CCL (updated)

If you don't know what CCL stands for, then you ain't one. And maybe you should stop reading right now. Because if you're just gonna make fun, well, we can't be friends anymore. You can see the beginnings of a CCL here. I was well on my way at three (maybe three and a half years old. I was a tall child).

Yesterday I went to my first cat show with my friend Rosemary. I don't even know how I qualify as being a CCL if I've lived this long without going to a cat show!
She's waiting until she settles in here before she gets a cat, in the meantime, she comes to my house to get her feline fix.
We made a blood pact not to come home with anything breathing. Except ourselves.

Rosemary said she's up for a cat show about every six years - they're boring and she's right.
Because really, once you've seen one older woman with glasses and a bouffant hairdo hold up a cat, you've seen 'em all. (please God, don't let that happen to me!)

She did find her dream cat, a gorgeous 18 lb. Maine Coon who was one big moogy, fur-between-his-toes-snowshoe-size-pawed love muffin; this cattery also has a 26 pounder at home! Scroll down to bottom of page to see Whirlie. That picture doesn't do him justice.

I spent most of my time talking with Jean from Romanxx.
Got to love on sweet little Corazon, what a cutie. Jean has a boy kitten named Trouble, she'd "pet" (learned a new word!) out, she can't show him because he's a stumpy. She's in NC.
Danger, Will Robinson!

Bought a fleece cat bed from Siamese Cat Rescue and we were homeward bound - sans new cat(s). Yay!

Sign Here

When I went to pick Mom up for dinner Friday, she was sitting in the lounge area across from her room; it's a pleasant room with a couch, several chairs, and a large flat screen TV. She was happy to see me, patted the couch and said to come sit by her, so I did and we commenced to watching "Dogtown" on Animal Planet.

During a commercial she said, "Look" and showed me her left ear lobe. It was ripped in half. Immediately my elbows felt icky. (You know the wobbly feeling you get when you look over a cliff? That's what my elbows feel like around gross medical type things. Weird I know.)
Naturally, she had no idea when or how it happened, said it didn't hurt. We continued to watch the show and my elbows had a chance to settle down.

We stopped by the Med cart to show A. her ear. (Even typing this my elbows feel icky.) There was talk of the ER to get it stitched up. Mom got puffed up like a bantam hen at the mention of that.
A. gets the nurse, she looks at it - and it's completely healed up on the inside pieces!
Basically, Mom now has a forked earlobe.
I imagine her earring got caught in her shirt when she was taking it off and she pulled the earring right through her earlobe (uggghhhhh.). It had to hurt like an SOB. Yikes.

I had asked if we could wash her hair before we went out, she said sure. She is not good at following directions anymore and kept saying she didn't like it while I was washing her hair. We did it with her leaning her head in the shower, water got everywhere, her pants got wet, but dammit, her hair was clean. 

Anyhoo, we had a nice dinner at Rick's Diner. My friend Sandy and I ate there Wednesday night; had a wonderful dish of grilled chicken breast on top of roasted grape tomatoes, asparagus, and white beans in a warm lemon basil vinaigrette. It was so good I had it again Friday night (the beans could have cooked another 15 minutes Friday). Mom had fried shrimp with coleslaw, potato salad and chocolate cake for dessert.
The people at the next table said something about a "little girl" during conversation, Mom says "That's me!" and starts laughing, which makes me laugh. She is hilarious sometimes.
Someone asked me if it's embarrassing; the behavior isn't, if I think of her as a five year old, it's all good. The dirty hair is an issue, it would be to her too if she was aware of it because she was always so well groomed.

I thought I'd bring in the VA paperwork for her to sign, just see where she was in the name game. I asked to to write her name on another piece of paper first, she couldn't. Kept reading the other side of the paper, handing it back to me, saying she'd do it later. Then I wrote her name and asked if she could copy it. She made the A and that was all she wrote. Literally.
Guess we have to go with the X method.

Finally!

My mother's house is closing this afternoon, after being on the dismal Florida market since June 2008. It surprised me how emotional this was.
I didn't really think Mom would ever live there again, but maybe somewhere in the way far back of my mind I had a fantasy? I had to have her declared incompetent in order to become the successor trustee and sign the paper work. Perhaps it's the finality of it. Maybe seeing in black and white the words "Alzheimer's dementia".

I moved back to Florida to be with my parents after my dad got sick.
I turned 40 in that house (no, that wasn't depressing at all.). My relationship with my father was healed in that house (trust me, it was all my fault. Really.). I got my beloved truck, Angus Og, (thanks Dad), when I lived in that house. I re-discovered photography while living in that house; became a prize-winning poet in that house.

Now my dad's gone, the truck's gone, the dog's gone, my mother, for all practical purposes, is gone, and after today, the house is too.

A Shout Out to All the Artists

I strive to live by William Morris' wonderful quote:
"Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful and believe to be beautiful."

In Florida, I was a patron of the Isle of Eight Flags Shrimp Festival, an annual Art event. Trust me, this sounds way more special than it was; one merely agreed to spend $100 during the Festival and voila! you were a Patron of the Arts.
This "guaranteed" money allowed them to offer bigger prizes, which in turn begat more talented artists.
And I got me a green ribbon saying "PATRON" to wear on my bosom! It really just doesn't get much better than that.

$100 may seem like a lot, but it's only $8.33 per month or .27.397 per day set aside over the course of a year. Of course I never did it that way, because, hello, that's the smart way.

The Shrimp Fest was my first real foray into the pottery world. In 1997, I bought a gorgeous bowl by Mudflap Pottery out of Louisiana. It survived numerous moves, but alas not Finnbarr, who broke it soon after he arrived. Clumsy kitteh (but he's so cute!).

Later I started working at a small gallery called The Waterwheel,
where there was - Danger, Will Robinson! -
discounts AND a payment plan!
I kept trying to sell this painting (Abundance II), until a customer said, "Stop that, that's YOUR painting!" He was right.
I loved it and bought it, sloooowly, over a long period of time.

Then Slightly Off Centre opened. A whole new world for me and my fledgling pottery addiction - North Carolina, because she bought all the pottery up here.
When I walked into the NC Craft Gallery after moving up here, I recognized quite a few of the potters because I already owned their work. (My pottery boyfriends/girlfriends as I fondly refer to them)

Thanks to ole W. and his stimulus a couple of years ago, I was able to commission dinnerware from Cora Willow, who is at the Craft Gallery.
Did I mention they know me by name there?

Another place I love here in NC, is Vespertine in Pittsboro. I feel happy every time I walk in there.
Ginna always has some creative, cute new thing. She can work in any medium it seems - paper, clay, silver, beads, paint - you name it, she can do something fantabulous with it. I took in some old funky silver earrings I made back in the 1980's and asked her to make a new fab ring with them. I'm excited to see what she comes up with!

Of course, there's the ever awesome Shiny Adornments. Home of the "WTF" earrings.

If you love art, crafts, lovely handmade things, please find a way to bring them into your life and for Pete's sake, treasure them by using them - don't devalue them by secreting them away in a dark closet.

Sure, your goofy, ungraceful, bottom heavy, pear shaped, adorable Manx cat might break them. So what.

This is my mantra (I read this somewhere and it stuck with me): It's already broken.

Now go dig out Grandma's priceless heirloom china plates and use them - even if, or perhaps especially if, you're eating Top Ramen!

The VA Comes Through

Earlier this week, the day after getting the fourth "we're still working on it" letter, the approval paperwork came from the VA!
Mind you, I don't understand it, because it appears to contradict itself on every other page. Let's just say Mom's getting some additional fundage, but I don't know how much or when.

Bit of a scramble finding the phone number for the new caseworker from A Place For Mom, but she was ever so helpful after I did. Need to have Mom sign one page saying she's incompetent and send that back. Doesn't it seem weird to have the person who's incompetent say she is? Why would they take her word for it?

AND...hallelujah, it looks like her house is going to close this month. I hope the people who are buying it will be very happy there for years to come.

It's been awhile since I plugged A Place For Mom.
If you have family members who need help finding an assisted care facility and getting additional benefits for care, I highly recommend them.

Things I Am A 'Ho For

Some things you may, or may not, want to know about me. These are not necessarily in order of 'ho-ness.

1.) Rugs. I continually question why I paid good money for hardwood floors only to cover them up with rugs. But I've purchased three in the last three months. Get thee to therapy...

2.) Shoes. Having size 11 (that is correct) feet is not conducive to fun shoe shopping.
Rocket Dog, I'm talking to you: why, why do you continue to taunt me in DSW with your adorable shoes AND THEN STOP AT SIZE 10?!

3.) Nintendo DS. Many, many thanks to my sister for getting me hooked on that.

4.) British TV and/or comedy. As a nation, we need an intervention. We got our own country out of the deal, so enough already. With the exception of "The Office" and "What Not To Wear", everything we Yanks rip off from them to remake - is crap.

5.) Bacon. Bacon is the other white meat's semi-slutty cousin. Her name is Suede-dean and she drives a convertible too fast, smokes, wears black bras under white shirts and a little too much leopard print, gets great sparkly gifts from men she's not related to, and is who we all secretly want to be.

6.) Art and stuff. When I was a bit poorer than I am now, I wanted enough money to be able to buy beautiful handmade things. I am grateful to say that has happened, not on a Picasso level for sure, but on a level that I am comfortable with. See also number 7.

Painting by Hyacinth Manning, St. Augustine, FL.

7.) Pottery. Again, buying not making. I can't stand the feeling of clay (or bread dough) on my hands, feels like my fingers are suffocating.
Happily, that craziness doesn't afflict everyone. And I get to use and enjoy the fruits of their labors everyday.

Stunning bowl from Crow Valley Pottery on Orcas Island.


There are more things, but I'll wait until we get to know each other better.

Geckos, Lizards and Snakes - Oh My!

As far back as I can remember, my mother has abhorred anything reptilian. The only good reptile is a belt...or purse...or shoe. Turtles, alligators, iguanas, all on the major ick list. But there's a special place in hell reserved for snakes.

When she was young, she spent summers out in the J'ville boonies with her two maiden aunts and their brother.



Her dog was acting crazy one day, trying to stop her from going to the outhouse, finally resorted to knocking her down, and there, curled up ready to strike in the tree root she was about to step over, was a rattler. Fair enough on the fear factor.

There were National Geographic magazines she never read because there was a snake on the cover. If anything snakey came on TV, which was often, because my dad loved him some Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, Mom would pick her feet up off the floor, accompanied by a little scream. We're talking snakes period, not just rattlers, because even plain old garter snakes were evil and capable of climbing out of the television into our living room.


When we lived in Guam, my father was at sea for months at a time and I got to wear the coveted (not) mantle of designated gecko killer (first born short straw again!). For those of you uninitiated with geckos,
they don't just sell car insurance, they can crawl on the ceiling and are very, very fast. So I'm seven, standing on really tall ladders trying to kill something I secretly think is cool, while my mother hysterically points out each new hiding place of the soon to be [she hopes] doomed gecko. By the time I drag the ladder over there, it's moved. And my mother's voice has gone up an octave. Good times.

Because I was a kindly child, I tried to free my mom from the bondage of her phobia by helpfully bringing in objects of her fear - to show her they were really fun and neat!
From the banana tree next to the carport, came an anole lizard

that was tethered to me by a piece of thread (totally safe for viewing). Let me just say it was a good thing I was a fast mover back then (like a gecko), as my father, who happened to be in port, did not find any redemptive value in my actions, if you catch my drift. I'm sure Mom needed an Atavan or five (or whatever the 1960's equivalent was) after that therapy episode.

Then, while visiting the very relatives in FL where she almost was snake bit, I, loving, caring child that I am, bring a snake SKIN into the house. Not anything living mind you - I learned that lesson. It was winter and cold outside (for Florida), the kitchen was very warm from delicious cooking activities, and when I walk into the house, my glasses fogged up. Hilarity of the Keystone Kop variety then ensued - a horde of stampeding screaming women out to kill me as I tried to find the back door in a house I was unfamiliar with while basically blind.
Note to self - even though entirely devoid of snake, snake skins are b.a.d. unless they are articles of wearing apparel.

Fast forward to present day. Imagine my surprise when J., the activities director at Wynwood, said Mom had held a snake. But not some run of the mill tiny ole garter snake either. A boa. And not just held it either - had her picture taken with it draped around her neck. Wish I had the picture.

Finally discovered the up side of dementia - curing phobias!

I'm Tired

Remember the song Madeline Kahn sang in "Blazing Saddles"?

I'm tired
Sick and tired of love
I've had my fill of love
From below and above
Tired, tired of being admired
Tired of love uninspired
Let's face it
I'm tired

That always makes me laugh. But that's how I feel today. Tired.

In my smuggling last Friday was a stack of mail from Tri-care and the credit union.

I spent 20 minutes (seriously) standing at the shredder going through it. There were a couple of things that would have come in handy on her 2008 taxes in there ($700 donation letter!), as well as a bill from a lab.

Now I get to spend time on the phone taking to a government agency. YAY!

BTW Tri-care, WTF with the double or triple pages of the same damn thing?! Are you kidding? I get invoices from them at home for Mom as well, so it's double double covered. Honestly, I could save them some money. For one thing - how about printing double sided?! Hello?

There were two of her necklaces in one of the envelopes.
When I took her cell phone out of the case to remove the SIM card, the photo from my dad's Coast Guard ID fell out. That made me a little sad.

Yesterday, I had a meeting with Wynwood to discuss her new assessment for her "personal care plan", which will be over $900, because we just added hygiene "reminders" to the plan.

At this rate - if her house doesn't sell - she has 4 months of funds left.

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.

Moving on

Friday, November 13, 2009

I've called several times this morning because it's nail salon day at Walmart, but the phone's busy each time.
At first I think she's on a call, but when it's still busy after a hour and a half, I suspect something is wrong with the phone.
There's no answer when I knock; the TV's on. I check outside to see if she's having a smoke, not there.
When I enter the room she's awake, lying on her bed. She looks at me like she doesn't know me. I ask several simple questions like, was she taking a nap or had she not been up yet (she had all her clothes on). Then I just ask if she was taking a nap (no choices). Had someone called her that morning? She just looks at me - totally blank.
Not angry, just a lights-are-on-but-no-one's-home kind of a look. It's kinda weird and a little scary.
I explain that I'd gotten a busy signal for a long time; there's no dial tone on her phone. Her little Christmas tree has been plugged in and the router for the phone is unplugged (she has phone service via the cable company). Ah ha! After a few unplug/replug of the router and phone cord, she's back in business.
She seems to be coming around now and is a bit more coherent - does she want to go get her nails done - yes. Knows where her purse is, knows what coat she wants to take.

The young man who does her nails today is very sweet, joking around with her, getting a different chair so her back is supported. He gets a big tip.
I wonder if her disability is apparent to other people. I try not to be a "hoverer", but I am protective of her.

Then we go to the hair salon in Walmart because frankly, I can't stand her hair being dirty one more second. It takes a long time; there's only one person working and she's doing two color jobs at the same time.
Mom always tells the stylist she doesn't want to look like me. I think she means she doesn't want her hair as short as mine, cut over her ears. That's what I'm choosing to think she means anyway.
We eat at lunch at Andy's, a burger place in the same shopping center, because it's nearby. It's 2 PM and she probably hasn't eaten today, she has to be starving. It's a 50's style diner, old car pictures everywhere; she recognizes the T-Bird.
My dad used to have a black '55 Thunderbird - he loved that car. Then along came me and the car had to go.
Somehow we get on the topic of dogs/Mookie and she says she wishes she could see him again. I say he's found his forever home and we can't visit him anymore and wait...

I know, she says.
And then we move on.

Clever Title Blockage

Every time I think about Mom's house in FL, I'm plunged into despair. It's been on the market for 1.5 years with not even a smidgen of interest.
Do we replace the roof or not? No guarantee it will sell or even rent if we do and she's out $6000.
Lower the price, people tell me, but again that's still no guarantee it will sell, plus it's real hard to come back up in price. She needs that money. ARRGGGHHH! I'm like a hamster on a wheel. I'm sick of talking about it, sick of thinking about it.
We're going to have to crack open her last CD very very soon; property taxes are due, she lost her Homestead Exemption, so her taxes are $1500 more than they used to be.
Sigh...

How to Sleep with Cats

I once said, comparing Mookie (dog) to my cats, that they were well-behaved-bottom-of-the-bed sleepers. And they are...in the summer. Winter sleeping arrangements are a bit different.

Picture this:
Queen size bed. Laying on my right side, right arm tucked under pillow, left arm stretched out in front of me. Snuggled alongside said left arm is the biggest cat, Oscar, furry cat butt in my face. He gets extra bonus points for his tail either being in my mouth or right up under my nose. From time to time, because I'm not petting him in my sleep, he will endeavor to take a piece of flesh from my left thumb, purring all the while.

Meanwhile behind me, Finn is kneading the pillow as if it were an Olympic sport and he's looking for a gold medal. Occasionally my scalp will get in his way, but no worries, he's not deterred by blood. If scalping fails to illicit a reaction, he'll climb over the top of the pillow and pat my [hopefully] closed eye. Usually his claws are contained when he does this. If that fails, he will stick his wet little nose on my mouth. Having gotten the desired response, which is apparently me bellowing swear words and swatting at him, he moves down and lays his solid brick like body behind my knees.

His co-conspirator, Lillie, is in front of my knees, now I am effectively pinned beneath the blankets so that I have to pull my legs straight up (no small feat) and outside of the covers if I want to turn over.

And that is how you sleep (or not) with cats.

Watch some funny cat related animation here : Simon's Cat

Over the Rainbow Bridge

I'd been thinking about Mookie a lot the past few days, so last night I wrote to Kay (the vet) to check in on him.

She replied that he had developed rapid onset dementia like symptoms and started having seizures, which seemed to indicate a brain tumor. Because she was not able to fully control the seizures and because of his advanced age (almost 12, just about the average life expectancy for a Boston), she had made the hard decision to put him down.
Not exactly sure when this happened, because she wanted to spare us the grief and pain and didn't tell us.


R.I.P. Mookie 1/1998 - 10/2009

Oriental Tailor

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Big day today. After lunch we're taking 5 pair of trousers to the tailor to be hemmed. Bye bye too long pants!

Driving down Fordham Blvd., we point out particularly spectacular trees to each other. (Yep, DL, the color's here now!)
Mom says " They just hold it and then yippee!" That was laugh out loud charming. Ain't it the truth?!

She gets a grilled chicken salad, which I need to cut up for her, her small motor skills are slipping. At one point she tells a piece of chicken to "get its ass out of there!" (and onto her fork). She cracks me up.
Then we're off to Oriental Tailor (yes, that is the actual name of the tailor).

'H boy. I was hoping she could do one pair and they'd figure it out from there, but no, she has to try on every pair.
She hands me back pants that she was wearing when she came in, or tries to put pants on wearing her shoes or keeps the pants on that were just pinned while trying to put on the new pair.
She didn't understand what the woman was saying (in her defense, several times neither did I ), when she told Mom to face the mirror, she'd spin all the way around. Took about 45 minutes.
She called me a little bitch (least I was little!) and an asshole - laughing all the time. I told her she was on name calling restriction. She doesn't remember five minutes later that she said anything.

The staff at Wynwood seem to like her and she them. They hug her and call her sexy and tell her she looks cute. One woman said she likes to assist other people (that's my old mom!), so much so that sometimes they have to stop her because she'll interrupt her own sleep to go help them.

Now Where Did I Put That?

Friday, October 23, 2009

Still sick with the crud. Stayed home Wednesday since I had a fever and chills Tuesday night and should have stayed home Thursday as well, because the scratchy throat came back Thursday afternoon. Went to work part of the morning on Friday, then left when the chimney cleaner came.

Went to Kohl's later to get some pants for Mom, took them over for her to try on. She had moved two pair of pants - again! They were folded up under a pair of shoes on the floor.
This part of the disease is so weird. What is happening in her brain that moving stuff makes sense?

She tells me I just want everything to be perfect - this is coming from a woman who sliced each pecan for cookies into the same sized sliver. Not chopped - no, each one individually cut. (she also wanted to match or beat the number of dozen each recipe claimed to make).

I don't want things perfect, I just want her to be able to find her pants and searching for things is beyond her now.

The shampoo and body wash were in her bathroom closet, not the shower. No wonder her hair is dirty most of the time. I fear we may need to start paying for more help in the personal cleanliness area.

Another thing that's new, is her forgetting how to work her remote control. She had it on FitTV, which was weird, and the sound was off. She said someone (that sneaky "someone"!) had changed it and she couldn't get it to work. I found her favourite USA channel and turned the volume back on.

The Dog Who Thinks He's A Goat

October 10, 2009

My dear friend DebraLee is visiting from California and coming to lunch with us today. Going to experience southern food at its finest (not) at the cafeteria. (sorry we didn't get to the fried green tomato BLT at A Southern Season - next time!)
Debra is love with sweet tea though and the K&W does that just fine, she said the crab cakes were good too.

Mom has a key now and has to lock her door because someone's been coming in and eating her stuff. I'm pretty sure SHE'S been eating her food and not remembering. She moves stuff around all the time. Reminds me of Mookie when he had a new bone. He would almost frantically move it around from place to place and if he saw you watching where he put it, he'd have to move it again.

After lunch we took a ride out Dairyland Road, past Maple View Farms (ice cream, ummmmm!), to see if there was some fall color out there (there wasn't).
Since we were out that way, we stop at Woodcrest Farm where I get my chicken, eggs, the BEST hot dogs ever (more like polish sausages in size), and grass fed beef. (The chicken and eggs are Nancy's from Fern Hill Farm) Chris and Alan are very nice people.

Sandy and I took a canning class out there several summers ago with Chris, made bread and butter pickles and some tomato sauce. They raise border collies, so there are always three or four very sweet dogs around. Some of their former puppies come back every year for doggie "summer camp". They also have a bunch of foster children.

They have a few watermelon left and Mom wants one. Alan won't let us pay for them, said the quality couldn't be relied on since they were end of season. But he takes one in the house, cuts it for Mom and puts it in a plastic bag for her.

Meanwhile, Debra goes down to the barn to look at the animals and Mom follows her. When she gets down there, she gives Debra a fist bump. Cracks me up. Where the heck did she learn that?

Their Great Pyrenees dog is laying with the goats. They're used as [flock] guardian dogs. The dogs bond with whatever they're raised with and will bark very loudly and vigorously if disturbed. Nancy has two GP's who think they're chickens. Obviously he doesn't think Debra or Mom were a threat since there's not a peep out of him. I haven't seen him since February, he was about 4 months old then and already twice the size of the border collie pup who was a month older.

When we drop Mom off she gave Debra a hug and says she'd "like to have her again".
She even blows me kisses.

Waiter - There's A Spoon in My Salad

Saturday, October 17, 2009
Happy Birthday to me (yesterday) - here's a scratchy throat. I probably shouldn't even be taking her out today, but it's her one time a week to get out of there.
Her hair is dirty again. It also needs coloring, it looks like a faded peppermint stick - red and white striped. Oh god.

We have to search for her purse, because it's not in the usual place (it's partially under her bed). The room's not that big, so it doesn't take that long, but this moving around thing appears to be getting worse.

After her usual comments on my car's cleanliness (mostly not clean), we get in and I notice her pants are dirty. She says it's the only pair she has. HUH? That will need to get sorted when we get back.
I ask if we can go to Rick's Diner instead of the cafeteria because I'm feeling like breakfast, she says she was thinking about that. She loves their chicken salad (it's really good).

She gets a mound of chicken salad on a green salad, ranch on the side. The dressing is in a small bowl. She holds it over the salad, unclear how to get the dressing on the salad. This is new.

I suggest using her spoon to drizzle dressing over the salad. She does that, but then starts eating the salad with the spoon. She gets a little huffy when I suggest using a fork to eat the salad, makes a comment about me thinking she's stupid. She doesn't know what to do with the spoon now.

How does one make it seem like it's her idea and try NOT to make her feel like she's stupid? It's like being a parent again, and I wasn't very good at that the first go round.

We get back to her place and start the pant search. I find several pair folded up under some other clothes in the closet. White pair - no, no - can't wear those now!
Isn't it weird how the brain works? She still remembers no white after Labor Day, but not how to eat a salad.

We find the pant hangers, with two nice pair of slacks - they're too long she says. (she has a tendency to like her pants to come to the ankle, which is a bit too short in my book). I tell her that with a slight heel they'll be just fine. I find 4 pair of pants (not counting shorts and the white pair). There are some others, but they're too small (sizes 4/6/8) now. There's another pair she tried to hem - one leg is cut 6" shorter than the other. Wow. The former award winning seamstress.
It's all so unbelievably sad. I say this a lot don't I?

I move the pants to the front of the closet next to her coats, since there's less of them, maybe she'll be able to find them. Chances are, she'll move them back and not be able to find them again. I found her key in a drawer (last week she HAD to lock her door) and almost two full cartons of cigarettes.
Maybe she is forgetting to smoke!

It's Wal-Mart day! Whoo hoo!

Saturday, September 26, 2009

I hate Wal-Mart, but we have discovered that the cheapest place to get Mom's nails done is the Wal-Mart in Hillsborough.

When I call her that morning, she asked me where I'd been, (I saw her last Friday), all motherly concern.
"Right here", I said, "Where've you been?"
"I'm here too", she said.
A small sweetly sad exchange. Ok, we're all here now.

While she's getting her nails done I do her shopping (diet Pepsi/diet Dr. Pepper, sugar free candy, low salt cashews, sugar-free jello/pudding, and those tiny white powered sugar donuts), and still have plenty of people watching time, since I didn't bring a book. People watching in Wal-Mart depresses me however. Is it because it's Wal-Mart...well no actually, people watching in malls also will cause a mental nose dive.

Which leads me to wonder - if people were people watching me, would they be depressed?

Most of us see don't ourselves as others do, (both good and bad). For instance, in my head, I'm around 30 and still weigh 130 lbs, then I'm SHOCKED when I see my reflection in a mirror or window (hey, who's that FAT OLD woman in front of me?! - oh wait...crap). Apparently this phenomena happens to people in Wal-Mart - a lot (this way too small yellow sparkly t-shirt with the pink camouflage pants and puce stilettos looks GREAT!).

Anyhoo, then we went to lunch at Ming Garden (something different for a change). On the way there she tells me how she picked out the nail polish all by herself (it was actually my pick, with her approval).
"I went back there all by myself and picked it out. It's pretty isn't it?"
It sure is Mom.

Mookie's Doing Great

Several weeks ago, we went to Kay's (the vet) house to visit Mookie. He came right up to Mom, twitching his little corkscrew tail, which made her SO happy - "He remembered me!" He also did his "take me for a walk!" dance to me (consists of picking up his front feet one at time, whipping his head around, and saying "wrue, wrue, wrue").

Mookie seemed quite content, even though it was noisy: there are ten dogs (three are hers, rest are fosters), several cats, an iguana, two macaws, numerous sleeping ferrets and about five to six rabbits. This woman (and her husband!) is a SAINT. Seriously.
He was fine with the other dogs. He had his belly band on and didn't seem to mind it at all.

That seemed to satisfy Mom, she hasn't mentioned Mookie since then. She didn't get emotional at all, going, during or after. But if she does want to, we can go any time.

Here's a link to Kay's "other" job.

A Day in the Life

Friday, September 18, 2009

This is what it's like having a meal with Mom:

Setting: K&W Cafeteria, where we have become regulars.
Time: Lunch

After several minutes of silence interspersed with comments about how much she likes it here, how good the potato salad is (just like hers), and offering me various items, (I usually just have a glass of tea.), the conversation goes like this:

Mom - "Did you get your...[insert some sort of vague gesture here]?"
Me - "My what?"
Mom - "You're not that smart anymore, are you?" Laughs.
"You know. Just wait, I'll tell you."
Plays with a chicken finger, making it walk around the plate because it has a funny shape.
Me - "My what? Car? Kitten? Elephant?"
Mom - Laughing.
"No. You know, your...just a minute. I'll think of it. Mmm, this is good [potato salad/banana-strawberry compote/chicken fingers], you can have some."
Me - more guessing of ridiculous things.
Mom - Laughing (this is good. Compared to last year at this time, when she and everyone else was so miserable.)
"No. You can't have one, because of when you were a baby."
Me - "Ohhhhhhh - a flu shot!" (I was allergic to eggs and chicken when I was younger and the flu culture (?) was incubated in eggs back in the day. Not sure if that's still true.)
Mom - "Yes!"
This has taken approximately 20 minutes.

After lunch, it's off to University mall; Rose's for Kleenex, then to Bath and Body Works, where she smells everything about 6 times because she can't remember she just smelled it. We walk down towards Dillards, but her back (or legs, depends on which time you ask) is hurting today, so we head off to Trader's Joe's for cashews, watermelon, and whatever else strikes her fancy while she's still mobile. She's worn out; it's been about 2 hours since I picked her up.

It Just Might Be Okay

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Went over to see Mom and take her to lunch at the terrible K&W Cafeteria, which she LOVES. Everything is horribly overcooked and over salted, but it's her party, so that's where we go.
She was sitting outside with a couple that she's friends with when I got there and even though I had to remove Mookie's crate, she was okay! This made me happy.

Told her Mookie was being fostered by the vet, Kay (God love her, she is a saint - the same vet that fostered and found a home for Mom's diabetic cat Mr. Brown), and she was totally good with it. No crying or anything. I do think it's a relief to her on some level. She did want to see him and we talked about it perhaps being hard to see him go off again, but left it open.

Then she said she wanted a kitten. I do not see that happening. Maybe an older cat. But there's the litter box to deal with. I'm thinking about taking Finn over there, he might be up for that sort of outing. Need to get a new harness, as I'm fairly sure he's "outgrown" the one I have. He is a little round weebil of a cat.

L. was out in the lobby being all cheery and friendly. Ignored her when she spoke to us as we were leaving. Oh, I know - so grown up of me. (That's my M.O. - shut down all contact.) When I left after dropping Mom off she asked how I was and I said I couldn't talk to her, I was still very upset.

A really, really crappy day

Friday, August 7, 2009

Daphne and I have been switching off taking every other Friday off, yesterday was mine. I take some Trader Joe's stuff, Pepsi, and cigarettes (why can't she forget that she smokes???!) over to Mom, so we aren't leaving Mookie in the room alone.

I ask if she remembers talking with L. about Mookie, she says no. So, for Pete's sake, I have to tell her again and tell her about Boston Rescue and that he's on the list. She starts crying.
She's worried Mookie won't remember her. Can he come visit? I'm not sure, depends on the person who adopts him and where they live. She doesn't want to go get something to eat because she's been crying. So I head over to the cafeteria to get her lunch to go.

On my way out, I stop by to see L. and update her on the progress.
She says, "Oh you misunderstood, I didn't want to be mean, I thought you'd realize I meant 48 hours." "He needs to leave today. He can't live here anymore." "I'm getting complaints from staff and residents." (The staff is complaining too?! That's new.)

Now how on God's green earth am I supposed to "pick-up" that she meant 48 hours when she didn't SAY that? Dammit - my mind reader's license just expired! Silly me.

Then she has the nerve to ask how I was doing, because she's "often more worried about the family than the residents." "You need to take care of yourself first." And then touches me on the shoulder. Do. Not. Touch. Me. Yesterday I was shell-shocked, now I'm PISSED.

I bring back lunch for Mom and let her eat before I have to tell her - surprise her - that Mookie has to leave now. I feel set-up. The fucking bad guy - AGAIN.

In the meantime, EBF calls. He must have asked if I was there, because Mom whispered really loud, "She's here now." It's so funny on some level.
When I asked if that was Tom (EBF's real name revealed!), she said, "Oh I don't know who the heck that was."
So, you in the habit of telling people you don't know on the phone that you love them? Interesting. "How's his wife doing?" I ask. "Okay I guess", she replies. Good grief.

Mom's told me several times that I don't like men (oh really?) and I wonder if he's told her that and she's repeating it. Or, because of her dementia, me not liking HIM equals not liking all men. She's right though, I DON'T like dickhead jerks who take advantage of/use women, one of whom is my mother.

Out of the blue ten minutes later, she tells me to mind my own business and that I can go now.
And then I have to say that Mookie has to come with me.

She thinks he's going to Boston Rescue and I'm going to let her think that for now. She goes back and forth between wanting to help carry stuff out (no) and crying. The staff knows that this is happening and are ready to pay special attention to her. I get everything (but the crate) out and get Mookie, who is just as excited as he can be because the word "go" was used. (Car ride - my favorite!) He doesn't even pay attention to her as we walk by. L. is telling Mom he can come visit - shut up! you don't know that! Pisses me off.

I sit in the car and cry for 20 minutes. I can't take him home. I don't want to. Call the vet, they're full up, but they recommend another place in CH. She says she's full, but is getting ready to make calls to confirm reservations. I tell her the sad story, it turns out she has two Bostons herself and she finds a spot for him at least until Monday. She'll make some calls to people she knows who foster dogs too. Poor Mookie. I go home and cry another hour.

I'm depressed about my family. Do they not call or respond to emails because they think I'm so strong that I don't need emotional support? Is it a compliment? Is it truly out of sight, out of mind? This is their mother too. What has happened to us?
My father is rolling over in his grave. He'd smack us all into the middle of next week if he were here.

Mookie has to go.

Monday, August 3, 2009

I get a call at work from the administrator over at Wynwood. She tells me Mookie needs to find a new home, getting complaints from residents and it's just not working out.

Do I want to come over when she has the talk with Mom? Not particularly. I've had this talk with Mom several times and am not anxious to repeat it. She already thinks I'm the bad guy. She says ok and she'll call back after they chat.

While waiting, I look up Boston Terrier Rescue on line and there's one in NC. I'm in the middle of typing the email to them when L. calls back.

She reports that Mom seemed resigned and agreed with her that Mookie was barking and it wasn't fair to the other residents, yada yada yada.
At NO POINT was any mention made of a time frame. I told her I was writing BT Rescue at that very moment and she asked me to keep her updated.
Again - there was no "the-dog-has-48-hours" or "you-have-until-Wednesday" discussion. She did say that once broached it's better to deal with it quickly. Sure, like pulling off a bandade, and I'm in agreement with that.

Rest of week spent emailing, phone tagging BT Rescue. Called the vet; sent Mookie's info to the shelter, just in case there's a softie on staff; and to Tailless Cat Rescue, because she knows people. Anyone I can think of.
The vet's on vacation until Monday, Aug. 10, but she wants to talk about it. She got Mr. Brown adopted; thinking a diabetic cat who hates other cats is much harder to adopt, so she's a miracle worker in my book.

The EBF returns

Saturday, August 1, 2009

After we get back from lunch, Mom takes Mookie out while I clean out the crate (he'd peed in there.). Her phone rings and I answer it.

EBF: "Hi."
Me: "Hi."

EBF: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Nothing."

EBF: "Nothing going on?"
Me: "Nope."

Slight pause as it dawns on him that I'm not who he thinks I am...

EBF: "Who is this?"
Me: "Kim. Who's this?" (knowing full well who it is)

Another slight pause...

EBF: "Bob."
Me: "Bob! Bob Dalum?" (Mom's friend/neighbor from CA)
EBF: "Yes"...then click of phone hanging up.

What a lying A-Hole.

Help is on the way?

Way, way back in May 2008, Daphne and I went to check out Carolina House, which is an assisted living place in Chapel Hill. Rooms were very small and it was expensive. But the marketing director, Geri I think, was wonderful and gave me a number for a non-profit group who helps get additional benefits from the VA.
I schlepped that paper around for months and finally called only to find out they help if you are in certain facilities and Mom wasn't in one of them. The woman I spoke to was very kind and gave me websites and form numbers I needed to apply for the benefits [for Mom] myself.
So I bravely entered the crazy mixed up minefield - I mean, world that is the government, downloaded the forms, get stuck on question 19: "What is your SSN?" (Who's SSN?! Mine? Dad's? Mom's?), get overwhelmed and put them away. There was a lot of stuff going on then. But I felt guilty because she could get up to $1000 a month in additional benefits. That would be a HUGE help. Kay made a few calls in Dec. when she was here, but the forms that person told her to use were different than the other forms the first person said to use. I was confused - and so continued to do nothing.
But - when she moved into Wynwood, she was eligible to use the free service provided by "A Place For Mom". http://www.aplaceformom.com/
Weird name, but they are awesome. They actually fill out the paperwork for you, help you gather all the supporting documents such as marriage, death certs, discharge papers and various others. Things that prove that he/she actually was a veteran and you are a surviving spouse of said veteran.
Thankfully my parents were pretty good keepers of all that stuff - except the one form (DD-214) I really needed wasn't an original (his final discharge/retirement).
All the other DD-214's were original - except that one! That needed to be ordered, had to wait for it to arrive via the USPS.
Then everything needs to be put together and shipped off to the VA, which I did on 5/28. Still waiting to hear.
To their credit, the VA has sent two letters, one saying they received the application and another one recently saying they were still doing whatever voodoo they do and to please be patient.
Fingers crossed! Pink Light!