Monty Python's Life of Mom
I got to play Mom today. More accurately, I learned just how much work goes into running a household for the day. With both of my parents off on Day 1 of the annual Southern California Quilters Run (a sort of tour de quilt shops), I was left in charge of the house, its two dogs and two senior citizens.
That seemed like a simple enough task. I didn't think anything special of it, since I figured it'd just involve fixing a couple of meals (if you can count microwaving frozen food for lunch as "fixing a meal") and running my grandma to her appointment at the DMV. Both of my grandparents spend the lion's share of their time in their respective rooms, usually asleep or dozing off. It seemed like I'd have a couple of chores, but plenty of free time, so I allowed myself to sleep till almost noon and thought I'd be in for an easy day.
Sorely mistaken. Sure, it got off to an inauspicious start. After I woke, I noticed both of my grandparents were in their rooms, so I came into the kitchen, grabbed a pack of Pop Tarts to eat, poured myself a glass of tea, and sat down to read the paper and do my morning Web trolling. Simple enough. After finishing this, I took a shower and got dressed. A day like any other. I was used to fixing frozen rib sandwiches for my grandpa's lunch; this would be a breeze.
When I returned to the kitchen, I saw that my grandma had wandered in and already scooped herself a bowl of seafood salad for lunch. This was even less work than I thought! I carried her bowl over to the kitchen table, poured her a glass of milk, and turned to two of my recently assumed tasks, emptying the dishwasher and making a pitcher of iced tea. By the time I finished those, my grandma had finished eating, so I cleared her dishes and when she returned to her room, staked out lunch for myself. I settled for a frozen Philly cheesesteak. Not nearly so good as the real thing, but a passable facsimile.
After my sandwich finished nuking, I decided that I wasn't using the defrost setting on the microwave quite correctly, so I decided to call my parents on the cell phone. They had called while I was in the shower, so I figured it'd be good to phone anyway to assure them everything was running smoothly. As my mom explained the microwave's defrost controls to me, my grandpa emerged from his morning slumber, which meant lunch time for him. I suggested the special du jour, rib sandwich, he assented, and I set to nuking that. In the interim my parents crossed into a valley and lost reception on the cell phone, though this was unbeknownst to me at the time. When the phone rang again a moment later, I answered without checking the caller ID, thinking it was them calling back. Nope. A telemarketer, of course. Someone from Verizon. Ignoring them, I returned to my grandpa's rib sandwich, which had finished in the microwave, and set to pour him a glass of milk to go with it. In the middle of that, a UPS driver came to the door. I frantically tried to finish pouring the milk in time to answer the door, but she left the packages on the doorstep anyway. Keeping my cool, I retrieved them, delivered one to my grandma and placed the other on its perch with the other medical supplies for my grandpa, and at last set down to enjoy my cheesesteak. I had been a bit rushed, but wasn't fazed by it.
After lunch I decided to be über-responsible and did a load of my laundry. Having figured out the family washer as best I could (yes, I did laundry on my own for four years at college, but the machines there had three simple, straightforward settings, whereas ours had dozens and required guestimation I wasn't accustomed to), I allowed myself some quality time with the computer, trying to mount the family desktop on my computer so I could copy over Retrospect Express, the program used in this household for backing up our machines. Of course, this showed no interest in working, and my feeble efforts to try to locate the source of my difficulty (yes, both file sharing and AppleTalk were on) proved futile. While I was at the desk checking the settings on the family machine, my grandma re-emerged, ready to be driven to the DMV, and sat in my chair at the kitchen table, denying me access to the computer. So I ferried her out to the car, a very long endeavor since she moves pretty slowly now, which is why she's chosen to give up driving and was going to have an ID card issued to replace her driver's license. I then had to rush back in the house to load her walker in the backseat of the car and race off to the DMV to make her appointment.
Now, having an appointment at the DMV is nothing like having an appointment at the doctor's office. At the optometrist, say, you might have to wait 10 or 15 minutes, but at least there's a nice air-conditioned waiting area with ample comfy chairs and a quality selection of somewhat-current magazines to peruse. By contrast, the DMV greets you with a line stretching out the door and creeping toward the parking lot. I didn't worry, as my grandma had an appointment, and we didn't have to wait in this line. I thought we just had to waltz right past those poor souls waiting in that interminable line for the directory, proceed straight to Window 38, take care of our business, strut right back out, bada boom, bada bing. As we (slowly) made our way through the sea of standees to the elusive Window 38 way in the back, we noticed a long line emanating from that direction. I told my grandma to stand in it while I checked ahead, and -- what do you know? -- that was the line for Window 37. Suckers. Of course, when I asked at Window 38, they told me their line was for road tests only (originally, I was going to take my grandma to the DMV last week so she could fail her road test, but the day of her appointment she decided to abandon the pursuit of motoring altogether, but no one had informed me Window 38 was no longer our happenin' place to be), and for IDs we would have to wait in -- yes, you guessed it -- that endless queue snaking out the door, around the corner, through the parking lot, across the plains states and terminating somewhere in Nunavut. Oh, but someone would come through the line to find the people with "appointments".
Thinking it stupid to have my elderly, tortoise-speed grandmother go all the way back out to the parking lot to stand in line for hours, I decided to scout out the person who looked like they were entrusted to locate people with appointments. When she saw that my grandmother was in no shape to suffer in that queue, she got her the appropriate form and a number (see, by "appointment" the DMV actually means "you'll take a number from a different set") and led her to a window counter where she could sit and complete the paperwork. When she finished that, the man working the window tended to her, processed the paperwork, assessed her the whopping $3 fee and sent us to the line for Window 37 (here we go again), which mercifully had dwindled to (almost) nothing in the intervening minutes. When we got there, the kind woman working the window saw my grandmother's physical limitations and directed her to the front of an already short line, had her jump through the appropriate hoops, and that was that. We were in and out of the DMV in about half an hour, which is pretty damn fast by DMV standards.
On the way back, out of evident appreciation for braving the DMV's three-ring circus and sideshow, my grandma had me stop at Dairy Queen so she could treat me to a milkshake. Of course, this may have also been so she could buy a box of sugar-free Dilly bars for herself. One can never be sure of such things.
Back at home, after switching my clothes to the dryer (much more user friendly) and with both seniors returned to their rooms (and presumably down for their naps), I decided to relax a bit and watch the idiot box. Oops! Seems my dad, not wanting to miss hours of quality programming, had set the Tivo-like device on our satellite receiver to record the hours of regularly scheduled programming he'd miss while escorting my mother to the collected quilt shops of Southern California. This meant I could not change channels without terminating his recording. Tempting though that was, I opted against spite and plied myself instead with a game of Literati against Colleen. It was a glorious game. I used all my letters to make "weakness" and nab 57 points on my first turn, and I think it pretty much just kept going like that from there.
About midway through our game, however, it came to be time for me to undertake the most challenging and significant task of the day, fixing dinner. Having never cooked a full meal or single dish without adult supervision, this proved rather daunting. I called Colleen to get some needed guidance (like "fill the pot with water" and "turn on the stove to get the water boiling") and had her talk me through it all. I am proud to say that I succeeded in making tortellini with meat sauce, a can of corn (cursed right-handed can openers) and a plate of Texas Toast. Doing all these things at once without any physical help (as much as Colleen aided my sauce-making by phone, she refused to cross the country to set the table), along with setting the table, summoning the seniors and not burning down the house proved quite frenetic and taxing. But it turned out well. My grandma didn't even realize I had done the cooking when she first sat down, or that my parents were still gone. And both grandparents complimented me on my efforts, though perhaps they were just trying to be nice. I for one thought my sauce, specifically the meat, was a lacking a certain something, some spices or seasonings to make it just right. But it worked.
After dinner I cleared the table and washed the heap of dishes I had managed to dirty in the process. Then I retrieved my laundry and walked both dogs simultaneously. This was quite a "fun" process, as Toby likes to pull me along, whereas Doodle needs to be pulled along, so I got nice and hyperextended. But it worked. When I returned I dried the dishes and put them away, and finished cleaning the kitchen.
Satisfied with a hard day's work, I sat down in the living room to see that nothing was on, except that my dad was still recording crap, this time, to be specific, the latest installment of "Big Brother 4". It continues to amaze me how many people watch "reality" TV, and just how much of this genre is watched in my house. It's truly appalling. So, that was again a lost cause until 9 p.m., when I was finally able to watch the last half hour or so of a taped soccer match before my parents finally returned. They hadn't eaten dinner yet, so they tried some of my leftovers and liked it. I think my mom's going to die of shock if I keep doing all the miscellaneous chores around the house I've taken to this week. I'm becoming nice and domesticated.
One thing I've learned from today, however, is that being a homemaker is hard work. I really appreciate what my mom, and every mom, has to do, day in, day out, just to keep things from falling apart.
Here's to you, Mom.
That seemed like a simple enough task. I didn't think anything special of it, since I figured it'd just involve fixing a couple of meals (if you can count microwaving frozen food for lunch as "fixing a meal") and running my grandma to her appointment at the DMV. Both of my grandparents spend the lion's share of their time in their respective rooms, usually asleep or dozing off. It seemed like I'd have a couple of chores, but plenty of free time, so I allowed myself to sleep till almost noon and thought I'd be in for an easy day.
Sorely mistaken. Sure, it got off to an inauspicious start. After I woke, I noticed both of my grandparents were in their rooms, so I came into the kitchen, grabbed a pack of Pop Tarts to eat, poured myself a glass of tea, and sat down to read the paper and do my morning Web trolling. Simple enough. After finishing this, I took a shower and got dressed. A day like any other. I was used to fixing frozen rib sandwiches for my grandpa's lunch; this would be a breeze.
When I returned to the kitchen, I saw that my grandma had wandered in and already scooped herself a bowl of seafood salad for lunch. This was even less work than I thought! I carried her bowl over to the kitchen table, poured her a glass of milk, and turned to two of my recently assumed tasks, emptying the dishwasher and making a pitcher of iced tea. By the time I finished those, my grandma had finished eating, so I cleared her dishes and when she returned to her room, staked out lunch for myself. I settled for a frozen Philly cheesesteak. Not nearly so good as the real thing, but a passable facsimile.
After my sandwich finished nuking, I decided that I wasn't using the defrost setting on the microwave quite correctly, so I decided to call my parents on the cell phone. They had called while I was in the shower, so I figured it'd be good to phone anyway to assure them everything was running smoothly. As my mom explained the microwave's defrost controls to me, my grandpa emerged from his morning slumber, which meant lunch time for him. I suggested the special du jour, rib sandwich, he assented, and I set to nuking that. In the interim my parents crossed into a valley and lost reception on the cell phone, though this was unbeknownst to me at the time. When the phone rang again a moment later, I answered without checking the caller ID, thinking it was them calling back. Nope. A telemarketer, of course. Someone from Verizon. Ignoring them, I returned to my grandpa's rib sandwich, which had finished in the microwave, and set to pour him a glass of milk to go with it. In the middle of that, a UPS driver came to the door. I frantically tried to finish pouring the milk in time to answer the door, but she left the packages on the doorstep anyway. Keeping my cool, I retrieved them, delivered one to my grandma and placed the other on its perch with the other medical supplies for my grandpa, and at last set down to enjoy my cheesesteak. I had been a bit rushed, but wasn't fazed by it.
After lunch I decided to be über-responsible and did a load of my laundry. Having figured out the family washer as best I could (yes, I did laundry on my own for four years at college, but the machines there had three simple, straightforward settings, whereas ours had dozens and required guestimation I wasn't accustomed to), I allowed myself some quality time with the computer, trying to mount the family desktop on my computer so I could copy over Retrospect Express, the program used in this household for backing up our machines. Of course, this showed no interest in working, and my feeble efforts to try to locate the source of my difficulty (yes, both file sharing and AppleTalk were on) proved futile. While I was at the desk checking the settings on the family machine, my grandma re-emerged, ready to be driven to the DMV, and sat in my chair at the kitchen table, denying me access to the computer. So I ferried her out to the car, a very long endeavor since she moves pretty slowly now, which is why she's chosen to give up driving and was going to have an ID card issued to replace her driver's license. I then had to rush back in the house to load her walker in the backseat of the car and race off to the DMV to make her appointment.
Now, having an appointment at the DMV is nothing like having an appointment at the doctor's office. At the optometrist, say, you might have to wait 10 or 15 minutes, but at least there's a nice air-conditioned waiting area with ample comfy chairs and a quality selection of somewhat-current magazines to peruse. By contrast, the DMV greets you with a line stretching out the door and creeping toward the parking lot. I didn't worry, as my grandma had an appointment, and we didn't have to wait in this line. I thought we just had to waltz right past those poor souls waiting in that interminable line for the directory, proceed straight to Window 38, take care of our business, strut right back out, bada boom, bada bing. As we (slowly) made our way through the sea of standees to the elusive Window 38 way in the back, we noticed a long line emanating from that direction. I told my grandma to stand in it while I checked ahead, and -- what do you know? -- that was the line for Window 37. Suckers. Of course, when I asked at Window 38, they told me their line was for road tests only (originally, I was going to take my grandma to the DMV last week so she could fail her road test, but the day of her appointment she decided to abandon the pursuit of motoring altogether, but no one had informed me Window 38 was no longer our happenin' place to be), and for IDs we would have to wait in -- yes, you guessed it -- that endless queue snaking out the door, around the corner, through the parking lot, across the plains states and terminating somewhere in Nunavut. Oh, but someone would come through the line to find the people with "appointments".
Thinking it stupid to have my elderly, tortoise-speed grandmother go all the way back out to the parking lot to stand in line for hours, I decided to scout out the person who looked like they were entrusted to locate people with appointments. When she saw that my grandmother was in no shape to suffer in that queue, she got her the appropriate form and a number (see, by "appointment" the DMV actually means "you'll take a number from a different set") and led her to a window counter where she could sit and complete the paperwork. When she finished that, the man working the window tended to her, processed the paperwork, assessed her the whopping $3 fee and sent us to the line for Window 37 (here we go again), which mercifully had dwindled to (almost) nothing in the intervening minutes. When we got there, the kind woman working the window saw my grandmother's physical limitations and directed her to the front of an already short line, had her jump through the appropriate hoops, and that was that. We were in and out of the DMV in about half an hour, which is pretty damn fast by DMV standards.
On the way back, out of evident appreciation for braving the DMV's three-ring circus and sideshow, my grandma had me stop at Dairy Queen so she could treat me to a milkshake. Of course, this may have also been so she could buy a box of sugar-free Dilly bars for herself. One can never be sure of such things.
Back at home, after switching my clothes to the dryer (much more user friendly) and with both seniors returned to their rooms (and presumably down for their naps), I decided to relax a bit and watch the idiot box. Oops! Seems my dad, not wanting to miss hours of quality programming, had set the Tivo-like device on our satellite receiver to record the hours of regularly scheduled programming he'd miss while escorting my mother to the collected quilt shops of Southern California. This meant I could not change channels without terminating his recording. Tempting though that was, I opted against spite and plied myself instead with a game of Literati against Colleen. It was a glorious game. I used all my letters to make "weakness" and nab 57 points on my first turn, and I think it pretty much just kept going like that from there.
About midway through our game, however, it came to be time for me to undertake the most challenging and significant task of the day, fixing dinner. Having never cooked a full meal or single dish without adult supervision, this proved rather daunting. I called Colleen to get some needed guidance (like "fill the pot with water" and "turn on the stove to get the water boiling") and had her talk me through it all. I am proud to say that I succeeded in making tortellini with meat sauce, a can of corn (cursed right-handed can openers) and a plate of Texas Toast. Doing all these things at once without any physical help (as much as Colleen aided my sauce-making by phone, she refused to cross the country to set the table), along with setting the table, summoning the seniors and not burning down the house proved quite frenetic and taxing. But it turned out well. My grandma didn't even realize I had done the cooking when she first sat down, or that my parents were still gone. And both grandparents complimented me on my efforts, though perhaps they were just trying to be nice. I for one thought my sauce, specifically the meat, was a lacking a certain something, some spices or seasonings to make it just right. But it worked.
After dinner I cleared the table and washed the heap of dishes I had managed to dirty in the process. Then I retrieved my laundry and walked both dogs simultaneously. This was quite a "fun" process, as Toby likes to pull me along, whereas Doodle needs to be pulled along, so I got nice and hyperextended. But it worked. When I returned I dried the dishes and put them away, and finished cleaning the kitchen.
Satisfied with a hard day's work, I sat down in the living room to see that nothing was on, except that my dad was still recording crap, this time, to be specific, the latest installment of "Big Brother 4". It continues to amaze me how many people watch "reality" TV, and just how much of this genre is watched in my house. It's truly appalling. So, that was again a lost cause until 9 p.m., when I was finally able to watch the last half hour or so of a taped soccer match before my parents finally returned. They hadn't eaten dinner yet, so they tried some of my leftovers and liked it. I think my mom's going to die of shock if I keep doing all the miscellaneous chores around the house I've taken to this week. I'm becoming nice and domesticated.
One thing I've learned from today, however, is that being a homemaker is hard work. I really appreciate what my mom, and every mom, has to do, day in, day out, just to keep things from falling apart.
Here's to you, Mom.
posted by Alexander Dubcek | 03:04
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