She made Bill Clinton feel GOOOOD!

My last blog post from September includes a vignette about a family game of Catch Phrase as well as my inability to stop myself from ridiculing my mother when she plays. Timber forgot to bring Catch Phrase home for Christmas, so I downloaded Outburst on my iPhone, which is basically a Catch Phrase app. Bursting with holiday spirit, I purchased the $3.99 “All Word Packs” upgrade, which unlocked access to extra categories such as Literature, Super Word Pack #2, Accents & Impressions, 90s!, and Dirty Words. During one of Mother’s turns, she gripped my phone, eyes widening at the word she was tasked to describe. With her enormous cross earrings flapping against her cheeks, she sweetly smiled, batted her lashes, and said, “Oh! She made Bill Clinton feel GOOOOD!”

“Monica Lewsinky!!” Ryan and my Uncle Stanley screamed.

An hour or so later during one of my turns the screen displayed “Bill Clinton.” Juxtaposing Mother’s classiness, I blurted, “Monica Lewinsky sucked his dick.”

“Bill Clinton!!” everyone shouted, even though Timber was my only teammate.

“Bobbin, why do you have to be so nasty?” Mother scowled.

“I gave the perfect hint, didn’t I?” I defended myself.

Hours before my father had retreated to the bedroom. I slipped under the sheets on the other side, which Mother permanently vacated months ago. I lay next to Daddy reading Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace Revisited and told him about my financial goals — a topic he pontificated on with zeal before becoming an Alzheimer’s zombie. I also mentioned Mr. Money Mustache, a finance blogger who suggests saving and investing half of one’s income in order to achieve pecuniary freedom.

“I wish I could get to a point where I spend only half my income,” I sighed.

“Your mother is really good at that,” Daddy yawned. “She uses both halves.”

For a second Daddy’s old self flickered, but the overpowering stench of his body odor and urine drove me out of the room. His resistance to showering reminds me of my own childhood, when receiving permission to skip a bath was a special treat. In a way Daddy acts like my five-year-old brother.

“Daddy, Mother said to take a shower!” I yelled to him from the living room one morning.

“I don’t want to!” he shouted back.

“She said you have to!”

“I’m not going to!”

“Robert, get in the shower!” Mother intervened.

“Fine, I’ll get in the shower,” he huffed, sulking to the bathroom.

One evening Daddy emerged for a snack and broke a jar of pickles when he opened the pantry. He ignored the mess and stood over me eating a row of Saltines while I picked up the glass and sopped up the sticky juice with a ratty towel, trying to protect him from Mother’s wrath.

“Robert, the very idea!” she bawled.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” I winced while Saltine crumbs floated from his mouth onto the floor. (I concede that if I dealt with Daddy every day, I wouldn’t exercise much sympathy or patience.)

Every year on Christmas Eve our close family and friends gather for lunch and then a gift exchange. Per tradition, the youngest person opens presents first, and we proceed in chronological order. Since Daddy now is unable to interact with most people, we let him go first this year. He disappeared before the teenagers’ turns, but I didn’t even notice. I’m used to the empty chair.

I’ll close with an excerpt from Mary Gauthier’s song “Mercy Now” — a stretch of lyrics that makes me choke anew every time:

My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over; it won’t be long, he won’t be around
I love my father; he could use some mercy now