My parents are my greatest fans. They usually call me weekly after reading my column to comment on what they read. This time, however, my father called with a complaint.
“You said in your column that I was 6 feet tall and weighed 135 lbs. I’ll have you know that I went to the doctor and on my last visit I weighed 158! So you need to print a retraction,” said my dad in a teasing manner.
Big deal. This is the most he has ever weighed, which was quite an offensive comment seeing as how I did not inherit his weight genes, but instead inherited my Scottish grandmother’s heifer genes. That comment was just downright mean.
But I perked up when my mom said, “Let me tell you what happened to your dad the other day.” Any story about my dad is usually funny and memorable. And this one was no exception.
Apparently, my mother had a doctor’s appointment, so they left their little bungalow on the side of a mountain and drove the 20 odd miles into the city. Every time they have doctor’s appointments, it is an event. They always have errands to run as well, so dad packs mom’s wheelchair so they can stop for groceries on the way back. While out, they usually stop for a little lunch and enjoy the outing.
The trip in itself is eventful because my 87-year-old father drives like a maniac around all the twists and turns of curvy mountain roads. I have been known to have a lead foot, but I must say that even I struggle to keep up with his car when following behind him anywhere. He also gets a kick out of calling people names who pull out in front of him or who aren’t moving fast enough. These names usually consist of the terms “knucklehead, dummy, idiot, and turkey”.
(It just dawned on me that those same antics were passed down from him to me.)
Anyhow, on this particular day mom was supposed to have some blood work done at the local hospital. Knowing that it would be an uncomfortable and long wait, dad put mom in the wheelchair and pushed her into the hospital waiting area.
It wasn’t long before mom had to go to the restroom. So since my mother cannot walk very far without help, dad told her he would take her.
Reaching the nearest restroom, dad pushed mom inside and then realized that there were two stalls. It was not a family restroom. But dad wasn’t thinking at the time and pushed mom into the handicapped stall at the end of the restroom. He was helping her when all of a sudden mom gasped.
“Rob, did you lock the door?” she asked.
“No. Isn’t this a restroom for anybody?” he muttered.
“Yes, but it has two stalls, so go lock the door!”
No sooner had those words come from my mother’s lips than the door opened and a pair of high heels clicked into the restroom, maneuvered into the next stall, and slid the lock closed.
Shocked and aghast, my horrified father squashed himself into the back corner of the bathroom stall as quietly as possible. My 85-year-old mother, however, was having the time of her life. Snickering, she finished using the restroom but stayed in the stall waiting for the lady next door to leave.
Finally, after several minutes the woman exited the bathroom. And after a significant amount of time, my parents, stealthily looking both ways, made their way out of the bathroom. Seeing the coast was clear, they made their way back to the waiting room.
When my mother told me this story, I could picture the whole episode in my mind, and I burst out laughing. Yes, this would only happen to my family.
And people actually think I make up these stories. Apparently, having routine disasters is an inherited trait.
My father told me that while standing in that bathroom corner he was scared to even breathe or make a move. He didn’t want that woman to know he was in there and hadn’t made an escape yet. I think he was afraid she would scream and call the police if he called out that he was in there helping mom. But I completely lost it when he said, “if she had made any bathroom noises, I wouldn’t have been able to keep it all in and stay quiet. I think I would have started laughing out loud.”
Yes, this actually happened just last week. But there’s something even more important that you should know. My dad complained about my column, so let this be a lesson to you, my dear readers. If you ever complain about my column, you just might be featured in it the next week.
