Dad

All posts tagged Dad

What’s Your Budget?

Published July 19, 2019 by helentastic67

 

What’s Your Budget?

This might be one of my most hated questions. Particularly now when I don’t work and have little or no ability to increase the cash-flow coming in. I think I hate it more than the ‘What have you done to your arm?’ (because I’m so immune to that one now)

When I recently went to Freedom Furniture to assess the new couch scenario and the younger gay guy asked me my budget. I’ve never worked within a budget as such. I’m more of a I need this (XYZ) it costs (XYZ) how do I make this happen? What do I love without? Can I save for it? Or lay-by it?

On the upside, I’m not an idiot, I will not do that financial trap of “Buy now and don’t pay any interest, pay it off over the next five years.”

No. No. No. Abort. Abort. Never. Never.

So, my answer to the salesperson was; any amount I can realistically ask from my father without him having a stroke.

So he walked me over to the cheaper end of the showroom. Hey! I’ve got this arm already, great. That’s rather telling isn’t it?

I should mention I upgraded my arm when I had some one-off funding and getting a two-seater with a chase haunt in the hot summer days, it was long enough for me to lie down on in the lounge with the AC on, so I could sleep.

These days, living in an apartment now, I have two bedrooms. I could live without a spare bedroom since I don’t often have guests anymore, but I couldn’t live without my study.

The definition of a study if based on my study is ‘a room for a desk, bookcase, filing cabinets and where things get stored.

So, these days if guests stay, they sleep on my couch and that definitely seems it’s got to be wide and long enough to be comfortable.

 

Dad

Published July 15, 2019 by helentastic67

Dad

I rang my dad last week. Oh? You may wonder where this is going. It’s not going anywhere you imagine. Just trust me.

I rang him, he never rings me. He is my Italian parent, if you recall and it is fifty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

The first five minutes he starts with ‘oh, I don’t know if you know/I don’t know if I told you?’ and I have to be rude and interrupt him to remind him, I saw him at Christmas and he has Sciatica and his left leg hurts.

Yes. Then he’s confused and surprised I am aware. A bit of extra information re my Pa, is that he was a builder all his life, he retired a little early, due to having bowel cancer. Don’t stress, he had chemo and radiation, he beat it.

NOT COMPLAINING

Then he got/had bladder cancer. (at least he is consistent, same are of the body) and he’s beaten that (again not complaining).

While he hasn’t got dementia, he is seventy-years old, I think undiagnosed, he may have had a series of heart attacks and strokes or just a bit of ‘brain-faze’ from all his treatments. Relax, he’s cancer free.

In reality, with his very serious dedication to smoking, cancer may eventually be his downfall, but he will not go down without a fight. But right now, he’s doing everything he can to complain about everything and not listen to anything I have to say to help.

Anyway, I digress, he then went into a rant about he would do anything to not have to use a walking stick to get around and how hard it is when half your body doesn’t work.

Oh my God, when he uttered those words and he could not be interrupted because he was not done. So, if you can’t feel my eyeroll and if I’d been there, he would have received a sever bitch slap (or a back hander).

He was so severely oblivious to who had had just made that comment to, I decided to give him one of my classic Helen lines.

“Shut the fuck up”

He actually stopped talking (I was impressed). Now, you may think that is the rudest thing and completely disrespectful to speak to one’s father that way. But, however, I will say that to my mother and she does. So, I should be able to say it to my father.

I love both my parents; I just love them differently and I deal with them both as sternly as they each need and can take.

Honestly, I am much tougher with my mum because if I don’t pull her into line no one will and on somethings she will never change, so I’ve learned to let it go. I guess I’ve learned to choose my battles there also.

Ah, the fifty minutes I said I’d never get back, yes! My father, at 70 decided to get a smart phone! His first smart phone and likely his first taste of the internet!

And I proceeded to help-desk him through how to use his search engine! “Dad, just put your finger in the white bar up the top!” And he grumbles the (and I stress) “typewriter” has gone away!” God help me! “Just tap in the white bar dad and the keyboard will appear!”

And fifty fucking minutes later! KMKMKMKM!!!!!!!(Kill Me!) That was the fifty fucking minutes of my life I will never get back! And I’m not even the Samsung daughter! I’m the Apple daughter!

 

And hit Like!

 

Home

Published September 22, 2017 by helentastic67

Home

Home

Is where the heart is, right? My parents built the home I grew up in from the age of about 5. (better first check that)

My bedroom had a window on the side of the house so the only view I had was of a fence. When the men next door worked on their cars in the driveway after hours with the lights on, late into the evening.

The house was built in the 70’s and my parents never did any major renovations, so to this day the kitchen still has its orange (sorry, mum, Mordarine) bench tops, its brown cupboards and orange spaceship lights.

 

70's Kitchen

Space light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They seemed to make them to last back then, right? But anyway, I digress, I moved out of home and to Melbourne when I was 19 years old, to study. This is probably when it seemed to be my home. It was a base, sure and my teenager “stuff” remained here, but it wasn’t really my home any longer.

When I was about 23 years old, my parents finally divorced. I say ‘finally’ because from about 12 years old, I knew it was imminent.

In the late 90’s (me in my late 20’s) I lived with my mum and younger sister (then 13) for 2 years, but while her house feels like a home, it doesn’t feel like my home.

It definitely feels like their home and when my dad had a thing for moving “stuff” around inside his house, much of my important childhood “stuff” migrated to my mum’s.

Every rare visit to both my mum’s home and my childhood home brings up different emotional ‘traumas’!

A visit to my mum’s, some 3 ½ hours north from Melbourne, upon arrival, as soon as you open the car door, a whiff of fresh country air, with a subtle pine and burning wood fireplace smell takes me back and refreshes me.

Melb to Wangaratta

I was quite isolated and depressed when I lived there for 2 years.

But my dad’s house, doesn’t feel like a home. Over the 20 years, its felt like the ‘life’ left.

The good furniture is still there, the wall units in dark timber is still there, the timber chest in the billiard room that housed the stamp collection, the roll-timber desk and of course the beautiful pool table. (I call dibs)

Wall unit

Op shop finds have sprung up and taken root (or even stored) for some insane reason, where it’s not needed or used. Dad’s house seems strange, like time stood still, I got bigger, but ironically, when I’ve spent a rare night there as I did last October, when I went to my 25th High School Reunion. Kitchen cupboards, the laundry sliding door, they still sound the same. Like it’s been frozen in time.

My father did move on and found another relationship (weirdly with someone 20 years older) so he has kind of aged in a strange way, if you know what I mean. She has never taken up residence there and they maintain they are ‘friends’, although I suspect he has helped her financially.

Romantically mum never moved on and was busy being a single parent to my younger sister and didn’t make time to meet anybody.

While I’ve moved so many times in the last 25 years, my mum has called me a gypsy. I have desperately wanted my own home, where I never had to move again. A place I could renovate, plant trees in soil and put down roots.

Gypsy

My father in the last 10 years, while I’ve had my disability, has retired, slightly early to deal with bowel cancer, then bladder cancer. He has beaten both, a little worse for wear, but winning all the same and earlier this year he decided to sell his house. Not to downside, but for financial reasons he has upsized.

So, his house sold and the new house is not yet built and he’s renting for maybe 9 months in between. He’s not even renting far from the home I grew up in. He’s moving from 30 to 1/22, I know, insane!

I’m not sure how I am meant to feel about this. It has certainly bought up much emotional trauma for my mum who has clearly felt short changed for the last 25 years, since her divorce. I know, I’ve heard all about it, but while I feel a little sad, I don’t feel like I’m losing anything. If that make sense?

 

New home

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