Tag: Dad

The sudden sads

General

“On my way home! Need anything?” I texted dad.

“I have a script ready at Albertsons but I need to go up there after you get home” he texted back.

“Can do!” I sent and pulled out of the parking lot. I listened to the Accidental Tech boys argue about storage media as I drove through the traffic of southeast Portland. Surface streets only. No freeways or highways for me. The days were getting cooler, sunset is coming sooner and sooner in the day. Fall had definitely fallen. I was tired but not sleepy, just wanted to go home and chill but still felt a duty to help dad out.

The ATP boys were particularly argumentative and it was very entertaining, if a bit stressful. Listening to them was sort of like cringe comedy sometimes except they’re mock-angry with each other. And anger is often hilarious. I used to say that all the time in the past.

I normally back in to my reserved parking spot but because I knew I was going to be leaving again soon, and because parking in front-first put the passenger door closer to the sidewalk, making it easier for dad, I parked normally.

“You’re home!” he said from the couch when I walked in. The couch faced at a right angle to the front door, and with the pin in his neck, he could not turn his head to see me. He was wearing his coat and hat, and it was kind of chilly in the apartment, so I turned up the heat a little. I chatted with him about work as he stood up and walked toward the door with me.

Night was definitely on the way as I drove him to the Albertsons. We were in the Magic Hour, just before sunset, and the colors were muted but beautiful. The sky had some clouds but mostly shone with a dark pale blue color.

“Any word on the house?” I asked him. He’s staying with me while his apartment is being remediated for asbestos and water damage.

“Lisa (my sister) said that they had the sheetrock up and were painting it. Probably be done by…” he paused. “Probably be done by, uh, her birthday. Middle of November.”

A car cut me off to cross two lanes. “The squirrels are out tonight, dad.” My turn to pause. “I’m going to miss having you around.”

Dad was quiet.

As I drove in to the parking lot, I asked dad if we needed anything from the store and he said I could shop around while he was waiting at the pharmacy counter.

An Alberston's store front from the parking lot, with the darkening evening sky hanging above it.

I snapped a picture of the Albertsons sign, the beige stucco facade and the lit-up blue and white sign against the fading blue sky, with amber parking lot lights… it was pretty. I was glad I’d captured the scene.

Dad looked thin and tired, hunched over as we walked through the parking lot to the store. He went off to the back corner and I took a spin through the aisle. The bread I like was on sale, buy one get one free, so I had two loaves in hand when I caught up with him. “We can put one in the freezer,” I explained, and he grunted assent.

Meds obtained, we went though the checkout counter. No bad needed, miss. Dad wanted to get some cigarettes but the counter where they kept them had a line of people waiting and no checker behind. A lady asked a security guard if anyone was working the counter and the security guard didn’t know, politely. Dad decided he had enough smokes for tonight and he’d take the bus to the 7-11 tomorrow. We headed back out into the twilight.

I got to the car ahead of dad, unlocked the doors, and sat behind the wheel. The light outside was dying but beautifully. I sent the picture I took to Tracy, just to share. Dad got in, buckled up.

“This is the kind of light Spielberg likes to film in,” I said. Dad smiled, nodded.

I’m glad I have been here to help him out. I am going to miss him when he is not around.

Do you ever, suddenly, without warning, get the sads? Yeah. Me, too. Strange how swiftly it happens.

Love you

Joy

Dad, umprompted, said “Love you” today when I was leaving for work. Of course, I said it back, though it took me a minute or two to register its signifigance. I’ve been sneaking in a “love you” to him, mostly when I am headed to bed, here and there, just to see how he reacts, and today, he initiated it.

That’s a win over toxic masculinity. Dad is getting up there in age, he’s been making comments about not being in the best of shape and not being long for this world. I hate to hear it but of course, he is right. That still does not mean that he should not be careful or that we should not discourage or prevent him from doing dangerous things like, for example, drive.

But it does mean that we should absolutely treat every moment on this dumb planet of dumbness with some care. Savor the nice moments, tell each other that we love each other, and enjoy the sunrises and sunsets we have the privilege to notice and savor.

“Not long for this world” reminds me, always, that this is the only world we have. Yes, we are aware of other worlds out there; there are plenty of observed and named exoplanets, as well as several in our own solar system, like Mars, Venus, or several of the outer moons and asteroids. Those are all hostile to human life and too far away for easy travel.

And, of course, when someone like dad says they’re “not long for this world” they are referring to spiritual or post-death worlds, of which there are almost certainly none. At least they would be even more difficult to reach and return from than the exoplanets. Other dimensions may be mathmatically possible but that doesn’t mean a comic-book style multiverse exists that we can travel to and from. No alternate universe Brians and Dads out there, goatee’ed or not, to take over my life and tell me all my life choices have been agnoized over for no good reason.

We only have this one world, and it, my friends, is in terrible shape these days. Our pollution and reckless capitalism has caused an increase in the kinds of gasses that cause the world to get warmer overall, wreaking havoc on climates we have grown used to to provide us with air and clean water and food to eat and temperatures that don’t cause us to overheat or freeze.

That same capitalism has produced a handful of people (largely white men) who lord their power over us. They use that power to collect more pointless money above and beyond the unimaginable money and power they already have. They do this to the detriment of the large majority of the population. And scammers and con artists are fanning the flames of hate and anger to try to leverage even more power for themselves.

I won’t go on and on about the problems, though. For now, I just want to say that even in in the face of all those troubles, we can still smile a bit when someone who doesn’t usually, tells us they love us.

Love you, too, dad. G’night.

Do you have soul? Well, that depends.

Movies

Walked downstairs last night to take my dirty dishes to the dishwasher and dad was on the couch watching a very young John Cusack and an even younger Jack Black.

I gasped. . “Is that High Fidelity?”

Dad grunted. “No, hang on,” he fumbled for the remote and paused it, “it’s… oh, yeah. High Fidelity.”

“That is literally a Top 5 movie for me.” That was a reference. “I love that movie. I didn’t realize it was streaming.”

“Yeah. It’s alright, I guess.”

I gasped again. “You’ve never seen it?”

“No.” His tone of voice gave away that he was surprised I liked it, and that I was reacting so strongly. I got the impression he was just looking for something to watch.

“Well, I would love to hear your thoughts about it when you’re done.” I put the dishes away and went back upstairs, and soon to bed.

In the morning, I went downstairs after showering and dressing, and dad was making coffee. I got my vitamins, waited for the coffee, nonchalant.

“So. What did you think of High Fidelity?”

“It was OK I guess.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“It was a little silly.”

Silly? I didn’t say it out loud, only thought it.

He continued. “But I guess rom-coms often are.”

OK dad, fine, keep your secrets then.

Driving home from work

General

Hey dad, want me to pick anything up for you on the way home?

Yes a pack of cigs

Just one?

Yeah I've got to go to savmor for meds tomorrow and I'll stock up

KK
Can do

I pulled out onto NE Fremont to make my way home. I knew the route. I’ve driven it daily, Monday through Friday, for several months now. My tiny piece of shit Accord wasn’t tall enough to see over the SUVs parked on the side of the road so I tried my best to see through their greenhouses, and took my best guess at an opening. Fremont is narrow here, lined with bars, shops, and coffee shops, and pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. It was a cool, cloudy, warm summer day, the kind native Portlanders think of as normal warm weather.

Not for us, blue skies and hot temperatures. And I mean that we don’t like those days. Too hot. It needs to be a bit cooler so we can be active. Portlanders, by and large, are active. We run, we bike, we walk, and the rule of thumb I’ve learned is to dress for about 20 degrees warmer than it is, if you’re going to be active. 70-ish degrees is good. 50-ish degrees is better.

My car’s air conditioning has been broken all summer so I rolled the two front windows down, and cracked the back two, to get some air flowing past me. My phone played podcasts for me as I zoned out and drove automagically. David Chen, Jessie Earl, and Kim Renfro were discussing the House of the Dragons show, largely positively.

My senses perked up at the possible smell of burning oil. I should check the oil level soon, top it up if I need to. I wondered if my car would pass the DEQ test this year; I’d never had trouble before but the car is getting older and slowly falling apart slightly faster.

The drive home was mindless. I don’t remember any details specific to the drive, just the random images from every time I’ve ever driven this route. There’s the bar that looks like a great place for happy hour; laughing people with beers sitting on picnic tables outside. There’s the cheap gas station that always seemed busy. I passed the old empty sheriff’s building, surrounded by temporary chain-link fencing as it has been for months. What do they plan to do with that place, I wondered?

The organic produce market advertised Oregon strawberries but not marionberries. Marionberrys are, to me, the royalty of berries. Dark, tart, sweet, all in equal measure. They were developed at University of Oregon, and named for Marion County, a rural place far from the big small town of Portland. When I try to type “marionberries” on my phone, the autocorrect tries to make it Marion Berry, the former mayor of Washington D.C. who was caught in an FBI sting, I think. I should look that up at some point. Hey, I’m rambling here, don’t take this for fact.

I’m reasonably sure about the marionberries, though. I’m, like, 83% sure.

I pull into the Plaid Pantry parking lot, and wander the convenient aisles. OK, I’ll get some chocolate. Dad likes chocolate with almonds so I get a giant bar so I can split it with him. I wonder what the cashier thinks of an old white guy buying a pack of Marlboro Gold 100s and a giant chocolate bar. He seems friendly enough, though.

It’s another few blocks up the avenue until I can turn onto my street, then turn again into the parking lot. I slow down and take the transition into the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of my car on the hump. I back into my parking spot as I always do, for no particular reason, collect my things (laptop bag, cigs, candy bar), apply the Club to the steering wheel, take the faceplate off my head unit, unplug my phone and pull it out of the holder, and heave myself out of the car. My short legs, heavy weight, and armload of stuff make it a chore.

Front screen door was locked. I’d locked it this morning. Had dad not left the apartment all day? He does go outside to smoke but normally on the back porch so he could chat with Glasses, my next door neighbor, if she’s out there.

Home again, home again. Higgedy jig.

Unvaccinated, caffeinated

General

Dad was standing by the Starbucks counter. A tan Venti iced soy chai stood there; dad had the impatient look of someone waiting for their dose of caffeine. I walked up and picked up my soy chai.

“So… they don’t have any vaccines for us.” I nodded over my right shoulder toward the CVS counter. We were inside a Target store and in late early 21st Century America, brands exist inside other brands. It’s a nesting doll of brands, or layers of an onion. This Target is supporting a symbiotic CVS and a symbiotic Starbucks. I’m unsure if there were other brands dotted around the floor.

Dad gave me the grumpy side-eye that means he’s annoyed; not with me, with living in a world of corporate brands. “What?”

“Apparently there’s a newer Covid vaccine coming in September, so they don’t have any of the current vaccine.”

“Then why the fuck did they let us make an appointment?” The barista had placed dad’s dark iced mocha with whipped cream in front of him. He picked it up and fished a straw down the straw-hole.

“Yeah. That’s my question, too.” Next weekend I’m playing D&D with my friends in-person after two years of playing online through Discord, and the weekend after that I’m a volunteer at an art-tech festival called XOXO. I intended to get vaccinated because I don’t want to give, or get, the incredibly contagious disease that we’ve all decided is as normal as the weather.

Dad wandered over to a table. “Let’s grab a table for these.”

This was actually the second appointment I’d made, for me and dad, today. The earlier one, at a different CVS invasively inside a different Target, had been canceled almost as soon as I’d made it because, and I swear I am not making this up, the pharmacist said they had contracted Covid so were barred from giving vaccinations for Covid, or, really, anything, probably.

“He said it was a ‘bug in the system,” I said, laughing. “Except it’s not a bug in the system, it’s a human error. The computers don’t consult with the people.”

“They have to know if they have the shots in stock,” dad grumbled.

“Right!? They clearly have the ability to cancel an appointment. The other pharmacist did it.” I sipped my chai. “So annoying.”

Dad smiled. “I’d asked for an extra shot, and I overheard them mention an extra shot of chocolate syrup…”

His right hand twitched slightly on the table.

“Oh did you get the wrong order?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying. I got more chocolate.” His hand pointed at my drink. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Yup!” I sipped again.

Dad’s hand moved toward my drink. “You mind if I have a taste?”

I pushed it across the table at him. “Nope!”

His hand twitched again. I gently reached out and put my hand on top of his. His skin was papery, dry, warm. Dad looked puzzled at my hand, then at me.

“Do you notice that? I see your hand twitch sometimes.”

“Oh, no, sometimes.”

I felt empathy bloom inside me. I kept my face as neutral as I could but my heart ached to see his body, once strong, now failing, slowly, with age.

In the background, one of the baristas, short with blonde and black hair, was going on break. The other one, tall with black and blonde hair, was telling the first one to get something to eat.

Dad smiled after the sip, nodded. “That’s good!”

“It’s kind of sweet. Sometimes I add a shot of espresso, cuts the sweetness a bit. But it’s a good drink.”

I slurpped up the bottom of the cup with the straw. “Mom always hated that sound, but…”

“But how else are you going to get every last drop!” dad, laughing, finished my thought.

Mercury has Astroglide

General

Yesterday I was anxious, cranky, brittle. I had an idea why, and I did my best to not let it affect me or the people around me, although I may have telegraphed that and might have come close to the line or crossed it one or two times, and I did apologize to them for that. But it was a knot in my chest, a scribbled black cloud in my brain. I couldn’t escape it. I could only acknowledge it and move on.

This morning, I woke up and… that chaos had shifted. I was still janky, I was still anxious. My nerves were dancing like beads of water on a hot skillet. But it was… laughing. The negative scratches in my head had flipped and become positive giggles. What had changed overnight? There’s no way to tell. A manic, must-take-action devil had perched itself on my shoulder, urging me to action.

I channeled that feeling into Doing Projects™.

Before dad moved in my Kona Smoke 2-9 lived downstairs, leaned against the wall in the pathway from living room to kitchen/back door. It was in plain sight but out of the way, unless I needed to put something in the closet it blocked, which was rare. I put nothing important in that closet because it was blocked. QED.

When dad moved in, though, because of his mobility issues, I moved the bike upstairs to my computer room, my office. There wasn’t a good spot for it, so it leaned against my second desk, making that desk essentially useless. I used that desk for drawing and other projects; my computer desk is smaller and only big enough for my computer and the monitors. As long as I can get to the compute desk, things are OK.

Today, the gremlin inside me seized on getting that desk clear and finding a good spot for the bike, one that would be out of the way but still visible, so I don’t forget about it and maybe am encouraged to ride it again. Probably when the summer heat goes away, aye? Also, clearing that desk means when I start working from home I’ll be able to put my work computer there instead of working downstairs on the dining room table, or perched awkwardly on my computer desk.

A hook. I needed a hook, from which to hang the bike. There were a few good locations, a couple in the computer room, one or two downstairs, that would be perfect. Except I needed to make sure any hook I put up would be going into a stud.

My dad has always been handy; men of his generation nearly always were. So I asked him for advice. He suggested that a stud-finder is the best way to do that. So I went to the hardware store with my dad on a Sunday, which is a whole thing. At the store, we bought: the hook, the stud-finder, a replacement three-way LED light bulb for the downstairs lamp, a magnetic knife rack so I can finally get my knives out of the silverware drawer, and a whetstone for the knives.

The project list was a short one but I did every one. The manic pixie dream devil on my shoulder was appeased. Still don’t know where the energy had come from. Mercury must have Astroglide or somethin’.

What do you think about cats?

Joy

I said goodnight to my friends and logged out of 7 Days to Die. From my computer room, I could hear the faint noise of a TV drama playing downstairs. The wall of the stairwell flickered light and dim. I got up, picked up my empty 20 ounce beer can, and went downstairs.

“Hello!” I dragged out the vowels, trying to sound goofy.

Dad sat on the couch, watching TV. He angled his head to his left. His neck, now pinned with steel rods, didn’t have much articulation left. “Helloooo!” he said, mimicking my goofy tone.

“You’re back from the bar?”

“Yeah. I said it was me when I came in but you didn’t hear me.”

I patted his shoulder as I walked behind him; the couch was placed so the path behind it led to the back door and the kitchen. “I was online playing games with Max and Luke. Had my headphones on.”

“Oh.”

In the kitchen, I turned on the water to rinse the can out. There were a bunch of bottles by the sink, mostly glass Mexican Coke bottles. I kept the water running and started rinsing them out. Some of the bottles had a greenish tint to the glass; others appeared clear, at least in my yellowish kitchen light.

Behind me, through the open window between the living area and the kitchen, dad said “There were a lot of women at the bar tonight.” He said it deliberately but not slowly.

I chuckled. “Is that good, or bad?” Dad is an incorrigible flirt, even at 86ish years old.

“Well, that’s good!” Now his tone was bright, cheerful. “There were a couple of ladies in there I’d never seen before. One was a stone cold fox.” His use of old slang made me smile. I felt sentimental. Nostalgic.

I made a new… pile? Stack? What’s the word for a bunch of bottles standing up next to each other? Pile or stack implies verticality; these were horizontally arranged. I could hear dad grunt a little as he levered himself forward and up off the couch. He pointed the remote and turned off the TV, cutting his show off in mid-plot.

I poured a little dish soap on a sponge, and turned the faucet water warm but not hot. I started scrubbing the dishes and untensils in the sink.

Dad walked past me, tapping a cigarette out of a pack. He paused in the kitchen entryway, watching me wash. “I should have taken out the recycling.”

I tsked. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”

“Oh, fuck that. I can pull my own weight.” He opened the back door, and through the kitchen window I saw the flare of orange as he lit up in the dark on my patio.

I carried the bottles, three or four at a time, and dumped them in the recycling bin hung above my washer and dryer, in the closet. I was careful not to open the folding door to that closet too far, or it would prevent the back door from opening up, in case dad finished and wanted to get back in. The clear bottles and the green ones all made the same clinking noise. Yes, the bin was full, but I didn’t want to take it out tonight. That’s a tomorrow job.

That done, I saw dad’s bald head and beard softly glowing in the tobacco ember, outlined by the kitchen light through the window. I leaned against the door frame, watching him.

“What do you think about… cats?”

He again angled his shoulders to point his head at me, cigarette held between two fingers. “I like cats.” His tone of voice was exactly the same as his comment before about women being at the bar. “You, uh.. got a supplier?”

Was that a dirty joke? Or was he just being funny? I smiled. I snorted a short laugh. “I was just thinking, now that I’ve got a stable job, I’d like to have a cat. I think I can take care of it now.” Dammit, a surge of emotion threatened my eyes with tears. This moment. I wanted to remember this moment. I resolved the write it down, soon. “Maybe keep you company during the day, at least while you’re here.”

“Yeah. Cats are cool.” Dad took a drag on his cigarette, then leaned down and rubbed it out against the concrete. Standing back up as straight as his broken back would let him, he burst into a sudden arm-out throw, tossing the butt over the fence into the vacant lot behind the townhouses.

He chuckled, recognizably the same sound I make, the family sarcastic laugh. “Someday someone’s gonna do something with that lot, and they’re going to be pissed at all the butts over there.” As he walked past me back into the house, he didn’t, couldn’t, look up at me. For most of my adult life he’s been taller than me. Not anymore. I don’t think he could see the sad affection in my eyes.

Bar Talk

Portland

I had Google Maps up on my phone, swiping around, trying to find the name of the hill in Southeast Portland dad and I had driven by on the way to the bar. “I don’t think Google has it labeled. Was it Mt. Scott?” I showed the phone to dad, sitting next to me, facing the mirror and the rows of bottles, ripe for the drinking.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” he conceded. “I didn’t realize that it extended all the way to the freeway.”

“I thought the one you were thinking about was more to the east. I guess that’s it.” I put the phone away.

Dad’s head wiggled, a smile on his face. “I have fond memories of it. Your mother and I used to go up there to neck.”

I just shook my head. “Yeah, yeah. That was a long time ago.” I took a sip of my beer, a slightly-not-so-hoppy IPA, perfect for the summer heat outside. Inside, the bar was cool, and dark, lit in orange and red, punctuated by flourescent (not neon, not anymore) and LCD screens.

The music, some pop song I didn’t recognize, pulsed in the background.

Dad sipped his drink, too, lost in memories. I felt a surge of compassion. I was happy to share these moments with him. I’m grateful he’s still around, still telling stories, still a part of my life. The short-term stay while his place was being remodeled had become months, but it was a good thing.

“There was a place out on Foster your mother and I used to go to, with Ray and Carol,” he said. Ray and Carol were from mom’s side of the family; Carol was one of mom’s younger sisters, Ray her husband. Both of them had passed, Ray a long time ago, Carol more recently. There were fewer and fewer of my aunts and uncles, a tale as old as time.

“What kind of place?”

“Oh, they had music, and dancing. Food, bar food.” He swirled his glass. The ice clinked. “It’s probably long gone now.”

“We should go try to find it sometime.” My car wasn’t much, an old beater, but it would still take dad and me out on the backroads of Clackamas County some summer evening.

“It was all open fields and farmland back then. Now it’s… developed.” Dad’s gravely voice dropped an extra octave in disdain, turning that final word into a curse.

I sang, “Houses made of ticky-tack, and they all look just the same!” I laughed. “You taught me that song.”

“I did! I can’t remember where I learned it. Probably some commercial jingle.”

“Those damned commercials sure get stuck in our brains. What else d’you got in there?” I squinted at him.

His face, rough, lined, skin a bit loose on his skull, eyebrows bushy over pale blue eyes, turned toward me from the shoulders. He had to look left and right like Batman since they put the metal rods in his spine. “I still have my mind. It’s the body that’s kinda falling apart.”

I have won the week

TV

My 85+ year old dad, who has been staying with me while his apartment gets asbestos remediation, watches a lot of TV. In the nearly three months he’s been here (insurance has been dragging their feet, don’t ask) he’s probably watched more TV and movies than I have in the prior five years I’ve lived here alone.

His tastes tend to run to action thrillers, spies and snipers and bounty hunters and cops and firefighters, although sometimes he branches out to simple comedies or family drama. He absolutely does not like sci-fi, fantasy, or superheroes, though, despite them being action-y spectacles. He’ll watch them if I put one on, but it’s not his favorite.

Because our tastes don’t always align, I don’t often make recommendations for him. Probably my biggest win in that area was putting him on to Hacks, on HBO Max, with Jean Smart. He loved it and is now recommending it to other people, too. If you like old cranky people and young smart-asses, you’ll love it, too. And that’s the biggest reason I thought my dad would love it, which he did.

Tonight, I went downstairs and he was doing the scroll-to-find-something-new and he had stopped on a comedy.

“Are you looking for a comedy to watch, dad?”

“Yeah, I thought I was in the mood for something funny.”

He was on Hulu. I laughed. “What do you think about… vampires?”

“Oh, I don’t like those horror things, blood and guts don’t do anything for me.”

I laughed again, leaned in close, put my hand on his shoulder. “What do you think about… funny vampires?”

He arched his eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Funny, sexy vampires, in fact.” I motioned for the remote, and scrolled through to the search, typed in “what we do…” and clicked the top result. “Oh, and it’s kinda-sorta British humor. Well, New Zealand, which is close.”

“What We Do In The Shadows?” dad asked.

“Yes. Just give it one episode. Watch the pilot, and if it’s not your cup of tea, you can go looking for something else, no strings attached.” I hit Play. “One episode, that’s all I ask.” I watched as Guillermo introduced himself to the camera and chuckled, then went back upstairs.

It is very much not like what dad normally watches. It’s weird. But it’s raunchy, and funny, and it’s one of the most amazing TV shows out there. It’s a Top 10 show for me, clearly.

Upstairs I texted my sister to give her the update. She loves this show, too. Her immediate response: “Keep me in this loop please!”

Just about a half hour later, i went back downstairs. On screen, Nandor, Laszlo, and Nadja were floating in the air outside a window, where inside some cosplayers were arguing. Guillermo said something, and Nandor hissed at him. “Please, Guillermo, you’ll frighten the virgins!”

Dad chuckled.

“Well you made it to episode two!” I said.

“Yeah, it’s OK,” dad said.

He was hooked. Nothing could have made me happier.

Expiration dates

Daily Story Project

Walked downstairs this evening to find dad in the kitchen unsealing a gallon bottle of Herdez green salsa, using his pocket knife to cut away the seal around the mouth.

“Oh,” I said, “did we run out of green salsa?”

“No but I saw this in the back of the fridge and figured we might as well use it.”

I frowned, pinching my eyebrows together. “I don’t know that I would trust that salsa, dad.”

“Why not?” he said. “What’s in here that would go bad?” He gestured at the bottle. I could tell my reaction to this was confusing to him.

“What’s the expiration date?” I picked up the bottle and turned it around. The label had printed on it “Good until May 2024”. I read that out loud, added “So it was good until last month. I probably bought it a year ago.”

“Well, Hell, I’m sure it’s still good.”

“OK. Let me know how that goes.” I was sure I bought it at least a year ago, long before he’d moved in. And then promptly forgot about it, because it was hidden away in the very back of my fridge, on a lower shelf, out of sight, out of mind. When I did accidentally see it in the intervening months, I felt a shiver of shame for having not used it at all, and then to avoid that bad feeling, had immediately put it out of my mind again.

Such is the weird way my brain works. I don’t have an official test or diagnosis, but from all I’ve read, this is basically ADHD, or at least something very much like it.

I went in the fridge and got a bottle of Mexican Coke out of the bin. “There’s so much food in there.”

Dad’s voice was both encouraging and tinged with fatherly concern. “Yeah, we should use it up. Hell, we have that whole package of chimichangas in there we haven’t even opened yet! That’s what I’m making for myself.”

“Yeah.” The guilt for buying food, ignoring it, and having to throw it out when it goes bad felt like a cold stone sitting in the bottom of my stomach, the cold radiating up my chest and back. I know I should eat the stuff I buy, I know I shouldn’t buy more food when there’s food still to eat. But that’s also why I tend to buy either canned goods or frozen foods, things that will keep a very long time. I know that if I don’t see it, I’ll forget about it until somethind reminds me.

If dad wasn’t here and I was buying food for myself, I would not buy nearly as much, for exactly this reason. I don’t like it when food goes bad. So I don’t buy it, then when I get hungry, I buy something from a fast food restaurant, something immediate, delicious, and expensive. Another bad habit.

I went out for a walk after that, putting on my trail shoes and wearing my coat because it’s been so rainy lately. When I got back, I made myself a pastrami sandwich, using the tomatoes, onion, and lettuce that had not yet gone bad, and opening up the new loaf of bread we had gotten, what, two grocery trips ago? No mold on the bread.

Might as well use it up.