So we went to Lake Charles two days ago. I hadn’t been there in close to two decades. Last time was my first visit to Louisiana after Pawpaw Calvin died and I went to see Aunt Norma. I have never spent enough time there to have any sense of the layout of the city — I have a vague outline of Lafayette in my head, by contrast.
Accordingly, we did go to Golden Corral, since I had no idea where else we could potentially go. I have to say the building looks much nicer than any of the GCs I ever visited in Columbus, though they all seem to currently be closed with the possible exception of one in Whitehall and you never know, they might be getting renovated soon. Anyway. Dad’s stated reason for liking GC doesn’t really resonate with me. There were fewer food options here, it seemed to me, than there were at the one I’d most often been to in Columbus, and most of what there was did not particularly interest me. I did like the fried chicken. I don’t know what they bread theirs with but it is nicely crispy and nicely flavored and not excessive.
I did not get dessert there. I asked for a Sonic milkshake instead. They have been flogging their peanut butter and bacon flavor combo for shakes and burgers for weeks and I thought, Really? but although peanut butter on a burger does not appeal to me, the shake sounded really good. I got a small one to be on the safe side. If I ever do that again I’ll probably get the kid size, but it wasn’t too bad in terms of effects on me. And that’s my fucking birthday cake, almost a month late. Sorted.
(It is no one’s fault that my birthday stuff was late. It’s not like anyone owes it to me anyway, and life just happens. I’m just saying, it was late. Statement of fact.)
A note: Sonic needs to have a peanut butter and banana shake with bacon bits in it. Call it the King Shake. Hahaha.
Dad’s doctor visit went okay. I am confused why the guy who opened his head in the hospital works out of an orthopedics office, and forgot to ask what his specialty is. I’m guessing that when they have what I’ll call a mechanical situation afoot with the inside of someone’s noggin and not something that started with the brain itself misfiring, an orthopedist might be appropriate? Or maybe that practice has a few neurologists on staff because when one is having bone issues, often one has nervous system issues too? No idea.
In any case, he says the blood they had been seeing on Dad’s brain has receded a LOT and his brain has expanded back out to fill most of the space the blood had taken up. Excellent news. I then had to watch my father lie to his doctor about having quit drinking, but other than that he doesn’t have to go back and he’s pretty happy about it.
Know how I know? Well, we went to Sam’s after the doctor’s office to pick up supplies for the house and then after we got home, we went back out to Lyon’s and Walmart for a few other things and the whole damn way he was talking my ear off. Dad is usually quiet on car rides. Might occasionally think of something to discuss briefly or make a passing remark but there’s no conversation to speak of. He was positively garrulous this time — this after a long day with NO NAP. This man naps at least twice in daylight hours normally, but we went sunrise to past sunset and he was awake the whole time. And talking my ear off. Me nervous the whole time because most of that trip is 55mph, my headlights aren’t bright enough (I go around with my brights constantly on at night — you can’t tell anymore with all these fucking SUVS and their bright-ass headlights everywhere), it was darker outside than I’m used to (no more city lights), and I was trying to focus. But we got through it pretty well.
So anyway, one of the things Dad got was seafood for a fish fry yesterday. I probably should have taken serving sizes more in hand. If I let him, he will fry a ridiculous amount of food and then I make myself half sick trying to keep up. That sort of happened this time too. I did not feel at all well when I went to bed last night. I have a feeling that if I’d tested my blood sugar I would not have liked my number. But I had been thinking for a while that I might be low on zinc, and one of the seafoods he fried was oyster, so I figure I’m sorted for a little while.
I also made potato salad for the first time in my life yesterday. Dad’s is very simple because he doesn’t like onions nor quite a few of the other things people put in potato salads. The kind I grew up with was just like his, omitting onions but Reba would add pickle relish. Dad likes pickles so I’m not sure why he leaves the relish out now. I don’t so I’m happy enough about that, I suppose. Anyway, I followed his directions and basically tasted as I went because I don’t think he uses specific amounts and by the time I was assembling the salad, he’d fallen asleep (another nap) and I wasn’t going to wake him to ask. I got it to where I figured it was close enough, put it in its container, and stuck it in the fridge and hoped for the best.
So today he pops his head in my bedroom doorway and goes, “You know that potato salad? Yeah… it’s not good.”
“Really?” I said, guessing what was coming.
“It’s delicious.” Figured. And I was pleasantly surprised.
I may tweak it here and there if I make it again, depending on how much of a spice collection we might have assembled by that point. I don’t remember him adding black pepper, for instance, and I did that this time. The freshly-ground stuff, not the shaker. I thought it’d be nice. No complaints from him there. If I add something like onion or garlic powder next time though, I’ll have to be careful. Too much and he’ll notice and be annoyed. But at some point, if I ever have my own kitchen again and if I’m still eating fucking potatoes at that point, I might try adding paprika. It will be like deviled eggs, but with potato added.
Or actually, for now, I might split the salad into two containers and just add paprika to one. I know for a fact I will like it, and he can try it if he wants, and at least I won’t wreck the entire thing if he doesn’t like it. He’ll have his own.
It’s Gumbo Day (it’s raining… again), hence the potato salad. The whole time I was growing up I don’t remember us having potato salad with gumbo but for some reason, he’s fixated on that now. It might be something he forgot about for a long time and then got reminded once he was living here again. Or I’m misremembering, because we had potato salad plenty of times when I was a kid and, statistically speaking, you’d think we’d have had it with gumbo at least once. I’ll have to ask Reba.
Dad made a crack the other day about how I could bring a boyfriend over and we could make a fire in the firepit and sit outside around it. I have no idea why he would even say that. I mean he can see me as clearly as any other man can and do I even look like girlfriend material? Hell no. I didn’t say anything in response. There’s no point. He is not what I would call in extreme mental decline but he doesn’t always remember conversations and anyway, if I told him I’m not interested in looking he’d be like “but who is supposed to take care of you when I’m gone” because based on other conversations we’ve had, he has zero faith that I’ll support myself if he’s not here, and I suppose that lack of faith is not entirely unjustified. But we’ve seen what happens when I hitch myself to some guy’s wagon. I go crazy in the traces and chew myself loose, or the man drives drunk and wrecks the wagon. I just am not interested in that sort of thing anymore. It isn’t “being asexual,” which people can’t be anyway — that word is being misused now. It is simply being fed up with making the same mistake over and over again and expecting a different outcome. I am not in fact insane, so let’s stop doing that. He’d have to be fucking exceptional before I would take a chance on a guy again.
And Scottish. Scottish would help a lot.
Won’t happen, but definitely on the wish list.
I also need to be self-supporting before I even think about looking. Because that’s part of the repeating the same shit over and over again, otherwise. If some guy sees me as a charity case in any way, shape, or form, I will move from the “potential wife” category to the “personal whore” category and he’ll never take me seriously as a human being. It is what it is. I don’t want a guy who thinks like that in the first place, but if they want your ass badly enough and you tell them the boundary ahead of time they’ll just lie to get into your pants. So I might as well adjust my situation rather than hope he’ll act from right principles. Is that manipulation? Of course it is. It’s also fucking necessary in this case. What the fuck ever. The other aspect of this is at least it’s a win-win manipulation situation. I’ll be better off and I’ll appeal to his better nature. If anyone has a problem with that, y’all just have problems, period. I can’t help you.
And before all that I need to make sure the equipment isn’t about to kill me. My primary care provider (PCP) change came through and I got my new card in the mail. So I will be calling this week to set up a new patient visit. I also got my dental cards and I’m two years overdue for that. Let’s fucking roll.
If you were wondering about my uterus, and you weren’t, that’s still going on. Not heavy, but not just spotting either. For the whole fucking month. I think it has been a literal month now. I have no idea if I’m about to start my Three-Day Hell Streak, either.
I am about to start dealing with this but have to decide on a plan of attack. I have to job-hunt, but I have to deal with Three-Day-Hell which is incompatible with the sorts of employers who might condescend to hire me for shit wages. Shit wages always mean insufficient restroom breaks. Always. They also mean no time off in the first few months for proper surgery recovery. Which will probably mean I need to start out with some sort of hormonal intervention. I may be following my daughter’s lead (she stopped her periods because she kept having a personal issue that her periods seemed to be aggravating — I hope that’s the only reason, anyway) and stopping my periods for a bit. Not menopause. Just playing with the hormones for a certain outcome. I don’t want to do it but it seems the most realistic of my options right now. Even a hysterectomy would fuck things up for me on multiple levels.
But we’ll see what the doc (or actually nurse practitioner) says. I have a feeling they’ll agree with my plan of attack but who knows. People will surprise you. You won’t always like it.
Okay. I’mma go eat gumbo. Later, gators.
(Who the fuck is reading this, anyway?)
(Don’t answer that.)