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7/30/10

Lost In Translation

I didn't see Mom last weekend because it was too hot to move. (she says, slightly defensive)

Last night I went over with the things my sweet friend Anonymous (a.k.a. CP) had gathered for Mom after reading the fairy godmother post.

Mom was sitting outside, she'd had a haircut, not sure why, her bob was looking good. She recognized the car and tried to cut through the bushes to greet me.
"I can't get there!"
No problem, I'm coming there with diet Sunkist and Cheerwine (change of pace).
She mumbles and grimaces as we walk past the person on the med cart.
What?
"Nothing. I'll walk by her, it's okay."
We manage to change shirts, from two dirty to one clean. (Do you see a pattern here?)
Her hair is dirty.
Sigh.

The bag o'goodies is between the seats when we get in the car and she grabs it immediately.
"That's mine!"
Yes, it is.
She puts it back.
"No, I don't believe you."
It really is for you.
"It's so pretty!" She unzips it. Pulls out the delights.

Like an eejit, I left the bag in the car all day, so the rosewater is boiling hot and the lip balm semi-melted. Brilliant.
She likes Glenda, but I'm informed that "she doesn't have a number", as we drive to Rick's Diner.
Then she bonks herself on the forehead with the mirror.

I tell her my friend CP got all the things for her.
She gets a little teary.
What's wrong?
"That makes me sad."
Sad? Why?
"I don't know her."
Well, we can arrange a meeting.
She cheers up instantly and bonks herself with the mirror again.

Glenda got dropped as we got out of the car.
Let's look for it now became "I have a slit?" to Mom.
No comment.

Rick's is empty. Mom decides on corn, potato salad and fried chicken.
Our good-natured young waiter asks, "White or dark?"
Oh dear. We forgot to cover this.
She is unclear on the distinction.
Drumstick?
Still unclear.
Leg or booby?

That is the funniest thing I have ever said.

"She needs some help.", Mom declares to the waiter after she stops cackling about the word booby. And decides on leg.

Fried chicken takes a bit longer to cook so we have lots of time to play with the bag and its contents.
She is totally in love with the bag.
"It's very pretty."
She opens it and sticks her head in.
"Are you in there?" (Maybe she's looking for that poodle.)
"Ding ding ding.", she bangs herself in the forehead with the mirror more.
"Wheeeeee!", as she unzips the bag for the umpteenth time.
"I'll whip you!", she brandishes the mirror in my direction.
Whip me?
"I didn't have time."
"I don't know about these people.", she says as she peruses the label of the rosewater bottle.
Since the rosewater has cooled off a bit I put some on my hand and rub it on her arm.
Her skin is rough and cracked. The smell is wonderful.
"Ooohhhh, that seems nice."
I ask her to hold her other arm out, she does, then jerks it back.
What?
"That. You want to...", she nods at the candle I just blew out.
No, I blew it out for that very reason. No parental burning allowed.
She tentatively sticks her arm across the table.

Our dinners arrive. Mom tucks into the corn and then the potato salad.
"It's cold!"
You did say potato salad, not mashed potatoes.
But I archive this information; may need to distinguish between hot or cold potatoes in the future. At the cafeteria she can see the food and then decide, unlike reading a menu or me asking her what she wants.

The potato salad is devoured with gusto, in spite of its coldness.

A woman walks across the parking lot towards Rick's.
"Nice lady. She walks funny."
She had a maxi dress on, so...?
"I like my [holds up bag]."
Then Glenda.
"She's so cute. She's precious."
Do you know what movie she's from?
"No."
"The Wizard of Oz."
No hint of remembrance or recollection crosses her face.
"Oh, I didn't know that."
Pretty sure she still doesn't.

The waiter comes back several times to re-fill tea and check on us. Nonsensical conversation and laughing ensues.

Time to pay the bill.
"I'll come with you."
Okay.
"We need to be hurt.", she says as we stand at the counter.
Speak for yourself there Missy.
The pens are tiny Santas or Christmas trees that light up when you write.
"Oh I want one of those!"
I ignore that and she moves on to the chocolate chip cookie in her hand.

We drive through some subdivisions on the way back, commenting on houses and condos.
"I'll take one of those. No, I don't need that."
She spots Nantucket Grill, "We're almost home!"

I sign her back in and we go to her room. She mumbles and grimaces again at the woman at the med cart.
"I don't like her."
She looks perfectly pleasant to me, smiles, says hi. Who knows. She probably told Mom to take her pills or something. I'll have a chat on the way out.

Right now I have a cunning plan to confiscate more good jewelry to put in the safe deposit box.
Let's look for more Sarah Coventry jewelry.
She's game, so we go through boxes. Thank god she's so easily distracted.
I score a couple of bracelets, one gold, one charm, my dad's high school ring, and the ring my brother and I bought for her with the birthstones of her children and grandchildren.

She still has the charm I received in eighth grade for winning a writing contest. And my Girl Scout pins. All mixed in with eye shadow and pictures of her California neighbor's grandchildren.

Her bedspread is dirty, when I take it off, I discover her wedding ring (pocketed), a paper clip and a picture of Mookie. Interesting combo.

Mom walks with me out to the car to "put me in", so I don't have a chance to talk to the woman she was grumbling about.

"I love you."
Blows me a kiss through the car window. That never gets lost in translation.

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