While I was enjoying my friends’ visit last week, I received regular reports, complete with photos, from the beach contingent–Dearly Beloved and his sidekick, Miss Piggy. Phone calls, e-mails, and oh, I mustn’t forget the videos of his golf swing that he e-mailed regularly… although I’ll certainly try.
Good Egg Son made the first videos when he spent several days there with his dad. I enjoyed hearing the father/son conversation in the background, so I actually watched those.
Remember the old, old golf video I fed-exed to him so that he could compare his now and then swings? No good deed goes unpunished; he has been sending me little clips from the tape, worse than ever because he’s videoing them as he watches the tape on television. He figures he has about 90 of them to share. Send your requests directly to him.
Perhaps he believes there is a precedent. Our Indiana daughter supplies her dad with videos of her sons’ basketball games, much to his delight. He loves seeing the grandsons play, so daughter Boo patiently records the game in spurts with her iPhone and sends them to Granddad. I’m talking 30 videos or more per game and he watches every one of them, often more than once, completely enthralled. Perhaps he thinks I feel the same way about the golf videos. (Boo has a video camera, but doesn’t want to watch through a lens, so she holds up her phone and records it that way. Makes sense to me.)
Unfortunately, DB learned to record his own swing after Good Egg Son returned to Virginia. The decline in quality of the videos was nothing compared to his diet once he was left alone. No more seafood dinners out, since he doesn’t enjoy eating out by himself–too much of that during his business travel years. He detests grocery shopping and resists any suggestion of meal preparation which might involve complicated procedures like thawing or mixing. That leaves meals which range between strange and truly bizarre.
Yesterday, having gone through all the spaghetti and marinara sauce in the pantry, he ordered a takeout tuna fish sandwich from the grill at the golf course. He thought nothing strange when they handed him two boxes, assuming it was a large sandwich and they’d put each half in a different box. He stuck them in the refrigerator when he returned to the house. Later, he removed the top box and ate the tuna fish sandwich it contained. Since the whole sandwich was there, he wondered about the contents of the other box.
Four grilled wieners… just that–no bun, no chips. Four grilled wieners.
They certainly wouldn’t want them back, so he decided that he’d have a couple for dinner, maybe even share a bite with Miss Piggy. The hot dogs and a can of vegetarian baked beans would be delicious, he told me on the phone. He asked what would be the best way to reheat the wieners.
“Microwave,” I told him. He didn’t ask and, not wanting to insult his intelligence, I didn’t offer any more information.
Later, he called to tell me that my advice had not produced a satisfactory result. The wieners shrunk, split, and shriveled. He ate them anyway, of course.
I was baffled.
“How long did you cook them?” I asked.
“I don’t know…. I just cooked them the same way I cook everything in the microwave,” he told me.
“And how is that?” I asked.