What's my fortune

I sometimes feel like I'm locked on a perpetual, emotional roller coaster -- and I can't catch a break and get off.  This afternoon, and for the past few days, I've felt moments of happy reality I haven't experienced since before my Dad's "incident."  And then suddenly I'm jolted out of my happy place and into a horrible state of uneasiness.  The particular event this evening is too disturbing to blog about publicly, and it shocks me back into how hideous this life can be now.  Which is made even more obvious when paired next to the joys of simple, everyday, 25-year-old acts, like flirting and escaping in the company of my peers.  I wish my roller coaster could drop me off in a little cave to curl up and escape.  And then maybe in that cave there's a little time machine that can transport me back to before -- or just out of the now.  Maybe that's what I was attempting to produce when after dinner this evening (Chinese delivery that Dad accomplished at ordering over the phone and paying with credit card) I madly tore through each of the four fortune cookies, eating the white chocolate part and discarding the plain corners, in search of some guidance via that tiny piece of folded paper.  And apparently, in succession, fortune cookie say:

#1 "You have a reputation for being straight-forward and honest."   really? hmm... well here's some straight-forward truthfulness for you cookie: That's not really a "fortune!" that's more like a comment.  I don't want Comment Cookies. I have enough room for comments and opinions on how I lead my life -- you even have the opportunity to right here on the internet.  So thanks but no thanks, cookie.

#2 "Happy events will take place shortly in your home."  Hah - from your mouth to God's ears!

#3  "Soon you will receive pleasant news."  ...still waiting... but that's more like it, Cookie - keep the fortunes coming.

#4  "Good things come to those who wait.  Be patient."  Could we be more specific please?  You obviously don't know who you're dealing with here.  Or was that the "pleasant news" from your cookie cousin above?

Fortune cookies may very well be bullshit, but I wouldn't mind a couple happy events or some pleasant news in this house at all.  So I'll continue to be patient.  

Put Your Dreams in Flight

I'm sitting amidst a slew of dishes and pans and macaroni and cheese which is slowly starting to crust over.  I've probably had too much wine for 6:45pm on a Thursday - but who cares, I'm alone with Dad and it's been a hard week.  Mom's away on a dinner conference and together, so Daddy and I attempted dinner.  For some reason when I picked him up today he was in a delightful mood - surprisingly pleasant - and then we get home and the tears and anger start spewing all over the kitchen as I attempt to prepare turkey burgers and kraft mac 'n cheese.  He helped me flip the burgers and time them out correctly - and amazingly, they were the most tender, juicy, delicious, perfectly crusted turkey burgers I've ever tasted.  But in the time frame of defrosting the meat up until the final product we experienced an angry phone call to his mother, an attempt at leaving the house, and an angry outbreak in which i thought he may throw my beautiful little MacBook into the backyard.  Obviously that impulse was averted since I'm typing to you now -- but the array of emotion was an odd adventure given the complacent and happy Dad I picked up from CNS only 2 hours before.  At one point this evening, Dad was looking through the mail and crying, and comes in carrying this very elaborate publicity for Ireland and whining, "I want to put my dreams in flight..." I'm sorry but I started laughing.  when I checked the mail earlier I saw this publicity stunt and thought - wow, that is crazy.  It's like a whole packet with postcards and promotion for Ireland tourism, and I too thought - "wow, if only I could put my dreams in flight and whisk off to the land of green and Guiness... how wonderful that would be..."  And then, a mere 25 minutes later Dad walks in crying "I want to put my dreams in flight."  I just laughed and said -- "hah - me too Dad.  if only."   

Weird Responsibility

I had many a flashback tonight to my teenage years and being left alone on a Friday night in someone else's house with the responsibility of their child, a handful of ideas for of activities, a list of do's and don'ts, a perspective bedtime, money on the table to order pizza, the in-case-of-emergency plan, all the necessary tools to occupy and keep alive someone else's pride and joy handed over to the careful, responsible, loving hands of... the babysitter.  Although -- tonight, I was the one handing over the toolbelt - not the one receiving.  And it wasn't the tools to sit for a "baby" per se, but for my father.  However, the whole operation was identical - all the way up to the conversation with the babysitter (a.k.a Caretaker Chris in my story) at the end of the evening: "how'd he do?"  "did he eat all his dinner?"  "what'd you guys watch on TV?"  "What time did he go to bed?"  "was there any crying?"  Once again I find myself being the responsible adult in the house at too young of an age and too tragic the circumstances.  My Mom is away in San Diego on a mini business trip for this one night, and meantime, Wednesdays are my night for Improv Class in Hollywood -- a three and half hour welcomed, frivolous, fun escape -- except every 20 minutes throughout the evening my mind wandered back to whatever might be happening at home.  Perhaps it's my own neurotic need to be in control of the situation that made the evening stressful and strange.  But maybe I should just chalk it up to another new phase in this whole new saga of life - the phase of "the Caretaker."  Inviting someone into our lives, accepting and TRUSTING their skills, their personality, and their companionship, to be a presence in our family and a support system for our lives.  It's something that will take some time getting used to, for all parties involved, but hopefully something that can lend more support than stress.  As with everything in this new life we lead -- it's all about time.   And hopefully in the coming weeks, we can bridge the gap from "babysitter" to "buddy."  

Opening Day

My body is sinking into my bed right now with the weight of the day, the stress, the noise, the drive, the crowds, the junk food, the beer, the cheering, the driving, the crying, the worry, the anger, and the headache that my person battled throughout this special day.  Opening Day at Dodger Stadium.  The place where all your cares go away, where history and tradition, excitement and joy are everywhere you blink your eye.  It's true -- this is what the Dodger experience forever brought to my father and our family -- and blessedly, it still does.  However, the journey to get there today was a test to ones patience that cannot be explained.   (Actually, the two, dear, wonderful, amazing, friends who helped me through today can attest to the trials of traffic when riding with my Dad.)  The anxiety and worry that seeped through my Dad's eyes from the moment he woke up to the moment we forced him into the car to go to the game, up until we sat down and shoved a hot dog in his hand, after that hour and ten minutes of stop and go traffic was utterly unbearable.  But once we were in those seats, and the dear Dodgers proceeded to get us up on our feet cheering for each of their 11 runs, the tears and the anxiety dissipated into the baseball breeze.  And it wasn't until we were back on the freeway home that the anger and worry welled up again, and there was no way to deflect it.  At least not until Mom got home and popped a Xanax into a bite of hamburger and shoved it in Dad's mouth.

It will be interesting to see what the last game of Dodger season is like this year... whether they go to a championship or whatever is beside the point, but whether we'll be sitting in those seats experiencing only Dodger Blues rather than the David Blues, I look forward to with hope.  

Thank god for baseball season!!!! let the games begin. 

Method to the Madness

Mom was away overnight last night on a business trip - so I'm the responsible adult in the house.  Trying to encourage my Dad to get ready for bed last night, I say after a few kind subtle attempts:

"Dad... don't sleep in your jeans that's gross.  You're a grown man."  Feeling bad, I lean close and say, "Daddy -- you really should get ready for bed now."  He replies eyes squeezed tight..."please leave please, please don't make me hit you, I don't want to hit you, please don't make me hit you."

Me: "well I appreciate that I don't want you to hit me either, I'll leave. But you need to go to bed the right way."

So I left, and no doubt he ended up properly under the covers somehow because he won't get out of them this morning.  My inner therapist says go wake him up, get him on a schedule, get him in the shower, make coffee, have breakfast, take meds, hit the road to CNS.  But with the escalating behavior - I have no desire to push it - because I'm at my last nerve as well, and I just might hit back hard.  I'm busting at the seems in frustration.  I really do want to punch him.  I really do.  I want to hit him so hard in hopes it will literally knock some sense into him and right what's wrong in his brain.  And then say to him in his shocked moment of clarity, "YOU ARE MY DAD!  GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, STOP WHINING, AND STOP BEING A LAZY-ASS VICTIM!  YOU CAN DO THIS!"  But we know that approach won't work.    I have to keep my distance and I have to keep my calm.  Even though I feel like a mad-hot tea kettle is screeching inside me.  

So it's 9:22am now.  What to do what to do.  I walked up there twice, called Melvin, the dogs barked, etc etc.  Dad laid in bed - he moaned a few times.  I have a feeling he'll get out soon and get hungry and come adventuring down.  And once he's down - I'll crush an attivan onto an english muffin and sneak it in him.  Then he'll calm down and hopefully I can get him out the door and into CNS's.  Then he's their problem.  It's sort of like ding dong ditch -- we make it up the elevator, open the door, push him inside and bolt.  It's awful.  My poor Daddy.  

Well Dad, it's up to you today.  I'm not going to push you.  You win.