Baby Cheetahs

The family visited Bob's house today. While there, my brother Drew notices a recently-framed picture on the mantle amongst pictures of family members. As Drew picks it up, he laughs hysterically, "Why do you have a Richmond Times-Dispatch newspaper clipping of baby cheetahs framed on the mantle?" "I thought the cheetahs were cute, so I went out and bought a frame for them." You just can't make this stuff up. In fact, here it is: Cheetah Picture

Neck Problems

Advanced age does not come without its problems. For Bob, it is restricted neck movement. If this were a normal situation, it would be a major nuisance for Bob only because in order to see anything in his periphery, his entire body needs to turn and face it. Of course, if you know anything by this point, you know that this is not a normal situation. My brother Drew told me that while eating with him at Chick-Fila, a 30-something-year-old catches Bob’s eye at a nearby table (with her children). Since the occasional glance is impossible, Bob ‘subtly’ turns his entire body in a position where he could stare at her from about 8-10 feet away as long as he wanted and still eat his sandwich. As expected, she notices along with a handful of other patrons. Mortified, Drew urges him, “Stop staring.” Bob, without breaking his gaze, but very audibly, “I’m not staring.” “I’m facing the side of your body, you are staring!” “How old do you think she is?” “I’m leaving.”

Honky Tonk

Some people my age spend their weekend nights on the town. Me? I’m at Bob’s house. Here’s why: The closest we have ever come to full-out party mode was for about 4 minutes tonight. Bob flips the TV to the Country Music Channel where they are playing recent music videos. So there we are. Me with my pretzel goldfish on the couch, and he with his bag of chips that has been in the house longer than US troops have been in Afghanistan. Together we listen to Trace Atkins’ hit single “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” on volume 92, as the television gyrates on the wall. The lucidity of the big-screen periodically lighting up my grimacing face in the dark room. And you know what? I’m still enjoying it more than most clubs.

Packed Schedule

I get in to Bob's at 4:20 in the afternoon on Wednesday. He is sleeping on the coach, but wakes up when I open the door. "What did you do today?" Bob sheepishly chuckles, knowing it is just wrong: "I... ate breakfast, and then I folded my clothes. Two things." He senses my silent judgement, "I'm retired!" "You're a notch above comatose is what you are." "And now I'm having a conversation with you. Three things."

The Bob Plant

Two years ago when I was initially living with Bob, the potted plant life in his house was wholly neglected, but not desperate. In 2013, it has skipped desperation and gone to terrifying. Case and point: the Bob Plant (pictured below). Pushing forth green and yellow limbs in a hellish display of raw existence, the Bob Plant has found a way to survive without water for 5 years (2008 was my grandmothers' passing). Unless the Midlothian Fire Dept. intervenes, the Bob Plant could become a real problem in the Salisbury community. We can speculate all we want; I do know the Bob Plant is as visibly angry as it is thirsty, and I am scared.

In-Family Racism

So, I moved back in with Bob today after two years of being away. One of the first things I noticed upon entering the house was his refrigerator. There were two baby pictures in particular that caught my attention. I asked him why he had them up. He replied, "I like those baby pictures of Mia." The only problem: they are not baby pictures of his 11 year old adopted granddaughter and my sister. They are pictures of a random baby of Asian heritage. Nothing like a little in-family racism to get the summer started right.