Congratulations
Hey, so I M staying @ Gramps an' Iris's place this weekend.
It seems that after Mike left from his recent visit, Gramps felt all bad abt not being able 2 say "Congratulations" 2 Mike abt having the book published, and he wanted 2 try writing it down. He cdn't get his right hand 2 do it, so he was trying his left. Iris saw him struggling w/something that began w/"C" and assumed he was trying to ask her 4 sumthing. So she tried guessing: "Coffee? Cold? U want a cushion?" And Gramps was all, "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Then Iris was, like, "I'm doing my best. If U're trying 2 confuse me, then congratulations!" Then, Gramps yelled, "YESSS!" And he grabbed Iris, giving her a great big hug." And she sez she thot, "They call this condition 'aphasia.' It should be called 'confuse-ya.'" Yeah, I don't think that'd ever make it as a medical term.
NEway, the reason I know all this abt what Gramps was thinking is that I got him 2 type it out on their computer. It's a bit slow going for him, but he can type out the words a letter @ a time, all hunt-an'-peck. Iris was like, "Y didn't U just do that 2 write 'Congratulations'?" And Gramps just kinda rolled his eyez and didn't try 2 answer. My theory is that he didn't really wanna congratul8 Mike, but there cd B sum other reason. I seem 2 remember sumthing abt Mom saying a handwritten note is "personal" and "heartfelt," as opposed to computer-written B-ing "cold" and "not thoughtful." I think aphasia counts as a good xxception 2 Mom's dumb rulez abt these things, but mayB Gramps was afraid she wdn't think so.
Apes
Labels: Gramps, Iris, Mike, Mike's literary pretensions
posted by April Patterson @ 7:50 AM
3 Comments:
At 10:06 AM,
Anonymous said…
April,
Little sis. I was quite touched my grandpa wanted to say “Congratulations” to me before I left, but couldn’t due to his condition. I thought he was just “pumped” about my book’s success; but a congratulations would have added so much more to the conversation. I might have gotten the idea if he had taken my hand and shook it after pointing to a picture of a book, or if he had given me a big hug when I left. Instead he chose to sit at his kitchen table, in front of a piece of paper, and stare off into space. It was the look of a man getting ready to write, and I assumed (incorrectly it appears) that he was planning to write his own book and was trying to get an idea. Little did I know, his intent was to contemplate how to write the word “congratulations”. Nevertheless, I am touched that was his intent.
I can also say that if Iris made a pun as bad as "They call this condition 'aphasia.' It should be called 'confuse-ya.'" I am quite relieved she limited that pun to her thoughts and didn’t express it in front of Grandpa Jim. He is used to a much higher level of punning, being a member of our family. While you're there, I am sure you can give Grandpa Jim a few Patterson-level puns to cheer him up.
Love,
Michael Patterson
At 3:30 PM,
April Patterson said…
unlike the rest of the fam, gramps actually understands that i'm not in2 puns an' doesn't try 2 change me. he accepts me 4 me.
apes
At 3:20 AM,
Anonymous said…
April,
Little sis. I have some advice for you, which will serve you well for years to come, if you can follow it: Don’t trust the French. I was reminded of this good advice recently when I, myself, failed to follow it. I will tell you what happened.
I had been busying myself writing press releases to publicize my news of getting someone to publish my book. I think I had gotten up to the Chinese Free Press, when mom came into the room and said, “Michael, dear. Valentine’s Day is coming up. Don’t you think you should be out buying something for the one you love?” My initial thought was “But I already got a contract to publish my book. What more do I need?” Then I realized mom must have been talking about Deanna. She said, “After all, Michael. You did forget Valentine’s Day last year.” This was true. Actually, anyone who has carefully observed my Valentine’s Day buying habits would realize I have never bought anything for Deanna. I remember back to the first February of my married life, when my lovely wife, the pharmacist announced that due to mishandling her birth control pills, she was pregnant with our daughter and my plans to go into business freelancing with Josef Weeder were ended before they even got started. I have always assumed the gift I gave Deanna that February would keep me out of candy stores and flower shoppes for the rest of my life. But as I looked at mom, standing in the room practically dancing at the prospect of a Valentine’s Day present, I realized she was right. My book contract spells a new era in my life, an era where I can forgive the past and spend money on an otherwise useless holiday. I told mom I would go Valentine’s Day shopping and she started leaping up and down for joy.
I walked to downtown Milborough, and I saw a shoppe there called La Petite Boutique. The awning and the interiour reminded me a lot of a boutique I saw one time when I was in North Bay called From the Heart Flower Boutique. In the display window was an interesting array of heart-decorated mirrors, Gypsy bustiers, tables, tea pots, toy trains, mime dolls, stuffed farmer bears, pendants, and boxed candy. I was entranced and I completely forgot the advice Anthony Caine had so solemnly given me about the French, and walked into the boutique.
Inside was an even more eclectic mix of objects. Valentine’s Day hand towels mounted into the wall next to the door, a champagne glass with heart-shaped swizzle sticks, a stuffed bear in red and white stripes, and a table cloth design which virtually guaranteed it would only be used with a small, round table due to its placement of heart shapes around the edge of the table. I also marveled at the round shape to the window on the front door, which had to be an extremely inefficient design for someone trying to observe people coming in their shoppe.
Inside the shoppe was a woman in a pull-over sweater, sitting in and amongst the array of Valentine’s Day items, arranging a single flower in a vase (which in retrospect should have given me the clue she was French, even though she didn’t speak it). She said, “May I help you, sir?” My plan was to spend as little time in the store as possible, buy my one item, and then leave. So, I foolishly thought if I mentioned this to the lady running the boutique, she would find me a gift for Deanna, and then get it for me and I would be on my way. So, I said, “Yes…I’d like to get a Valentine’s Day Gift for my wife.”
I was quite surprised when she didn’t immediately hand me a gift, but instead said, “What about your mother!?” The fact she used the exclamation point first before the question mark, made me wonder if her sentence was statement and not a question. I thought, “Question or statement, it doesn’t matter. What mattered was she wants me to get a Valentine’s Day gift for mom. I considered it. After all, if Deanna got a Valentine’s Day gift, but dad neglected to get one for mom (as he has come close to doing on many occasions), then the jealousy between mom and Deanna in close quarters would be too much to bear. So I responded, “Yeah, right…We’re living with my mom right now…and I have two sisters!”
I know the reference to two sisters probably confuses you. I thought of getting you both something, so you would not feel left out, if your boyfriend Gerald paid you as much attention as I have observed you lately getting, and you got nothing; while Deanna and mom got something. But then I reasoned, if I got Elizabeth something in her current mental (lack of a boyfriend) state, she could easily snap and attempt suicide from death by chocolate or the sharp edge of a candy box. On the other hand, I couldn’t leave her out for fear of you two continuing your vicious sister rivalry, so I decided to include you both.
But then I remembered how my daughter has started imitating Elizabeth and saying things like, “With no love from any boyfriend, all a woman can do is wait for her Prince Charming to come and shower her with puns and music.” I couldn’t give Elizabeth something and leave my daughter out. That would give her the wrong impression of love.
So I said, “Oh…and a young daughter.”
The saleslady went black and grabbed the flower vase at such angle to my body the message could not be clearer. The flower vase symbolized exactly how she had her grip on my…I mean a grip on me. She said, “You’re looking for five gifts!”
With her grip on the vase as it was, I knew I had to make my list longer, just to show her it was longer than a mere 5 gifts. So I said, “That means I’d be leaving out my son and my father.” This would mean 7 gifts, which is much more impressive. I think the average is 6 ½ gifts, so I was slightly above average in my gift length.
But the French woman was still not satisfied. Clearly the size of the gift list mattered to her more than the quality or technique of the gift list, and she suggested, “And your wife’s parents?” The prospect of giving Valentine’s Day presents to Mira and Wilf Sobinski was sheer torture. However, seeing her arrange and manipulate the 9 tiny, pink, heart-decorated gift packages so that they formed a long line of pinkness with a head formed from making a second row for 2 of the bags; I was strangely moved. Then she suggested, “You’ll need gift tags with these!” I said, “Really?” I looked at the bags and they seemed unprotected. I was uncertain, until the saleslady leaned forward and part of her anatomy was dangling perilously close to my gift bags so I agreed to the protection by saying, “Um…OK.”
Then the saleslady placed the gift tags on the gift bags and put the gift bags into larger plain white gift bags so no one could tell they concealed the 9 pink gift bags. I paid for the purchase and she handed them to me. As I left she said, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” It didn’t feel like Valentine’s Day to me, since I don’t give anything for that day. It felt more like Christmas, since that is the holiday where I actually give gifts. Technically, Deanna gets them; but you know what I mean.
I had been completely duped by the French. If only I had not gone in that store, I might have found something some other place, where the saleslady doesn’t grip a long vase in front of you or manipulate your packages to bend you to her will.
Remember, little sis: Don’t trust the French.
Love,
Michael Patterson
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