Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thankfully Surviving Thanksgiving.
Here I am, the last day of November, 2008. I remember reading the book, "1984" and thinking, "we still have time".
I survived Thanksgiving with nary a scratch. Two days before I was ready to flee. By the day before, I was contemplating the advantages of suffering a debilitating accident. The day of, I resigned myself to endure and was desperately seeking for positive imagery to focus on. As the guests started to arrive, I practiced deep breathing, but after a 5 minute conversation with my much appreciated sister-in-law, Married-into-the-family, or Mitf for short, I knew I would make it. And, I did.
Nana was even more charming and pleasant than last year, MomMom completely coherent. My brother's wife, Hypochondria, couldn't make it so that insured a pleasant time for him and his adult daughter, and therefore, the rest of us. The nieces and nephews are getting older, so there's not the constant need for attention. And, my grandsons were, as always, perfect little angels.
The meal is traditionally scheduled for 1pm. A couple of guests arrived a wee bit late, but that worked to my advantage. The potatoes refused to get done! They were doing a little, "nah, nah, nah" dance in the humongous aluminum cooking pot, that I only use for the mass feedings at holidays, and perhaps someday, for funerals. I had thought that I had added enough liquid, but as the late arrivals came in through the door, they greeted us with, "What's burning?", "Is something burning?" , so I should have had a clue.
PhD and Master's came later. Master's has a complicated family situation that requires much traveling around burdened by massive quantities of angst. Master's handles it so well. Maybe she's used to it, maybe she's just a tough little bird. She looks wonderful. She has legs that won't quit and an ample bosom. She's lost a little weight (not that she ever needed to) in anticipation of an upcoming cruise with her mother. PhD looks good, too. They seem happy and content. A mother can't ask for more. They did, however, forget my Internet liquor order that I had to have delivered to their home due to the inane liquor laws in our state. Lucky for them I possess a degree of maternal instinct, and lots of leftovers...I feel no need to kill and eat my young.
And, in just over two weeks, I'm flying out to see PhD during the aforementioned cruise. We'll drive back east to pick up Master's and then PhD and Master's will drive back home. I haven't seen their new apartment, PhD and I will probably try one of the Greek restaurants in the area the night I'm there. And...I....will NOT forget the Amber!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
This Is How We Celebrate
"I'm a good daughter, don't listen to that inner voice. I am a good daughter." Oh, yeah, I talk to myself...constantly.
Yesterday I looked into the abyss that is "old age". It's taken me until now, the medication has taken effect, to summon the courage to relate my experience.
At 7:30am, I left my home and began preparations for accompanying 78 year old, Nana, to the American Music Theatre's Christmas Extravaganza. Nana had paid for the tickets months ago with her credit card, which I used when calling for the reservations. Apparently, I use the telephone, very, very well. I got seats in the "special" aisle row in the balcony. We need the aisle row because there are no steps to negotiate, and Nana uses a walker. The American Music Theatre is set up for the geriatric and the infirm (not one in the same, but not mutually exclusive either). At any given performance, looking over the crowd from above, it looks like a sea of cotton balls, punctuated by the occasional gleam of a bald pate, or the unnatural orange of a die job gone bad.
The show began at 10:30am. "Why", you ask, "did you need to leave three hours ahead when Nana lives four miles away and the theatre is a mere 30 minutes from Nana's home? Were you walking?" No. First, I did Nana's weekly grocery shopping, which consists of 14 cans of cat food, various frozen dinners, and a quart of milk. She does indeed own a cat, have no fear. The shopping is always done on Wednesday, and even though we were going "away", that wasn't cause to make an exception. Most weeks, Nana comes along and takes me to breakfast. She always pays...because I "do so much".
The shopping took about 30 minutes. I then proceeded to Nana's, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Another 20 minutes, max. Nana swapped walkers. She has her indoor walker, which is identical to the outdoor walker that she keeps at my home and I cart back and forth on the days we go out. She doesn't like to use her indoor walker, outdoors. It will get dirty and ruined. She is convinced that her walker's wheels were destroyed going into and out of her granddaughters home...about twice a year. There is an exceedingly rough patch to negotiate over the gravel parking area. She also ruins her wheels navigating the "damaged" sidewalk leading to her condo.
It takes a few minutes to go down the steps. She still, very bravely, has to do steps when we go out. Her condo is on one floor, but there is a private entrance and that involves steps. We get to the car and load up Nana and her walker, and we're off. We must have spent more time that we anticipated "getting organized" because we arrive at the theatre at 9:15am. This allows us to choose a prime handicapped parking space. But, not first choice, as there are a whole lot of people that got there ahead of us. We sit in the car talking (I speak to this woman at least two times a day, everyday, there's not a lot of news), mostly about celebrities, because the theatre doesn't open till 9:30. And even if you go in then, you can't go to your seat until about 20 min. before the show. It's reserved seating, but you'd be surprised how important it is to be first in line.
At 10:00 we make our way inside, take the elevator to the balcony and find our seats, after admiring the beautiful Christmas decorations. It's the beginning of November. I'm practicing my deep yoga breathing. I need to park, "Jenny", Nana's walker out in the lobby, and before I can get back to my seat I'm blocked by massive groups of slowly moving, bitching, old people. It's too hot, too cold, too far, too dark. They can't see the seat numbers on the tickets. They're huffing, and groaning. Thankfully, no one is collapsing, and I know it's taking me too long to get back to my seat and Nana. But, I'm stopped, I have to wait in line, even though I've been to my seat and my tickets have been confirmed. You don't ever, even give the appearance, of cutting in front of a group of seniors. They are daunting.
I finally see my opening and excuse my way past the hoards. Nana greets me with, "That took you a long time, did you stop at the bathroom?" My frequency of use is of great fascination. I either go too often or not often enough, and always at inappropriate times, apparently. I'm serious. Nana reminds me to use the facilities before we leave the house. I am 52. I will "hold it" till my bladder explodes.
Even the ushers at the theatre are elderly. But very nice, for the most part, and equipped with flashlights and reading glasses. There's nothing they, personally, can do about the temperature or the wheezing. But, they placate with programs and coming attraction information. Finally, the lights dim, fashionably late, and the show begins. The only thing that can save me now, is that I actually like Christmas music. I do. My eyes tear up over "The Little Drummer Boy", even Whiteheart's rendition.
So, in spite of the tacky decorations, the obligatory soprano, the bad hair piece on one of the featured male singers, and the strong resemblance to a Lawrence Welk show, there are things I enjoy. I liked the fiddler. I appreciated the costumes, although not of my taste, or anyone's taste unless they are older than 65 and attending a formal wedding. The piano player was real good. But, the nymphet dancers where not to my liking, and when they donned animal costumes, I started repeating the "om mm" to supplement the deep breathing. I cringed when the ventriloquist appeared, but he turned out to be OK. The long, boring, embarrassing skit where two grown people portrayed obnoxious children, a la Lilly Tomlin, and the Elvis impersonator sent me into hyperventilation. If I would have had one, I would have been breathing into a paper bag. The "om mm" was now a silent scream.
But, I've lived to tell the tale. Almost. After the show, Nana insisted on a "good dinner" at the local Old Folks Restaurant. The prices are to die for, the food is from cans. She always insists that I get a "good meal". This is translated: "Order what I tell you too...or die...!" Oh, yes, I can be intimidated. By a geriatric nazi. She is a dictator...and I am her cowed, brainwashed, sniveling, daughter. I get the damned flounder. But, some how manage to convey to the waitress, without Nana's knowledge, that I want the "smaller portion". Thank god. It's all I can do to choke that down!
Dinner over...we head for home. Nana seems content. That makes me content. Maybe this will be the last year, and a happy memory...or I'll do it again...'cause I'm a wuss.
Yesterday I looked into the abyss that is "old age". It's taken me until now, the medication has taken effect, to summon the courage to relate my experience.
At 7:30am, I left my home and began preparations for accompanying 78 year old, Nana, to the American Music Theatre's Christmas Extravaganza. Nana had paid for the tickets months ago with her credit card, which I used when calling for the reservations. Apparently, I use the telephone, very, very well. I got seats in the "special" aisle row in the balcony. We need the aisle row because there are no steps to negotiate, and Nana uses a walker. The American Music Theatre is set up for the geriatric and the infirm (not one in the same, but not mutually exclusive either). At any given performance, looking over the crowd from above, it looks like a sea of cotton balls, punctuated by the occasional gleam of a bald pate, or the unnatural orange of a die job gone bad.
The show began at 10:30am. "Why", you ask, "did you need to leave three hours ahead when Nana lives four miles away and the theatre is a mere 30 minutes from Nana's home? Were you walking?" No. First, I did Nana's weekly grocery shopping, which consists of 14 cans of cat food, various frozen dinners, and a quart of milk. She does indeed own a cat, have no fear. The shopping is always done on Wednesday, and even though we were going "away", that wasn't cause to make an exception. Most weeks, Nana comes along and takes me to breakfast. She always pays...because I "do so much".
The shopping took about 30 minutes. I then proceeded to Nana's, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Another 20 minutes, max. Nana swapped walkers. She has her indoor walker, which is identical to the outdoor walker that she keeps at my home and I cart back and forth on the days we go out. She doesn't like to use her indoor walker, outdoors. It will get dirty and ruined. She is convinced that her walker's wheels were destroyed going into and out of her granddaughters home...about twice a year. There is an exceedingly rough patch to negotiate over the gravel parking area. She also ruins her wheels navigating the "damaged" sidewalk leading to her condo.
It takes a few minutes to go down the steps. She still, very bravely, has to do steps when we go out. Her condo is on one floor, but there is a private entrance and that involves steps. We get to the car and load up Nana and her walker, and we're off. We must have spent more time that we anticipated "getting organized" because we arrive at the theatre at 9:15am. This allows us to choose a prime handicapped parking space. But, not first choice, as there are a whole lot of people that got there ahead of us. We sit in the car talking (I speak to this woman at least two times a day, everyday, there's not a lot of news), mostly about celebrities, because the theatre doesn't open till 9:30. And even if you go in then, you can't go to your seat until about 20 min. before the show. It's reserved seating, but you'd be surprised how important it is to be first in line.
At 10:00 we make our way inside, take the elevator to the balcony and find our seats, after admiring the beautiful Christmas decorations. It's the beginning of November. I'm practicing my deep yoga breathing. I need to park, "Jenny", Nana's walker out in the lobby, and before I can get back to my seat I'm blocked by massive groups of slowly moving, bitching, old people. It's too hot, too cold, too far, too dark. They can't see the seat numbers on the tickets. They're huffing, and groaning. Thankfully, no one is collapsing, and I know it's taking me too long to get back to my seat and Nana. But, I'm stopped, I have to wait in line, even though I've been to my seat and my tickets have been confirmed. You don't ever, even give the appearance, of cutting in front of a group of seniors. They are daunting.
I finally see my opening and excuse my way past the hoards. Nana greets me with, "That took you a long time, did you stop at the bathroom?" My frequency of use is of great fascination. I either go too often or not often enough, and always at inappropriate times, apparently. I'm serious. Nana reminds me to use the facilities before we leave the house. I am 52. I will "hold it" till my bladder explodes.
Even the ushers at the theatre are elderly. But very nice, for the most part, and equipped with flashlights and reading glasses. There's nothing they, personally, can do about the temperature or the wheezing. But, they placate with programs and coming attraction information. Finally, the lights dim, fashionably late, and the show begins. The only thing that can save me now, is that I actually like Christmas music. I do. My eyes tear up over "The Little Drummer Boy", even Whiteheart's rendition.
So, in spite of the tacky decorations, the obligatory soprano, the bad hair piece on one of the featured male singers, and the strong resemblance to a Lawrence Welk show, there are things I enjoy. I liked the fiddler. I appreciated the costumes, although not of my taste, or anyone's taste unless they are older than 65 and attending a formal wedding. The piano player was real good. But, the nymphet dancers where not to my liking, and when they donned animal costumes, I started repeating the "om mm" to supplement the deep breathing. I cringed when the ventriloquist appeared, but he turned out to be OK. The long, boring, embarrassing skit where two grown people portrayed obnoxious children, a la Lilly Tomlin, and the Elvis impersonator sent me into hyperventilation. If I would have had one, I would have been breathing into a paper bag. The "om mm" was now a silent scream.
But, I've lived to tell the tale. Almost. After the show, Nana insisted on a "good dinner" at the local Old Folks Restaurant. The prices are to die for, the food is from cans. She always insists that I get a "good meal". This is translated: "Order what I tell you too...or die...!" Oh, yes, I can be intimidated. By a geriatric nazi. She is a dictator...and I am her cowed, brainwashed, sniveling, daughter. I get the damned flounder. But, some how manage to convey to the waitress, without Nana's knowledge, that I want the "smaller portion". Thank god. It's all I can do to choke that down!
Dinner over...we head for home. Nana seems content. That makes me content. Maybe this will be the last year, and a happy memory...or I'll do it again...'cause I'm a wuss.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Autumn Muse
Fall is a lovely time of year. The leaves are really coming down, which provides hours of amusement for the grandsons... and Tall One. Tall One is at Home Depot, or it's first cousin, Lowe's, with Surfer Dude. There is no place on earth they'd rather be. Unless, it's Disney World, and Disney World doesn't sell lumber.
Tall One's project du jour is the compost heap. He is building an enclosure to keep the weeds, grass clippings and other organic debris at bay. It's situated behind the small shed he built a few years ago. The shed was supposed to house the lawn tractor and it's accessories, but the lawn tractor's accessories are now too high-fallutin', hoity-toity to stay in the shed. They are living in the garage. This is only acceptable because we have a two bay garage, and my car still fits on the other side. I have grown accustomed to parking in a garage.
Last year, or was it the year before?, Tall One invested in a leaf collecting device that he hooks to the riding mowing. It looks as if he's pulling a small, noisy shed around the yard. In actuality, it's an unnatural combination of a shop vac, mulching mower, and temporary storage system. Tall One appears to drive this contraption, willy-nilly, helter skelter all around the grounds and then empties the contents out by the side of the road where they wait (get blown into the neighbors yard) for the borough leaf collectors to take them to their final resting place (land fill). I am way too unskilled (a woman) to operate this state-of-the-art monstrosity. Suits me. It's just silly.
And, I should probably say a word or two about the pellet stove. I'm still a bit skeptical. It hasn't really been so cold as to give the thing a real challenge. And, surprise, gas/oil prices have not continued to escalate...in fact they haven't even bottomed out from the nose dive, so I can't make a judgement on the fiscal feasibility. I'm not convinced that "saving money" was the real impetus anyway. I think Tall One saw it as a cool toy - hearkening back to the primal desire to provide shelter for his shivering family - and he's a bit of a temperature wimp. Remember, he's the one who lost the pissing contest on "who's-gonna-turn-the-central-air-on" - not that I'M keeping score. Nah, nah, nah, nah,nah!
There may be a pellet shortage. The local hardware store is "rationing". But, the 42,876 pounds of pellets we've stock piled DO fit on the leaf collector's side of the garage, so there is THAT. Let's hope the floor holds. I was concerned about the smell. Yes, we love the smell of wood burning in the winter, but when burned constantly, for heat, not aesthetics, everything begins to reek of baloney. So far, there's no discernible odor except at start up, power down or if standing directly down wind of the ventilation pipe outside on the deck. And, I've cleaned the stove twice by myself, and once with Tall One (never again) and it's this-side-of-inconvenient. It's only about a quarter as filthy as the wood/then coal stove of our early years. As long as the ashes don't do lasting damage to my very cool, very pricey (ye gads), lavender vacuum cleaner that I had to purchase because our whole-house vacuum system is terminal. There's a short...somewhere...so the damn thing never turns itself off. You have to go all the way downstairs, through the shop, and flip the switch. And, heaven forbid we actually find someone to service the thing. It probably would have cost less than the replacement Dyson. But, I'm sure the extra expense will be absorbed by the pellet stove, after it pays for itself, by working part time at McDonald's. This is all acceptable - if not prudent.
There is one thing I really like about the little pellet burner. In the morning, it casts a truly cozy glow.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Better Man, and Sensible Shoes
I have a cold. I didn't feel too badly until I woke from my two hour nap on the sofa, and now I feel stuffy, yucky, and just generally mean. But, all's not lost. I have my new lap top, which I love, seriously love. I'm sitting in MY chair, covered in a fleecy throw, drinking MY ginger ale and orange juice and typing on My laptop. It's not at all cold outside, but it's almost dark (at 4:30pm, don't get me started on daylight savings time changes) and I'm quite cozy, miserable cold aside.
I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the Pearl Jam song "Better Man". You know the lyrics, "...blah,blah,blah... Can't find a better man... blah,blah,blah...". Well I can't for the life of me figure out if they mean that this girl is so pathetic and void of self worth that she can't find anyone better than the lout she's stuck with, or, this guy is so good there is no one better, really, and the chick's a selfish bitch with issues not limited to an overwhelming desire to destroy all the good life's given her, probably because of her pathetic lack of self worth. And 'round and 'round we go. Once again, I probably oversimplify. I'm sure that Pearl Jam is stating something profound and soul changing if only I weren't so thick.
Also, I'm reading a very interesting book. I don't normally read non-fiction. I need to escape, chronically. But I heard about "The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes and Why" while reading the gardening column in our borough newspaper. I know, it's confusing, but those are the facts. Anyway, there is a physiology and psychology to survival that can be tapped and exploited in horrendous situations, and this book explores all the possibilities. In the midst of all the horror, I read something today that I find riotous - and I quote - "On 9/11, women were almost twice as likely to get injured while evacuating, according to the blah, blah, blah. Was it a question of strength? Confidence? Fear? No, says lead investigator Whatshername. 'It was due to shoes.'" That is hilarious. Can we be so vain as to wear foot gear that will actually cause injury? Of course, this is not news! Bunions, hammer toes, sprained ankles, broken ankles, bad knees, torn tendons...women are why podiatrists are born.
We are idiots, we deserve to be injured in catastrophes! We MUST be protected from ourselves....and terrorists. Our new Glorious Leader (can't find a better man) will guide us to a better reality. We'll sacrifice all our money and earthly possessions, including our uncomfortable, dangerous shoes. We'll start dressing for comfort and function, 'cause style's become passe (according to the example of our Glorious Leader's Glorious Wife). Let's go with something we can work in, something that will stop calling attention to our weak, subservient sexuality, something that will "make" us all equal, and hopefully, apathetic. Perhaps, a loose fitting pajama in a neutral color, a la "The Peoples Liberation Army". Or, a long, loose flowing robe like garment...I think they're called "burkas". At the very least, that's stick with sensible shoes, something we can survive in...'cause, apparently the Apocalypse is coming. Joe the VP said so. Within six months.
This is not a cold induced rant...this is a public service message...I'm being extremely insightful in a clever, entertaining way...heed the warning...
And get rid of the heels....(oh, that's good, too!).
I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the Pearl Jam song "Better Man". You know the lyrics, "...blah,blah,blah... Can't find a better man... blah,blah,blah...". Well I can't for the life of me figure out if they mean that this girl is so pathetic and void of self worth that she can't find anyone better than the lout she's stuck with, or, this guy is so good there is no one better, really, and the chick's a selfish bitch with issues not limited to an overwhelming desire to destroy all the good life's given her, probably because of her pathetic lack of self worth. And 'round and 'round we go. Once again, I probably oversimplify. I'm sure that Pearl Jam is stating something profound and soul changing if only I weren't so thick.
Also, I'm reading a very interesting book. I don't normally read non-fiction. I need to escape, chronically. But I heard about "The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes and Why" while reading the gardening column in our borough newspaper. I know, it's confusing, but those are the facts. Anyway, there is a physiology and psychology to survival that can be tapped and exploited in horrendous situations, and this book explores all the possibilities. In the midst of all the horror, I read something today that I find riotous - and I quote - "On 9/11, women were almost twice as likely to get injured while evacuating, according to the blah, blah, blah. Was it a question of strength? Confidence? Fear? No, says lead investigator Whatshername. 'It was due to shoes.'" That is hilarious. Can we be so vain as to wear foot gear that will actually cause injury? Of course, this is not news! Bunions, hammer toes, sprained ankles, broken ankles, bad knees, torn tendons...women are why podiatrists are born.
We are idiots, we deserve to be injured in catastrophes! We MUST be protected from ourselves....and terrorists. Our new Glorious Leader (can't find a better man) will guide us to a better reality. We'll sacrifice all our money and earthly possessions, including our uncomfortable, dangerous shoes. We'll start dressing for comfort and function, 'cause style's become passe (according to the example of our Glorious Leader's Glorious Wife). Let's go with something we can work in, something that will stop calling attention to our weak, subservient sexuality, something that will "make" us all equal, and hopefully, apathetic. Perhaps, a loose fitting pajama in a neutral color, a la "The Peoples Liberation Army". Or, a long, loose flowing robe like garment...I think they're called "burkas". At the very least, that's stick with sensible shoes, something we can survive in...'cause, apparently the Apocalypse is coming. Joe the VP said so. Within six months.
This is not a cold induced rant...this is a public service message...I'm being extremely insightful in a clever, entertaining way...heed the warning...
And get rid of the heels....(oh, that's good, too!).
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