I Retired For This?

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

I Retired For This?

“yeah, I thought so”

  

My wife and I were cleaning our oakwood floors downstairs.

     Wood floors need a good, old fashioned cleaning and waxing several times a year to keep it rich looking, and all that cleaning and waxing takes an awful lot of elbow grease. With the grease usually coming from MY elbow. The whole affair takes too long to do all at once, so we break it up into sections. 

     Which reminds me of the following joke:

 

     What did the broom say to the vacuum cleaner?

     “I’m tired of people pushing us around.”

 

     But I digress...

     By we, I’m not including my father. He was sitting in his (my) favorite chair. I couldn't see him from where I was, but I knew he was there because I could hear his usual noises.

     “Mmm... smack, smack, smack! Ahh, click, click, click! Ohh, weee! Smack! Ahhh!”

     I'm almost positive he doesn't know he's making them. They just erupt out of him like the various other eruptions that emanate from various other parts of his body. 

     "Ahhh--smack, smack, smack--what are you all doing?" he asked, getting up. Not to help, but to be nosy.

     We were both using a cleaner and micro towels. My father could see exactly what we were doing. He was just making conversation.

     I thought to myself, “What are we doing? What does it look like we're doing? Praying in church? If we were, I’d be asleep”

     "We're cleaning the floors, pop," I told him. I'm not nice when I'm in the middle of hard work—my beautiful wife will attest to that—so I tried to sound civil. Civil, but without the invitation for a long conversation.

     My wife, saint that she is, got up from her knees and took a little more time to explain it to him. 

     "We're cleaning the floors, dad," she told him. "Right now, we're using a wood cleaner, because your son is going to have to wax it. We have to clean it in sections, because it's too much work to do all at once. The floor will look better when we're done. You'll see."

     That was a lot of wordage just to tell him the same thing I did. I think she just wanted to take a break. 

     "Yeah, I thought so," my father said to us.

     You know, when we were buying the house, wooden floors seemed like a good idea. They're beautiful to look at, but who the heck knew they were so much work? We had an option to buy fake wooden floors that looked just as good as the real thing, but I thought that would be taking the cheap way out. I didn't realize that, because of those wooden floors, I'd be spending some of my retirement working harder than I ever did when I was employed.

     Later--much later--after we did an excellent job of cleaning the floor, I was adding a wax finish to it. 

     My father walked by on his way to doing nothing.

     "Still working on it, huh?" he observed. He stood close, but not close enough for me to put him to work. He was inspecting—not admiring—the great job I was doing. That's right. I'm patting myself on the back. Somebody has to.

     "Yes," I said. "Now I'm waxing it." 

     Smack, smack, smack!

     "Yeah, I thought so," he said.

     Smack! 

     He lifted his nose and sniffed around.

     "What's that smell?" he asked.

     "What smell?" I asked him back.

     "THAT smell," he said, waving his arms like an excitable muppet indicating the air.

     "I don't smell anything."

     "You don't smell it?"

     "Smell what?"

     "That smell."

     “What smell?”

     “THAT smell.”

     "You mean the wax?" 

     "Wax?"

     "Yeah, the wax I'm waxing the floors with."

     "Of course I mean the wax. Don’t you smell it?"

     "Pop," I said, hating to break the news to him, "it's odorless. It doesn't smell."

     "Well, I can smell it."

     I was pretty sure what he smelled was another of his frequent eruptions. He’s like a wrinkled Old Faithful.

     "Son," he told me, "that stuff stinks. I'm surprised you can't smell it. Something must be wrong with your sniffer."

     My sniffer? 

     Finally, I finished. My father went off to his room, and I went upstairs to get cleaned up and claim my reward. My wife isn’t always a saint.

     The next morning, my father came into the kitchen. I was sitting at the kitchen island, enjoying a nice, hot cup of gourmet coffee—my only indulgence—appreciating the fine job we did. My wife, with a smile on her face, was making breakfast. We were both tired from all the physical exertion from the day before. The cleaning and waxing was pretty tiring, too.

     My father looked at the floors.

     "They look the same to me," he commented, then sat down and waited to be served.

     Yeah... I thought so.

     

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Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it DOES buy tacos!

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Red Cheese Enchiladas

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Red Cheese Enchiladas

"and, I’m begging you, no salad"

 

It's funny about the restaurant I used to buy my mother’s gourmet enchiladas from.

     What am I talking about?

     I'm talking about back when my beloved mother was still alive, I'd go over every Saturday morning for breakfast. When my schedule at work changed, so did the time I’d go over and visit. Breakfast became lunch, and the routine changed from her feeding me, to me feeding her. I always asked in advance what she would like, but her order never changed. It was always red cheese enchiladas, extra onions, and no salad.

     "What about your father?" you might ask.

     You sure do ask a lot of questions, my friend.

     Well, my father preferred home-cooked meals, so my mother would grudgingly fix him something else to eat. I'm sure he would have preferred the enchiladas I was bringing over, but to him it was a matter of pride.

     The reason I tell you all this is because I was thinking about the lady who, week after week, would take my order. She was an older lady with a bad case of arthritis in one hand. Why she was working as the cashier, I don't know. I always thought she might have been the owner of the restaurant, but she could have been a former waitress whose waitressing days were long behind her.

     "Welcome to Las Fuentes," she would greet me. "You can seat yourself."

     I was only there EVERY Saturday and she would act as if she had never seen me before in her life.

     "Maybe she's one of your old high school girlfriends," my older and less attractive brother suggested. "Assuming you had any."

     Believe me, if she had been one of my girlfriends she would have given me my food for free.

     There was a separate To Go section at the restaurant's cashier’s station, and that's where I would stand, just under their "Order Here" sign. Why she would always assume I wanted a sit-down meal, I don't know.

     "I'm ordering out," I would politely tell her.

     If there was a to-go order there ready to be picked up, she’d ask me, “is this yours?”

     "No," I would tell her.

     "Are you sure?" she would respond.

     Of course I was sure.

     You see, I never ever called in and only ordered the red cheese enchilada plate with extra onions EVERY time I went there. Remember how I just wrote “with extra onions”?

     “Did you want onions with that?” she’d always want to know.

     "Extra onions," I'd repeat.

     My mother didn’t care for their salad, so I’d also tell the lady, “No salad, please.”

     “No salad?” she’d say, like not wanting shredded lettuce with your meal was beyond her comprehension.

     “That's right.”

     “You don’t want any salad.”

     “No salad.”

     “It comes with salad.”

     “Please, no salad.”

     There were times I wanted to whine, “Don't you know who I am?” like an offended Hollywood celebrity, but I kept it to myself because the ladies were nice, the food was good, and I didn’t want them--mistaking the  enchilada plate as mine--to do anything to my mother’s food.

     Sometimes, after I gave her my order, she’d incorrectly clarify, “CHICKEN enchiladas?”

     “No,” I’d correct her. “Cheese.”

     Once, another waitress who was especially nice to my granddaughter when I took her, noticed the lady wrote down "chicken enchiladas" on her ordering pad. Knowing it was for me, she told her, “He wanted the cheese.”

     I tipped two people that day.

     I write all this, because I was thinking in particular about the time the older lady handed me my order and said, “Here’s your green enchiladas.”

     GREEN enchiladas?

     I checked.

     They were red, so all was good.

     Except for the salad.

  

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When I hide Easter eggs, I hide the best ones in my stomach.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

 

Three's A Crowd

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

 

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Three’s A Crowd

"I wish I hadn’t heard that"

 

...one...

 

When kids ride in the backseat of a car with their friends, they forget a parent is sitting behind the wheel listening to everything they say.

     Years ago, I was driving my youngest daughter and her friend to school when I overheard the friend say she had walked in on her parents in the middle of doing, well, um... you know. The thing that disgusted her the most was seeing her father wearing his CPAP mask.

     “Gross!” she said. "It was like watching Darth Vader having sex.”

 

...two…

  

     My buddy Maloney recently asked if my father still offers me words of wisdom.

     I had to think about that.

     I came to the conclusion that any words of wisdom my father offers are usually in the form of hindsight.

     In other words, if I were to bump my head on a low-hanging bar, my father would then tell me, "Watch out for that bar."

     If I stepped on something sharp and painful on the floor, he'd caution, "I forgot to tell you, I put that there."

     Just the other day, when I complained that my stomach was upset, he told me, "It’s because you eat like a pig."

     For the record, I don't eat like a pig.

     My father's not much of a talker, but one thing I've noticed as he's gotten older is that he's more concerned over what his legacy is going to be, how he's going to be remembered.

     "Remember when I..." he'll tell me.

     "You were a good dad," I'll tell him back.

     And he still is.

 

...three…

 

     My brother and I were pretty rambunctious kids.

     How rambunctious?

     Well, in the Bible it says, "Spare the rod, spoil the child."

     Let's just say that the two of us gave our parents plenty of reasons not to spoil us.

     Let me give you an example. When I was still in single digits age-wise, I saw a movie about time travel and decided to build a time machine. This consisted of my getting an oven rack that for some reason was discarded in our backyard. I took it, then went into the kitchen to get a roll of Reynolds Wrap. I covered each metal wire with the aluminum foil, including the wire frame that was thicker. I found an extension cord, also discarded in the backyard, and cut off the female end, exposing the copper wiring. I attached the exposed wiring of the extension cord to one corner of the rack.

     I placed the rejiggered oven rack on the ground, plugged the extension cord in the outside electrical socket, and talked a friend's younger brother into becoming the first time-naut.

     My theory was this: the electricity flowing through the rejiggered oven rack would create a time warp, and, when my friend jumped onto it, he would fall through the portal and find himself in another time-stream.

     Let's just say the experiment didn't go so well.

     Cut to my parent's 50th wedding anniversary.

     My brother and I were celebrating the occasion by taking our parents to a fancy dinner. Our father didn't want to go, but that's another story.

     "Bring me something back," he initially told us.

     He changed his mind after our beloved mother sent us to another room so she could talk to our father "in private."

     At dinner, I asked what their secret was to a long, successful marriage.

     "Well," my mother said, "I told your father that if he ever left me he’d have to take you and your brother with him."

  

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Love is blind, but sexy lingerie doesn’t hurt.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Two For The Show

 RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Two For The Show

"the thing of it is"

 

…one…

 

The thing about getting older is that you find yourself going to the doctor more often,

     Blood tests, mammograms if you're female, colonoscopies.

     Since we live in the future, wasn’t all this medical nonsense supposed to be taken care of by now with the taking of a pill? And where are our flying cars?

     One thing that annoys me are referrals. Whatever little complaint I might mention, my doctor is quick to refer me to ANOTHER doctor.

     Heck, even I can do that. In fact, when I was deciding on a career I should have just legally changed my first name to "Doctor" and made a living referring sick people to REAL doctors. You know, the ones who had the bad judgement to get in debt going to medical school.

     Well, the good news is my health is fine, but my bad cholesterol levels are not, so in addition to losing weight I have to change my diet. More fish, less fried foods, cut out sugar and bread. You know, the things that make life worth living. I'm a man who has spent his life avoiding bad habits, so I consider this God's cruel joke.

     Speaking of jokes:

 

     A man goes to the doctor.

     “Doc,” he says, “I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or gamble or chase women. Will I live to be a hundred?”

     “Sure,” the doctor says, “but why would you want to?” 

 

     Anyway…

     "What did the doctor say?" my father asked me when I walked back into the waiting area where he was.

     It's funny, but we spent my growing up years avoiding each other. My father was of the Children-Should-Be-Seen-Not-Heard generation. Me? I saw enough police procedurals on TV to know not to incriminate myself.

     Having said all that, the funny part I'm referring to (See? I AM good at referrals.) is that we now spend a lot of our time together. I take him to HIS doctor appointments, and he comes with me to mine. I take him to lunch when we're done, or at least I try to take him to lunch. After my father vetoes every one of my suggestions, sometimes the only suggestion left is to go home.

     "I have to go on a diet," I told him. "My cholesterol's too high."

     My father snorted in disgust, enthusiastically rubbing his nose in contempt. He's familiar with the tyranny of the medical profession. Fortunately, my wife is an excellent cook and can accommodate our culinary requirements. Not only is she beautiful, but she can make it taste delicious as well.

     "I guess we can be diet buddies," I told him. "You can be my sponsor, like in AA. Whenever I'm in the mood for some fried chicken, I'll give you a call."

     "You bet," he agreed, "and we’ll sneak off to KFC."

…two…

     I told you last month how my wife and I ran into a buddy of mine at Costco.

     It was sad news.

     Even sadder than usual.

     He was recently diagnosed pre-Alzheimer's. He's retired and spends a lot of his time searching the internet for a cure. It gives him hope, I guess.

     As inappropriate as it is, that reminds me of another joke:

 

     A man goes to the doctor to get his test results.

     "I'm sorry," the doctor says, "but it’s bad news. You've got cancer."

     "Oh, no," the man says. "That's terrible news."

     "It's worse than that," the doctor continues. "You also have Alzheimer's."

     "I have Alzheimer’s? That’s awful," the man exclaims. “Well," he says after a while, "at least I don't have cancer."

 

     Anyway, his wife started explaining the sad situation to us.

     "But I've got a great doctor," my friend cut in. There was never a conversation he didn't want to dominate.

     "You do?" my wife asked, being polite. "What's his name?"

     "Aw, jeez," my friend said, "his name. You know, with this Alzheimer's, sometimes I forget things."

     My wife and I nodded our heads in sympathy, and here I exaggerate our conversation, but not by much.

     "His name... his name..." he said, trying to remember. And then, out of the blue, he asked me, "What's that TV show I like?”

     "Which TV show?" I asked back.

     "The one about nothing.”

     "Seinfeld?" 

     "Yeah, Seinfeld. Didn't he make a movie? A cartoon?"

     "Yeah," I said, wondering where he was going with all this.

     "What was it called?"

     "The Bee Movie," I answered.

     "That's right, The Bee Movie. What's that thing that bees make that's sweet?"

     "Honey?" I guessed.

     "That's right," my friend said, and then turned to his wife. "Honey, what's my doctor's name?"

  

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May your troubles last as long as your New Year resolutions.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene