I’m supposed to be working

My dad is really funny.  Last night, he sent me an e-mail that made me think maybe he’d been mixing his medications in the wrong order.  It started off with: Okay, I’m just not sure if you heard correctly, decided to ignore the question, or are ticked off.  I sent him a message pointing out that he needs to include the question for me to hear it, ignore it or get ticked off by it.

This morning, I woke up to this: I thought that the initial part of the conversation was predictable.  So I just skipped it.
Perhaps we’ll just skip to the last part where you look at me and say, “Okay, if that is what you really want.  You’re really pushing it!”   And I say, “You’ve made both of us happy.”

When you’re choosing your parents, don’t choose a psychologist who actually knows how to use psychology on you.  Either that, or move out of the house by the time you’re four years old so they don’t get a chance to know you very well.

Apparently, he’s concerned about my lack of hearing aids.  He thought I wasn’t getting new ones for financial reasons (the part that would make them both very happy is paying for new ones).  I had a good time telling him it’s because my hearing levels are at a point where hearing aids just don’t work anymore.

I don’t mind going deaf.  It’s a good excuse to avoid dark, crowded, noisy places (a.k.a. parties) and people who annoy me (“Sorry, you’re just too hard to understand.”)  You can just add it to the list of things in my world.  While I wouldn’t go deaf voluntarily, I do understand those people who refuse to get cochlear implants and such things because the deafness is just part of who they are.

I’m learning sign language (am absolutely fluent in words which I’m not allowed to use on any regular basis).  I compensate by reading lips, and putting all the sound through the right side of my headphones.  I will get hearing aids if they work.  But… I’m getting old and cantankerous, and am not much into accommodating people anymore.  If you want to talk to me, look at me; if you don’t want to look at me, you probably don’t really want to talk to me.  My lungs have not been affected at all, so if I want to talk to you I’ll just yell at you.  Or, maybe write to you.

I’m going to see my parents this weekend.  Me an’ my dad are going to have sign language classes.  Then we’re going to clean out his storage closet ’cause I don’t want him to leave that for us to do after he dies.  If there’s something on this earth which be worthy of a blog, it’s my dad’s storage closet.

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