MEMOIR | GERIATRIC GIRLFRIEND PROBLEMS

A Giant Cow Tongue Nearly Sabotaged My Party

Dad’s girlfriend didn’t like me, and showed it in strange ways

“That’s Josey on the fridge! Can you believe she looks so good in a swimsuit?” Dad asked me.

“She looks great, Dad,” I said. Honestly, she looked like a woman of seventy showing off cleavage that had seen a better day. Her swimsuit did a deep plunge to her navel. She had a huge grin and looked nice enough. First impressions aren’t always accurate, though.

When my stepmom died, my husband and I watched Dad mope and grieve for a year before we decided to get him on some dating sites. “Match” was the first site we thought might work. He needed companionship, and we needed relief.

“I don’t know how to do any of that computer stuff,” Dad said. We lived four miles away, and he was showing up for long visits every evening. My husband and I, both high school teachers, were exhausted. Some girlfriends for Dad would help.

So we got him all set up on Match.

First, we needed photos. Dad posed in front of our giant stone fireplace, a serious look on his face. He was a classically handsome man, with brown eyes and gray hair, a good physique for an older gentleman. What didn’t show in the photo was his stiff right leg. His knee couldn’t bend, owing to a horrible car accident. He also had a short right arm, because of an industrial accident. No one cared about Dad’s disabilities. He lit up a room.

And his profile on Match? He was honest — sort of. If you’ve ever experienced online dating, or the apps, you know about the ‘bending of the truth.’

That perfect looking date might be an overweight smoker in person — not the svelte and healthy person in the profile photo. Dad looked good, but he had no plans to remarry. Oh, far from it.

So while Dad claimed to be a one-woman man, when he saw the interest he got online, he became the stud of many old mares.

Dad said,“They love me! I can’t choose just one.”

And so it was that Dad was always rushing off to a coffee date, a dinner date, a luncheon, an overnight somewhere. He found some unusual women. For example…

• Nancy wouldn’t walk outside in the gardens, as she was afraid of snakes. She insisted Dad sell his beautiful home and move into senior living with her. She was beautiful and charming, but big nope.
• Trudy was a closet alcoholic. Dad moved her into the house, and had no idea. I began finding bottles of vodka all over the house. In the sofa cushions. In the bathroom drawers. On the laundry shelf. Near the microwave. Finally, Dad found her passed out on the floor of the bedroom, naked. That was it. He covered her with a blanket, and the next day, drove her back to her own home.

Then along came Josey.

The swimsuit photo revealed her finest assets. She was a bit younger, in her late 60s as it turned out. When I met her in person, she stared at me with close-set eyes — probably wondering how I was going to ruin her gold-digging plans.

She confided, “All my husbands have pre-deceased me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said (concerned for Dad), “How many were there?”

“Three,” she said, “Two heart attacks and one suicide.”

I stared at Josey with my own calculating eyes. Was this woman dangerous? As it turned out, she was. The stress that woman generated was immeasurable. I operated in Defcon 1 mode around her.

Defcon is a military term, and Defcon 1 the most dangerous level.

Maximum readiness! Shit hits the fan! Kaboom! Danger, Will Robinson!

My birthday was approaching, and I would turn fifty years old. My friends and I had a tradition that we held birthday parties when we turned fifty, and Dad agreed to let me have my September party on his country patio on the beautiful family farm.

He and Josey went to her place twenty miles away, and I drove out to the farm to prepare for the party. On the front door was a note from Josey: “Whatever you do, please don’t remove the pan from the burner. Just leave it on low.”

That was odd. The note wasn’t even in the house. I should add that my husband and I had purchased the property at that point from my dad, so technically it belonged to us. I took a deep breath, a bit vexed about this important item on the stove.

As I entered the home, it smelled gamey and spicy. That could mean only one thing.

Cow tongue.

A rare specialty in rural Oregon, dear Josey had decided to boil a cow tongue for the centerpiece of my festive celebration. Imagine! The kitchen island, in the center of the beautiful home, with a big pot of boiling tongue.

Did it look as bad as it sounds? Hell, yes. Did I intend to leave it on the stove? Hell, no!

There it was on the left front burner — a big, thick tongue simmering in pickling spices. This was going to set the ambiance for my birthday party? I think not.

My husband walked in the house to find me looking like I’d bitten into a lemon.

“What’s wrong? What’s that?”

“Fucking Josey. I’m not supposed to touch this. It’s a tongue! A tongue!”

I couldn’t have been more appalled. I took the pan out to the garage refrigerator, and set the hot pan on top of a towel in the fridge.

Nope, nope, nope. No tongue at my party, missy!

After refrigerating the carnal treat, I removed Josey’s swimsuit photo from the kitchen refrigerator too. The girlfriend had gone a bridge too far, and I needed to make a point.

When Dad called later to wish me a happy birthday, he asked about the tongue, and I let him know it was in the fridge. He was grateful, and thanked me. As it turns out, that was the beginning of the end of my relationship with Josey, however. She was furious.

“She ruined that meat!” she railed in the background.

Dad and I learned to keep the peace, as Josey ended up quite a handful. I never met a woman with a worse temper.

Once, in San Diego, she jumped in front of a car, as the driver irritated her. She had called the police and was trying to detain the people in the car.

The outcome of that incident? The old Pontiac, driven by a young and scared driver, ran over her. Her ankle was broken and she was on crutches for months.

Dad shook his head and said, “I couldn’t stop her. She threw her body on the car, then got thrown off.”

Sometimes I say the Serenity Prayer when it comes to difficult relationships. That became my modus operandi with Josey.

I can’t claim perfection though. Oh, no.

One night, I drove to Dad’s house and she wasn’t there. I talked long and fast, begging him to stop seeing her. She was cruel to me, and while I did everything for Dad — she complained I was ‘enabling’ him. Enabling him to be lazy? Not my dad.

“Dad, she’s horrible!” I said, “Can’t you see it?”

A few weeks later, he had pneumonia and was horribly ill. I drove to his home to change his sheets. Uh, oh. Josey was there, sitting around reading, and ignoring his suffering.

She raged, telling me he should take care of himself.

“He’s ill,” I told her, staring hard, “I’m going to change his sheets and heat up some soup for him. You are welcome to do whatever you want to do, but stay out of my way.”

At that point, I’d dropped all pretense of civility with her.

She relaxed a bit, and ended up helping me make the bed. My heart pounded with rage. Like I said, I had to work at calming myself with her.

No one’s ever challenged me more.

I miss Dad every day. He’s been gone since 2012. I don’t, however, miss that girlfriend. Her last words to me included her regret she hadn’t married Dad.

She went away to California as my father lay dying on hospice.

Dad said, “Don’t stir muddy waters. Let her go,” and I was glad she wasn’t there on his last morning.

Dad’s memorial service wasn’t even planned yet when she came to get her things. I let her into the home, and she gathered up plates, pillows, bedding, and odds and ends. I let her take whatever she wanted.

“This place could have been mine,” she said, “my only regret is we didn’t get married.”

“Oh, I’m sorry — you didn’t know? Jay and I purchased the family farm years ago,” I said.

And I smiled graciously. That was the last time I ever saw her.

Thanks for reading.