Why Me?

Sometimes I wonder why Mom's here with me. I don't think I'm the right choice at all.
My sister is very patient and affectionate. She hugs Mom and pats her hand, tells her she understands. I do not.
Again - "just like your father." Me, that is.
Not really a talker and not into PDA - unless you're my boyfriend, which my mother definitely is not.
My sister is also really good when you're sick. *

My brother has a partner and grown children to spell him. I don't.

I just got the first born short straw I suppose. Oh I know, treasures in heaven and all that, but some days I just feel bitter.


*An aside: I think you treat people the way you want to be treated when you're sick. I want to be left alone. I don't want people touching me, poking or prodding me, trying to feed me soup.
If you want some tea I'll make it, but I'm not hanging around, because I would hate it if you did that to me.
What's to like? I smell bad, look and feel awful, leave me alone for Pete's sake. Shove the food under the door and go.

Cleaning, De-Cluttering, and Other Adventures in Babysitting

Clutter and disorganization makes me anxious. Dust - not so much.

Let me 'splain.
Like my father, I'm:
introverted, cat oriented, a non-saver of both money and things, and of the clutter free persuasion.
My mother, true to the old maxim, is [was] the opposite:
extrovert, prefers dogs, a saver of both money and things, and a cleaner.

When I was living at home, when I told Mom I'd "cleaned" my room, she'd say "Oh, you mean you rearranged the furniture and threw stuff away."
Co-rrect.
The vacuum was hardly ever near my room. Dust? You mean get rid of the protective coating for my furniture? Oh hell no.
Right now there are dust bunnies the size of rottweilers under my bed and enough cat hair to make a new kitten - but unless I'm looking under there, (why would I do that?),
I don't care.
IT'S TIDY. Dammit.

My junk drawer is organized, thank you very much.
All the instruction/warranty books for my appliances are 3 hole punched and stored in a binder. (Hey, I heard that! No, they are not alphabetized, so shut up. THAT'S anal.).
But there's a layer of dust on all my furniture, the oven probably needs cleaning and I definitely need to vacuum.

All that to say, my mother and I have been at odds since my birth - because we are polar opposites in the clean vs. uncluttered war.

And so Friday, my inner Peter Walsh (I think I love him.) couldn't take it anymore and went over to Mom's to put things away.
I smuggled out 2 bags of crap...err, donations, threw away random pieces of flotsam and jetsam, including a can of pineapple chunks (which she took back out of the trash can, even though she has no way of opening it). Emptied out her dirty clothes hamper; found lots of treasures in there, none of which were dirty clothes.
Also discovered where all her shoes were hiding - in her carry on case. She's been wearing the same navy blue sling backs since December.

During all this she walked around and sighed.

She said she was cold; I suggested a long sleeved sweater and the following ensued for about 20 minutes:
Trying to put long sleeved sweater (LSS) on over the short sleeved sweater (SSS) she had on currently, not getting it over her head and walking around with just her arms in the LSS, shivering.
Trying to fold up the LSS, giving up and throwing it on the floor. Shivering.
Carrying the LSS sweater around and asking me what to do with it.
Trying again to put the LSS on over SSS.
More folding attempts.
Trying to hang up the LSS.
Finally I helped her take off the SSS and put the LSS on. She always gets mad when I do this, but seriously, what's a girl to do?!

One of the things I found in the hamper was a fabric jewelry travel case containing my dad's wedding ring and another ring. She took those out and put them back in over and over. Or she'd take them out, put the rings on the table and put the case away. Oy. Like the LSS, only with rings.

After I'd tortured her enough, we went to eat at Rick's Diner.
She shook a 1/2 teaspoon of salt in her hand and ate it. Then she was playing with the lit candle (they get kinda fancy at night) and acting like she was going to burn my lemon wedge or me.

A couple came in with their cute year old daughter, Mom said she wanted a sippy cup like hers.

Her chef salad came; she tried to eat it with a spoon (again). The utensil confusion is happening more. The other night she tried to cut her steak using two knives.

Guess that's just what happens when you take your five year old mom to dinner.

My New Earrings

I am wearing my new wtf earrings from Shiny Adornments right now.

Let's just say that anything that can pry the bronze earrings by Janet Harriman out of my ears have got some power to them.

They're so cute, very light; love that you can't tell what they say until you get close.

"If you can read this - you're in my personal bubble and wtf totally applies to you right now."
HA!

You're Just Like Your Mother!

I'm a closet hypochondriac, avoiding going to the doctor in general, but worrying about most everything secretly and obsessively.

Like the time in Hawaii, I was around five, when I ate a peanut that had been inadvertently sprayed with Raid. For days I thought I was going to die a slow torturous death by poison; cried myself to sleep every night, thinking about how sad my parents would be, but I couldn't tell them I was dying because it would break their hearts. (What, me dramatic?) After about a week, I figured a miracle had occurred.

I was sick a lot when I was a child, possibly due to the fact that both my parents smoked like chimneys, (or that poisoned peanut); pneumonia numerous times, once causing a ten day stay in the hospital; bronchitis; the "bad" measles (temp of 105.5). I missed most of second grade due to illness.

Thanks to my father being a complete sucker for anything encyclopedic, we had a set of medical encyclopedias, which I read several times from cover to cover. My mother finally banned them from my sickbed reading list; she got tired of me coming in crying, "Mom, I think I have [insert some rare one-in-triple-gajillionmillion-chance-of-having-it disease here].
Bad enough I was home from school - again - without having to hear my fears that I might be a hemophiliac (missed the part that only boys can have that).

So when one such as myself has a parent with dementia, forgetting even little things takes on a whole new dimension of scariness. I do word searches, crosswords, play Nintendo DS games until I dream about Scrabble letters, trying to keep the five brain cells that are still functioning...well, functioning. Sometimes I forget how to spell "and", or "what", or I put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the frig (that's been happening for decades though, so probably nothing to worry about). Or just yesterday I thought the car might go somewhere without me putting the key in the ignition - could not figure out why I couldn't put it in gear.
When that happens, I immediately think, "well, it's started, the downward spiral."

Back in the nineties I was involved in a woman's self defense class. One of the exercises we did was meant to help desensitize women to words or phrases that tended to make them freeze in threatening situations. We'd stand in a circle, say the word or phrase, and just saying it took some of the power away. Get to my oh-so-funny friend Cindy R. and instead of the standard "bitch", "whore", etc., she says, "You're just like your mother." We all laughed until we cried.

You know, now it's not so funny.

Wear It Like You Mean It

I just bought a pair of "WTF" earrings from Shiny Adornments.

As she says - "Because sometimes it is not a question...it's your statement." Hells yea.

Also bought her "handmade yellow lemon quartz sterling necklace - Petite Ixora", which I love.

Check her out - she's got some cute stuff.

Power of The Written Word

Have you ever done the exercise where you make a collage with pictures of all the things [you think] you want? I have, and surprisingly, a lot of it happened. The little house by the marsh - totally happened. Hardwood floors - same (not in the marsh house though).

I've been thinking about that lately - why does writing something down have more power than keeping it in my head?
For me, writing a list is the first step to doing them. If I'm putting off doing stuff around the house (for instance my arch nemesis, painting), I make a list. Somehow the act of writing down what needs to be done compels me to do the items on the list and mark them off. (I LOVE marking things off. Seriously, it's almost like a drug, it makes me that happy)
If I forget a grocery list at home, I can recall most of it by picturing it in my head and seeing myself writing down what I needed.

That brings me to my confession: sometimes I wish my mother would cross over. See, can't write the word (you know the one I'm thinking). My superstitious Irish DNA coupled with what I wrote above prevents me.

To be clear, this would be, not for me, but for her. Although I would have a bit less stress for sure, but most of the stress I have is connected to worrying about her having enough money.

There is an odd comfort when people die fast, (doesn't count, already happened), like my dad did. Less than 24 hours, all done. No suffering, no slow descent into the abyss.

As I looked at the once impeccably dressed woman with dirty hair wearing a hodge-podge of clothes sitting across from me at dinner last week, after she told me she liked my new nurse (purse), a crushing wave of sadness hit me. Does she have quality of life? What is that? Who defines it? Does she have it because she can still walk and talk, because she's aware she's alive?

Later, when she couldn't get her mint unwrapped, she started laughing and doing an exaggerated palsy, because she reminded herself of the people who "shake" at Wynwood. I said - those people have a disease or sometimes their meds cause that, they can't help it. Yes they can! - she said.
This is NOT my mother.

My mother - the empathic, impartial, concerned, caring person that raised me, who comforted me when I was sick, who put my crappy artwork on the mantle, who loved me when it felt like no one else did, is no longer there. Hasn't been here for awhile.

She has lost her independence, her husband, her friends, her home, her pets, the ability to hold a conversation, to remember words, the names of her grandchildren. She's all packed for a trip she's never going to take, hoping to move back into a house she's never going to live in again.

What does she have to look forward to? More forgetting, more deterioration of her body and mind. Maybe this is the worst time, the worst place - the purgatory, because she still knows she's not right anymore. She knows she's not who she was, how she was.

And there is no going back.

Have It Your Way

Went by to see Mom Monday night. She was holding a stack of folded underwear in her hands, but wanted to drink a Pepsi too. As is often the case now when faced with several tasks, she forgets how to do all of them. For example, she'll open the glove box or unzip her jacket when she's supposed to be putting on her seat belt.

So, I offered to put away her undergarments, knickers, so she could concentrate on diet cherry Pepsi enjoyment. (is it just me or does anyone else hate the word panties? Make a note, all you men beating down my door, this word will blow any chance of you have of getting lucky - ever)

When I opened the top drawer of her dresser (designated undies drawer of course), the only thing in it was an old empty Avon perfume jar. (and I do mean old people, she sold that stuff in the '60's and 70's) I opened the rest of the drawers - nada.

WTH.

When I asked her about it she said she didn't want to live up here anymore (in NC). Like having empty drawers will fix that.
Honestly, this is bugging me. I KNOW...I'm supposed to be letting her have her room her way (Burger King does decorating), but...arrggghhhh...I want to go all Hellen Buttigeig in there. How can this be helping her? She can't find the TV remote, wears the same clothes all the time, her clothes hamper is packed full of stuff - hey, maybe the remote is in there.

I'm calling her visiting psych nurse today, I need some help with this.

The Other Side

Way, way back the first of the year I talked about my father's side of the family. My mother's side is much more documented, not sure why.
Some came over from the north of England in the early 1700's to Virginia and for reason unknown, migrated to Georgia, trickled down into Florida, when it was owned by the Brits, then back to Georgia (some of them), when it became Spanish territory in 1783, and then back again.

There are even streets named after her family in J'ville - but don't get too excited - they have trailers on them. Single wide.

My mother's people have lived in Jacksonville even before it was called Cowford (there's a nice romantic name).

Both my great and great great grandfathers were loggers.

When my mother dies, she'll be buried in the family cemetery, next to my father, her mother, her grandmother and great great grandfather, several Confederate veterans, and very near the slave cemetery, that we just (finally) included in the property.

Expensive Needs

Just finished doing Mom's taxes. She spent over $43,000 on her "rent" in 2009.
That figure does not include the mortgage, taxes, insurance, upkeep on her house in Florida. Which, by the by, [please Jesus and all the holy people ever], just might actually sell this month. Not saying anything else, don't want to jinx it.
Anyway, thank goodness, that is all tax deductible, she'll get a nice refund this year.

It's Been a Long Time, Been a Long Time...

I know, I know, it's been awhile.

Remember back on New Year's Eve when Wynwood called to ask if Mom was moving and I said no?
Well guess what? She thought she was and went so far as to pack. Her bathroom was completely emptied out, as was the shelf in her closet. There were piles of clothes, towels, and linens all over the floor. Makeup and cosmetics on the coffee table and dresser. Her suitcase packed by the door. Pictures taken off the walls.

When I asked her where she was going she wouldn't answer me. She just looked at me in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a teenager caught in a lie. (What?! Me drinking?! Absolutely no...I have to throw up now)
The wheels were turning in her head, trying to come up with something, but couldn't, so she said nothing. When I asked specific questions - Are you moving to Wisconsin? Alaska? Oregon? I got an emphatic "No!"
I thought if I got her out of her room she might open up more, so off to Bob Evans we went. Finally, after plying her with sweet tea and bad food, she reluctantly confessed that Tom was coming to get her and they were moving to Florida. Spent the rest of dinner getting told it was none of my business and to butt out.

Now there's no way of knowing whether he really said that or if she was confabulating, (yes, that is a real word. My friend Adrienne, a nurse, used it; it's an excellent word. Like perambulate.), but it was really the last straw; I had her phone number changed. Enough's enough.

The whole thing freaked me out enough that I called her doctor and the psychiatrist, who said her anti-depressant might not be working anymore since she was back to her old habit of sleeping all day and up all night, there was the hygiene thing as well (dirty hair!).

She changed it to Remeron and it seems to be working. When I came over the next week, she was listening to a CD - not watching TV (!), she had washed her hair, had the blinds up, even gone to breakfast! She still hasn't unpacked completely, but some things are moved back. I try to sneak a few things back into the closet when she isn't looking.
I know some of my annoyance with the piles are my issues with clutter (as in I don't like it), I have to keep in mind that it is HER room and let it go. It's hard for me.
I HATE wasting time looking for things. That is really the thing that keeps me organized; I would probably be a total slob if it wasn't for that, because I am really quite lazy.

Southern Living

Both my parents are from the South, from the early 1700's on my mom's side; my father's side of the family is proving to be a bit more elusive.

My father's family were sharecroppers in Georgia.
He's the baby in the picture, the "young'un" as he'd say. He would be the baby of the family until thirteen years later when Billy came along. He was the first one in the family to graduate from high school.

My grandmother was very short, 4'9" and my grandfather was very tall, about 6'7". The Mutt and Jeff of grandparents. Neither one of them talked very much; they weren't squeezers or pinchers, but we got that they LOVED us.


When I found out they didn't own the house my father had lived in since he was about three months old, I was heartbroken, I was hoping it would be my inheritance. It had no indoor plumbing, no A/C. My grandmother lived in that house for over fifty years and didn't have indoor plumbing until sometime in the seventies. We thought using an outhouse and chamber pots was great fun, but then we didn't have to empty them!

Water came from the well and it was the sweetest, coldest water I've ever tasted. There was a bucket with a gourd dipper next to the sink on the screened in porch. That's where you washed your hands/face, brushed your teeth, got a drink of water. Baths were in the pantry in the galvanized tub, and all three of us children used the same water; water was heated on the wood burning stove.

That wood burning stove could turn out the most amazing food in my grandmother's capable hands. Ham, biscuits, peach cobbler, fresh coconut cake, (where in the world did she get fresh coconuts in rural Georgia?!), squirrel and rabbit stews, all manner of deliciousness came from that stove. She was also a consummate canner, as most women had to be back then. The pantry was full of beautiful jewel like jars of vegetables and fruits; her pickled peaches were my favorite. Once when I was very young, my mother, grandmother and I picked blackberries for pies. My grandmother made my doll her very own real pie in the pie tin from a set of play dishes.

They grew cotton and had a truck garden. My grandmother had her kitchen garden and chickens. I can remember being about three years old and watching her kill a chicken for supper. She had her chopping stump with the axe stuck in the top of it, so it was handy. They had two or three cows, mules, (my dad said he'd spent more time than he cared to remember looking at the rear end of a mule as he plowed fields), and a pig who met its demise every fall ("so fat he'd be blind").
Plenty of feral cats in the barn and one brown hound dog named, appropriately enough, Brownie. I remember him when I was three and he was still alive sixteen years later. Ate nothing but table scraps his whole life and never set foot in the house. Animals are to be outside was my grandmother's philosophy.

You did not lallygag at my grandmother's house, even little hands could do something; snap beans, shell peas, cut out biscuits, weed, pick tomatoes, feed animals. But there was still plenty of time to play with the toy grocery store, run around with Brownie, or stand in the barn wishing the feral cats weren't so I could play with the kittens.

It was a beautiful place, this sharecroppers house sitting on the red Georgia clay, with no indoor plumbing, a bed in the living room (my parents slept there), and a bed under the stairs (where I slept - until my dad told me a story about a snake coming up through a hole in the floor right under that bed).

I miss it and my grandparents.

New Lips

My mother is a carnivore from waaaaay back. Nothing makes her happier than a slab o' meat and some mashed taters. So when I came into some coupons for Longhorn Steakhouse, we just had to go.

Longhorn's gimmick is a bucket of un-shelled roasted peanuts at your table.
Well Mom thought that was just Christmas done come early. It was like she was part squirrel the way she kept eating them.
Which was before and after she'd devoured a six ounce steak, what looked to be about one and half cups of mashed potatoes, a roll, and two glasses of sweet tea.

Then she said she needed to go somewhere to get some new lips. Naturally I suggested a plastic surgeon. Wrong answer. Can you guess?

That's right boys and girls - she wanted some new lipstick.

I don't know what happened to the dozens of Clinque lipsticks my sister and I moved last year, but by golly all she had was the three in her purse.
She says "those girls take them". Yep, they bypass all the jewelry you have laying around and steal your used-old-lady-colors lipstick (and your snacks). Those darn girls. I will slap that stolen lipstick right off their faces.

Off we go to Kohl's. I make her get in a wheelchair because I don't see how she can walk being so full of meat and peanuts. We have fun too, almost like old times. I laugh, she laughs. Which is kinda dangerous, because laughing sometimes leads to farting which leads to more laughing which leads to more farting...you get the picture. Another good reason for the wheelchair - the muffle factor.

The next week we go back to Longhorn, but for dinner this time. Again with the stuffing of the face with the peanuts. A bigger steak, plus five shrimp, plus a salad, plus a roll, plus the cup and a half of mashed potatoes. Holy hell where is she putting all that?! I ate about a third of the salad and one shrimp, the rest was all her.
I had stacked the buckets together to make room for all the food and the server thought we were done with them. As she walked off with them Mom says, "That little bitch!"

Oh my god, unsweet tea almost came out of my nose. Poor girl, she didn't know she was dealing with Chipmunk Mom. Who, by the way, had squirreled (ha ha) away a pile in her lap. So, after eating ALL that food, she still had some peanuts left for dessert.

I gave her a bag of peanuts in the shell for Christmas, but I don't think she remembered why. Her eyes sure did light up though.
Maybe she is part squirrel.

New Year's Eve 2009

So last night I'm on the phone with DebraLee, reminiscing about our dear friend John (oddly enough we were on the phone New Years Eve eight years ago, laughing and crying about our friend Sherman who had died that day.), when a call from Wynwood comes through. I let it go to voice mail and finish the call with DebraLee.

A., one of the staff at Wynwood, had called to say that Mom was telling everyone she was moving out tomorrow and he was calling to confirm. Huh?! Don't they have people saying stuff like that every day? He laughed and said yes, she usually forgets what she's said, but she hadn't this time, so he thought he'd check.
My immediate thought is the EBF Tom has said something. She doesn't answer her phone when I call. Maybe he's already come and picked her up (just how do you indicate sarcasm when writing?).

Sigh...Here's Hoping 2010 is Better

January 1, 2009 started off with a broken toe.
Heading towards the stove/kettle/coffee, I stepped over Oscar, and somehow interacted with the knee wall in my kitchen in a way that caused my toe to come out a loser. (I wasn't drunk or hungover either!)

In February, I hurt my right knee working out to Billy Blanks; that took about six months to feel better.

In March, I got an ear infection in my right ear and couldn't hear on that side for about a month.

In October, I caught a cold that lasted for about a month.

On December 25, I came down with swollen glands and a temp of 102.

And yesterday, December 30, my friend John died. He was one of the few people who could call me Kimmy and get away with it. We'd known each other since May 1992, and I spent many an hour at his house with his beautiful wife Laura and their two children, Vincent and Jennifer. They always welcomed me for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. John and I worked on several projects together and yes, we butted heads occasionally, but our friendship was stronger afterward.
Ironically, he had just been given the good news of being cancer free after battling Hodkin's Lymphoma for the past year. An errant blood clot traveled to his big, passionate heart and stopped it.

Good riddance 2009.

Being Introverted

Growing up, I thought something was wrong with me - why don't I enjoy going to parties or concerts? Everyone else seems to. I must be antisocial or stuck-up (that was a big label in high school.). Why was being at the beach, alone or with one really really good friend, or being alone in my room listening to music and drawing, my idea of a perfect day?

Guess what? There's nothing wrong with me. I am an introvert.

Since the world is geared towards the extroverted, those of us who are not can often feel like outsiders, alien, even defective in some way.

Generally extroverts do not - cannot - understand why on earth you would want to stay home - alone (oh the horror!) when you could be OUT THERE - with PEOPLE - ALL THE TIME! WHO WOULDN'T WANT THAT?! IT'S FUN! YOU'RE MISSING OUT ON IT! COME ON! LET'S GO MEET NEW PEOPLE AND EXPERIENCE NEW THINGS RIGHT NOW! THERE'S A PARTY/CONCERT/GET-TOGETHER SOMEWHERE RIGHT NOW AND WE NEED TO GO GET IN THE MIDDLE OF IT! (yes, sometimes it is like all caps for us "innies" when you talk; not like a bad thing, I'm just sayin')

One of the issues of saying you're an introvert is that people expect you to act like the Unibomber or live in a hermitage. They're surprised you show up in public places, let alone speak to other people. I've had people tell me I was not introverted because I opened my mouth in a social situation.

My Myers-Briggs type is INFJ. Apparently, this particular type can be mistaken for an extrovert; in fact, when among a [small] group of people I trust, I can be the life of the party. I love my friends and family. I enjoy hearing what's going on in their lives, being with them.
Then I need to go home and be alone for a long, long time. Maybe even days. Do not call me, I will not answer the phone.

That is what defines an introvert/extrovert. Do you need to be alone [introvert] to recharge or do you need to be with people [extrovert]?

Here are some questions from the book The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney (off the blog The Adventurous Writer via the blog Penelope Truck, Brazen Careerist): http://theadventurouswriter.com/blog/quipstipsachievinggoals/mind-soul/a-test-for-introverted-personality-traits/

I answered yes to 27 out of the 29 questions. (Oh my gosh #'s 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 17, 22 - 27!)
I've ruined [at least] one friendship because of #22. (totally my fault, should have left the day before)

Here's a hilarious article on introverts.

Holidays are especially anxiety causing for extroverts worried about their introverted friends:
"Oh no, will you be alone?!"
[nope, the cats are there]

"But you just can't spend the holidays by yourself!"
[oh really? watch me]

"Come over to our house, our entire extended family of 300 will be there, they'd ALL love to see you!"
[can't think of anything more horrifying]

"We'll stop by for a few hours, how's that? We'll bring the kids."
[oh dear god please don't]

One of my favorite Thanksgiving's in recent years was getting some fabulous turkey tetrazzini at Whole Foods and watching a Doris Day marathon on TCM.

Did I mention I was alone? Complete bliss!

If you're not an introvert - you just wouldn't understand.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

Last Thanksgiving was spent in Hillcrest Convalescent Hospital; Mom had been admitted the day before. It was the fourth day after her fall and back fracture. Seems so long ago and like yesterday at the same time.

That fall saved my sanity, maybe hers too. Without it, more than likely, she'd still be not taking her meds, still be unhappy, we'd still be at each others throats.

So I guess, a day late, I'm grateful for a fracture and for a diagnosis of dementia. How weird is that?

More Cat Crap

Saturday, November 27, 2009

Look at her. Isn't she cute?

But Lillie Langtry here has put me off female cats forever.

Don't get me wrong, she is very sweet tempered and the best behaved of the bunch. She doesn't scratch on the furniture or carpets, doesn't climb on top of the mini blinds, or get on the table. And if she does happen to slip up, one "No!" and she's down.

Totally opposite from the boys, who do not think you're seriously talking to them unless you're advancing rapidly in their direction with a squirt bottle. Your butt must completely and fully disengage from the chair - if it doesn't, they sprawl out across the table in full grooming mode.

So what's so bad about her?

Well, she has a meow like a banshee for one.
She never shuts up for two.

There you are reading, jazz on the stereo, the boys sleeping on the couch instead of the table for once; everything calm and mellow.
Suddenly, up on the back of the chair and right in your ear "MEEEEOWWWW!!" Oh sorry - did I scare you? Wait, why are you holding your chest? Hey, how come you've collapsed on the floor? Maybe you didn't hear me - let me climb right up your chest and YOWL right in your face. "MEEEE--OWWWW!"
Apparently, that's feline for "Feed me NOW!" Or "Brush me NOW!" Or perhaps "WTF?! All the squirrels have gone off the deck! Find me one NOW!"

She has a large vocabulary and enjoys employing it. One of her nicknames is Gator Girl, because, obviously, she can sound just like a baby alligator.
There's also the whinging "mmmmmmnnnnnnn" [my least favorite] meow, the "wah-wah-wah" welcome-home-come-and-get-your-headbutt meow. The sharp "meowmeow!" meaning - hey-there's-a-squirrel-on-the-deck - good job loser human! The "arm arm arm" barking meow yay-you're-getting-up-finally (and feeding me), and the "aoooow aoooow aoooow" in the middle night howling at the moon meow.

There's growling too, a nighttime activity accompanied by galloping down the hallway with a toy mouse in her mouth and a weird, eerie, muffled meow (hard to talk when your mouth is full) which can in no way be replicated with letters of the English alphabet. It has freaked me out more than once.

She is the most catlike of the three (not a bad thing per se), the most cautious, and the most picky. Nothing more fun than following a little cat around the entire house at 5:30 AM with a bowl of food - because the little coquette can't decide where she'd like to dine today.
She doesn't come when called and will not perform any tricks - there is no treat worth the indignity.
Hummpf she says, let those stupid boys do tricks for food, I'm off to my voice lessons.

Just Wait 'Til I Get to Be Your Age!

Thursday, November 26, 2009

That's what Mom said to me yesterday as I was leaving. It made me laugh pretty hard, but she didn't get it. Ah me.

She was pretty lucid yesterday (not really the right term, but for lack of a better one...) and her hair was clean! Miracle of miracles!

We went to the cafeteria; she had ham, greens, mashed potatoes, and fresh pineapple chunks. The lemon meringue pie went home with her for later. I had a piece of sweet potato pie and some unsweet tea.
One of the servers who works in the cafeteria has an annoying voice: high, loud, nasaly, plus she runs her words together. She's probably the sweetest person in the world, but yesterday she was getting on my last nerve. I couldn't understand what vegetable Mom wanted, all I could hear was green. There were greens, green peas, and green beans. You see the dilemma. It was crowded, I was feeling pressure to get a move on, and that woman kept saying "Caniheppew, caniheppew, caniheppew".

Later when I came back to the table with the tip after paying, Mom asked me when she was going to get something. I thought she meant more food, then I figured out she was talking about money. She wanted to know if I paid for lunch with my money; she only had $2 (she was right). I gave her $20 and told her not to spend it all on poker.
She said she didn't poke.
Maybe she will when she gets to be my age.

The Present

Thursday, November 19, 2009

As I waited for a friend at lunch today, I was reflecting on my friend Warren's blog entry of November 13 called "Moments" about being in the present.

I am rarely in the present, this second, this second, this second. Usually I'm in the future - what am I going to do tomorrow, what's for dinner, etc.

But my mother is now forever in the present; she doesn't remember the past and can no longer formulate the future.

Denial - Not a River in Egypt

My Aunt Winkie, cousin Angie, and Angie's husband came to visit Mom November 1 & 2.
Winkie is 15 years younger than Mom, only 5 years older than me. I confess, we are close in years only.
She called me on Nov. 4 to say they'd been to visit and I asked her how she thought Mom was doing, compared to last year when she was here. She said her memory seemed a little worse, Mom did introduce her as her daughter, but other than that she seemed fine.
Holy crap.

When I asked Mom on Nov. 7 if anyone had been to visit, she said no. Of course, when prompted - did Winkie come visit? she remembered. They went to the mall and Captain D's (my mother loves her some shrimp); Mom said they must have done that without me, I didn't do that stuff.
She thinks Aunt Florida's (Angie's mom) has been dead for years, but she just celebrated her 95th or 96th birthday.

Yea, she's just fine.