On the way to visit my parents this week, I picked up a rotisserie chicken at BJs for their dinner. If they like it, I will do that more often. It’s quick and easy for me, and considering they mostly eat prepared or frozen meals, it’s relatively inexpensive for them ($5 for a whole cooked chicken? You can’t beat that with a stick). I threw in some of the ginger snaps they love from Trader Joe’s. (I don’t know if my parents ever eat any vegetables but that’s one of the things I file under “not my problem.” If my 85 year-old Dad never wants to eat another vegetable again, I’m not gonna make him.)
When I entered their house, Dad was sitting with his head down on the kitchen table, complaining of a “hot flash.” He said he’d woken during the night and the heat had been turned on. He knew Mom did it, and he kept trying to get her to say that she’d done it. Mom, never a big fan of admissions of truth, denied it and kept trying to get him not to obsess over how it had happened. It was certainly warm in the house. She said she’d turned it “back down” to 72F. Great. I got Dad an ice pack, and set the thermostat to 70F. The a/c came on: sweet relief.
I put the chicken in the fridge, and spied a bag of Romaine lettuce that had been left out since whenever they’d had groceries delivered. “Shall I put the lettuce away, Mom?” “Sure, in the bottom crisper.” The bottom crisper was already occupied by a sad, tough loaf of white bread dated December 7, possibly of 2013. That is where things go to die. So I’ll give the lettuce a couple of weeks, then retrieve it and compost what I can’t use.
I paid the bills, then at Mom’s request, tried to help renew her driver’s license online. Turns out the RMV won’t let her do it. In fact, they’re planning to revoke her license if she doesn’t attend a driver retraining class. Evidently she’s racked up an unacceptable number of moving violations. Mom is a terrible driver — not due to age or illness, but for as long as I can remember. I’ve been nervous about her driving since I was 6, and have never allowed my children in her car. So, she’ll go to driving school this Saturday. Maybe the instructor will remember her from last time.
The December 7 bread came home with me, along with a tote bag full of books about Writing Your Spiritual Autobiography and other such nonsense. Mom has always liked buying books about doing stuff more than actually doing stuff. Week by week, I’m chipping away at this lifetime’s accumulation of worthless print via my local library’s donation shelf. I hope they’re making some money off it at the weekly book sale.
Josie took the bread when she got home from school, and happily threw it (“like Frisbees!”) to the crows in the woods. “Did that come from Grandma’s?” she asked. “Of course it did. Where else would you still find bread from December,” replied Robin.