parents – Linda M. Au

Today I taught my parents… (Part 4)

Last time on “Today I Taught My Parents,” we saw Linda teach her mom how to use a webcam.

This week on “Today I Taught My Parents,” Linda shows her parents that she can carry a jar safely.

After months of nothing more than emails, phone calls, and random Facebook messages (my parents still have a flip phone, so you won’t see a post with me teaching them how to text anytime soon), I finally got to SEE my parents—live and in person!— about a week ago. We defied the Supreme Highness Governor Wolf’s orders when my parents invited me to pick up some takeout and join them for lunch.

They’d wanted to come to my house since the restaurant is closer to me (“It takes twenty minutes to get to our house—the food will be cold!”), but I reminded them that my husband works with hundreds of other snot-nosed math brains at the nuclear power plant, making our house a sort of ground-zero for germs. (Well, perhaps I exaggerate, but you get the point. My parents did too. We wisely opted for their house.)

Of course, when I picked up the takeout order, the food was already waiting for me packed up in a bag. That added five minutes to the ticking clock of food-warmth. Then the cashier rang up the wrong order and had to wait for a manager to zero it out on the cash register so she could start all over and ring it up again. That added another ten minutes. I’d be lucky if this food was even lukewarm by the time I got it out of the restaurant to my car.

I took the shortcut to my parents’ house, up the long and winding Wildwood Road. One lane in each direction. No passing zone. Guess who was in front of me? Some woman driving about ten miles an hour with her blinker on the whole time. After four or five miles of this, I was convinced she was headed to my parents’ house too. But she wasn’t gonna get any of our food, no matter HOW cold it got!

After finally arriving and pretending to hug each other—and reheating my parents’ cold French fries in the microwave (“I told you the food would be cold!”)—we settled in for a yummy and fun lunch and gab-fest that lasted three hours.

As I was getting ready to leave, my mom foisted upon me a quart-sized mason jar of homemade spaghetti sauce concocted by my daughter. They loved her sauce (and so do I!), but it was a tad spicy for their delicate, retired, old-person insides. So they wanted to donate their remaining jar to me. I was glad to take it off their hands. (What else would a devoted daughter do, right?)

But then I caught my mother wrapping the jar in about twelve plastic Walmart bags and stuffing it into an Amazon box.

Here’s a picture of the jar, with salt-and-pepper shakers for scale:

[SPOILER ALERT: This picture was taken after I got home.]

“Mom, what’s with the package?”

“It’s the sauce. So it doesn’t break.”

“Mom, I live a few miles away. I think it’ll make it. Besides, with the pandemic, I have my own collection of Amazon boxes in every size.”

“Well, just to be on the safe side…”

“And, with the pandemic, I can’t use my reusable grocery bags, so I have my own collection of plastic Walmart bags too.”

“Well, just to be on the safe side…”

“I’m pretty sure I can carry one quart-sized jar to the car and then into my house without breaking anything.”

“Just. To. Be. On. The…”

“…Safe side. Yes, I know. Please unwrap it.”

She blinked at me. Twice. It was now officially a standoff.

“Mom, I just turned fifty-nine. I realize I’m not QUITE a grown-up yet, but give me the benefit of the doubt here.”

She stared at me and didn’t move. So, I walked to the counter, took the overwrapped jar out of the Amazon box, and started peeling off the layers of plastic Walmart bags like I was peeling an onion. And just when it started to feel hopeless, I saw glass and, through the glass, spaghetti sauce. Eureka!

I physically hugged each of my parents (like the rebel I am) and headed out to my car.

Score: Linda, 1; Mom, ZILCH. I had won.

Or had I?

While standing my ground against my mom, my dad had been outside putting several empty mason jars into my car to give back to my daughter. I didn’t think much of this gesture until I got home and took out the bag of empty jars.

Each one was wrapped in a half dozen plastic Walmart bags and had several more stuffed down inside them.

Just to be on the safe side.

Today I taught my parents… (Part 3)

Last time on “Today I Taught My Parents,” we saw Linda teach her mom how to order food online.

This week on “Today I Taught My Parents,” Linda shows her parents how to use a webcam.

I’m sure that, back in April 1960, my parents weren’t standing next to that cake thinking, “Gosh, we can’t wait to celebrate sixty years together in 2020 during a global pandemic by looking at family and friends through a big screen, many miles away from us.” I’m reasonably certain that wasn’t their thought at all that day.

If it were me, I would have been thinking, “Mmmm, CAKE!”

But let’s not use me as a yardstick … for anything. Instead of a Big Party, I got to help them celebrate the only way we could last month: through a webcam.

My parents both use desktop computers, not laptops, so of course they didn’t own a webcam. That would have been too easy. And, by the time I got the bright idea to order them a webcam online and have it delivered to their house, every webcam within a 5,000-mile radius had been snapped up, along with a million shares of Zoom stock.

I own a few ancient laptops with webcams, but I typically use a dedicated webcam and microphone on my desktop computer when I need to attend a virtual meeting. Back around 2010, I’d gotten a crappy blue plastic webcam for free with rewards points from entering a bajillion code combinations from the bottle caps of many Diet Cokes. MANY Diet Cokes. Let me tell you, it took a LOT of Diet Coke, imbibed by both me and my husband, to get that free crappy blue plastic webcam.

It has a built-in crappy microphone and a built-in crappy suction cup on the bottom. (I’d say the suction cup sucks, but that would be paying it a compliment. It does NOT suck. Hence the problem. The thing tends to skitter across your desk if the cord isn’t positioned just right.)

But, it served me well for nearly a decade, considering the price I’d paid. (It was worth at least twice what I paid for it!) And anyone who uses technology knows how long a decade is. Most electronic equipment needs carbon dating after about five years.

The Big Problem presented itself when the Big Party I had been planning for my parents to celebrate their 60th anniversary ground to a halt. I thought I’d been pretty good at predicting the various obstacles we might encounter trying to pull off a surprise party for my parents: airline flights and schedules for family to the east of us, work schedules for all the grown grandkids here, traffic issues getting those same grandkids to my house from 50 miles away, nap schedules for their great-grandson (and, let’s face it, for me too), food choices for so many of us on different diets…

But I had somehow neglected to add “global pandemic and worldwide shutdown” to my list of possible roadblocks. Now what? No in-person face-to-face party. After 60 years of surviving each other, my parents now had to survive COVID-19 and a complete lockdown, with nobody to entertain them but each other. If they hadn’t killed each other in the past 60 years, this just might do it.

But what to do about that Big Party? In typical noble, altruistic fashion, I gave my parents that free crappy blue plastic webcam. Because that’s how I roll. I’m nothing if not self-sacrificing.

But even that simple gesture turned into a Big Production. I wiped down the free crappy blue plastic webcam with sanitizing wipes, put everything in a small cardboard box (because I’ve got an entire collection of a dozen of every size box Amazon makes), and delivered the box to my parents’ garage (while waving at them through their kitchen window). I felt like an honorary member of the bomb squad. (Should I cut the blue wire or the red wire?)

They let the box sit in their garage for two days before touching it.

A few days later, we did a test run of the webcam and microphone, using Facebook’s video chat feature inside Messenger. I chose that over Zoom because my mom was already familiar with Facebook Messenger. I didn’t relish the thought of trying to walk her through setting up Zoom from scratch over the phone. This was the same woman who used to call me for impromptu tech support by announcing, “It won’t let me! The thingy is blinking!”

With Facebook Messenger, all I had to do was hit the little blue video camera icon in the upper right of a group message—and all she had to do was answer the incoming video call.

You know, once the camera was plugged in, and the microphone was plugged in.

What could go wrong? Well, what greeted me first were my mom’s neck and one of her hands, and a lot of loud crackling noise as she fiddled with the webcam and the microphone, trying to find good spots for them on her desk. And then both my parents tried to find spots for two chairs close enough to the camera for me to see and hear them. And for them to see the computer monitor that would soon be filled with loving faces wishing them a happy 60th.

The Big Day for the Big Party arrived. I’d divided the groups of people who wanted to cyber-attend into two time slots. For one thing, Facebook Messenger video chat accepts only eight cameras at a time. For another thing, I still had those pesky schedules to contend with.

I started a group message with the first time-slot folks, and then I “called” everyone. One by one, to my delight, folks popped up on my screen.

But where were my parents?

They were still in the two-person Messenger chat I’d set up with my mom. I typed in our two-person chat window: “Hey, I’m setting up our ‘party’ with a few folks…. We’re setting up now and I’ll add you once we’re ‘live.'”

Then I added, “I added you to our small group. You’ll get the video ring thing in a second.”

Suddenly I heard a loud phone-ringing noise and realized that, in another browser window, my mom was “calling” me in our two-person Messenger chat window.

Brrrrring… bbbrrrrrringgggg… Boy, that noise got annoying really fast.

I kept apologizing to the friends and family waiting for my parents in the group video chat… and kept hearing that bbbrrrrrrrinnngggg from the two-person chat window.

My parents tried to call me a total of five times before they figured out their error. I think my all-caps response of “GO TO THE GROUP MEETING NOT THIS ONE” probably helped nudge them in the right direction.

Of course, once they actually got to the group chat, they were greeted with friends, a nephew, a kid (okay, that was me), and some grandkids and their significant others. They were wearing their matching T-shirts, which said, “I Survived 60 Years!” They seemed delighted with the turnout, and we had a one-hour online party with them both.

And later that day, a second wave of kids, grandkids, friends, and a great-grandkid swept in for a second virtual party.

And, aside from the usual glitches with cameras, microphones, cell phones, Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, background noise, and technophobia, it went surprisingly well.

It was the best we could do for them, given the restrictions. We’re planning a Real Party sometime in the fall. Of this year. We hope. Unless the murder hornets and a sharknado show up. Can’t rule out any possibility these days.

And, because my upgraded webcam finally arrived from Amazon a few weeks ago, I’m gonna let my parents keep that free crappy blue plastic webcam… because that’s what a noble, self-sacrificing daughter would do, right?

I still haven’t been able to give my parents a true happy-anniversary hug yet, more than a month later, but you can bet I’ll be the first one in their driveway when our state relaxes some restrictions.

You know, after I shower in hand sanitizer and sit in their garage for two days.

Today I taught my parents…

This week on “Today I Taught My Parents,” we watch as Linda tries to walk her father through using the Wendy’s drive-thru. Over the phone. During a pandemic.

*****

The phone rings. It’s one of my parents, but I’m in the middle of a video-conference board meeting that’s going to last for three hours, so I let it go to voicemail. While I’m smiling and nodding at the webcam and trying to take notes on the meeting, I surreptitiously open my email program and zap an email off to my mom telling her why I didn’t answer the phone.

At the end of the meeting, I see an email from her, stating my dad has a question, and that he’ll call in the morning “after 10.” I reply and ask to push it back to noon, knowing I won’t be conscious before 10 or 10:30.

The next day, the phone rings at 11:55 a.m. My parents are nothing if not overly punctual.

Me: Hi, Dad. Whassup?
Dad: Hey, what do you know about the Wendy’s drive-thru?
Me: What do you mean, what do I know?
Dad: How does it work?

At this point it occurs to me that I’m not sure my parents have ever used a fast food drive-thru. Like, ever. Sure, they’ve had fast food, but my recollection is that they always park, always go inside, and always eat in the dining room. Like civilized people.

I, on the other hand, grab greasy drive-thru food and eat it in my car on the way home from the grocery store, where I’ve just purchased healthy produce and low-carb ingredients for the pantry. The irony of this is never lost on me.

Me: Well, the Wendy’s near you has two windows. You pay at the first one and…
Dad: Do they take debit cards?
Me: Yeah, of course.
Dad: How does that work?
Me: Well, you order at the big light-up menu first and then…
Dad: Do they take your card from you?
Me (now feeling slightly confused): Umm, yes…?
Dad: Like, they take the actual card?
Me: Yeah. You hand them the card through the window—the first window—and they swipe it and hand it back to you. Then…
Dad: They hand it back through the window?
Me: Umm, yes…?

At this point I’m starting to wonder if this is an elaborate prank. But then I remember this is my dad, and that he still carries filthy wads of cash in his wallet. On purpose.

Dad: And then?
Me: Then, when you get your card back, you drive to the second window to pick up your order.
Dad: Uh huh.

At this point I’m starting to wonder if he’s taking notes.

Me: Usually at Wendy’s, your receipt is in the bag with your order at the second window. At McDonald’s they give you the receipt when they hand back your debit card.
Dad (hesitating): Umm, okay. Thanks!
Me: Enjoy!

Yup, he’s taking notes. Or maybe he’s just worrying about whether to bring along some sanitizing wipes to wipe down the debit card when they hand it back. I’ve been doing this myself the past few weeks.

Meanwhile, I’m starting to realize how many times I must have used fast food drive-thru windows, if I know how each one handles your receipt.

In the days of a pandemic, when stepping through the door of any business now means mandatory face masks, even my parents see the appeal of drive-thru windows. And debit cards. And sanitizing wipes.

Stay safe out there, Dad.

I blame Ancestry.com for my heart attack

It started innocently enough.

I got my dad a subscription to Ancestry.com for Christmas, and I just renewed it for him for Father’s Day. Every so often I go to my parents’ house, and the three of us sit huddled around my dad’s computer in my dad’s living room. (And yes, my mom has her own computer … and her own living room. Don’t ask. It seems to work.) We start typing in names, clicking on little bobbing leaves, hoping to add more relatives to our ever-growing family tree.

We all find the process fascinating, though the misspellings of names can be a bit vexing at times. And, a few relatives we’re sure existed seem to defy being found. Makes me wonder if half the family weren’t fugitives living under undocumented aliases.

But I digress.

Yesterday I received a call from my mom … on their cell phone, which means one of two things, since they rarely use their cell phone: Either they’re out shopping and are calling me to ask me the size of something or the best brand of something else, or they’re calling me randomly to use up some of the 1,000 prepaid minutes they’ve racked up because they have to keep rolling them over so they don’t expire.

Yesterday it was neither of those things. The caller ID tells me it’s them on that cell phone.

“Hello? Mom?”

“Hi! Guess what!”

This is never a good game to play with my parents, so I fold immediately, although I realize playing the guessing game could at least use up a bunch of their minutes.

“Dunno. What?”

“You’ve got a sister.”

Silence. More silence. Insert crickets chirping.

“What?”

“You’ve got a sister.”

Not only do I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I also can’t fathom why she waited till they were out gallivanting around in the car to call me to tell me this. I keep asking her “What?” as if the answer will change, or at least be augmented with, say, some actual information, but all she keeps saying in response is, “You’ve got a sister.”

I can tell she’s waiting for me to catch on, but I don’t. My mind is busy whirling around our last Ancestry.com huddle-time, and I start doing the math in my head. A sister—and the cryptic way she’s telling me—means one of several things:

My parents are a lot more spry than I’ve been giving them credit for. I do not like this option one bit because the resulting therapy might not be covered by our health insurance.

One of them has a past he or she hasn’t been telling me all these years, and they’re doing a preemptive strike before I find this woman on Ancestry.com. I do not like this option either because I’ll have to amend my entire view of my childhood, which is already a bit dicey because I’m over 50 and have trouble remembering my Social Security number properly, let alone what kind of childhood I really had.

My only sibling has talked his wife into letting him get a “sister wife.” I do not like this option either because, well, I shouldn’t have to explain this one. Plus, my sister-in-law is a lot smarter than that.

“Well?”

It’s my mother, trying to yank me back to reality. She doesn’t mind using up her ridiculous cache of minutes this way, but it’s probably still pretty annoying to listen to dead silence from my end of the phone. And, let’s face it, it’s also unusual.

“Okay, I give up. It’s not you. And it’s not Mike. So it’s …”

And suddenly it hits me. All this time on Ancestry.com has had me thinking in all the wrong ways—in terms of species. I’m having this conversation with a woman who calls my pet guinea pigs her “grandpigs.” She is calling from the cell phone because, yes, she is at the Beaver County Animal Shelter. And they are picking up an 11-week-old kitten this afternoon.

And now it all makes sense … and I can start breathing again. I don’t have to rethink everything I ever knew about my entire nuclear family.

Meanwhile, I wonder what my younger brother, Scooter the tabby cat, is going to think of his new little sister….