Tom arrived. In the meantime, we still had water in the shower. Pressure would build up and then drop. Tom thought it was a problem at the well pump in the basement, and happily the oil service took care of pump maintenance too. He fiddled and tested and finally said there was a problem in one or both check valves. He took them apart and found one was clogged with bits of plastic and what looked like string. He changed both for good measure since the parts were 20 years old. Voila! We had volcanic pressure in the shower!

The bathroom sink was another matter. Just a drip, drip, drip. It seemed like such a little project when I asked Himself to buy a cheap faucet to replace the one with the missing hot. By the way, we had purchased a lovely faucet with a nice goose neck after the hot water knob was torn off. American Standard is an oxymoron as the darn thing wouldn't fit the holes in the sink! Never mind, we set it aside for the bathroom remodel.

Himself went out early Sun. morning and purchased an inexpensive faucet set up. He began taking things apart. I went downstairs to do some work. I don't remember how long I was down there when I heard something drop and "Y'horse's patoot!" which is the phrase Himself utters in mixed company. Then I heard, "I'll be right back." and the sound of the front door closing. No worries, just the usual run to Ray's. Any project Himself has ever tackled involves a couple of trips to Ray's and sometimes a trip to Home Depot.

I went upstairs to the bathroom to check the progress. My mouth dropped open in a wordless "OH" as I saw the a very large crack and a hole in the side of the toilet bowl. I'm glad it wasn't the expensive, gleaming toilet I had picked out for the remodel. On the plus side, there was a new faucet in the bathroom sink, and it worked. Not only do we have the miracle of cold running water, but guests to the house will be thrilled to learn we now have hot running water as well. I know how Neanderthal man felt when he discovered fire.

Sometime later, Himself returned with epoxy which he slathered over the crack. Fortunately, the damage was above the water line. As Himself finished up he said, "Well, that was a productive morning. I think this is God's way to get moving on the bathroom remodel." I smiled politely. I think it was God's way to say next time call a plumber.

Flying Up

Tuesday arrived and so did I to take Ma to her podiatrist appointment. She was in high spirits and excited because she was to be fitted for new shoes. There was the usual call for her coat, and the hunt for her checkbook, but done without the usual yelling and screaming. Ma didn't seem to mind that Dad asked to be dropped off at the Senior Center instead of being part of her entourage. The mood was so light, I didn't even mind the driving lessons both of them gave me. "Take a left at the light. The Center is the old Lincoln School building. On the right." Dad barely waited for the car to come to a complete and full stop. He was out the door and in the building before I got my foot all the way on the brake.

The medical center parking lot was full. All the handicap parking spaces were taken so I pulled up alongside the building to offload Ma. She assured me she could make it up to the doctor's office by herself. I trolled two circuits of the lot and found a parking spot in Iowa. Not bad. Last time, I had to park clear on the other side of the world in the Main Visitor lot.

Ma didn't have to wait long in the office before she was called into the examination room. She chatted all the way down the hall with the receptionist about new shoes.

Another Weeble couple came in. I recognized them from the appointment Ma had in October. They are a very sweet Weeble couple. The Mr. Weeble was also getting new shoes. "They have a lot more styles than last year," he informed me. I looked at the display case. The only difference I saw was the shoes came in three colors, black, brown and a golden beige. Each shoe was large, had a very wide toe box and velcro straps. He informed me he hoped to get a pair of shoes with a smooth upper this time. The pair he wore had a seam and it bothered his toe. I smiled politely. The Mr. and Mrs. Weeble chatted by themselves so I buried my nose in the book I had brought.

Just as I was getting to the good part, Ma came out. She was not happy and was arguing with the doctor and the receptionist. Seemed she couldn't get new shoes because her primary care physician didn't sign the form the podiatrist needed to submit the shoe bill to the insurance company. The receptionist had faxed the form to the primary care office twice! The Weeble couple smiled sympathetically. Ma's next appointment was made for February.

We left the office and were waiting for the elevator. Ma was lamenting she had to wait until February to get her new shoes. She said the shoes she was wearing were worn down and so were the insoles.

I went back into the office and asked if Ma could at least have new insoles. Seems insoles and shoes are a matched set. I asked if she had to wait until February before she could get new shoes. Was told if her doctor signed and faxed the form back, they could schedule an appoitment for a fitting right away. She wouldn't have to wait until February. I thanked the recptionist and wished the Weeble couple a happy holiday.

Ma was still waiting for the elevator. I wasn't sure if she let a car or two go by of if the elevator was just slow. I told her the car was parked in Iowa, and I would bring it around and pick her up at the front door. The elevator doors open and I held the door so Ma could get in. We rode down to the lobby with Ma muttering to herself "why me?" and "it's not fair" In this case, I have to agree.

I left Ma waiting in the building and I sprinted for Iowa. Just as I got to the car, I remembered I had forgotten my book. Since the book was a library book, I had no choice but had to go back to retrieve it.

I passed Ma in the lobby, told her I had forgotten my book, and I raced up the stairs.
I startled the Weeble couple as I burst into the office. "Sorry. I forgot my book. What can I say, it's contagious." The Weeble couple smiled and the Mr. Weeble winked knowingly.

The incident reminded me of the Flying Up ceremonies I attended when my girls moved from Brownies to Junior Scouts. Each little brownie was twisted, turned around and made to look in a reflecting pool all the while the other scouts chanted a rhyme.

I made up my own little rhyme: Twist me. Turn me, until I'm Feeble. I look in the mirror and see I'm a Weeble.

Round One

The phone rang. I thought it might be the client to come see samples that I worked up last week. It wasn't. It was an irate Weeble.

"Where are you?"

As I'm about to make a sarcastic remark he continues. "I thought you were coming here today!" There's a note of panic in his voice. The OPD almost infects me, and I begin to feel the panic start to surge through my system. Did I forget about her appointment to the foot doctor? I'm sure it's tomorrow. Happily, I'm sitting in front of the computer, call up Outlook, and breathe a sigh of relief.

"No, Dad, I'll be there tomorrow. Her appointment is tomorrow. Tuesday. Today is Monday." I hear pages shuffling as he consults his appointment book.

"Oh, you're right. See you tomorrow."

Signs of Periweeblepause

I've been wondering when one officially becomes a Weeble, wondering what the signs for periweeblepause might be. I think I might have discovered one today.

This afternoon Himself and I went to Staples to research an Epson photo printer. I'd like to get one, but want to see if the colors print true, and if the quality of the photos look like they were done at a photo lab.

We went to the Staples in Auburn. They didn't have the models I was looking at online, but they had two. The sales clerk was very helpful in answering questions about the two printers. Neither model was set up for a demo.

We went to the Staples in Shrewsbury. They had the model we saw in Auburn, and it was set up for a demo, but had no paper. A sales clerk came over to help us. The printer gave an error message that the print cartridges needed to be replaced. He went to ask his supervisor and was told to switch the cartridges from the other model. He tried and the machine still gave an error message. I asked if he could open up new cartridges. He went to get his supervisor.

The supervisor told us the manager wouldn't allow them to "waste" $40 for a demo. We left and I began fuming in the car. I think this must be a sign of periweeblepause. They don't want to waste $40 to put cartridges in a machine set up to do a demo, but they don't mind the thought of losing a potential sale of $129 plus tax, plus photo paper plus tax? Doesn't it stand to reason, another person might ask to see the machine demoed? If they don't want to do the demo, don't have the machine set up for it. It doesn't make sense, it's just bad marketing.

Tuesday, It Must Be Vivaldi

Today started with the blues. The thermometer in the sunroom was pointing to 20. That's Fahrenheit and not Celsius. Sigh. I couldn't sip my morning cup of tea in the sunroom without watching a scum of ice form around the rim. Is it August, yet?

The car had a glaze of frost on the windows which I had to scrape off before I drove The Youngest to school. Why is it that car manufacturers can put the thin, heating wires in the back window, can heat the side view mirrors, but can't heat the @%$*@$ windshield without it having to be scraped?

On top of everything, I had an emergency Weeble run because Ma had to have a flu shot. That would be a 45 minute trip down, a five minute trip to the doctor, and then a 45 minute trip home.

I was whining about my morning to The Youngest, and she seranaded me with the world's smallest violin. Smart ( ! ) see if Santa brings anything for you!

I arrived at the Weebles at a quarter to 10. the appointment was at 10:30 and the doc's office is around the block. Ma was in fine form complaining. Dad didn't get up early enough to make the coffee for her. He didn't bring her a cup of coffee. He doesn't do anything. I started tuning up my own violin. "You're not that much of an invalid that you can't make your own coffee." She asked me why I was sitting down, and I told her we had plenty of time as her appointment wasn't until 10:30. She said it was at 10 and started putting her coat on. Then she called for a cup of coffee. I sat down before she ordered off with my head.

Dad couldn't find his house keys. No matter I have keys to the house and can lock the front door. I herd them to the car, lock the front door, am halfway downstairs when Ma shouts: "Where's my pockabook?" My first instinct was to shout, "What am I? The World Book of Information?" I remembered never miss an opportunity to keep your mouth shut. The purse was on the doorknob of the closet where she retrieved her coat, but I kept my mouth shut, opened the door and returned with her purse. Got everyone buckled in the car and headed down the road.

When I'm out and about, I try to observe other Weebles to see if they behave like my Weebles. My Weebles constantly bicker. Ma is the instigator, and she hits her stride when she has an audience, and the more public the venue, the better.

As we got out of the elevator, a Weeble lady got in. I held the door open for her. She starts griping, "Where is he? Oh! He must be talking!" At first, I thought she meant Dad. A quick glance to my right showed me, she was exasperated with her Mr. Weeble. "He's being a gentleman and holding the door open for my parents." She clammed up.

Lots of Weebles were lining up for flu shots. I thought it would take a while so I wandered down back to the lab to hold an OPD Support Group with the lab tech. Misery just loves company. I told her of the emergency ride call I recieved. She said: "They knew a week ago." I looked for a spot on the wall labeled Bang Head Here. She regaled me with a tale of hunting through stores for a specific lotion for her mother. When the lotion couldn't be found, her mother said, "Well, any lotion would do!" Bang Head Here.

The shot line was short, Ma was in and out quickly. We get down to the car and Ma announces she needs Dad to go to the post office downtown to check out why a contest letter was returned. I hate driving downtown. All the streets are one way, parking is limited to parallel parking which I haven't done since I took my driver's exam. I grit my teeth and head to the post office. Downtown was very crowded. Even if I could parallele park there were no spaces. We pull up in front of the post office. In frustration I scream my favorite four letter word. No, not sale! The other one. MA grits her teeth. Dad is chuckling in the back seat. He can speak in tongues fluently in two languages! He mutters "Chip off the ol' block." Miraculously, the handicap slot in front of the post office opens up and because it's the length of a luxury bus, I'm able to pull in. Ma digs out the handicap parking placard and Dad goes into the post office and comes back out.

"Well, what did they say?"

"I have to ask the postman?" I'm wondering who the heck is in the post office, but I keep my mouth shut. Dad mumbles he didn't bring the letter in question with him. Fireworks begin as I am detoured down Clarendon St. "

"You're stupid!"

"You're stupid!"

"No, you're stupid!"

"You're right! I married you!" Zing! Though I think a flag was thrown on the play. I try not to laugh.

"Go down Washington St."

"I know, Ma"

"Go down Washington St. "

"I know where I am, Dad. That's Mary Anne Sullivan's house. There's Dougie Horton's house. There's Jimmy Paquette's house."

Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.

Another Week

Holidays always seem to take me by surprise. I always think there's one more week before I have to clean and prepare for the holiday.

I had taken Dad to another doctor appointment yesterday. When we arrived home, they started discussing holiday plans. Usually, the holiday plans involve Himself going to pick up the Weebles and bring them to our house. I stay home cleaning like a fiend and preparing the roast beast.

This year, Ma wants to pre-order the holiday meal from the grocery store. I've done it in the past when she had her stroke and brought meals on wheels to them. Dinner comes in a box. It's all cooked, from gravy to pie, and you just heat and eat. It's great. So, after several go arounds about "Don't worry, Ma, I'll cook and take care of everything" it was left that she would call, you guessed it in the cheap seats, Market Basket to order dinner.

I'm tearing down the Pike when it occurs to me. Thanksgiving is next week! And what's this about her ordering dinner? I'll have to fight through the Wednesday crowd to pick the damn box up!

I was much happier when I thought I had another week.