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.

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.)

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.

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.

The faces of goodness

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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:

"

Scott S. Manske 

  |   Visit Guest Book

"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"

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.)

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!

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!

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'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.

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."

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.