Until recently, I was obsessive about time. I was never late and if I was late, it was a catastrophe. As a child, I would get hysterical if we overslept and I was late for school. As a spouse, I stressed at my partner's cavalier attitude towards getting to work on time. I don't know why I was this way. But I do know why I changed. Instead of obsessing about time, now I obsess if I can check the computer one more time before I leave home. I'm rarely late... but I do cut it close!
This has been a horrible week, starting with the old man calling for an ambulance to take him to the Emergency Room. I arrived before the paramedics and along with my mother was the brunt of verbal abuse. He is not a stoic Swede like my in-laws. He does not suffer in silence. They sent him home after some tests. He is not sick, just old and worn out and sometimes confused. The silver lining is that we aren't in NY. In and out in only four hours. Back in Brooklyn he would still have been waiting to be seen.
Meetings with Hospice, meetings with the administration of the building where my parents live. Who is in charge? Me. But I don't live there, and I am called last in line. I had a hard day at work on Wednesday. I was snoozing on the couch when the phone rang and in my sleep I decided not to answer it. After listening to voice mail I got in touch with a home medical delivery service. They had brought an electric bed but couldn't deliver it because there was no room. I waited all day Thursday for the call that they were bringing it back. I had to get the old man out of bed and move it to the trash so they could set up the rental one. All the aides were at a meeting at another building so I remade the bed and got him settled. I showed him the controls, but who knows if he understands?
I look at the old man and listen to him complain and think that he has a choice. Why doesn't he look at the beauty of creation and appreciate what little time he does have? Then I look at myself. Why don't I see this time as a precious commodity instead of something to be got through? I am trying. But now I have to try a little harder.
Today at work I complimented a woman on her well behaved children. She did that annoying thing that we sometimes do as mothers. She said, "Well right now they are." Yes, appreciate it because the times in the past that they misbehaved are gone and all she had was right now. What guarantee do any of us have that we will be alive longer than the next breath? So if I am waiting to appreciate life until after the old man passes, I am wasting my life right now.
David Byrne of Talking Heads writes: "Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us, time doesn't hold us back." So who does? In this moment I can only commit to trying to be in this moment. And if this moment holds pain, so be it. This too shall pass.
A little Talking Heads for your pleasure.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
My poor old mom
My poor old 97 year old mother is having a very hard time right now. Everything is all about the old man and she, though not being ignored, is not the focus of attention. I've done, and continue to do, what I can for the old man, but here is someone else, someone frustrated, scared, and falling apart. I've promised her to be there for her, too.
My step mother, Harriet is an unusual person. She has better coping skills than most people. Sometimes it works to her advantage and sometimes prevents her from getting the help she needs. For example, she memorized the first grade reader before starting school. She knew it by rote and did not learn to read well. She was called stupid and held back, held back with no tutoring. School was torture for her and she was apprenticed at a beauty shop at sixteen. She was a wonderful beautician, manicurist, and cosmetician. People would wait for her and often she worked from ten to ten. During the Depression she always had a pocketful of tips and her salary would go straight to her parents. She was able to buy her younger sisters roller skates when millions were out of work. She is an incredible knitter and never uses a pattern. It hurt me to hear her say not to buy any more yarn, her eyes were too bad. Another thing she has coped with for years is macular degeneration. I remember visiting back in the 90's and watching her cook for me. She was making matzo meal latkes and using her fingers to see if they were done. She was still cooking until they moved to Minnesota. She could not adapt to a two burner electric cooktop. She could see gas, but not gauge the heat of the electric burners. My father howled. I tried to tell him how blind she is but he wouldn't listen. She still waits on him hand and foot but it takes a lot out of her.
I picked them up yesterday at four o'clock. I asked how she was and she started to cry that someone had stolen her watch. She looked everywhere. I reassured her that no one would steal that watch, it had fallen somewhere. When I went in the bedroom I heard the watch just finishing the announcement that it was four o'clock pm. But I couldn't find where it was coming from either. So we know that her talking watch was not stolen but is hidden among the clothes and bedding and shoes. She is going to ask the aide who cleans to find it. She asked why she couldn't find it? She looked and looked. I told her it was because she couldn't see well.
The old man is in rough shape and could hardly walk and then barely ate. He has no strength. It takes him quite a while to gather his thoughts so when he does speak, it is without niceties. The aides are taking very good care of him, "Treating him like a king" as the old lady says. She is worried about him but can't do anything and her talk makes him irritable. I have told her that she can call me and vent. She keeps saying how she has been so strong for him for so many years and it is all too much. I promised to come on my days off and take her out for a short time while he sleeps. Just going for a coffee will break up the awful days of watching him die by inches. This is much harder for her than it is for me. They have been married fifty-one years, thirty-five of which I lived out of state and only saw them every year or two for a few days.
So that's the story. I await the birth of my newest great nephew or niece and the news of my father passing. But in the meantime, we the living must treat each other with love. What is the alternative? There is none.
My step mother, Harriet is an unusual person. She has better coping skills than most people. Sometimes it works to her advantage and sometimes prevents her from getting the help she needs. For example, she memorized the first grade reader before starting school. She knew it by rote and did not learn to read well. She was called stupid and held back, held back with no tutoring. School was torture for her and she was apprenticed at a beauty shop at sixteen. She was a wonderful beautician, manicurist, and cosmetician. People would wait for her and often she worked from ten to ten. During the Depression she always had a pocketful of tips and her salary would go straight to her parents. She was able to buy her younger sisters roller skates when millions were out of work. She is an incredible knitter and never uses a pattern. It hurt me to hear her say not to buy any more yarn, her eyes were too bad. Another thing she has coped with for years is macular degeneration. I remember visiting back in the 90's and watching her cook for me. She was making matzo meal latkes and using her fingers to see if they were done. She was still cooking until they moved to Minnesota. She could not adapt to a two burner electric cooktop. She could see gas, but not gauge the heat of the electric burners. My father howled. I tried to tell him how blind she is but he wouldn't listen. She still waits on him hand and foot but it takes a lot out of her.
I picked them up yesterday at four o'clock. I asked how she was and she started to cry that someone had stolen her watch. She looked everywhere. I reassured her that no one would steal that watch, it had fallen somewhere. When I went in the bedroom I heard the watch just finishing the announcement that it was four o'clock pm. But I couldn't find where it was coming from either. So we know that her talking watch was not stolen but is hidden among the clothes and bedding and shoes. She is going to ask the aide who cleans to find it. She asked why she couldn't find it? She looked and looked. I told her it was because she couldn't see well.
The old man is in rough shape and could hardly walk and then barely ate. He has no strength. It takes him quite a while to gather his thoughts so when he does speak, it is without niceties. The aides are taking very good care of him, "Treating him like a king" as the old lady says. She is worried about him but can't do anything and her talk makes him irritable. I have told her that she can call me and vent. She keeps saying how she has been so strong for him for so many years and it is all too much. I promised to come on my days off and take her out for a short time while he sleeps. Just going for a coffee will break up the awful days of watching him die by inches. This is much harder for her than it is for me. They have been married fifty-one years, thirty-five of which I lived out of state and only saw them every year or two for a few days.
So that's the story. I await the birth of my newest great nephew or niece and the news of my father passing. But in the meantime, we the living must treat each other with love. What is the alternative? There is none.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Ranting and Raving (not worth reading)
Rant, rant, rant, rant! Outrage! Rave, rave, rave, frustrated at stupid stuff. Indignant, rant, rave, bureaucratic idiocy! The details are stupid and boring, the indignation is real. I don't want to be governed by rules of punishment. Common sense is so very, very uncommon and, please take this with a grain of salt, I wish everyone was as honest and smart as me.
What brought this on? Everything from the idiotic rules at work to the mean spirited legislators who have nothing better to do than regulate who can love whom, to just watching the news. Sciatica flare up doesn't help either, don't know though, if it has anything to do with my mind or just not lifting correctly.
OK, rant over. (For now.)
What brought this on? Everything from the idiotic rules at work to the mean spirited legislators who have nothing better to do than regulate who can love whom, to just watching the news. Sciatica flare up doesn't help either, don't know though, if it has anything to do with my mind or just not lifting correctly.
OK, rant over. (For now.)
Saturday, May 21, 2011
For those of you who think I'm a saint, think again
The old lady called this morning wondering what we were going to do today. I told her whatever she wanted. I arranged to take them to a deli for good soup at four. When I got to the apartment my father was in a real pretty state. All dressed up and gunning for bear. I guess he thought I was the target. He was lucid as anything wanting to know about his money and where it was and what did I need this or that check for and naaaaassssssty! We got to Mort's and he looked at the five kinds of soup on the menu and didn't want any of them. He wanted that good soup he likes.
So after making a scene at the deli, we got back in the car and I drove from Golden Valley to Saint Paul to take him to Dixie's on Grand. We had a fabulous waiter and the old man ate an entire bowl of South Carolina Crab Chowder. It occurred to me to order some to go. Now he has two portions at home and I don't have to drive fifteen miles each way to get him soup.
On the way home the old lady said, "Well, as long as he is happy." I agreed. Just like a rotten child who gets his own way by throwing a tantrum or acting ugly, so can the old man. He makes the atmosphere around him toxic with dissatisfaction. My challenge is not to get into it with him. My challenge is to be that CALM parent who points out that whining boys don't get anything and how does he ask?
I admit to getting pissed at the restaurant, pointing out to him he asked for soup, what the hell did he want? He was able to say exactly what he desires. He wants everyone to leave him alone and let him sleep as long as he likes and stop telling him he needs to get up and live. He wants to be miserable and suffer. He's dying and he wants to get on with it and, oh, oh, oh, he is going to linger and linger and make us all as miserable as he is. I just know it.
He has the opportunity to look around him and appreciate all that is wonderful in this creation. He can look around and see the amazing quality of care he is getting. If he wants to be miserable, so be it. If he doesn't want to go to meals or activities, I've told the old lady to go alone. He is not going to push my buttons. I am going to wear a zipper and not let him get at my control. I am determined to do my best for him and I hope that somewhere in this eleventh hour he makes whatever peace with whatever he believes in. My desire remains the same today as when I took on this task, to do everything needed so that when he dies I have no regrets that I could have done more. And if the Creator hears my prayer, I will never have to deal with him again in any other life.
Not a saint, and I hope, never a martyr, just a daughter.
So after making a scene at the deli, we got back in the car and I drove from Golden Valley to Saint Paul to take him to Dixie's on Grand. We had a fabulous waiter and the old man ate an entire bowl of South Carolina Crab Chowder. It occurred to me to order some to go. Now he has two portions at home and I don't have to drive fifteen miles each way to get him soup.
On the way home the old lady said, "Well, as long as he is happy." I agreed. Just like a rotten child who gets his own way by throwing a tantrum or acting ugly, so can the old man. He makes the atmosphere around him toxic with dissatisfaction. My challenge is not to get into it with him. My challenge is to be that CALM parent who points out that whining boys don't get anything and how does he ask?
I admit to getting pissed at the restaurant, pointing out to him he asked for soup, what the hell did he want? He was able to say exactly what he desires. He wants everyone to leave him alone and let him sleep as long as he likes and stop telling him he needs to get up and live. He wants to be miserable and suffer. He's dying and he wants to get on with it and, oh, oh, oh, he is going to linger and linger and make us all as miserable as he is. I just know it.
He has the opportunity to look around him and appreciate all that is wonderful in this creation. He can look around and see the amazing quality of care he is getting. If he wants to be miserable, so be it. If he doesn't want to go to meals or activities, I've told the old lady to go alone. He is not going to push my buttons. I am going to wear a zipper and not let him get at my control. I am determined to do my best for him and I hope that somewhere in this eleventh hour he makes whatever peace with whatever he believes in. My desire remains the same today as when I took on this task, to do everything needed so that when he dies I have no regrets that I could have done more. And if the Creator hears my prayer, I will never have to deal with him again in any other life.
Not a saint, and I hope, never a martyr, just a daughter.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Waiting for the shoe to drop
I imagine that the title of this blog comes from the experience of someone who lived in an apartment with neighbors above. Each night the upstair tenant would come into the bedroom sit on the bed, take off and drop one shoe. The downstairs tenant, already in bed, would wait for the other shoe to drop so he could sleep. But what if the person above just toed off the other shoe and it never dropped? Would the person listening get anxious, irritated, upset or just go to sleep? Speculation in the middle of the night.
One shoe is already off. My father is on his way to the big sleep. Whether I will hear that shoe drop, or whether he will just fall asleep with that shoe on is anyone's guess. One moment he seems near death, the next he is full of beans, the sarcastic kind that complains.
I do not want him to linger, although knowing the old man, I am sure he will. I know his passing is not going to be what I expect. I will probably be filled with all kinds of conflicting emotions and will miss his dry humor when he is gone. I will not miss the nastiness, I think.
This is what I want. I want him to tell me how much he loves me and that he is sorry for the times he was out of control. I want him to thank me for making his last years easy, if not deliriously happy. I want to know more of the story that sent him and his brothers to the orphanage. I want to know how they treated my birth mother's cancer. I want to know what is in his heart before it is too late.
Dear friends, this isn't going to happen for me. But if you can cross a bridge, mend a fence, open your heart to someone who has made your life difficult, please do it. The benefit will spread like ripples on a pond affecting every place the water touches.
Right now, I feel like everything is unfolding in its own time. We have come very far in these last six years. I pray for patience, kindness and understanding.
One shoe is already off. My father is on his way to the big sleep. Whether I will hear that shoe drop, or whether he will just fall asleep with that shoe on is anyone's guess. One moment he seems near death, the next he is full of beans, the sarcastic kind that complains.
I do not want him to linger, although knowing the old man, I am sure he will. I know his passing is not going to be what I expect. I will probably be filled with all kinds of conflicting emotions and will miss his dry humor when he is gone. I will not miss the nastiness, I think.
This is what I want. I want him to tell me how much he loves me and that he is sorry for the times he was out of control. I want him to thank me for making his last years easy, if not deliriously happy. I want to know more of the story that sent him and his brothers to the orphanage. I want to know how they treated my birth mother's cancer. I want to know what is in his heart before it is too late.
Dear friends, this isn't going to happen for me. But if you can cross a bridge, mend a fence, open your heart to someone who has made your life difficult, please do it. The benefit will spread like ripples on a pond affecting every place the water touches.
Right now, I feel like everything is unfolding in its own time. We have come very far in these last six years. I pray for patience, kindness and understanding.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The faces of goodness
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| From bottom left, Sidney, Harriet, above them Carol and Iris, Bob above |
Some years ago my brother-in-law said that someone called him a mensch and he wondered what it meant and if it applied. I explained that a mensch is someone who does the right thing, not to be rewarded, not to achieve fame, but simply because it is the right thing to do. A mensch has to act the way they do because it is hard wired into them to be the best they can be and when their good deeds are pointed out to them, he or she can't see the big deal. "Yes," I told him, "You are a mensch."
So, too, with my dear cousins from New Jersey. They are the faces of goodness and giving. They are the faces of love. Yet if you point out to them just how wonderful they are, they just laugh and shrug. They are the way they are, to them it is no big deal.
Several months ago I wrote how my ancient parents wanted to go to another wedding in New Jersey and how I had to put my foot down and say no they couldn't go. At that time, Bob and Iris, parents of the groom, told the folks they would come out to Minnesota to visit after the wedding. True to their word, they flew out on Saturday and spent three days with my parents and me. Pretty remarkable, yet, this is the fourth time they have come to Minnesota in six years.
When my dad was in a nursing home in Brooklyn and my mom was isolated in the apartment, they drove from Jersey in the snow, to take them out, to make sure they were OK. The old lady had five married nephews and nieces in the NY/NJ area, but only Bob and Iris took time to help.
Ninety-six and ninety-seven is truly ancient. The old lady, who is almost blind, can still remember many stories (as long as she figured in them), but the old man goes in and out of lucidity. One minute he can't remember who anyone is, and the next he is full of energy and anecdotes. It is almost like a switch is thrown. On Sunday, he spent most of the day sleeping on top of his bed. I went over at five and told him he had to get up to go out, and he did. I told him to wash his face, put in his teeth and get ready. Off he shuffled to the bathroom. But when he came out he was so refreshed he did a tiny dance. Go figure.
My daughters and a son-in-law joined us at the restaurant, a Chinese Buffet. In the past the old man has enjoyed walking with one of the grand daughters and picking out his own dinner. He did that again and I cracked the crab legs on the plate. He chewed and chewed and chewed but couldn't swallow. The night before I cut his lamb chop into the tiniest pieces and he had no trouble. But now he could not swallow his food. Several chairs down the old lady was sampling from the plate I brought her. I gave her some tiny clams still in the shell and bacon wrapped shrimp with a toothpick among other items. "Mom!" I yelled, "That is a toothpick! Don't eat it!" Oh my god. Several minutes later we heard an amazing crunching. "Mom! You are eating the clam shell! Spit it out!" My daughter helped her. Oy, oy, oy.
The next day the old man couldn't swallow his pancakes at Perkins. He can swallow his pills but can't seem to get the masticated food down his gullet. We had an appointment at the clinic this morning and he has lost two pounds since last Thursday. The hospice folks are going to come in and evaluate his needs. He can live a long time on Ensure. He agreed that he didn't want tube feeding should it come to that, DNI, DNR. I told him that he needs to get out of bed each day so he doesn't depress my mother, and because he does not want her to feel bad, he agreed. At this point, who knows?
This is probably the last time Bob and Iris will see the folks. They gave my parents a priceless gift of love, their time and attention and I am grateful.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Some thoughts on dating
Being back in the "dating" world after so many years is a trip. What kind of trip? Sometimes fun, sometimes boring, and quite often bumpy. In the last week I was stood up, had a nice lunch, met for a drink, and put together some thoughts on the whole process.
1. Don't waste time on endless emails. Either he can meet or he can't. I am not looking for a pen pal, and if his schedule opens up, he can give me a call. Believe me, I am not holding my breath.
2. Pick a place to meet close to home. In case he doesn't show up, at least I haven't wasted gas. Fifteen minutes late is the limit of waiting unless there is a phone call.
3. Pick a place to eat where I enjoy the food. The company might leave something to be desired, but my meal shouldn't.
4. Don't cancel other plans. Set aside an hour before or after other event to meet.
5. Don't put off girl friends to meet an unknown man. Men come and go, but a good woman friend is worth cultivating and keeping.
6. Don't waste time with people who aren't of interest.
8. NO SECOND CHANCES TO NO SHOW, NO CALL, NO MESSAGE RUDE PEOPLE.
9. And always, bring enough money to pay for own coffee, beverage, or meal. Don't assume anything.
10. Have fun. If it isn't fun, what am I doing there?
If it is in the cards to meet a great love, that is fine. But sometimes just meeting someone for dinner or a movie can be wonderful, too. I like who I am and want to be with someone who thinks I am grand just the way I am. Otherwise, being alone is nice, too. Besides, I have a pile of new library books and a Netflix membership. No desperation here. Where are the kittens? It is time to go to bed. Good night.
1. Don't waste time on endless emails. Either he can meet or he can't. I am not looking for a pen pal, and if his schedule opens up, he can give me a call. Believe me, I am not holding my breath.
2. Pick a place to meet close to home. In case he doesn't show up, at least I haven't wasted gas. Fifteen minutes late is the limit of waiting unless there is a phone call.
3. Pick a place to eat where I enjoy the food. The company might leave something to be desired, but my meal shouldn't.
4. Don't cancel other plans. Set aside an hour before or after other event to meet.
5. Don't put off girl friends to meet an unknown man. Men come and go, but a good woman friend is worth cultivating and keeping.
6. Don't waste time with people who aren't of interest.
8. NO SECOND CHANCES TO NO SHOW, NO CALL, NO MESSAGE RUDE PEOPLE.
9. And always, bring enough money to pay for own coffee, beverage, or meal. Don't assume anything.
10. Have fun. If it isn't fun, what am I doing there?
If it is in the cards to meet a great love, that is fine. But sometimes just meeting someone for dinner or a movie can be wonderful, too. I like who I am and want to be with someone who thinks I am grand just the way I am. Otherwise, being alone is nice, too. Besides, I have a pile of new library books and a Netflix membership. No desperation here. Where are the kittens? It is time to go to bed. Good night.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Not much fun for anyone
There were two voice mail messages waiting for me when I took my break at work today. The assisted living facility called to say the old man had fallen twice. When I called back they told me he would not go to the emergency room. He wasn't hurt but his primary physician wants to see him sometime this week. No broken bones, amazing as that seems.
The second part of my break was spent on the phone shouting at my father. "Dad, you have to use the walker. Every time you stand up you must use the walker." He doesn't think he needs to use it inside the apartment. "Dad, you are falling in your bedroom, you are falling in the bathroom, you are falling when you stand up". He tries to explain that his feet aren't working. Yes, and that is why he should hang on to the walker so he doesn't fall down. Finally I asked him if he wanted to stay in the apartment or go to the Shalom Home. He wants to stay in his apartment with my mother. I told him that if he didn't use the walker they would send him to the Shalom Home, a real nursing home. "Will you use the walker?" He said he would.
I'm sad that he is full of pride and fear and confusion. I am sad that the old lady has to deal with her husband falling apart. I am sad that I can't help him. He wants to know what is wrong with him and all I can say is he is old and his body is wearing out. There is no doctor who can fix what he has. He wants to see a doctor because his back hurts. "What hurts, Dad?" His skin. I explain to him that we have seen many doctors and tried many different creams and drugs and what he has is sensitive dry skin on his back. His arms are like two sticks, skinny and black and blue. Each time he falls and he is helped up the skin bruises and tears where they lifted him.
We went to Chili's for ribs yesterday. He ate about four and a very small handful of fries. He drank about three ounces of Blue Moon Beer and the old lady finished the rest. I don't know if he enjoyed himself or not. The old lady had her usual good time. And I got more and more depressed.
I signed on for the duration, but I never thought it would be so long. I realize my life is in Limbo until they both pass. I live day to day for now, never knowing the next demand on my time. Will it be him or her with a complaint that needs to be dealt with? Will it be something financial? Will he have sent away for some crazy thing that I need to return? Will he start calling hearing aid places or play the foreign lotteries? After at least 50 years of using an electric razor, he says the new ones don't work. I bought him shave cream and razors. Now he says he needs shaving soap because he can't work the button on the can. It is too hard. I bought the soap and a mug. She wants red lipstick, bright. She can do only one thing each day. If we go to eat, she can hardly make it back home.
Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have my parents at almost 96 and 97. They are lucky as hell to have me. I know I have grown in patience and acceptance. I hope the lessons we all needed to learn are coming to an end because watching my father fall apart is not much fun for anyone.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Truly Delicious
Like many other people I have been buying Groupons and Living Social coupons and trying new restaurants. Some have been fine but I will not return. The one Eri and I tried yesterday was really, really good. In fact, the food was truly delicious and I want to go back.
El Nuevo Rodeo is both a nightclub, upstairs, and a fine restaurant downstairs. It is on Lake Street near Hiawatha, 2709 E. Lake Street. It is attractive and immaculate, a very nice combination indeed. We started with guacamole made table side. It was so fresh and flavorful. The menu is quite varied and although you can get tacos, burritos, etc, I chose a shrimp stuffed catfish fillet with a mild chipotle cream sauce. The food writer, Ruth Reichl, talks about some things melting in her mouth. This was so delicious and tender it melted in my mouth. I wanted to make it last and last. Erica had a fajita wrap that she said was wonderful, too.
Sometimes I find a place that is so good I want all my friends to know so they can go, so the place will be successful, so I can go back. I hope you will try it. We talked to the owner and she wanted us to go back in the kitchen to see how clean it is. I believe her. This is truly authentic Mexican food that could be served in a fine restaurant in Mexico. They have a tasting menu that looks awesome and I hope I get a chance to try it, too.
So... who wants to go to El Nuevo Rodeo with me? It is truly delicious.
El Nuevo Rodeo is both a nightclub, upstairs, and a fine restaurant downstairs. It is on Lake Street near Hiawatha, 2709 E. Lake Street. It is attractive and immaculate, a very nice combination indeed. We started with guacamole made table side. It was so fresh and flavorful. The menu is quite varied and although you can get tacos, burritos, etc, I chose a shrimp stuffed catfish fillet with a mild chipotle cream sauce. The food writer, Ruth Reichl, talks about some things melting in her mouth. This was so delicious and tender it melted in my mouth. I wanted to make it last and last. Erica had a fajita wrap that she said was wonderful, too.
Sometimes I find a place that is so good I want all my friends to know so they can go, so the place will be successful, so I can go back. I hope you will try it. We talked to the owner and she wanted us to go back in the kitchen to see how clean it is. I believe her. This is truly authentic Mexican food that could be served in a fine restaurant in Mexico. They have a tasting menu that looks awesome and I hope I get a chance to try it, too.
So... who wants to go to El Nuevo Rodeo with me? It is truly delicious.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Nibbled to death by guppies and Laughing Yoga
This is a two subject blog.
On Friday the old man called me to say he needed to see a doctor. The bottom of his feet hurt and he could hardly walk. We went out on Saturday to see The Lincoln Lawyer, with Matthew McConaghy, which the old lady and I enjoyed and the old man slept through. I asked if he wanted to stay home because his feet hurt, or if we could take the walker with us so he could lean on it. Of course not. So there we were, the blind hanging on to me on one side and the halt on the other. Oh, we make a mean trio.
Today I took him to see the dentist and the doctor. He is so skinny that his dentures are getting too big and Dr Rabinowitz did what he could to make them rub less. Then we went to the clinic where I was able to get a wheel chair. We had lunch and he ate nearly a whole grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich was not cut so I cut it into triangles and arranged it prettily. He was daunted by a large sandwich but did well with little pieces. Presentation is everything. I had a piece of dry salmon and some broccoli glop that cafeterias do so well.
One interesting thing happened as we sat with our lunch. We had a talk about volunteerism and he said that a lot of people did it. He thought it was kind of nice. This is a real change. He has always thought that anyone who did work for no pay was an idiot and he has razzed me for years about being taken advantage of. Just pushing him through the clinic (which is 3 buildings with skyways) I was able to show him someone playing the flute, someone else selling spring flowers and someone else manning an information booth. He was surprised to find out that they are volunteers.
The doctor determined that the old man had a crack on his heel that was infected. So let's hope that he responds to antibiotic and antibiotic cream. I do not want to do months of wound clinic with him again. My mother says that it is always something with my father and she is right. It is like being nibbled to death by guppies.
Part 2
I am no good at picking wallpaper. There are too many choices. I have been most successful when I have only a few choices, and one alone is even better. So, too, with leisure time activities. I can do whatever I want to do, but have a hard time figuring that out. I have started tutoring and that is fun. I signed up for a card playing club and found out that it really wasn't me. I was done in two hours, but they played long after I left. Today I attended my first session of Laughing Yoga. It was fun and I want to go again.
Long ago I tried to do Yoga. It was so hard and it made me throw up each time. I was told that I was lucky, that I was sensitive and it was clearing me. Well that may be true, but it wasn't fun and I stopped. I have a daughter who is loving Yoga. She does amazing headstands and balancing positions and all I can do is applaud, but it is not for me.
I am a social person. What can I do that is fun? I had seen those videos of people in India laughing with a leader and I thought I would like to do that. Then just yesterday I found out there is a laughing group right here in the cities. I signed up and went today. It was lovely and it was fun and I want to do it again. We moved and we breathed and we laughed. The leader said there is no way of doing it wrong. I felt quite stiff at first. At first I got charley horse in my midsection but continued to stretch and soon was fine. There are no jokes, no age limits and research has found that fake laughter gives the same health benefits as real laughter. It is also true that contrived laughter soon turns into the real thing. My, it felt good.
Years ago I saw a counselor and told her I felt stressed. She asked what was going on in my life and then told me the reason I was feeling stressed was because I was under great stress. She suggested going to a comedy club or funny movie and laughing until I cried. She was right, it released the stress. I think that I could enjoy laughing every Monday night or Thursday during the day. It is free, it is social without commitment, and it sends good energy out into the atmosphere; everyone wins.
There are over 7,000 laughing groups worldwide and 400 in the United States. If you want to know more, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, and a hee hee hee!
On Friday the old man called me to say he needed to see a doctor. The bottom of his feet hurt and he could hardly walk. We went out on Saturday to see The Lincoln Lawyer, with Matthew McConaghy, which the old lady and I enjoyed and the old man slept through. I asked if he wanted to stay home because his feet hurt, or if we could take the walker with us so he could lean on it. Of course not. So there we were, the blind hanging on to me on one side and the halt on the other. Oh, we make a mean trio.
Today I took him to see the dentist and the doctor. He is so skinny that his dentures are getting too big and Dr Rabinowitz did what he could to make them rub less. Then we went to the clinic where I was able to get a wheel chair. We had lunch and he ate nearly a whole grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich was not cut so I cut it into triangles and arranged it prettily. He was daunted by a large sandwich but did well with little pieces. Presentation is everything. I had a piece of dry salmon and some broccoli glop that cafeterias do so well.
One interesting thing happened as we sat with our lunch. We had a talk about volunteerism and he said that a lot of people did it. He thought it was kind of nice. This is a real change. He has always thought that anyone who did work for no pay was an idiot and he has razzed me for years about being taken advantage of. Just pushing him through the clinic (which is 3 buildings with skyways) I was able to show him someone playing the flute, someone else selling spring flowers and someone else manning an information booth. He was surprised to find out that they are volunteers.
The doctor determined that the old man had a crack on his heel that was infected. So let's hope that he responds to antibiotic and antibiotic cream. I do not want to do months of wound clinic with him again. My mother says that it is always something with my father and she is right. It is like being nibbled to death by guppies.
Part 2
I am no good at picking wallpaper. There are too many choices. I have been most successful when I have only a few choices, and one alone is even better. So, too, with leisure time activities. I can do whatever I want to do, but have a hard time figuring that out. I have started tutoring and that is fun. I signed up for a card playing club and found out that it really wasn't me. I was done in two hours, but they played long after I left. Today I attended my first session of Laughing Yoga. It was fun and I want to go again.
Long ago I tried to do Yoga. It was so hard and it made me throw up each time. I was told that I was lucky, that I was sensitive and it was clearing me. Well that may be true, but it wasn't fun and I stopped. I have a daughter who is loving Yoga. She does amazing headstands and balancing positions and all I can do is applaud, but it is not for me.
I am a social person. What can I do that is fun? I had seen those videos of people in India laughing with a leader and I thought I would like to do that. Then just yesterday I found out there is a laughing group right here in the cities. I signed up and went today. It was lovely and it was fun and I want to do it again. We moved and we breathed and we laughed. The leader said there is no way of doing it wrong. I felt quite stiff at first. At first I got charley horse in my midsection but continued to stretch and soon was fine. There are no jokes, no age limits and research has found that fake laughter gives the same health benefits as real laughter. It is also true that contrived laughter soon turns into the real thing. My, it felt good.
Years ago I saw a counselor and told her I felt stressed. She asked what was going on in my life and then told me the reason I was feeling stressed was because I was under great stress. She suggested going to a comedy club or funny movie and laughing until I cried. She was right, it released the stress. I think that I could enjoy laughing every Monday night or Thursday during the day. It is free, it is social without commitment, and it sends good energy out into the atmosphere; everyone wins.
There are over 7,000 laughing groups worldwide and 400 in the United States. If you want to know more, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, and a hee hee hee!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Obstinate? You have no idea!
(Disclaimer: this blog is not about my thousand year old parents.)
What is it about usually reasonable, loving, giving people that makes them take a stand on something and not give an inch? Why do people who would do anything for their children refuse to give them peace of mind? What am I talking about? Let me tell you...
My dear sister-in-law told me the tale of her eighty-something year old mother's stubbornness in one particular area. She won't make a will. She refuses to do it. L will get the lawyer and even pay for it, but her mother refuses. There are two other siblings and grandchildren and all kinds of complications but she refuses to deal with it. She won't even tell L what she wants done after she passes. It will all fall on L who has been her mother's rock for many years. She has begged her to do this one thing for her, but mother point blank refuses.
Today I met my own mother-in-law for lunch. She drove South, I drove North and we met at Grand Casino Hinckley. I told her that my father had fallen in the night and he pressed his Lifeline button. They called an aide who got him back in bed. Betty is about ten years younger than my folks but she lives alone. She said other people had told her she should get a Lifeline. I agreed and she said that she would feel ridiculous having that thing hanging around her neck. I told her she could wear it under her shirt, no one need know. We actually argued there in the restaurant. I asked if her vanity was more important than giving peace of mind to her sons and their families and she said it was her life and not to bother her about it. She cited always being able to get up, including crawling over snow and ice after falling this winter and breaking her ankle. She would give you everything she owns if you needed it, doesn't care about clothes or fashion but will not even carry a cell phone for emergencies.
Both of the ladies above have been fitted with hearing aids which neither of them will wear. I don't understand why generous, loving, do anything for you women will make everyone shout rather than wear their hearing aids.
Here is a promise to my children, when I get into my eighties I will listen to your concerns for my well being and try not to add stress to your lives. We all like to think we will be vibrant and responsible right up to the time we die in our own beds with all our marbles. I would like to emulate Cousin Harriet who looked around and saw that it seemed reasonable to sell her home and car at age ninety. I probably will still be obstinate, but I hope, not about denying you peace of mind.
What is it about usually reasonable, loving, giving people that makes them take a stand on something and not give an inch? Why do people who would do anything for their children refuse to give them peace of mind? What am I talking about? Let me tell you...
My dear sister-in-law told me the tale of her eighty-something year old mother's stubbornness in one particular area. She won't make a will. She refuses to do it. L will get the lawyer and even pay for it, but her mother refuses. There are two other siblings and grandchildren and all kinds of complications but she refuses to deal with it. She won't even tell L what she wants done after she passes. It will all fall on L who has been her mother's rock for many years. She has begged her to do this one thing for her, but mother point blank refuses.
Today I met my own mother-in-law for lunch. She drove South, I drove North and we met at Grand Casino Hinckley. I told her that my father had fallen in the night and he pressed his Lifeline button. They called an aide who got him back in bed. Betty is about ten years younger than my folks but she lives alone. She said other people had told her she should get a Lifeline. I agreed and she said that she would feel ridiculous having that thing hanging around her neck. I told her she could wear it under her shirt, no one need know. We actually argued there in the restaurant. I asked if her vanity was more important than giving peace of mind to her sons and their families and she said it was her life and not to bother her about it. She cited always being able to get up, including crawling over snow and ice after falling this winter and breaking her ankle. She would give you everything she owns if you needed it, doesn't care about clothes or fashion but will not even carry a cell phone for emergencies.
Both of the ladies above have been fitted with hearing aids which neither of them will wear. I don't understand why generous, loving, do anything for you women will make everyone shout rather than wear their hearing aids.
Here is a promise to my children, when I get into my eighties I will listen to your concerns for my well being and try not to add stress to your lives. We all like to think we will be vibrant and responsible right up to the time we die in our own beds with all our marbles. I would like to emulate Cousin Harriet who looked around and saw that it seemed reasonable to sell her home and car at age ninety. I probably will still be obstinate, but I hope, not about denying you peace of mind.
Losing it
I come from people with no filters. Happy, sad, or infuriated, if they are feeling it, you are going to know it. It has taken me many years to learn how to control myself, and still, here in the land of stoicism, people think I am outrageous. Recently, I was jolly at a party and one old friend said to someone I just met, "See, isn't she just the way I described her?" Then she gave my bewildered face a kiss.
Today though, after trying to be reasonable, trying to comply, I was pushed too far and I lost it. The facts are simple. The old lady, 97, thought she had a bladder infection and I brought her to Urgent Care. First we had to take a number and then a triage nurse called us. Then back to the waiting room and then an insurance person called us. I left Mom sitting there while I went to take care of business. The woman smiled and said, "Harriet?" No, I explained I was her daughter and pointed her out. I handed over the insurance card, verified her address and date of birth, (February 10, 1914). Then I was asked her telephone number. I blanked. I looked at the iphone but could only get the name, not the actual number until much later. All this time I was smiling, the woman was smiling and all was well. Then I remembered! I gave the number but it was one digit off. Still smiling, the clerk said no. I asked if I was close and she wouldn't tell me. What difference did it make, I asked. There she was, sitting in the waiting room, here I was, what difference did the phone number make? She needed that number to verify that it was the right person.
Before I knew it I was raising my voice. Of course this was the right person! Do I go bringing anyone else's ninety-seven year old mother to the clinic? Smiling still, she told me they needed to verify her identity. So asinine, as if someone pretending to be someone else wouldn't learn that telephone number. "THERE SHE IS! SHE IS RIGHT THERE!" I started to wheeze. People who know me know this is a very, very bad sign. (If I had thought about it, and if they had asked, I even had her state identity card with me although nobody has asked to see it in six years.) I was yelling random numbers, 9336, 9663 and making a scene. All kinds of people came running, "Miss, Miss, please calm down, you need to calm down. Come in back." All the while that little bureaucrat sat at her desk unaffectedly smiling.
Well, I couldn't calm down, the old lady, who can hardly see, was saying, "Why are you upsetting my daughter? She's a good daughter. What is going on?" And I was literally wheezing with rage and frustration. Zero to meltdown in a few short minutes. Finally someone got the two of us into an examination room, out of the public eye. I dried my eyes and got breath back. A nurse came in to talk to us. I told her that the woman wouldn't even give me a hint if I was close and the nurse said, "Oh, she needs to learn some sensitivity. That was wrong." And I was instantly calm. I was able to go into the contacts list on the phone and hit edit. There was the number, 9036.
When I am not being listened to, I get loud, then I get louder, thinking if I say it louder I will be understood. Then I lose control of my breathing and start to wheeze trying to get my point across. It is not pretty. Am I proud of becoming a fire eating dragon who embarrasses everyone around me? No, it is awful. Can I control it? Yes, most times. My kids are amazed at the patience I show the folks. They can hardly believe it is me. But sometimes, when confronted with petty bullshit, and having my actions controlled by petty bullshit, I lose it.
The nurses and medical assistants were very kind to the old lady and took her sample over to the lab instead of making us check in there too. A kind doctor wrote a prescription, and sent it to the pharmacy where it was filled in just ten minutes. As we were leaving I saw the young mother who came in after us still waiting for her baby to be seen. I hadn't wanted special treatment, truly.
Today I was lucky, yes lucky. I did not get a headache, or have intestinal distress as collateral damage to losing it. I haven't lost my voice, or held on to outrage. I am a little sad and disappointed for allowing myself to get into a state. Next time I will do better. Or maybe I won't. I would like it if my mighty wrath was put to a much better use. But as one friend reassured me, even Saints don't always live 100% pristine lives. Ah, perspective.
Today though, after trying to be reasonable, trying to comply, I was pushed too far and I lost it. The facts are simple. The old lady, 97, thought she had a bladder infection and I brought her to Urgent Care. First we had to take a number and then a triage nurse called us. Then back to the waiting room and then an insurance person called us. I left Mom sitting there while I went to take care of business. The woman smiled and said, "Harriet?" No, I explained I was her daughter and pointed her out. I handed over the insurance card, verified her address and date of birth, (February 10, 1914). Then I was asked her telephone number. I blanked. I looked at the iphone but could only get the name, not the actual number until much later. All this time I was smiling, the woman was smiling and all was well. Then I remembered! I gave the number but it was one digit off. Still smiling, the clerk said no. I asked if I was close and she wouldn't tell me. What difference did it make, I asked. There she was, sitting in the waiting room, here I was, what difference did the phone number make? She needed that number to verify that it was the right person.
Before I knew it I was raising my voice. Of course this was the right person! Do I go bringing anyone else's ninety-seven year old mother to the clinic? Smiling still, she told me they needed to verify her identity. So asinine, as if someone pretending to be someone else wouldn't learn that telephone number. "THERE SHE IS! SHE IS RIGHT THERE!" I started to wheeze. People who know me know this is a very, very bad sign. (If I had thought about it, and if they had asked, I even had her state identity card with me although nobody has asked to see it in six years.) I was yelling random numbers, 9336, 9663 and making a scene. All kinds of people came running, "Miss, Miss, please calm down, you need to calm down. Come in back." All the while that little bureaucrat sat at her desk unaffectedly smiling.
Well, I couldn't calm down, the old lady, who can hardly see, was saying, "Why are you upsetting my daughter? She's a good daughter. What is going on?" And I was literally wheezing with rage and frustration. Zero to meltdown in a few short minutes. Finally someone got the two of us into an examination room, out of the public eye. I dried my eyes and got breath back. A nurse came in to talk to us. I told her that the woman wouldn't even give me a hint if I was close and the nurse said, "Oh, she needs to learn some sensitivity. That was wrong." And I was instantly calm. I was able to go into the contacts list on the phone and hit edit. There was the number, 9036.
When I am not being listened to, I get loud, then I get louder, thinking if I say it louder I will be understood. Then I lose control of my breathing and start to wheeze trying to get my point across. It is not pretty. Am I proud of becoming a fire eating dragon who embarrasses everyone around me? No, it is awful. Can I control it? Yes, most times. My kids are amazed at the patience I show the folks. They can hardly believe it is me. But sometimes, when confronted with petty bullshit, and having my actions controlled by petty bullshit, I lose it.
The nurses and medical assistants were very kind to the old lady and took her sample over to the lab instead of making us check in there too. A kind doctor wrote a prescription, and sent it to the pharmacy where it was filled in just ten minutes. As we were leaving I saw the young mother who came in after us still waiting for her baby to be seen. I hadn't wanted special treatment, truly.
Today I was lucky, yes lucky. I did not get a headache, or have intestinal distress as collateral damage to losing it. I haven't lost my voice, or held on to outrage. I am a little sad and disappointed for allowing myself to get into a state. Next time I will do better. Or maybe I won't. I would like it if my mighty wrath was put to a much better use. But as one friend reassured me, even Saints don't always live 100% pristine lives. Ah, perspective.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
We weren't the Brady Bunch
A friend of mine posted on facebook that she introduced her daughters to The Brady Bunch. Lots of cute replies until mine. I said I hated The Brady Bunch. I was so jealous. In our house we watched what my father wanted, mostly Westerns.
Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.
I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.
I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief. I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.
When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.
I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.
Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.
I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.
I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief. I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.
When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.
I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
An amazing funeral
Today I attended a most amazing funeral for a man who was very loved. I'd never actually met him. He was the boyfriend of a dear friend and died of an aggressive cancer. This is all I knew about him: he was a talented musician, belonged to a motorcycle club and made my friend very happy.
It was billed as a celebration of life and I thought I knew what that meant, happy tears and loving stories from friends and family. Oh no! This was a huge biker reunion with representatives from motorcycle clubs all over the upper midwest. We gathered at a bar and walked the two blocks to a funeral home. I was near the front of the walkers. When I looked back I saw a sea of black leather as about five hundred people spread over the sidewalk behind me. I wondered how we were all going to fit in the chapel.
I needn't have worried. Men and women came in and snaked around the rooms looking at different stations with pictures of different aspects of the his life, childhood, fatherhood, bands he had played with, trips he had taken, etc. No casket, just flowers and mementos of his life. Here and there a biker held back tears, but mostly greeted each other with hugs and happiness. On their leathers they wore patches memorializing past members who had died, and there were already a few for their friend.
I stayed for about an hour watching the groups come together, break up and reform in new groups. I watched the never ending procession move about the funeral home. I listened to the musicians play New Orleans type music in all the different rooms. I saw a few manly tears, but mostly happy faces, come to say goodbye to a friend. There weren't speeches and I know the party back at the bar probably lasted for hours. As I left I said to one woman, "I wonder how many will come to my funeral? Ten or so?" She said not to say that because, "You never know."
Rest in peace, Scott Manske. You were very loved. I did not know you in life, but I know that anyone who has that many friends, and loved my friend, must have been a wonderful guy.
From the St Paul Pioneer Press:
"Scotty Danger" Father, Musician, Outlaw & Minister Passed away on April 11, 2011 surrounded by family and friends. Age 56. Preceded in death by father, Tom. Survived by daughter, Michele; girlfriend, Nancy Dorgan; Yoshi & Spike. New Orleans Processional 1:30 PM Sunday from Neumann's Bar, 2531 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul to Sandberg Funeral Home, 2593 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul for a Celebration of Scott's Life from 2:00 PM - 3:30 PM. New Orleans Recessional at 3:30 PM from the Funeral Home to Neumann's Bar for further fellowship and celebration. In lieu of flowers, memorials preferred. "If you met Scott, you loved him." 651-777-2600"
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Dancing with the humiliated
I like Dancing With The Stars. It is consistently entertaining. But something happened the other night that broke my heart. It wasn't Kirstie Alley's shoe falling off. She handled that with aplomb. It was the public disintegration of little Kendra. This girl is not a star, she is, to me, a poor soul trying too hard to be something famous.
DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.
I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.
On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.
I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.
In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life. I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)
DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.
I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.
On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.
I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.
In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life. I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Ten dollars worth of joy
When I lived on over a half acre of property to beautify, I started out with high hopes planting raspberries and dahlias in an area by the garage. I didn't know about enriching the soil and the raspberries that overtook my sister-in-law's garden died in mine. Chipmunks ate every dahlia bulb and flower. I bought tulips for the slope by the mailbox but the soil there was pure clay and only one bloomed. I tried carpets of wildflowers for the same place and each year one or two cornflowers would bloom. The strawberry pot filled with herbs was another dismal failure, as were expensive tomato plants. Eventually the lawn became mostly creeping charlie and moss and landscaping friends said to keep it that way. Our hillside had a rustic charm. I took to buying geraniums in planters and roses in pots and had some success that thrilled me. Each year I would purchase four fragrant roses and treat them like annuals. A friend advised getting new soil each year for the planters and that made a huge improvement. I was also able to grow healthy begonias, a very forgiving flower, in hanging pots. Petunias were always a dismal failure.
Last summer, the first here in the little condo, I had great plans. I started sweet pea and morning glory that I was going to train to grow up the railings that separated my area from the pool. I took the big planters and bought roses. Every time the vines would get to about five inches or so, they would be eaten by the resident rabbits. (You can't live right on a park and not get rabbits.) As the summer progressed I added geraniums and other annuals that I got on sale and eventually filled the area with color. I got most of the pots cleaned up for fall before I bought three long planters of mums, not only for the flowers which were lush and beautiful, but for the planters themselves. We got our first foot of snow while the mums were still blooming. I never saw them again this long, long winter as the area outside my glassed-in patio filled with over two feet of snow.
Once more I am starting sweet pea and morning glory from seed. This year the long planters will be hung from the railing and I will train the vines downward. I hope they are successful because it can look wonderful. There are something like twenty-three pots to be planted and I've laid in a stock of Miracle Grow potting soil. Two things I know about myself and gardening; I am cheap and impatient. I don't particularly love doing the actual dirty work but love watering pots of beautiful flowers. I splurged on jiffy pots rather than using paper cups and needed more to start the marigolds so back to Home Depot I went to get another box.
It was such a thrill to see pansies and violas in hanging pots. They were vibrantly alive and my soul ached for their colors. The healthiest pot was filled with deep purple and orange violas. I lifted it down and brought it to the cashier. Could I justify spending twenty-five or thirty dollars right now? Ten dollars! Ten dollars for a priceless gift of joy!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Oui! Merci!
With a long baguette sticking out of one bag, and a bouquet of spring flowers in the other, the groceries I carried could have come from a market in Paris. Yes, there goes the confident single woman with a spring in her step, the sun in her face, and a smile for anyone she sees. My, it has been a long winter indeed.
There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.
Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.
I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.
Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!
There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.
Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.
I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.
Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Enjoying today
"In this life, be conscious every day. And when you are conscious, you will be able to see how beautiful this life is. This life that you keep cursing. This life that you keep weighing with happiness and sorrow. This life, it should not be weighed with happiness and sorrow. Because in it, there is a joy in every day, in every moment. If there should be any measurement, then it should be: "how much have I enjoyed today?".- Prem Rawat (Maharaji)
I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.
Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)
This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.
I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw
I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.
Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)
This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.
I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw
Thursday, March 31, 2011
I'm just a girl who can't say no (But once in a while I do!)
If you were to ask me if I am a generous person, I would probably say yes. I have given away boatloads in my life and consider mean spiritedness in others a major character flaw. Yet there are times when I have to look my generosity in the face and accept that it is easy to give when one has an abundance to share and not so easy when it comes to things I want to hang on to.
I don't think many of us growing up in my neighborhood had a lot of extra. We lived in small apartments and had school clothes that had to be taken off when we got home, and play clothes and one outfit for special occasions. My friends had one Barbie Doll, I had a Vogue Fashion Doll. We had a stuffed tiger and corduroy dog. My sister had a kind of Humpty Dumpty soft toy and we had some hand me down Ginny Dolls from a cousin. Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land (my all time hated), coloring books and crayons. I don't think we were deprived. We used our imagination and had lots of fun.
When I was in High School, I came into possession of a gorgeous red designer coat. It was truly beautiful and I loved it. My parents and I had found it at Loehman's and watched it being reduced from week to week. When it got to a reasonable price, they bought it for me as a birthday present. It had to have been the finest garment I ever had in my life and I treasured it. I think it may have come straight from an atelier because the pockets were sewn on by hand and I had to be careful not to put much in them. One day my Aunt Judy asked if her daughter could use that coat for a date. I said yes, because it was expected of me but I put so many conditions on her borrowing it that Judy just went and bought her a coat. I felt guilty, but that coat was precious to me and I didn't want to share.
Later on in college I got involved in a movement that asked us to give up all the things we could to raise money. No problem until I was asked to give up a simple ring that had belonged to my birth mother. I did it and felt bad. I still regret giving it up.
When I got interested in photography my husband invested in a good camera for me. It meant the world that he would buy me something so precious. I took good care of it and didn't let anyone else use it. Years later he offered it to a niece who was taking a college course in photography. I freaked out. That was mine, he couldn't just offer something so valuable to someone else. It might get stolen or broken and then what? He had no idea that Miss Generosity could act that way. I apologized over and over, but I could not lend it out.
It was a joke to my daughters not to admire anything of mine too much because I would always offer it to them. One year Eri admired a new pair of Romika sandals and I reluctantly gave them to her even though I liked them. A year of two later she asked if she could have my new red Dansko sandals and I surprised us all by saying no. It was surprising, but it was fine. Yeah, Mom could have her own shoes.
Now a friend is collecting for a young woman and her daughter who lost everything in an apartment fire. I started looking around for what I could give. When I moved into my own place I only took things that I really liked and needed. This place is small and there is not a lot of room for excess. What I found was I didn't want to give much up. A few cookbooks, a few utensils, my sweet stuffed dog, Rocky. I gave the larger box of Kleenex, but when it came to the glassware I baulked. I love the stupid Shrek glasses from MacDonald's and don't want to break up the fine Mikasa set.
I saw my ex and his assistant at Costco later in the day. I told them this story and Toreeta has a brand new quilt to donate. I was feeling guilty for not giving more, for saving the things I wanted for myself. I told them that Jesus said if a man had two coats and his neighbor none, he should give the neighbor the better one. I was confronting my own selfishness when S reminded me of a long held family saying. "If you give away your frying pan, you only have to buy another." Thank you to the voice of reason.
I don't think many of us growing up in my neighborhood had a lot of extra. We lived in small apartments and had school clothes that had to be taken off when we got home, and play clothes and one outfit for special occasions. My friends had one Barbie Doll, I had a Vogue Fashion Doll. We had a stuffed tiger and corduroy dog. My sister had a kind of Humpty Dumpty soft toy and we had some hand me down Ginny Dolls from a cousin. Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land (my all time hated), coloring books and crayons. I don't think we were deprived. We used our imagination and had lots of fun.
When I was in High School, I came into possession of a gorgeous red designer coat. It was truly beautiful and I loved it. My parents and I had found it at Loehman's and watched it being reduced from week to week. When it got to a reasonable price, they bought it for me as a birthday present. It had to have been the finest garment I ever had in my life and I treasured it. I think it may have come straight from an atelier because the pockets were sewn on by hand and I had to be careful not to put much in them. One day my Aunt Judy asked if her daughter could use that coat for a date. I said yes, because it was expected of me but I put so many conditions on her borrowing it that Judy just went and bought her a coat. I felt guilty, but that coat was precious to me and I didn't want to share.
Later on in college I got involved in a movement that asked us to give up all the things we could to raise money. No problem until I was asked to give up a simple ring that had belonged to my birth mother. I did it and felt bad. I still regret giving it up.
When I got interested in photography my husband invested in a good camera for me. It meant the world that he would buy me something so precious. I took good care of it and didn't let anyone else use it. Years later he offered it to a niece who was taking a college course in photography. I freaked out. That was mine, he couldn't just offer something so valuable to someone else. It might get stolen or broken and then what? He had no idea that Miss Generosity could act that way. I apologized over and over, but I could not lend it out.
It was a joke to my daughters not to admire anything of mine too much because I would always offer it to them. One year Eri admired a new pair of Romika sandals and I reluctantly gave them to her even though I liked them. A year of two later she asked if she could have my new red Dansko sandals and I surprised us all by saying no. It was surprising, but it was fine. Yeah, Mom could have her own shoes.
Now a friend is collecting for a young woman and her daughter who lost everything in an apartment fire. I started looking around for what I could give. When I moved into my own place I only took things that I really liked and needed. This place is small and there is not a lot of room for excess. What I found was I didn't want to give much up. A few cookbooks, a few utensils, my sweet stuffed dog, Rocky. I gave the larger box of Kleenex, but when it came to the glassware I baulked. I love the stupid Shrek glasses from MacDonald's and don't want to break up the fine Mikasa set.
I saw my ex and his assistant at Costco later in the day. I told them this story and Toreeta has a brand new quilt to donate. I was feeling guilty for not giving more, for saving the things I wanted for myself. I told them that Jesus said if a man had two coats and his neighbor none, he should give the neighbor the better one. I was confronting my own selfishness when S reminded me of a long held family saying. "If you give away your frying pan, you only have to buy another." Thank you to the voice of reason.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Midnight Crazies
It has been awhile since my last blog, twelve days. There are three different starts in the draft file. Two titled Growing Old Is Not For Sissies and one titled Here Comes The Sun. But there really isn't anything new to say about my thousand year old parents, and it snowed, hard, on the morning of my pean to spring. I still don't have much to say, but feel it is important to keep writing. It helps to clear my mind and although I know a few people read this, it really is for me. Posting it is just exhibitionism. (Hey! Look at me!)
Why does anyone engage in self-destructive behavior? Why do I? Why do I procrastinate taking helpful action when I know it will ease anxiety? I really don't know. I've been to counseling. I've been to a shaman. I've read a book by a medical mystic. I've bought books on organizing that sit on the shelf because I have put off reading them. Intellectually, I know what needs to be done, but somehow, just like Oprah, I haven't made the connection. Unlike Oprah, I don't have a staff that does what I command. I do have the occasional helpers, but ultimately it is me.
Years ago I went to Malibu for a party given by the leader of the meditation movement I belong to. S and I were living in Flagstaff. He couldn't take time off from school and work so I went with a few other people from our local group. We had to drive across Arizona and California and then park at the bottom of a winding road up a small mountain. As I climbed the steep road I longed for my partner to be with me. I wanted us to be making that trek together. But as I ascended, step by step, I realized that each of us walks this road of life alone. There are people who can keep you company and make the journey lighter, but only we can move our feet.
So... how can I move my leaden feet and do what needs to be done? The first step for me is to make a list. And every list starts like this:
Make list (Harder than you might think. I have to find a piece of paper and pen. I have to actually DO something.)
Take shower
Get dressed
Eat breakfast.
Empty dishwasher
Put away laundry
Then we get down to the nitty gritty:
Pay bills
Make appointments (for whatever needs an appointment)
Return phone calls
Sort mail and clear table
Clear counter
Read email and send out a resume
Go to bank
Go to dry cleaner
Go to (wherever)
What I usually do without a list is this. Get up, feed cats, test blood, eat something, make bed, get on computer and check email and facebook until it is time to rush and get ready for work, if working, or tell myself to go back to bed. I also clean the cat box and berate myself for not doing what needs to get done. There are no easy fixes except to get off my hinder and start. Somedays I can and those are good days, and somedays are harder, but they can be good days too. When my children were small, I had to take care of them and it gave my day structure. So, too, with working. When I was actively married there was accountability and responsibility. But now, it is just me. I can't blame the spoon in the sink on anybody else. This is my mess. I make it and I must clean it up.
I called this blog the midnight crazies after the silly cats who chase each other all around and the thoughts that keep me up. Here is George, Ringo, Elton, Eric and others to sing, "Sun, sun, sun, here it comes."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Fun with Sidney and Harriet
Scene: Kerasotes ICON Theater, St Louis Park, MN.
Cast: The Old Man, The Old Lady, The Intrepid Daughter
Today was bitterly cold in a different way. Instead of just being bone chilling cold there was a wet windy bite that knifed through all layers, but they still wanted to go out. The old man read a good review of "Cedar Rapids" and wanted to see it. I had a Groupon for 2 tickets for $10.00 to the fancy new theater, so away we went, on to the theater!
Have you been to one of these ICON theaters? The lobby is at the top of a three story escalator that goes straight up to a huge atrium. We took the elevator. Then there are stairs or an incredibly long ramp to the lobby. No place for the old people to sit while I bought the tickets, so they leaned against the wall. Usually, the old man sits in back, the old lady in front, and I go back and forth between them every so often. But at this theater you have to pick out your seats on a touch screen and those are the seats you have. I explained that we would all be sitting together at the back of the closer section. Then we started the trek. We passed the restrooms, theaters one and two and then slogged up an incline and another and finally got to theater 10. Then down a couple of corridors. The old lady started breathing very heavily and I made her stop. I took off her coyote coat and hat as she caught her breath. She was actually sweating, and I thought she might collapse. But no, she started to feel better and I was able to get her down a step and into a chair. When I turned to my dad, he wasn't behind me.
I looked up and he was making his way to a far row, a little old man on a mission. "Dad, Dad," I tried to get his attention. Finally he looked at me. "You have to sit with Mom and me," I called. "Those are reserved seats, come sit over here." By now the entire auditorium was watching the Sidney and Carol show. I meet him as he descended and helped get him situated. He couldn't understand why he had to sit so close. The old lady said she was cooling off which was good. At last the previews began and I have to admit, the seats were very comfortable and the picture quality excellent.
Cedar Rapids is a wonderful movie about innocence and honesty and corruption and hypocrisy. It is entertaining and surprising and altogether lovely. I laughed and was touched and enjoyed the entire short eighty-seven minutes. The old man stayed awake the entire time. As soon as it was over and the plot explained to the old lady, she decided it was good. When she asked him if he liked it, the old man said he loved it.
We started the trek back to the lobby, stopping along the way to rest and use the facilities. Down to the parking lot; my car parked right next to the door. On our way to dinner, the old lady said, "It's a beautiful theater but I never want to come here again." We need one of our little neighborhood six-plexes. This was just too huge with inclines and passages. At 97, and somewhat blind, Harriet is game for almost anything. Have cane, will travel. At almost 96, the old man just can't get around the way he wants. He is angry at how weak he has become.
We ate at Chili's and because we had our movie stubs, took home a couple of free pieces of cheesecake for the old man, as well as six ribs and lots of fries. They drank two for one Blue Moon beers and the old lady enjoyed pretending she was tipsy.
I remember being a typical young teen and not wanting to be seen on the same street with my parents, and even five years ago had no patience to watch them eat. Now I can sit with equanimity and wait and watch as they enjoy their food in their own inimitable way. It isn't because they have gotten easier, not at all. It is because there has been a change in me. I want to be loving and I feel it might be sooner than later. I told the old lady that I think she will make 100 and she told me she doesn't want to. The fact that my father is still alive is pretty amazing and makes no sense at all. I can't see us going to the movies every week as we have in the past. But as long as they want to keep going out, I will try to find places they like to go.
Cast: The Old Man, The Old Lady, The Intrepid Daughter
Today was bitterly cold in a different way. Instead of just being bone chilling cold there was a wet windy bite that knifed through all layers, but they still wanted to go out. The old man read a good review of "Cedar Rapids" and wanted to see it. I had a Groupon for 2 tickets for $10.00 to the fancy new theater, so away we went, on to the theater!
Have you been to one of these ICON theaters? The lobby is at the top of a three story escalator that goes straight up to a huge atrium. We took the elevator. Then there are stairs or an incredibly long ramp to the lobby. No place for the old people to sit while I bought the tickets, so they leaned against the wall. Usually, the old man sits in back, the old lady in front, and I go back and forth between them every so often. But at this theater you have to pick out your seats on a touch screen and those are the seats you have. I explained that we would all be sitting together at the back of the closer section. Then we started the trek. We passed the restrooms, theaters one and two and then slogged up an incline and another and finally got to theater 10. Then down a couple of corridors. The old lady started breathing very heavily and I made her stop. I took off her coyote coat and hat as she caught her breath. She was actually sweating, and I thought she might collapse. But no, she started to feel better and I was able to get her down a step and into a chair. When I turned to my dad, he wasn't behind me.
I looked up and he was making his way to a far row, a little old man on a mission. "Dad, Dad," I tried to get his attention. Finally he looked at me. "You have to sit with Mom and me," I called. "Those are reserved seats, come sit over here." By now the entire auditorium was watching the Sidney and Carol show. I meet him as he descended and helped get him situated. He couldn't understand why he had to sit so close. The old lady said she was cooling off which was good. At last the previews began and I have to admit, the seats were very comfortable and the picture quality excellent.
Cedar Rapids is a wonderful movie about innocence and honesty and corruption and hypocrisy. It is entertaining and surprising and altogether lovely. I laughed and was touched and enjoyed the entire short eighty-seven minutes. The old man stayed awake the entire time. As soon as it was over and the plot explained to the old lady, she decided it was good. When she asked him if he liked it, the old man said he loved it.
We started the trek back to the lobby, stopping along the way to rest and use the facilities. Down to the parking lot; my car parked right next to the door. On our way to dinner, the old lady said, "It's a beautiful theater but I never want to come here again." We need one of our little neighborhood six-plexes. This was just too huge with inclines and passages. At 97, and somewhat blind, Harriet is game for almost anything. Have cane, will travel. At almost 96, the old man just can't get around the way he wants. He is angry at how weak he has become.
We ate at Chili's and because we had our movie stubs, took home a couple of free pieces of cheesecake for the old man, as well as six ribs and lots of fries. They drank two for one Blue Moon beers and the old lady enjoyed pretending she was tipsy.
I remember being a typical young teen and not wanting to be seen on the same street with my parents, and even five years ago had no patience to watch them eat. Now I can sit with equanimity and wait and watch as they enjoy their food in their own inimitable way. It isn't because they have gotten easier, not at all. It is because there has been a change in me. I want to be loving and I feel it might be sooner than later. I told the old lady that I think she will make 100 and she told me she doesn't want to. The fact that my father is still alive is pretty amazing and makes no sense at all. I can't see us going to the movies every week as we have in the past. But as long as they want to keep going out, I will try to find places they like to go.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Life is good
On one hand I watch 92 year old Ginger Rogers dance salsa with her 29 year old great grandson. He dips and lifts her and I applaud just like the rest of the audience. Then I turn on coverage of the Tsunami in Japan. A wall of water just washes away everything in its path, houses, farms, cars, roads. Where I can't imagine dancing that way when I am 92, not being able to dance that way at 59, at least I can comprehend it. Yep, natural talent and constant practice. But the tsunami and earthquake, that devastation is beyond my ability to understand.
I forget that we are living our little lives on a big blue marble in space that has a molten core. Some people think the Earth itself has a consciousness and a life above and beyond us. If that is true, maybe earthquakes and tsunamis are no more than the planet belching. We are just little ants on the surface going about our busy little lives without wondering about the surface below our feet. It is not God being angry, or retribution for our sins. It is what happens according to physical laws on our planet.
I am sorry for the people of Japan who have unimaginable pain, disbelief, and sorrow to deal with. I am concerned for all coastal people who must live in readiness for what might be coming. I send my heartfelt wishes for their safety. And yet, after Haiti, Katrina, and all the man-made horrors we inflict upon ourselves, today I can still say that life is good.
In the words of the writer Kurt Vonnegut, "And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."
I forget that we are living our little lives on a big blue marble in space that has a molten core. Some people think the Earth itself has a consciousness and a life above and beyond us. If that is true, maybe earthquakes and tsunamis are no more than the planet belching. We are just little ants on the surface going about our busy little lives without wondering about the surface below our feet. It is not God being angry, or retribution for our sins. It is what happens according to physical laws on our planet.
I am sorry for the people of Japan who have unimaginable pain, disbelief, and sorrow to deal with. I am concerned for all coastal people who must live in readiness for what might be coming. I send my heartfelt wishes for their safety. And yet, after Haiti, Katrina, and all the man-made horrors we inflict upon ourselves, today I can still say that life is good.
In the words of the writer Kurt Vonnegut, "And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is."
Sunday, March 6, 2011
What you see
Wednesday evening I arranged to meet a charming man at Rojo, an upscale Mexican restaurant. We decided to have some appetizers and soup in lieu of a full scale dinner. I suggested the Mexican grilled corn. It is usually wonderful, rolled in butter and cheese. He remarked that I was very brave eating corn on a first date. Really? I like corn and I had a napkin, what was so brave? I said the worst that would happen is we would get some on our faces or teeth and then we would wipe it off. I said "This is me; what you see is who I am." He answered that very few people are that way, at least in his experience. But then again, he has spent his life in advertising.
Clearly there are dating rules I am not aware of. In this world of texting and email, what are the rules? And do I have to follow them? I am not a big rebel rule breaker, it is more that I have a hard time following them. I goes before E, except after C, I need to check every time. Email after dinner, or text after coffee, and who makes the first electronic move? I have a nice time, I send a thank you. I don't want to repeat the experience, I send a nice thanks, but no thanks. Someone told me that these days you just don't get in touch again and expect the other to know what that means. To me it means rudeness, although I shouldn't take it personally.
I wonder about people who put up a dating facade. How long can you keep it up? How long can you pretend to be someone who you think you should be instead of who you are? Can you imagine the surprise when you start to show your real personality? Hopefully, it is a charming surprise, but I imagine it isn't always. Why should I pretend to know baseball if I don't? Once in a while I lie to protect other's feelings. But other than that, why bother? I can't keep the stories straight; better to tell the truth.
What other things don't I know? Are there other things I should know about dinner? What else shouldn't I order? I have heard that there are women who order the a meal and only play with it. If I am invited to dinner I am going to eat and enjoy it. Oh, oh, I've thought of one... don't order dessert unless he does! Am I a catch or what? Yes, what you see is what you get, and boy are you lucky.
Clearly there are dating rules I am not aware of. In this world of texting and email, what are the rules? And do I have to follow them? I am not a big rebel rule breaker, it is more that I have a hard time following them. I goes before E, except after C, I need to check every time. Email after dinner, or text after coffee, and who makes the first electronic move? I have a nice time, I send a thank you. I don't want to repeat the experience, I send a nice thanks, but no thanks. Someone told me that these days you just don't get in touch again and expect the other to know what that means. To me it means rudeness, although I shouldn't take it personally.
I wonder about people who put up a dating facade. How long can you keep it up? How long can you pretend to be someone who you think you should be instead of who you are? Can you imagine the surprise when you start to show your real personality? Hopefully, it is a charming surprise, but I imagine it isn't always. Why should I pretend to know baseball if I don't? Once in a while I lie to protect other's feelings. But other than that, why bother? I can't keep the stories straight; better to tell the truth.
What other things don't I know? Are there other things I should know about dinner? What else shouldn't I order? I have heard that there are women who order the a meal and only play with it. If I am invited to dinner I am going to eat and enjoy it. Oh, oh, I've thought of one... don't order dessert unless he does! Am I a catch or what? Yes, what you see is what you get, and boy are you lucky.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Apnea and Insomnia
I have never been a good sleeper. The old lady says it used to scare her when I would wake her up screaming as a little girl. They would come in and wake me up and I would go back to sleep. As I got older, I stayed up later and later reading by the light from the hallway. I still don't understand why I never just got up and read in the living room. It was probably forbidden. "Go to bed!" The first night I was away at camp, at age sixteen I kept my cabin mates awake with my noise.
At age twenty-one, I received meditation techniques that allowed me to tap into the energy that keeps us all alive. I had a profound experience and stopped fearing death. I was never a very faithful meditator, but I know it is there and stopped screaming in my sleep. I toss and turn and talk and sit up and make all kinds of noise. At the same time I am also a very sensitive sleeper. I used to complain about my husband's snoring. He told me I snore. That didn't bother me since I was asleep when I snored. (Sometimes, though, I would wake myself up with a loud snort when I fell asleep in the passenger seat on a trip. It always embarrassed me.) He started using Breathe Right strips and his snoring didn't bother me anymore since it became very rhythmical. How he ever put up with my shenanigans is a mystery to me. My daughters would become very alarmed when it seemed I stopped sleeping.
About eight years ago I was diagnosed with sleep apnea, a condition where I stop breathing, wake myself up, and go back to sleep. It could happen thirty or forty times a night. Obviously one does not get good deep sleep if one is always waking up for a moment. At the sleep clinic they tried me with a cpap machine that administered continuous air from a mask and it showed deeper sleep. I got a home machine and could never adjust to the mask. I tried four different masks and always wound up pulling it off after about two hours. Last year I went back to the clinic, was given a different mask that I seemed to tolerate better, but still could not wear for very long. They never told me at the clinic that about 40% of all users can not be helped by cpap.
My brother in-law told me about a dental device that helped him and I went to a special dentist to get one made. The dentist was upfront and told me that about 30% of the people he treats do not get relief from the apnea. The only way to tell was to go back to the sleep clinic and have them hook me up to all the machines and watch me sleep while wearing the device, which is a lot like a mouth guard and a retainer. I don't think I can afford 20% of $4,000. to find out if it is effective. I already know the answer: It is and it isn't. It takes care of the apnea but does nothing for the insomnia.
Tonight I was quite tired and went to be just before ten. I didn't read, just put in the device, closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I awoke, I figured it had to be at least four or five in the morning. But when I looked at the clock, it was only 11:53! It wasn't even two hours later. It wasn't even midnight. Holy Toledo.
I am not upset, but I am disappointed. Now I will stay up for awhile, reading, playing on the computer, maybe watching some TV. I don't have to stay in bed reading by the hall light. I am an adult and live in my own home with plenty to do.
Sleeping pills make me ill. Readers, if you have any cure for insomnia, please let me know.
At age twenty-one, I received meditation techniques that allowed me to tap into the energy that keeps us all alive. I had a profound experience and stopped fearing death. I was never a very faithful meditator, but I know it is there and stopped screaming in my sleep. I toss and turn and talk and sit up and make all kinds of noise. At the same time I am also a very sensitive sleeper. I used to complain about my husband's snoring. He told me I snore. That didn't bother me since I was asleep when I snored. (Sometimes, though, I would wake myself up with a loud snort when I fell asleep in the passenger seat on a trip. It always embarrassed me.) He started using Breathe Right strips and his snoring didn't bother me anymore since it became very rhythmical. How he ever put up with my shenanigans is a mystery to me. My daughters would become very alarmed when it seemed I stopped sleeping.
About eight years ago I was diagnosed with sleep apnea, a condition where I stop breathing, wake myself up, and go back to sleep. It could happen thirty or forty times a night. Obviously one does not get good deep sleep if one is always waking up for a moment. At the sleep clinic they tried me with a cpap machine that administered continuous air from a mask and it showed deeper sleep. I got a home machine and could never adjust to the mask. I tried four different masks and always wound up pulling it off after about two hours. Last year I went back to the clinic, was given a different mask that I seemed to tolerate better, but still could not wear for very long. They never told me at the clinic that about 40% of all users can not be helped by cpap.
My brother in-law told me about a dental device that helped him and I went to a special dentist to get one made. The dentist was upfront and told me that about 30% of the people he treats do not get relief from the apnea. The only way to tell was to go back to the sleep clinic and have them hook me up to all the machines and watch me sleep while wearing the device, which is a lot like a mouth guard and a retainer. I don't think I can afford 20% of $4,000. to find out if it is effective. I already know the answer: It is and it isn't. It takes care of the apnea but does nothing for the insomnia.
Tonight I was quite tired and went to be just before ten. I didn't read, just put in the device, closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I awoke, I figured it had to be at least four or five in the morning. But when I looked at the clock, it was only 11:53! It wasn't even two hours later. It wasn't even midnight. Holy Toledo.
I am not upset, but I am disappointed. Now I will stay up for awhile, reading, playing on the computer, maybe watching some TV. I don't have to stay in bed reading by the hall light. I am an adult and live in my own home with plenty to do.
Sleeping pills make me ill. Readers, if you have any cure for insomnia, please let me know.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
A life in motion
I must admit I have not been looking forward to turning fifty-nine. Don't think for a minute that I wanted to die at fifty-eight, oh no. But it sounds so old. Sixty is just around the corner. If I could do any decade over again, it would be this one. I feel like I slept for five years, deep in inertia, sadness and fear. And now that I am active, mentally and socially, I can't help wishing I did things a lot differently. I know, I know, water under the bridge, acknowledge and move on.
I had a really good birthday. John spent hours sitting at the table sorting papers into piles for me to deal with. We threw out a ton of paper, trash and recycling. Eri kept me on task and the bedroom floor is empty. The file cabinet is moved into a corner of the dining room and the boxes that sat in that corner are gone. I really appreciated the gift of their time. Laurel sent beautiful flowers that are perfuming the air around me and a dear friend took me out to dinner. Facebook friends sent birthday wishes; perfect.
There is a part of me that is quite frightened to be this age and alone without a good job. There is a little voice that tells me I will never get a good job if it doesn't happen by sixty. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Listening to that voice is counterproductive. Listening to that voice is a waste of time. Here is one truth, it is hard to get a good job at any age and harder as one ages. Here is another truth, we only have today, right now. If I spend my life worrying about what is going to happen, I am missing right now.
Here is my plan: I am going to wade through all these papers and do what needs to be done. I am going to keep my eyes and ears open for opportunities to be of service and make a good living. I am going to give praise for life and try to see the positive in everyone I meet. I will try to eat well and get back to the pool and exercise room. I am going to look for opportunities to dance. I've done inertia, it doesn't work. A life in motion is much more fun.
I had a really good birthday. John spent hours sitting at the table sorting papers into piles for me to deal with. We threw out a ton of paper, trash and recycling. Eri kept me on task and the bedroom floor is empty. The file cabinet is moved into a corner of the dining room and the boxes that sat in that corner are gone. I really appreciated the gift of their time. Laurel sent beautiful flowers that are perfuming the air around me and a dear friend took me out to dinner. Facebook friends sent birthday wishes; perfect.
There is a part of me that is quite frightened to be this age and alone without a good job. There is a little voice that tells me I will never get a good job if it doesn't happen by sixty. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Listening to that voice is counterproductive. Listening to that voice is a waste of time. Here is one truth, it is hard to get a good job at any age and harder as one ages. Here is another truth, we only have today, right now. If I spend my life worrying about what is going to happen, I am missing right now.
Here is my plan: I am going to wade through all these papers and do what needs to be done. I am going to keep my eyes and ears open for opportunities to be of service and make a good living. I am going to give praise for life and try to see the positive in everyone I meet. I will try to eat well and get back to the pool and exercise room. I am going to look for opportunities to dance. I've done inertia, it doesn't work. A life in motion is much more fun.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
What does it mean to feel peace?
What does it mean to be a daughter, a mother, a sister, a friend? What is our obligation? When do we put our needs above our parents, children, siblings and friends? What is right and what do we justify to feel right?
These past few years have been hard. At times I had to put other's needs behind my own and say, "I need this for me." And other times I have put my needs behind those of my parents and children. There is a balance that is tricky to get right. As a mother I usually put my children first. I liked that. I think they liked it too, unless it became a burden. Putting myself first was new and I often didn't know how to do it without drama, nor they how to react.
My parents are a different galaxy to explore. Where they had a certain authority, and I very little power, I now have almost all the power. It is a heavy responsibility at times. Other times the burden rests easy. Tonight was beastly cold but I took them out for a nice dinner. We sat in peace waiting for our meals. They loved the food, the ambiance, the wait staff remembered us. The old man ate quite a lot and had nothing to complain about. I gave the old lady strokes for being a bigger woman than someone she is feuding with. I looked at these truly ancient people and thought, good for them. When I moved them out here from Brooklyn, I truly didn't think it was going to be for more than a few years. Now I have the patience to see it through for as long as it takes. At least I do tonight. (Tomorrow I might scream.)
I am sitting here, alone except for the cats. I really have no worries, nor anyone to report to. I have some nice friends, and dear family. The peace I am feeling is precious. I am not going to analyze it or think about how long it will last. I am here and I am happy.
These past few years have been hard. At times I had to put other's needs behind my own and say, "I need this for me." And other times I have put my needs behind those of my parents and children. There is a balance that is tricky to get right. As a mother I usually put my children first. I liked that. I think they liked it too, unless it became a burden. Putting myself first was new and I often didn't know how to do it without drama, nor they how to react.
My parents are a different galaxy to explore. Where they had a certain authority, and I very little power, I now have almost all the power. It is a heavy responsibility at times. Other times the burden rests easy. Tonight was beastly cold but I took them out for a nice dinner. We sat in peace waiting for our meals. They loved the food, the ambiance, the wait staff remembered us. The old man ate quite a lot and had nothing to complain about. I gave the old lady strokes for being a bigger woman than someone she is feuding with. I looked at these truly ancient people and thought, good for them. When I moved them out here from Brooklyn, I truly didn't think it was going to be for more than a few years. Now I have the patience to see it through for as long as it takes. At least I do tonight. (Tomorrow I might scream.)
I am sitting here, alone except for the cats. I really have no worries, nor anyone to report to. I have some nice friends, and dear family. The peace I am feeling is precious. I am not going to analyze it or think about how long it will last. I am here and I am happy.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
More life under the visor
It was another day of demonstrating AmLactin body moisturizer. It is a pretty easy sell. I mean everyone in Minnesota has winter dry skin. At one point a strange young man with a turquoise stud in his upper lip studied a bottle of lotion. I asked if he would like a drop. He told me he didn't put carcinogens on his body. O... K, what carcinogens was he talking about? Parabens. I truly don't think the number one recommended by dermatologists and podiatrist lotion is going to cause cancer. I didn't argue, everyone has his or her own particular ax to grind. (I for one have a list against Ronald Reagan, but don't get me started.)
Lately I have been wearing a pair of men's black jeans to work. They were quite inexpensive; unfortunately they don't always stay up on my waist. I was pulling up my pants when two old men walked by giving me a funny look. I said I needed a belt, and to my surprise the skinny one said what I needed was to lose weight. I looked at him for a moment and said, "Thanks Dad!" I should have said, "My what a tacky thing to say." So they didn't break the mold when they made my old man. There are other rude old farts out there.
It is always fun to see the little ones put up their little starfish hands to get a drop of lotion and rub it in. I'd give them just the merest hint of lotion. All in all, I pushed about 30 bottles in 6 hours. As I said, it is an easy sell this time of year.
Yesterday two people linked me with Satan. The store was almost empty and I was standing around with a tray of Macadamia Caramel Clusters when a woman said, "Satan, get thee behind me." Really! I told her she was confused. I was the angel of chocolate. Later another woman told me I was the devil. I responded that I was offering her life affirming candy and was an angel. I'm just a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, I don't do the devil's work. I told the third one who referenced the devil to please not project their own weaknesses on me. Yikes.
I have discovered a way to distinguish people who did not grow up in MN from the natives. Offer something and the Minnesotan will say, "I'm good" and walk by. Once in a while someone from out of state will say, "No thank you" and walk by. People in Minnesota just don't say no thank you. It's true, they are all either good or fine. Customers knew I wasn't from around here because I pronounced all three syllables in caramel instead of carmel. It doesn't mean much, just an observation.
"So here's to you as good as you are!
And here's to me as bad as I am!
And as bad as I am,
And as good as you are
And as good as you are
I'm as good as you are
As bad as I am!"
-old toast
L'chiam, to life!
Can't think of a clever title
I was sitting in the break room when my phone rang. It was Agatha, one of the nurses at the assisted living facility where my folks live. I asked if my father had fallen again. She asked why I thought it was my father and I replied because it always was. No, he hadn't fallen. He refused to get out of bed. He said he was cold and that he wanted to sleep. I asked if he had a fever, no. His blood pressure was a little high. She told me that my mother, when asked her opinion, said she wasn't a nurse; she didn't know what to do. I told them to let him rest, check on him in another hour and call me back. The next phone call informed me that his blood pressure went down, he took his medication, had a Boost, and wanted to stay in bed. He said he was tired. I told them to let him rest and I would be by after work.
I stopped at the store and bought him some ice cream, and a few Marie Callenders Beef Pot Pies. He will eat that when he can't stand the food there. When I entered the apartment, they were both sitting in the living room with the television blasting. They were very surprised to see me since we'd had about a foot of new snow the night before. Where other parts of the country become paralyzed by a couple of inches, Minnesota knows how to clear the roads. This winter might become the snowiest on record.
The old man was sitting in his robe and slippers. I noticed he was not wearing pajamas and his legs were pathetically skinny. He had just gotten up. I asked what happened that morning. "He was sick," the old lady said. I mentioned that he didn't have a fever. He said he was tired from going to the bathroom all night. I asked about feeling cold. Why didn't he turn up the electric blanket? It wasn't plugged in. Why not? It had been too warm to use. (Sure it had been too warm, -10 degrees outside but about 90 inside) How did he feel? Fine, tired.
The thing about dealing with the extremely elderly is that you never get the whole story. Had he told Agatha about running (shuffling) to the bathroom all night and that was why he was tired? Had he told her that his blanket was unplugged? I bet not. I once had a boss who used to ask me why didn't I ask questions. I used to say I needed to know what the question was before I could ask it. Poor Agatha, she was doing the best she could with the information she had.
In the morning I will call the facility and talk to the head nurse. I will tell her the reason he was tired and cold. I will ask them to make sure his blanket is plugged in. I am also going to request that an aide put in his hearing aids each day. This shouting is making me crazy. He only wears them when I put them in on Saturday.
One day I will get the phone call, but it isn't quite yet. He is not ready to die, he just bought a new pair of pants. I wonder, though, am I ready for him to die? Yes, I think I am. Am I ready to deal with my mother on her own at 97? Moving her to a smaller apartment, dealing with all the paperwork associated with death and listening to the endless stories? No, I don't think so.
I stopped at the store and bought him some ice cream, and a few Marie Callenders Beef Pot Pies. He will eat that when he can't stand the food there. When I entered the apartment, they were both sitting in the living room with the television blasting. They were very surprised to see me since we'd had about a foot of new snow the night before. Where other parts of the country become paralyzed by a couple of inches, Minnesota knows how to clear the roads. This winter might become the snowiest on record.
The old man was sitting in his robe and slippers. I noticed he was not wearing pajamas and his legs were pathetically skinny. He had just gotten up. I asked what happened that morning. "He was sick," the old lady said. I mentioned that he didn't have a fever. He said he was tired from going to the bathroom all night. I asked about feeling cold. Why didn't he turn up the electric blanket? It wasn't plugged in. Why not? It had been too warm to use. (Sure it had been too warm, -10 degrees outside but about 90 inside) How did he feel? Fine, tired.
The thing about dealing with the extremely elderly is that you never get the whole story. Had he told Agatha about running (shuffling) to the bathroom all night and that was why he was tired? Had he told her that his blanket was unplugged? I bet not. I once had a boss who used to ask me why didn't I ask questions. I used to say I needed to know what the question was before I could ask it. Poor Agatha, she was doing the best she could with the information she had.
In the morning I will call the facility and talk to the head nurse. I will tell her the reason he was tired and cold. I will ask them to make sure his blanket is plugged in. I am also going to request that an aide put in his hearing aids each day. This shouting is making me crazy. He only wears them when I put them in on Saturday.
One day I will get the phone call, but it isn't quite yet. He is not ready to die, he just bought a new pair of pants. I wonder, though, am I ready for him to die? Yes, I think I am. Am I ready to deal with my mother on her own at 97? Moving her to a smaller apartment, dealing with all the paperwork associated with death and listening to the endless stories? No, I don't think so.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Saga Continues...
When last we saw the thousand year old parents and their intrepid daughter... I'd told my parents that they couldn't go to a wedding in New Jersey because the old man was too frail. He was greatly disappointed. And although the old lady seemed to accept it, she was disappointed too.
This morning he called me and told me to take my mother all by herself. He would stay home and be OK. I said we will talk about it. He told me she really wanted to go. It was her last hurrah and he did not want her to miss it. He'd worked it out. She could go and have fun and he would stay home and sleep. Then he put her on the phone and she was so excited. "I can do it. It won't be so bad and they all want me to come! Iris was crying she wanted me to come." I said we would talk about it. I was trying to figure out where I could find money for the fares when I decided to call the mother of the groom, cousin Iris. She called back and I found out the real story. We talked a long time. The old lady does not hear very well in person, and even less well on the phone. Iris had told her that she would come to visit after the wedding and bring a video.
At four, I went over to pick them up to go shopping and out to eat. (The old man wants a new pair of pants.) The couch was covered with evening wear. I knew she was picking out her wedding outfit because before I talked to my cousin I thought about it, too, and decided to wear the dress I wore to another wedding. I sat them down and had an almost truthful discussion with them.
"Mom," I said, "you don't always hear well on the phone." I then told them that it was NOT going to be a big wedding like the one we went to last year. No big groom's dinner, no big day-after brunch, no band, very few relatives. Although it was at a country club, it was actually a golf club near a Marriott near a freeway. It was interesting to see them change their minds. I told them it was going to be more like my daughter's wedding, small and intimate. And suddenly it was over. They couldn't see going all the way out there for one day. "But the invitation was so fancy, who knew?"
At dinner the old lady told the old man she was going to keep one outfit out for the February birthday party at their assisted living facility. Then the waiter brought over some chocolate wontons for the 97 year old and all was right with the world.
This morning he called me and told me to take my mother all by herself. He would stay home and be OK. I said we will talk about it. He told me she really wanted to go. It was her last hurrah and he did not want her to miss it. He'd worked it out. She could go and have fun and he would stay home and sleep. Then he put her on the phone and she was so excited. "I can do it. It won't be so bad and they all want me to come! Iris was crying she wanted me to come." I said we would talk about it. I was trying to figure out where I could find money for the fares when I decided to call the mother of the groom, cousin Iris. She called back and I found out the real story. We talked a long time. The old lady does not hear very well in person, and even less well on the phone. Iris had told her that she would come to visit after the wedding and bring a video.
At four, I went over to pick them up to go shopping and out to eat. (The old man wants a new pair of pants.) The couch was covered with evening wear. I knew she was picking out her wedding outfit because before I talked to my cousin I thought about it, too, and decided to wear the dress I wore to another wedding. I sat them down and had an almost truthful discussion with them.
"Mom," I said, "you don't always hear well on the phone." I then told them that it was NOT going to be a big wedding like the one we went to last year. No big groom's dinner, no big day-after brunch, no band, very few relatives. Although it was at a country club, it was actually a golf club near a Marriott near a freeway. It was interesting to see them change their minds. I told them it was going to be more like my daughter's wedding, small and intimate. And suddenly it was over. They couldn't see going all the way out there for one day. "But the invitation was so fancy, who knew?"
At dinner the old lady told the old man she was going to keep one outfit out for the February birthday party at their assisted living facility. Then the waiter brought over some chocolate wontons for the 97 year old and all was right with the world.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
When your parent becomes your child
My parents are very old. The old lady is 97 and the old man will be 96 in June. I moved them here from their apartment in Brooklyn in 2005. At that time we got a handicapped parking permit that will expire in April of 2011. Six years, we all laughed and I was sure they would be gone by now. Well, they are not and I have to renew the permit. Let me tell you, if they are still around in 2017...
It is a funny thing about growing older, people still feel young in their minds. My father does not understand why his knee hurts him. I tell him his body, just like an old car, is wearing out. He still feels young and vibrant in his mind but watch him take an hour to eat three pancakes, or get in and out of a car, and you know this is a very old man. He recently told my mother that he is tired of her pinkish, strawberry blonde hair and wants her to go blonde again. She wants to let her hair go silver but he insists it makes her look old. What, I want to know, is wrong with looking old at 97?
I went over this morning to put some blonde dye in her hair. She told me to start on the ends and work up to the roots. She knows what she is talking about because she used to be a very successful and talented hairdresser and colorist. We did not strip all the color out, just used the dye. When I left it was looking like a lighter color, but I sure wouldn't call it blonde. This evening my father called me to complain about something and I asked him how her hair looked. "Like shit," he answered. My old man, tactful as ever. Then the old lady got on the phone and I asked how she liked her hair. She loved it. She told me she had cut off most of the darker hair and it looks beautiful. She told me this was it. She was letting her hair grow out and I never had to put color in it again. I will be interested to see how she cut her hair since she is legally blind. Curly hair can be quite forgiving.
I take care of their finances, I buy their groceries, make and bring them to all appointments and give them a day out every Saturday. Today I signed their yearly lease. It was almost as long as a purchase agreement. I signed CSandberg, POA, twelve times! At this point they don't know that they are broke. They have this fantasy that there is still "big money" for me to inherit. They are so lucky to be in a HUD senior building with county assisted home care. I try to make things as pleasant as possible.
Sometimes, though, I have to be a bad parent and deny them things. The latest is another trip to New Jersey for another wedding. It is going to be a big affair at a country club and my father is crushed that he can't go. Why? Why can't he go? How do you tell a man that he is too fragile, (his skin actually tears if not treated very carefully) he can hardly walk, and doesn't remember much? How do you deal with taking two ancient people through security and getting them on a plane, getting them to the bathroom, getting them off a plane and to a hotel? How do you feed them, get him dressed, take care of his medications, and answer the same questions a thousand times without getting cranky and mad? I could conceivably take the old lady by herself but that would break his heart.
The old lady is much more on the ball. As a narcissist she can repeat how much everyone loved her and how wonderful it was to dance at the wedding. "We made the whole thing!" she explains. "It wouldn't have been the same without us!" She understands how hard the trip would be and I think she is almost relieved not to go. She has accepted staying home, but not the old man. He is reacting like a small child whose parent is unreasonable. Let me tell you, this isn't a fun position and I keep thinking maybe I can swing it. Then good sense comes to my rescue. I hate saying no.
As a parent, I sometimes had to deny my children things they wanted. We did not allow our daughters to go on Spring Break. Yeah, I was a meany. But I knew that when they could afford it on their own, they could go wherever they liked. They had their whole lives ahead of them. It is a much different story to deny things to my parents knowing they don't have many more years to do the things they want.
It is a funny thing about growing older, people still feel young in their minds. My father does not understand why his knee hurts him. I tell him his body, just like an old car, is wearing out. He still feels young and vibrant in his mind but watch him take an hour to eat three pancakes, or get in and out of a car, and you know this is a very old man. He recently told my mother that he is tired of her pinkish, strawberry blonde hair and wants her to go blonde again. She wants to let her hair go silver but he insists it makes her look old. What, I want to know, is wrong with looking old at 97?
I went over this morning to put some blonde dye in her hair. She told me to start on the ends and work up to the roots. She knows what she is talking about because she used to be a very successful and talented hairdresser and colorist. We did not strip all the color out, just used the dye. When I left it was looking like a lighter color, but I sure wouldn't call it blonde. This evening my father called me to complain about something and I asked him how her hair looked. "Like shit," he answered. My old man, tactful as ever. Then the old lady got on the phone and I asked how she liked her hair. She loved it. She told me she had cut off most of the darker hair and it looks beautiful. She told me this was it. She was letting her hair grow out and I never had to put color in it again. I will be interested to see how she cut her hair since she is legally blind. Curly hair can be quite forgiving.
I take care of their finances, I buy their groceries, make and bring them to all appointments and give them a day out every Saturday. Today I signed their yearly lease. It was almost as long as a purchase agreement. I signed CSandberg, POA, twelve times! At this point they don't know that they are broke. They have this fantasy that there is still "big money" for me to inherit. They are so lucky to be in a HUD senior building with county assisted home care. I try to make things as pleasant as possible.
Sometimes, though, I have to be a bad parent and deny them things. The latest is another trip to New Jersey for another wedding. It is going to be a big affair at a country club and my father is crushed that he can't go. Why? Why can't he go? How do you tell a man that he is too fragile, (his skin actually tears if not treated very carefully) he can hardly walk, and doesn't remember much? How do you deal with taking two ancient people through security and getting them on a plane, getting them to the bathroom, getting them off a plane and to a hotel? How do you feed them, get him dressed, take care of his medications, and answer the same questions a thousand times without getting cranky and mad? I could conceivably take the old lady by herself but that would break his heart.
The old lady is much more on the ball. As a narcissist she can repeat how much everyone loved her and how wonderful it was to dance at the wedding. "We made the whole thing!" she explains. "It wouldn't have been the same without us!" She understands how hard the trip would be and I think she is almost relieved not to go. She has accepted staying home, but not the old man. He is reacting like a small child whose parent is unreasonable. Let me tell you, this isn't a fun position and I keep thinking maybe I can swing it. Then good sense comes to my rescue. I hate saying no.
As a parent, I sometimes had to deny my children things they wanted. We did not allow our daughters to go on Spring Break. Yeah, I was a meany. But I knew that when they could afford it on their own, they could go wherever they liked. They had their whole lives ahead of them. It is a much different story to deny things to my parents knowing they don't have many more years to do the things they want.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Such a treat!
My friend Connie called to tell me there was a free lecture by Garrison Keillor at Concordia College. It was on the art of joke writing. We met at the auditorium and got wonderful seats about fifth row, dead center. The Concordia Handbell Choir played a modern and fun piece and when Garrison got on stage he asked what they were doing Saturday night. That made their night and we all laughed and applauded.
The lecture had been advertised on comedy writing, but I don't think they told Garrison. He said he was going to talk about futility. It was wonderful. Seeing him up front and personal as he spoke for over an hour was a real treat. He is one of the major talents of our time and you can see he just loves what he is doing. He talked a little bit about his stroke and growing older. Did you realize his little girl is now 13? I thought she was about eight. He covered so much ground, I really can't tell you all he said. I can just say I am so glad I got this wonderful treat.
The lecture had been advertised on comedy writing, but I don't think they told Garrison. He said he was going to talk about futility. It was wonderful. Seeing him up front and personal as he spoke for over an hour was a real treat. He is one of the major talents of our time and you can see he just loves what he is doing. He talked a little bit about his stroke and growing older. Did you realize his little girl is now 13? I thought she was about eight. He covered so much ground, I really can't tell you all he said. I can just say I am so glad I got this wonderful treat.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Kindness with a side of fries
This evening, a friend and I went to a Valentines dance and each lady received a lovely long stemmed red rose. We got there about nine and by eleven my feet told me, "Enough!" On the way home I realized I was really hungry and stopped at a McDonald's drive through and ordered a small fries for a buck. I paid for the fries and just for the heck of it gave my rose to the woman at the window. She was really delighted. She came back to tell me that it would be a few minutes because they were making fresh fries. I told her that I'd had a very good time dancing and that I was going to take some aspirin before bed. She told me to soak my feet in hot water with salt and I would feel wonderful in the morning. Then she offered me some coffee. I declined and she went to get my order. We wished each other a nice night and I drove away.
I put my hand into the bag and pulled out the longest hot french fried potato I ever did see. And was it good! I kept eating them, and there seemed to be no end. When I got home I looked at the container. It had gone from a small to an extra large at no extra charge. What a nice surprise.
Someone gave me a rose. I gave the rose away, that woman will go home from her fast food job with a nice story and a rose. I enjoyed hot potatoes and got good advice which I pass on to you. Kindness, it is my favorite thing. Pass it on.
I put my hand into the bag and pulled out the longest hot french fried potato I ever did see. And was it good! I kept eating them, and there seemed to be no end. When I got home I looked at the container. It had gone from a small to an extra large at no extra charge. What a nice surprise.
Someone gave me a rose. I gave the rose away, that woman will go home from her fast food job with a nice story and a rose. I enjoyed hot potatoes and got good advice which I pass on to you. Kindness, it is my favorite thing. Pass it on.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Using words
You hear it all the time, parents telling their small children to use words, that mama can't understand unless you use your words. The tearful toddler says "Want juice" and the mother produces the sippy cup. So, I wonder, when do we learn not to use words to get across what we want? And why do we do it when the results are so spotty?
There is a 15 second spot for a new Lifetime Network show about giving birth. The ad airs between games on my computer. In it a woman in bed says to her husband, "Look at him." He looks up and she looks away and says, "His wife is in labor and he's on his Blackberry." Then she looks at him and he says, "What do you want me to do?" At first I thought the guy was a jerk. But the more often I saw it I realized that the wife was not using words to get what she wanted. When she asked for his attention, she got it, but she looked away. He might not be the most sensitive guy but he did ask what she wanted him to do. Why didn't she say, "Please come be with me, I want you with me." She expected him to just read her mind and know. He couldn't understand unless she used her words.
The other day Eri and I went up to see Grandma Betty. At one point she said she wanted to wash her hair. When it was getting time for us to go I mentioned the hair washing. She waffled around, oh it wasn't necessary, or maybe I should, or she could do it herself, or I didn't have to if I didn't want to, etc. Finally I said I was going to ask her a question and there were only two answers, yes or no. Did she want me to help wash her hair? "Yes." There! Wasn't that easy?
I come from New York and we are not big on subtlety. In your face, you know how we feel. But I have lived in Minnesota longer than I ever lived in NY and I still don't get it. I am very direct and sometimes people here think I am mad. It isn't anger, it is just the way I communicate. Subtlety is lost on me. I need things spelled out in big red letters. I'm a little psychic, but I don't usually trust it; I need clarity, I need words that say what you really mean.
So dear friends, I can't tell what you are thinking. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think about this or any other posting. Use words (or emoticons if you must.)
There is a 15 second spot for a new Lifetime Network show about giving birth. The ad airs between games on my computer. In it a woman in bed says to her husband, "Look at him." He looks up and she looks away and says, "His wife is in labor and he's on his Blackberry." Then she looks at him and he says, "What do you want me to do?" At first I thought the guy was a jerk. But the more often I saw it I realized that the wife was not using words to get what she wanted. When she asked for his attention, she got it, but she looked away. He might not be the most sensitive guy but he did ask what she wanted him to do. Why didn't she say, "Please come be with me, I want you with me." She expected him to just read her mind and know. He couldn't understand unless she used her words.
The other day Eri and I went up to see Grandma Betty. At one point she said she wanted to wash her hair. When it was getting time for us to go I mentioned the hair washing. She waffled around, oh it wasn't necessary, or maybe I should, or she could do it herself, or I didn't have to if I didn't want to, etc. Finally I said I was going to ask her a question and there were only two answers, yes or no. Did she want me to help wash her hair? "Yes." There! Wasn't that easy?
I come from New York and we are not big on subtlety. In your face, you know how we feel. But I have lived in Minnesota longer than I ever lived in NY and I still don't get it. I am very direct and sometimes people here think I am mad. It isn't anger, it is just the way I communicate. Subtlety is lost on me. I need things spelled out in big red letters. I'm a little psychic, but I don't usually trust it; I need clarity, I need words that say what you really mean.
So dear friends, I can't tell what you are thinking. Leave me a comment, let me know what you think about this or any other posting. Use words (or emoticons if you must.)
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Overwhelmed by Grace
Have you ever walked into a room and had the experience of being completely surrounded by holiness, Grace, unconditional love, and the energy that keeps you alive? It doesn't happen all that often to me, but it did on Monday night.
I had been invited to help pack food for Feed My Starving Children, an organization that sends millions of meals to child nutrition centers around the world. They call them Manna Packs and each bag contains enough rice, soy protein, dehydrated vegetables, chicken flavoring and all the vitamins and minerals needed to feed six one cup portions. It is quite palatable and the results of having even one meal a day of this food are remarkable. Each day and evening volunteer groups pack thousands of pounds to ready for the next shipment abroad.
Our group consisted of some very young female hockey players and their mothers, my niece's group of friends and family and others. We had a boisterous crew ready to help. The leaders really knew how to handle the volunteers and got every one's attention to teach how the packs were made. There was a job for everyone to work in teams. Several of the men were assigned to warehouse duty. I volunteered to sit and label bags away from the fray along with a friend. Behind me the hockey players were full of the competitive spirit that had them shouting for more supplies and "Bingo!" when the bags weighed the exact amount. In an instant the hour and a half flew by. After we sampled the fare, which tasted somewhat like fried rice, the leader said that one thing she always did after a session was to pray for the safety of the shipment.
I followed her into the warehouse filled with pallets of supplies and boxes ready for the journey. There I was hit by Grace. I was surrounded by the love of God and felt it in every cell of my being. My skin sang and my eyes started to tear. I was overwhelmed. As more people came into the room I could hear gentle murmurs as each experienced their own moment. After I could speak, the words "When two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there is love" came naturally to my lips.
Someone said a prayer blessing the food and the journey in His Son's name. It was a good prayer, as far as words and human understanding goes. But the energy and love in that room went far beyond what words could say or mind comprehend. For me, it was the Holy Name that cannot be pronounced or ever spoken. And because words can't describe it, I can only tell you this. It is real and I am blessed to have felt it again.
I had been invited to help pack food for Feed My Starving Children, an organization that sends millions of meals to child nutrition centers around the world. They call them Manna Packs and each bag contains enough rice, soy protein, dehydrated vegetables, chicken flavoring and all the vitamins and minerals needed to feed six one cup portions. It is quite palatable and the results of having even one meal a day of this food are remarkable. Each day and evening volunteer groups pack thousands of pounds to ready for the next shipment abroad.
Our group consisted of some very young female hockey players and their mothers, my niece's group of friends and family and others. We had a boisterous crew ready to help. The leaders really knew how to handle the volunteers and got every one's attention to teach how the packs were made. There was a job for everyone to work in teams. Several of the men were assigned to warehouse duty. I volunteered to sit and label bags away from the fray along with a friend. Behind me the hockey players were full of the competitive spirit that had them shouting for more supplies and "Bingo!" when the bags weighed the exact amount. In an instant the hour and a half flew by. After we sampled the fare, which tasted somewhat like fried rice, the leader said that one thing she always did after a session was to pray for the safety of the shipment.
I followed her into the warehouse filled with pallets of supplies and boxes ready for the journey. There I was hit by Grace. I was surrounded by the love of God and felt it in every cell of my being. My skin sang and my eyes started to tear. I was overwhelmed. As more people came into the room I could hear gentle murmurs as each experienced their own moment. After I could speak, the words "When two or more of you are gathered in My Name, there is love" came naturally to my lips.
Someone said a prayer blessing the food and the journey in His Son's name. It was a good prayer, as far as words and human understanding goes. But the energy and love in that room went far beyond what words could say or mind comprehend. For me, it was the Holy Name that cannot be pronounced or ever spoken. And because words can't describe it, I can only tell you this. It is real and I am blessed to have felt it again.
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