Break It Down (continued)

Remember last month, exactly a month ago actually, my frig was on the fritz?
Turns out it wasn't the seventeen year old frig (chances are it will be soon though), but an electrical outage on one leg of the circuit.

An electrician came out, of course by that time the power was back on, checked all the outlets, even took the panel off the breaker box (there are some scary looking wires in there!) and checked the connections. Every little thing looked fine.

All is well - until yesterday; I came home and the frig was off again! Worked yesterday morning. I plugged it into the next outlet, which works.
And sure enough, like the electrician said, other things are off that I didn't notice last time, the microwave (previously the stove hood), the guest bathroom, part of the guest bedroom, and...HORROR of HORRORS...


the AIR CONDITIONER!!





Oh the humid humanity!

Didn't realize the programmable thermostat was on the circuit until I was going to bed (after a marathon of "The Wire" - TV worked) and thought it was a bit hot.

Thank God for ceiling fans!

The really odd thing is it being one day short of a month since it happened.

Duke Energy is going to check outside (they don't do inside).

I'll keep you posted. (I know you can't wait!)




I liked Merv the electrician so much I asked him to install a microwave over the stove, something I had been wanting for years. So I guess that was a win-win.

Finnbarr McCool

The other two have had their own posts, now it's Finn's turn.

My little Manx cat Finn is the NC native of the group; he was adopted from Independent Animal Rescue. I saw him in Petsmart and it was total adoration (on my part) at first sight. Because hello?, Siamese AND Manx - pretty much my two favorite cat breeds rolled into one. How could I resist?!
I'm pretty sure he's smarter than me and if he had opposable thumbs he would rule the world.

Finn McCool, or Fionn mac Cumhaill for all you speakers of Irish Gaelic out there, was a legendary Irish giant. Think Paul Bunyan but with women, swords, and killing. Oh, and dogs instead of oxen.

According to Bad Ass of the Week, Finn "...created the Isle of Man (from whence the Manx cat hails) by trying to hurl a giant chunk of Ireland at a guy who was pissing him off. Finn just didn't give a shit."

That's my Finn!

Finn probably thinks his full name is "Finn-stop-that-get-down-what-are-you-doing-get-out-of-that-what-are-you-into-now-oh-for-Pete's-sake-knock-it-off-how-are-you-going-to-get-down/out-from-there-aww-you're-so-cute".
Yea, he's like that.

Some of his other names are: Finney, Finney-Fin, Finney-Finners, Fins (I am nothing but original), Stinker Butt, Bunny Butt, Panda Butt, Barr (by Allison), Bratty Braterton, and Meep (from his meow, which sounds like "meeeeeeeee".) "Give me a meep" also means touch noses in my CCL world.

Finn is very helpful around the house: He dusts off the dining table (see above); sits on craft projects while I'm doing them; climbs the electrician's ladder to supervise, usually when the electrician is on the ladder; inspects any running water; gets behind the TV armoire to make sure all the wires are intact, of course; sticks his head up inside lamp shades to insure the bulbs are burning.

He even walks across the top of the mini blinds to make sure they're holding up okay.



He's also a very caring housemate: he makes sure Lillie and Oscar get their exercise by chasing and wrestling respectively. He checks my pillow softness by kneading it in the middle of the night, and kindly makes sure I'm breathing by putting his nose on my mouth.

He never met anyone he didn't like and he thinks everyone adores him. Maybe I should have more of that attitude!

Forgiveness

Just read this article and got goosebumps.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/37707750/ns/world_news-europe/

Wow. Good on ya, Cameron.

Northern Ireland is [probably] where several relatives on both sides of my family came from. While there for three weeks in 1995, it felt like home. (I believe in what some Native Americans/American Indians call blood memories; pieces of memory passed down through our DNA. Not scientific at all. Don't care.)

Being a Libra, conflicts both personal and beyond are very disturbing to me, and I'm not a very political person. But this stuff in N.I. gets me going and when someone who's English apologizes to the Irish, well, that's huge in my book.

Granted, apologizing is not asking for forgiveness, but it's a start. Akin to the first step of fixing a problem is admitting there is a problem.

The former cardinal of Ireland, Cahal Daly, did ask for forgiveness.
"In January 1995, he made his own striking gesture to the cause of reconciliation between Britain and Ireland. Invited to become the first Irish Catholic Church leader to speak from the pulpit of Canterbury Cathedral since the Reformation, he used the occasion to ask the British people for forgiveness for the wrongs and hurts inflicted upon them by the Irish people." http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/breaking/2010/0101/breaking2.html

That is an amazing thing. See what he did there? So disarming. So humble. It made me want to meet him (and I did.).

I have a friend who says forgiveness is FOR-GIVING. It's a gift that can set people free. Really. I don't mean that in a churchy way.

Maybe what the world needs more of is not love, but forgiveness.

What Do You Want To Be?

I am so envious of people who KNOW what
they want to be when they "grow up".

The person who's known they were a doctor since they were five, or would implode if they couldn't horse trade, write, fight fires, sing, build rockets, teach, etc.


Something in my INFJ-ness makes me adore taking personality tests. The ones with easy questions like, "Would you rather go to a party or stay at home with the cats?"

It's the Luke-this-is-your-destiny type tests that are utterly unsatisfying to me.

Here's where they stump me: "Describe your perfect day." "What makes you happy?" W.T.F. Who can do that?!
I'll tell ya who - people who already know.

I like doing a lot of things in my perfect day. What the hell is happy? (The Scots blood rears its cynical plaid head.)

One thing I've noticed, once an accolade is received, I'm done. It doesn't have to be a Pulitzer; a simple honorable mention at the county fair will work. Poetry, photography, drawing - pfffttt, finished, fin, finito, the end.

There is nothing in me that will cause me anguish if I can't do it. (Other than breathing or walking around.) At the same time I really long for it.

Whatever it is.

Long Time Coming

Looking back much of it seems obvious. Ye old hindsight.

The phone calls asking me how to work her remote, or telling me she'd screwed up her cable TV - again.
The repeating of something she'd just told me.
The frantic calling and asking where I'd been because it had been so long since I'd talked to her, when in reality, it had been two days.
The personality changes, both subtle WTF? moments and bigger things, as in the dating of completely inappropriate men (a.k.a. married).

I urged her to get her meds checked, maybe some combo was not working. She said she would. She didn't.

All this happened after she had bypass surgery. She never had a heart attack - she did poorly on a stress test, but what non-exercising smoker wouldn't?

Instead of taking a different tack with her, like seriously working on her to stop smoking for one, her doctor encouraged a bypass. My mother, being from a generation that idolized the almighty doctor (unless he's telling her to quit smoking), just took the pill(s) or the surgery without question.

Recently I came across this article from a book that advocates a medicinal alternative to coronary surgery (pssst, "...there appears to be no advantage in terms of preventing heart attack or death by performing either angioplasty or bypass surgery.")
"...the true frequency of complications after bypass surgery such as stroke and loss of cognitive function is as high as 30%."
"Cognitive decline complicates early recovery from coronary artery bypass surgery and may be evident in as many as 75% of patients at the time of discharge from the hospital and a third of the patients after 6 months. These results confirm the relatively high prevalence and persistence of cognitive decline after coronary artery bypass surgery."

http://www.heartprotect.com/do-you-really-need-bypass-surgery.shtml

I totally believe this is what happened to my mom; for her, bypass surgery was completely unnecessary. She had just turned 64 - the memory loss was immediate, then came strokes and the very not well thought out decision to stop taking all her meds for over a year. Now, a mere ten years later at 74, she's living in a room and doesn't remember her life.

I'm not saying a bypass isn't the right thing to do - I AM NOT A DOCTOR. Surely it is the right thing to do sometimes.

What I am saying is this - don't be bullied or intimidated into a drastic medical procedure. Just because they do them every day doesn't mean it's not seriously major surgery. That could change your life.

Wait. Take a breath. Gather some research. Get an advocate to go with back with you.

Be well.

Some Serious Stuff

I just read an article on a gentleman in Australia who lives near an often used suicide spot and regularly talks people out of jumping.

This paragraph broke my heart:
"A smile cannot, of course, save everyone; the motivations behind suicide are too varied. But simple kindness can be surprisingly effective. Mental health professionals tell the story of a note left behind by a man who jumped off San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge.
If one person smiles at me on the way to the bridge, the man wrote, I will not jump."


Too often I am guilty of not paying attention to the people around me. I'm wrapped up in my own little vanities, my own sorrowful thoughts, have my own agenda for getting through the day.

I have a touch of the empath, but tune it out most all the time because there's too much, often painful, information flying around out there. It's like finding a station on the radio, many channels are just static, then bam, one starts coming in loud and clear.

Several years ago in Whole Foods, while preparing my coffee, I happened to glance over at an older woman sitting in the booth next to the coffee station. We looked at each other. When I say looked at each other, I mean - our souls touched for a second.

It's disconcertingly powerful when that happens. Almost like an electric shock.

Then God (yes) put the thought in my head to talk to her.

Actually - not just talk to her, to go over and hug her.

"What?! Are you kidding? No! Personal bubble, man! You of all people know how big mine is. Actually HUG her? You are asking too waaaay much of me pre-caffeine. I don't want to. I'm minding my own business here. I have to go to work. What if it's embarrassing? What if she starts crying? What if I start crying? NO." (so much for empathy!)

Yea, talking back to God, great idea. Just call me Peter. Good thing He likes me.

I looked at her again just to make sure and yep, same soul connect, same nudge from God. Then guess what I did?

I left.

Guess what else? I look for her every time I go in Whole Foods, still think about her all these years later and wonder what I had for her, what she had for me. Maybe a human touch, a kind word would have changed both our lives.
I'll never know.

I'm going to work on remembering that a smile (no personal bubble involved), just a smile, might save some one's life.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Editing

What's the deal on editing your posts?
Should one or shouldn't one?

Some people say no, it's out there, so leave it.

But I can't stop myself, especially if it's a cringe worthy typo like your/you're, their/there, or my personal favorite, its/it's.

Oh no, I cannot leave those hanging out there on the web. I also change pictures, re-arrange sentences, add things I've found lurking in a brain cell.

What say you fellow bloggers, to edit or not to edit?

(The picture has nothing to do with the post, but it makes me laugh.
Look, up in the sky, it's Super Lillie!)

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

My friend Fawn is flying out for a 50th birthday trip around the country, visiting old (ha!) friends, including and starting with me. Yay!

Here's Fawn and I on a little trip we took to Northern Ireland back in 1995.

Apparently I did not get the memo on sunscreen and Ireland did not get the memo on supposed to rain all the time; together we made some sunburn. (Crap, I just realized I was still in my thirties in this picture.)

We went on this trip with three teenagers from the school she was running/heading/thought of/implemented. Long story for another time.

She said she's going to be blogging about her trip since she's a life coach and all about the relationships. Oh boy...I'd better be on my best behavior! :-)

http://fawngilmorekraut.wordpress.com/


photo credit: Carrie Anderson Carver

Oh Yeah

I have a new pottery BF.
His name is Noah, and I think we're getting married - that is, if Oscar Wilde (my cat) and Noah's wife approve.

After prompt writing yesterday, CP and I went to the 2nd Annual Nine Toes Pottery Sale. Ronan is an up and coming BF. A lot of his pottery has a Who-ville sort of vibe. Skulls or bugs are used often. Definitely quirky. Not for everyone.




Ronan's guest pottery was Noah (he has an excellent stamp, says the pottery stamp geek) and I bought this bowl here.

Now mind you, the picture from my cell phone camera does not in ANY WAY do justice to this bowl.

It is delicious. Full to the brim with fabulousness.

The Mom Diaries (updated)

Yeah, I know.


Over two weeks.


I suck.




She was out in the lobby again, wearing two tee shirts ("No I'm not.") with a belt. Dirty hair. Sweat pants.

Merde.

Mom snippets du jour: (my but I'm very French today. Mais oui.)

"It's hotter than hell out here." I suggested a change in attire before we left, but temperature chats don't register anymore.

"Leafy?" This is what she heard when I asked if she was sleepy.

"I'm trying to get my mouth in the right place." I have no idea.

"Ding." When she opened her to-go box of pie.

"There's a lot of that." Rain clouds

"It's calm in here." K&W cafeteria

"Your hair doesn't like you." After I mentioned my hair looked all crazy.

Prompt Writing Poem 6/12/2010

Prompt: Write about feeling trapped

My mother is five
trapped in the web of dementia
a small fly
blissfully unaware of the spider
in her head
encroaching, wrapping, muffling
her brain cells in silk

I too am trapped
first born short straw drawn
while the others go about their business
far away
Trapped by guilt and love and
responsibility
By blood and honor and
should
Trapped by right and trust and
more guilt
By worry and shame and
what if it were me


**************************************
You have fifteen minutes to write after given the prompt. This poem must have been lying in wait, because I was done in about five. This is the original:

My mother is five, trapped in the web of dementia, a small fly blissfully unaware of the spider in her head. Spreading, creeping, encroaching on brain cells daily.
I am trapped too, first born short straw drawn, while the other two go about their business far away.
Trapped by guilt and love and responsibility
By blood and honor and more guilt
Trapped by right and trust and should
By worry and shame
and what if it were me.

Me and My Shadow

This is Oscar Wilde, the cat who thinks he's a dog.

He may also think we're married.

He has to be in the same room as me. He sits at the window waiting for me to come home. He sits on the toilet waiting for me to get out of the shower. He sleeps next to me every night (sorry non-existent BF, you've already lost out to a feline). When I'm sick, he lays on my lap. If I go on vacation, he loses weight. If I'm on the couch, he's on the couch.

Oscar was adopted in Florida from the shelter. I was there with someone else who was getting a kitten and I saw him. He did all the right cat stuff; I couldn't stop thinking about him. When I went back to see if it really was true love, he came right to me and swatted at any other cat who came near me, so of course I caved.

The honeymoon was over pretty fast. I've had cats for years and I could not figure him out. He would go from purring to biting in a nanosecond. And I mean biting, puncture wounds, blood. He disemboweled my arm on more than one occasion. No warning, no ears back, no tail swishing, no growling.
Then he would lay down by me, put his paw on my leg, look up at me purring away. Try resisting that.

For months I walked around with a squirt bottle. Finally we came to some kind of understanding, I'm not sure what happened. Now nine years later, as long as I don't touch his hind feet or his stomach, it's the perfect marriage.

Hilarious

Pronunciation: \hi-ˈler-ē-əs, hī-\

Function: adjective

Etymology: irregular from Latin hilarus, hilaris cheerful, from Greek hilaros

Date: circa 1840

: marked by or causing hilarity : extremely funny

— hi·lar·i·ous·ly adverb

— hi·lar·i·ous·ness noun

So Taryn over at Inner Fat Girl said I was hilarious. God bless her.

I want it to be so, but then I read other blogs she has listed on her site like Amalah and And Then I Was A Mom and I think - man, I am so NOT hilarious.

I mean how hilarious can one be when you only have fifteen followers (side note: is fifteen the most stupidly spelled word ever or what?! Where's the "v" from five? WTH.)

Those women (including Taryn) are full of the hilariousness. Really. Check them out.

Have Your Cake

Is it just me or have cake shows taken over the Food Network? Wedding cakes, cupcakes, cake competitions. Not sure which is worse, Rachael Ray or cake overload.

Does anyone actually eat that fondant that's been touched by half the free world?

Seriously, I wouldn't eat it with your mouth.

When they start fondling the fondant, and they always do, I have to switch channels.
Ewww.

Epic Fail

I've been doing, well, more like trying, the No "S" Diet - no snacking, seconds, or sweets except on days that start with "S", which also include Special days: holidays, birthdays, vacation.

Three times a day you eat a healthy meal - what fits on a [regular sized] plate. Sounds great, easy even.

Guess what? Every frickin' day I screw up by doing at least one of the three no-no's.

Add to that not having cracked open a Jari Love DVD since October 2009 and not going to the gym since, oh I don't know, the Eisenhower Era, and there you have it.

Epic Fail.

The Tent Story

I love me some analytical types. They drive me crazy and I adore them, both.
Some of my best friends are analytical. And my previous very long term boyfriend.

You might be asking yourself, what is an analytical? There's a clue in the first four letters of the word. (Heh) These people are the information gatherers of the world. For them, there is no such thing as too much information. In fact, daring to suggest that all information on a particular subject may have been attained is a veritable act of betrayal akin to stabbing them in the heart.

The question they ask is "What". As in "What more can you tell me?" "What other information do you have?" "What are the specs on this product?" The information glass is NEVER, EVER full for them.

The only problem (well maybe not the only one) with being wired like that is making a decision is like the tenth circle of hell (I can only imagine.); it's hard to commit to most everything - marriage, a meal, a car, a paint color, a tent.

So the BF and I, we like the camping, and have decided to buy a tent.
We have a few requirements which I include here for your reading pleasure:

1.) He must be able to stand up in it. He's not that much taller than me, but a guy wants what he wants. No harm, no foul.
2.) It needs those pouches under the windows for glasses. This is my one request.
3.) It needs to sleep five. They say subtract one from the number it says it sleeps for comfort. There's three of us plus a friend for Shawnn. So a tent that says it sleeps five is great for four people. Math. It's complicated. (Why can't they just say it sleeps four comfortably?!)
4.) Needs to be compact so the cooler can go in the trunk instead of the back seat, making room for friend.
5.) We have a budget of $100.

Shawnn is spending the summer in NY with friends (very good friends), so we stop at our local outdoorsy place in Petaluma on our way to SFO.
Go upstairs, to what I like to think of as the camping dioramas, and there...
...is a navy blue Eureka dome tent, sleeps six, on sale for $99. BF can stand up it in, there are pouchy things under the windows. It is compact and lovely and perfect when folded in its tiny pouch. (But you and I both know it will never go back in the pouch that way ever again and will be bungee corded together and thrown in the trunk.)

Yay, can you believe it!? The first store we go to! It's perfect, right? Meets all the criteria, right? Let's get it! Wait, wait!...why are we leaving!?...

Because. We. Must. Gather. More. Information.

We take Shawnn to the airport, then hit several places in San Francisco. Nothing strikes his fancy. This is where I start asking, "Why don't we just get the Eureka in Petaluma? It was perfect. Why do we have to go to all these other places?!" (My question, being a supporting style, is why. This is the question, according to the BF, that there is no answer to and it drives him batty.)
We might even have gone to the big camping place on the way to Sacramento. I can't remember anymore. After the second place in SF, I lost interest because of being in an information overload induced coma and all.

We go to at least two other places in San Rafael. Mind you, this is pre-Internet, BG (before Goggle). We'd still be looking right now if those options had been available. It speaks to the superior gathering ability of the analytical type - he knew where all these places were - from a phone book!

Finally, in Novato, a good six hours later on the way back home, he spies something he likes.

Guess what? IDON'TCAREANYMORE! Get whatever you want.

At this point I hate camping. I hate tents. I hate shopping. I'm pretty sure I hate him a little bit.

He buys the tent. The tent with aluminum poles that have to be put together and take up a lot of room, instead of the bungee type poles that don't - like the Eureka tent.
The tent that does NOT have pouches under the windows, even though pictures on the box show them. The tent that never zips up correctly and always puckers, no matter what you do. The tent that takes up so much freaking room with its duffel bag carrying case that there is no room for Shawnn's friends to come camping with us. (This may have been BF's cunning plan all along.)

The tent he got when we broke up.

Then and Now

This is me (the glasses)...okay stop laughing. No seriously, stop...Judy and Tina (her sister, sitting) in 1968, Kodiak, Alaska.




This is us recreating our iconic pose thirty six (!!) years later, in Bellingham, WA.
Look Ma, better glasses!

One Ringy-Dingy

Who knows how many times a phone will ring before disconnecting?
Anyone?
Bueller?

Okay, I won't keep you in suspense any longer.

The answer is...thirty times.

This is another huge difference between Now Mom and Prior Mom. Prior Mom could not let the phone ring and would literally get out of the shower to answer it. She was so afraid she'd miss something. Now Mom doesn't answer the phone anymore. She doesn't connect (ha) the ringing with something she needs to do.

I don't think we ever watched a movie together in its entirety. It was always interrupted by a phone call and she could not let go it to voice mail. She'd then spend forty five minutes talking (yakking, as my dad put it) to whichever of her myriad friends/family members it happened it be. Used to piss me off actually - what am I, chopped liver!?

My sister called it her umbilical cord.

Mom was the hub of the wheel and without her we are unconnected, adrift. The rest of us are not that great in the communication department. My brother and I are like Dad, one or two word responses and done in about five minutes (I love texting, it's a God send). My sister will talk - if you can get her to answer the phone. My mom kept us abreast of each others news and in doing so, enabled us in our dysfunctional communication skills.

The cord has been cut.

Lady Gaga

I confess I've never listened to her music (on purpose anyway), nothing against her, I'm just a Stan Getz, Brazilian jazz kinda gal.

However, if she does have Lupus and she raises awareness for this disease like Michael J. Fox has for Parkinson's, then I will download all her stuff.
Right now.

May is Lupus Awareness Month

Samantha, May 2009
This is my wonderful, goofy, giggly, sweet niece Samantha during her treatment for Lupus. This included "...lots of lab work, doctors' appointments, ultrasounds, a kidney biopsy, IV therapy, and too much medicine."
Sam is not defined by this illness - even when she was undergoing treatment, she, encouraged by her parents and a wonderful teacher, still attended her dance recitals.






Samantha, May 2010
She still has Lupus, despite looking like her old self again.

She calls me Puma, I don't know why, but it's hilarious. Back in 2008, I was her best friend. She said so.

Since this is my blog and I can do whatever I want, Aunt Puma's making a plug for a donation.

Please help find a cure for this disease.

http://www.firstgiving.com/samanthapatton

Break It Down

Monday I get in my little French Canadian Corolla, Blanche, (she was made in Quebec), turn the key and...
Zip.
Try again since I wasn't holding my mouth right, obviously.
Nada.
This time I open the glove box, punch on the map light and jiggle the shifter before trying again, because hello? that's procedure. (You know you do it too.)
Not a peep.

Out comes the trusty AAA card and they send over the cutest guy (Chad) to determine it is, in fact, the [original] seven year old battery. Which he replaces for $113 while I wait.
Folks, as I've said before - I am a closer. I hate gathering information and running around trying to figure out how to save $3. (Ask me about the tent story sometime) I called my favorite auto shop in Carrboro afterward, they quoted $159, so I felt vindicated in my decision.

Then last night I come home from a friend's graduation and open the frig for a glass of unwind wine - it's dark. I figure the light's burnt out, no biggie. This morning it's distinctly uncool in there. The stove hood light is out too, but the stove works, and so does the overhead kitchen light, so perhaps the breaker? Ah, no.

Ding dong, the frig is dead.

Home warranty and $60 will get it working again, I hope.

Guess I can finally get the Samsung frig I've been coveting for months.


Why does this stuff ALWAYS happen when you get the credit cards paid off?!

Motivation

Mom's like the gym for me, if one session is missed, it's hard to get back in the routine.
I do the "floppy dance" (any mother knows what that looks like) every week, like a kid who is being forced to do something they don't want to do.
What's my problem? It's not hard. It's usually fun, in some weird twisted way. I only do it once a week. It's not like she lives with me. It's just hard seeing my mother like that, week after week. After week. And it's just me. I know, I know. I am being a big fat sucky baby. At least I still have a mother. At least she's still fairly functional. And on and on. Believe me, I know the drill. It doesn't change a thing. I still do the floppy dance.

I finally hauled my lazy selfish ass over last night, after almost two weeks, (no, I didn't go over on Mother's Day.), and of course, it was just fine. I called first and she hung up on me, unknowingly I'm sure. I called back and the phone rang until the phone company decided that was enough and ended the call.

Lo and behold, she was sitting in the lobby/living room! With her fashion forward, belted, layered look (three shirts, blue, green, pink). She stood up and shook my hand, then put her hand on my leg and asked what that was for.

I swear I'm going to remember all the loopy stuff she says, but I can never can. There's too much. We're in line in the K&W Cafeteria and she asks where my hands are. "On the ends of my arms." "Where are yours?" "I don't know, but I have some." Alrighty then.

There's a cute baby at the next table, playing peekaboo and laughing. Mom proclaims it "wonderful". She is always walking up to small children and babies, it makes me nervous.
If she ever thinks that baby is ugly, she is going to say it. Out loud. To the mother.

I know this is a highlight of the entry for you all, so here's what she had for supper:
Ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, turnip greens, carrot & raisin salad and lemon meringue pie. I was cutting up her ham and she asked if I was doing it for the baby.
In a way, yes.
She was going to eat her deviled eggs with a spoon, then I had to go and say something like - just pick it up and eat it with your fingers. She put the spoon down and gave me such a look! Glared at me, then turned her head and looked off in the distance - for about thirty seconds, then she was back to normal.

Now I need to work on my motivation for next week.

Mother's Day

My mom loved getting cards. Birthdays, Christmas, Mother's Day, Columbus Day (just seeing if you were paying attention), she was the perfect Hallmark audience.
She would rather have received a card, the mushier the better, than most anything else - unless you were my father. Then you had better be presenting jewelry.

Every single card, not just the Christmas ones, would be hung on the wall by the front door for weeks, a proclamation of how much she was loved by her family and friends, then taken down and saved for posterity.
She kept a tally, "So-and-so didn't send me a card this year.", and would spend several days trying to divine what it meant in regard to their relationship. Were they sick, mad at her, or merely forgetful? Maybe she should call and see if they were okay.

Now cards are incomprehensible missives from strangers, merely glanced at, then stacked on dressers or floor and shuttled around to new hiding places every week.


So what exactly do you get someone who really doesn't know she's a mother anymore?

Layers

One of the hardest things about dementia is watching the things that always defined your loved one disappear.

Take writing for instance. My mother had the most beautiful handwriting, flowing old school script, not the half assed printing I call handwriting. Now, she can't even write her name.

Take grooming for another. My mother was always well dressed; she was an award winning seamstress and made many of her own clothes up into the Nineties. She dressed appropriately for her age, never, as the English say, as "mutton dressed as lamb" (love that!). She had a great sense of color and style and knew what suited her.

Last Saturday I pick her up for lunch and she has three shirts on, blue long sleeved tee over a light blue short sleeved tee over a black long sleeved tee. White pants. Two pearl necklaces. The top shirt was dirty. Get the heavy sigh when I point that out. I've learned to ignore those and press on. Removal of first tee shirt reveals the second shirt is also dirty. The third and final layer appears to be clean. I can't find the lightweight cardigan I brought over several weeks ago or her TV remote. Where do things go?! It's one room!

Her hair is clean, yay. Her toothbrush is on the coffee table, I throw that away (secret) and haul out the children's toothbrushes I bought (cunning plan - if she is five mentally, appeal to that age!) and get her to brush her teeth before we go.

We have breakfast at Rick's Diner. The Belgian waffle, bacon, and scrambled eggs is decided upon. She nicely refuses my offer to cut up her waffle and manages to divide it into fourths with a fork. Loses next step. Then picks it up and eats it like a sandwich. I pour syrup in a bowl for dipping. She likes that. I catch the woman at the next table looking at Mom like she's a loon. (She may be, but she's my loon.) I resist giving her the stink eye and just smile and shrug. Whatever lady.

Afterward, we head to Target for Diet Pepsi and make a sloooowwww circuit around the store. She gets a pair of linen walking shorts and a black tee shirt.

Wonder what she'll layer those with?

Lupus (updated)

Lupus is a chronic, autoimmune disease that can damage any part of the body (skin, joints, and/or organs inside the body). Chronic means that the signs and symptoms tend to last longer than six weeks and often for many years. In lupus, something goes wrong with your immune system, which is the part of the body that fights off viruses, bacteria, and germs ("foreign invaders," like the flu). Normally our immune system produces proteins called antibodies that protect the body from these invaders. Autoimmune means your immune system cannot tell the difference between these foreign invaders and your body’s healthy tissues ("auto" means "self") and creates autoantibodies that attack and destroy healthy tissue. These autoantibodies cause inflammation, pain, and damage in various parts of the body.
(Excerpt From Lupus Foundation of America http://www.lupus.org/newsite/index.html)



This is my niece Samantha, aka Sam, in 2008 - three months before being diagnosed with Lupus (the day before her seventh birthday).





This is my niece Sam, during her steroid treatment for Lupus.










Thankfully, she responded well to the steroid treatment and is off them, but it was a long year. She only takes Cellcept now (people who've had an organ transplant take it as well) and it seems the lupus is in remission.



She'll be doing the Lupus Walk in Milwaukee on June 12. http://www.firstgiving.com/samanthapatton

Hornet in the House!

You know about my mother's phobia of all things reptilian, here's mine: spheksophobia. I'll give you a moment to look that up...[Jeopardy theme song plays]...okay, done?

So the landscaper comes over Friday night and as we go down the front steps I notice something suspicious looking on the soffit - right by the front door.
"What is that?!", knowing full well what it was.
He replies, "You don't want to know. But maybe it's empty."

Now that's a bit like telling a woman in labor her contraction is almost over - she knows better.

Of course it was the beginning of a hornet's nest. I berate myself for not listening to my little inner voice and calling the bug man sooner. Ugh. And I have to go back in the house right past it! Double holy mother of pearl ugh.

Saturday, after fortifying myself with a german chocolate cupcake from A Southern Season (delicious by the way), I buy a can of 25% more, newer spray from Harris Teeter (because you cannot have enough of this) and head across the street to ask my neighbor if she's willing to do the deed since the bug man can't come until...MONDAY!!! It could be the size of a football field by then!!

Thank god she was willing to come over and save me. One hornet dies at the scene, another one flies off, which creeps me out. But I put it out of my mind and head off to Duke Chapel with friends for the "Sparks of Divinity" concert by the Women's Voices Choir. Beautiful setting and a great concert.

Back at home, I'm puttering around in my jammies, when I spy something on the living room floor. I move in to investigate.

HOLY CRAP.
It's.
A.
HORNET!

In my house.

(I actually have goosebumps remembering). HOW DID IT GET IN HERE?! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN IN HERE?! Okay, don't panic - wait, TOO LATE!!
The cats are nonchalant, so maybe it's dead. Oscar helps me by swiping it with his paw as he walks past. Thanks Oscar! It rears up in this crazy ninja hornet move. NOOOOOO!!!

omgomgomgomgomgomgomgbucketneedabucket.
Find a bucket, gather some reserve of courage and throw the bucket over the hornet. Finn comes over to investigate...NO FINN DON'T TOUCH IT!! Don't move the bucket. (I'm hissing now. Can hornets hear?) Good kitty. Where's that piece of cardboard? Summon even more courage and slide cardboard under bucket. Part of one of its legs is poking out, which really interested Finn. Noooo...(dissolve into sobbing).
Now carry it outside, put it on the deck and run back inside. Obsess for several hours over how it got in (did it come in on ME?!), how long it's been in here, and if there are more. Freak out when two of the cats become very interested in the bottom of the floor lamp, but it was only a spider. I can deal with spiders.

I had the heebie-jeebies for hours. A piece of my hair fell out of the headband when I was washing my face and I screamed and jumped about a foot off the ground. I hate this part of spring in North Carolina.

And hell yes, the bucket is still on the deck.

No Sale

Today my house comes off the market.
Turns out my house is like the last woman a not-quite-out-of-the-closet guy goes out with before he decides he's really, for sure, no kidding...gay.

My house has helped many people decide what they REALLY want by being the "It's-cute-but..." house.
As in, "It's cute, but I want to be closer to Duke; it's so cute, but I need three bedrooms; it's cute but I'm worried about the road noise; it's cute but the yard's too small/too big"...and on and on ad nauseam. You are welcome people of Durham!

Come to think of it, my house is like me. "You're great, but..." and then off they go to prom (or relationship or marriage) with someone else.

Actually, I'm relieved and a bit excited. Getting prices on a screen porch and new [fiber cement] siding; thinking about a fireplace mantel and built-in's. Maybe new counter tops, since I only have about two inches of counter space it shouldn't be too expensive.
A landscaper's coming over this afternoon to give me a price on xeriscaping the yard; Julian's [realtor] coming with a bottle of wine and pulling up the sign.

Here's to "You're cute, but..." houses and women. We have to stick together apparently.
Sláinte!

Eleven Years Ago

My father died April 30, 1999.

He died from a cerebral hemorrhage caused by Multiple Myeloma, a cancer of plasma cells.

There is no cure.

He also lost a kidney to cancer (very probably caused by MM) and two thirds of one lung (most likely due to smoking non filtered cigarettes since he was twelve).

I miss him, but am glad he's not here to see what's happened to Mom. It would kill him.

Lunch Today

Mom was in rare form today. The phone rang 20-25 times before she picked it up.
I'm wondering if she isn't connecting the ringing to the phone. She would have killed herself to get to the phone before.

She was very happy today, very giggly. She called me "dum-dum" because I didn't understand something she said. She made the "eerrrrrcc" sound kids make when they play with cars as I came to a stop sign; said "Oh it didn't work". Sure it did, the car stopped.

We went to Piper's for a change since I had a coupon. When the waitress, I mean server, seated us Mom said, "Don't forget me, I'm here too."
It's interesting to see how people react to her, some stop talking and making eye contact immediately, others engage her (Danielle at Rick's, Ashleigh at Mayflower, both excellent). The latter get bigger tips. This one was the former.

There are big gaps of silence now because she really cannot hold a conversation. I told her Culton, her third great grandchild, weighed 10 pounds already. "Who?"
I explain who he belongs to. "Well, I guess he might be bigger."

She was being goofy with her napkin and the paper from the straw, making me laugh. "I'm just making you happy." she said. Yep.

On the way home we pass a sign - "Axle Weight, I don't think I want any of that." Took me a second, then I start laughing.

Too late, I think I already have axle weight.

I Can't Stop Reading

I first read Jon Katz's articles in Slate online. Here's the archive link:
http://www.slate.com/default.aspx?id=3944&da=&qt=&au=40207

I fell in love with his dogs and the way he lovingly described the farm, his neighbors, his steer Elvis, and the donkeys.

Hadn't been to his website in awhile, I guess quite a long while, because there's been some changes. He's divorced and getting re-married, his daughter's written a book and he starting on a children's book.

Anyway, while I was poking around on his website, I came across his hospice journal. It only spans about a year, there's no explanation why. It could be one year is all one can do. I imagine it is a very rewarding, yet emotionally draining experience. The hospice workers and volunteers are amazing, generous people. http://hospice.bedlamfarm.com/

May I recommend a big box of Kleenex and starting at the beginning. Click on archives to select the month.

Cooking - Southern Style

My father was not demonstrative as a whole; his Scots-Irish DNA prohibited it. He was a man of walk the talk, not talk the walk. If he was there, he loved us. The end.
When he wasn't at sea or didn't have duty, he was home every night for supper and he contributed, like the rest of us. He made the salad, I peeled the potatoes, my brother and sister set the table, and Mom did the rest.

Sometimes he was the cook, usually when we had "vegetable" dinner or breakfast for dinner.
Vegetable dinner consisted of pure carbs: black-eyed peas, rice for Hopping John, cornbread, sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise slathered all over them, turnip greens (for Mom) and my favorite - what my father jokingly referred to as Potatoes A La Patton.
Recipe: roughly mash potatoes with milk and butter, plop them on your plate and make a hole. In the hole, place raw chopped onions and mayonnaise, then mix.
The crunch of the onion, the tangy creaminess of the mayo all mixed in with the carrier potatoes - shut your pie hole! To this day they are one of my all time favorite comfort foods.

My dad fried eggs by ladling hot bacon grease over the top of them, no flipping involved.
I am convinced that a Southerner's blood is part bacon fat. We actually owned a canister set that included one for bacon grease. In my house, pouring a precious commodity like bacon grease down the drain was a first degree felony.
Fried corn, another one of my favorites, involved bacon grease.
Recipe: remove the kernels from a bunch of fresh corn. Saute in bacon grease (sub olive oil now) in a cast iron skillet (that is important). Ta da! Fried corn. Freezes well.

Not sure why it's called fried, batter was not involved.

Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree

(My hair courtesy of Mom's "tomorrow-is-picture-day-just-let-me-trim-your-bangs-a-little" handiwork.)

My father and I have/had very similar personalities.
We also looked the same - note the goofy smile, the dreamy far-away look, the long face, the ears. I cannot tell you how many times I heard the words every little girl longs to hear,
"Why, don't you look just like your father!"

In spite of looking alike and having the basically the same personality - or perhaps because of it, we bugged the crap out of each other, especially when I was a teenager. Except reading, that was common ground. Reading seemed magical to me and I learned at around three.
By second grade, while others were plodding through Dick and Jane, I was reading "Black Beauty".

My father was a sucker for an encyclopedia; in addition to the ever popular Britannica, we had medical, animal, art, gardening, and biblical. I'm pretty sure we were on the "that guy will buy anything!" list. We also owned every hard cover National Geographic book ever published, in addition to getting the magazine subscription for decades.

I received books for all major present giving holidays and illnesses. You never got trouble for reading in my house - unless it was a comic book (or at the table). My dad thought comic books were "noneducational", he had an irrational dislike for them and they were not allowed in the house.
This rule was so adamantly enforced I actually thought I was dying when he gave me four comics during my measles episode (105.5 temp). There could be no other reason he let me have them! Still remember what they were - two Richie Rich, a Baby Huey and Little Lulu.
Of course that rule was totally out the window by the time my siblings were reading and they both had comic books galore. Brats.

In 1968 we moved from Miami, FL to Kodiak, Alaska and were TV-less for two years. Something about the TV putting us over two thousand pounds (the limit the CG would move). Right. (Not that it mattered much, there was only one channel that was on less than 24 hours a day. Taped Christmas specials came around New Year's.)

My dad and I were regulars at the library during those years. We would come home with a stack of books and read two or three at a time. Back then I could easily read a book a day, even during the school year. The librarian (wish I remembered her name) would put aside books for my dad, sister, and I according to our interests. She told me about Frank L. Baum writing more than "The Wizard of Oz" and the Tolkien trilogy, which I thought was the best thing since sliced bread; I read it in three days and then started them all over again. We read books on Africa, Australia, nature, every Zane Gray novel ever written, science fiction, interspersed with fairy tales, Egyptology, and Norse gods.

In a way we also bonded over music, even though my dad made fun of my musical choices. He was into equipment, we always had a nice stereo system - JVC turntable, Akai reel-to-reel tape player. I had my own stereo and headphones (that way he didn't have to hear any Black Sabbath). He showed us all the correct way to handle an album, how to thread the tape on the reel to reel. (Later in life I was a waitress at a barbecue restaurant; the owner had an amazing collection of Motown, blues, and jazz on reel to reel tapes. I was the only one who knew how to work the thing.).

My father believed in taking care of things, there were certain things you DID NOT DO. Like laying a book down with the pages open (breaks the spine - use a BOOKMARK!); touching the record (LP) (handle it on the edges); not putting things away in the proper place - if Herb Albert was in the Mills Brothers album cover, there would be hell to pay!

Spring Has Sprung!

Spring in North Carolina is pretty magnificent.

Bradford pears, Japanese magnolias (aka tulip tree), cherry, and plum trees start the show, then redbuds and the ethereal dogwood jump in.
Can't leave out the color blocks of fuchsia azaleas, brilliant yellow forsythia, phlox, tulips, daffodils.

All the deciduous trees seem to leaf in overnight; I've gotten lost in Durham because some streets look so different from winter to spring (in the street's defense, I am easily lost).

The downside is pollen - which coats and gives a yellowish cast to everything - the asphalt, cars, decks, your lungs.

Nothing Compares 2 U

My father was the guy who made fun of my, as he called it, "yea, yea, yea" music. So imagine my shock at supper one night when he starts a discussion about Sinead O'Conner.

"Don't understand the shaved head, but I like that song she sings, Nothing Compares to You."

Wait...whaaaaaaaa...how do you know about Sinead O'Conner?!

Turns out the nights he couldn't sleep, of which there were many, he watched VH1. His two favorite music videos: "Nothing Compares 2 U"and Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love". Well, natch.

I bought the CD for him. After he died, spontaneous tears would erupt whenever that song came on the radio or I happened upon the video.

It's been seven hours and fifteen days
Since you took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since you took your love away
Since you been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see whomever I choose
I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
But nothing
I said nothing can take away these blues
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

It's been so lonely without you here
Like a bird without a song
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling
Tell me baby where did I go wrong
I could put my arms around every boy I see
But they'd only remind me of you
I went to the doctor n'guess what he told me
Guess what he told me
He said girl u better try to have fun
No matter what you'll do
But he's a fool
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

all the flowers that you planted, mama
In the back yard
All died when you went away
I know that living with you baby was sometimes hard
But I'm willing to give it another try
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you
Nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

Happy Birthday

Yesterday was Mom's 74th birthday. She had no idea.
When I called at 9:30 to wish her a happy birthday, she said "Oh, I can have one? Is it done?"

I took the day off so we could get her nails done at Wal-Mart in Hillsborough. Her hair was clean, so the beauty parlor must have worked out - yay! Who knows for how long. She was wearing a sweater and sweatpants (on a day when it was supposed to be in the upper 80's), and, I noticed when we got in the car, were dirty. I know she can't help it, but crap.

She remarked that every single redbud tree we saw on the way over was pretty. Yep.

After the nails we drove over to Mayflower, a seafood restaurant. We both had the boiled shrimp. (Someone told me I don't sound Southern until I say "bolled" - as in shrimp or peanuts).

While we were waiting for our food, Mom says,
"There's two men over there." (at another table)
"And? There's two women over here."
"Well, I'm just trying to help. We should be very friendly!"

Then she proceeds to eat her lemon wedge. I asked if she was sure she wanted to do that.
"It doesn't have to say that on that." ??
"Why are you eating it?"
"Because it's there."

Okay then now.

On the way home she said her fingernails looked funny about once a minute because they squared the tips.

This morning I talked to a friend of Mom's who called for her birthday; Mom said I hadn't been over. She won't remember talking to Judy either.

Happy Birthday Mom.

More Things I Really, Really, Really Like

1.) Archie McPhee's. (do not type this wrong - you will get a porn site.)
Flagship (actually - only) store is in Seattle. Total blast.
You have to go if you're in Seattle and are even close to having a sense of humor that's stuck in the second grade.
That's me, with the old lady hair, and my friend Judy. We've known each other since we were eleven.

What's not to love about a store that has inflatable fruitcake, bacon bandages, and a lizard head coming out of it!?

2.) Trader Joe's. I lived in California for 23 years - Trader Joe's was part of life.
When TJ's FINALLY came to Cary, I drove the 50 mile round trip twice a month.
Then...oh happy day...TJ's came to Chapel Hill! Now they get to see me 2-3 times a week. I just know they're excited about that.

3.) The Daily Mail. This is a trashy on-line British tabloid that I read almost every freakin' day. I adore it.

4.) Sourdough bread. Another California ex-pat love. Unfortunately my favorite bakery, Lombardi's in Petaluma, home of the extra sour loaf, went out of business in 2008 after fifty some years.

5.) The sound tires make on a drawbridge. Honestly. It's right up there with kids laughing.
There was a great drawbridge near Brunswick, GA between Jekyll and St. Simons.
Guess people got tired of having to wait every time a pesky shrimp boat went out/came back, which was often. Once it was stuck in the UP position for quite some time - I mean weeks (glad I wasn't on it when that happened).

It was replaced by the largest suspension bridge in the state.
Progress sucks sometimes.

Weekly Visit Report

I've been a bad, bad girl...didn't go see Mom on Friday. Or Saturday. And was contemplating not going Sunday. But guilt won and I went.
She comes to the door wearing her sunglasses; light was on in her room, blinds closed. Whatever...
I told her there was a pug (we used to have one) in the lobby for the weekly pet visit, so she tottered on down to check it out while I restock her mini frig with Diet Cherry Coke.

She doesn't throw away the cans anymore, stacks them around the room instead, so I gather those up as I find them. It's chaotic inside the frig; perhaps she tried to clean it and forgot where or how everything went back. There's also a pair of dirty underwear inside.
Glass candle holder is in the shower with a Christmas ornament tucked in it; shampoo is on the table, towels folded in piles on the floor. SNAFU.

She wants to go to my house and see the cats. Okay.
Last time she was at my house she didn't want to come in because "bad things happened." Guess having a stroke at my house could be construed as bad. She doesn't remember saying that or even being in the house. She thinks it's a new house. Doesn't remember the cat's names. When we get back in the car she wants to know if she can live there. Ah, no.

I'm still full from my post three mile walk Foster's Market breakfast burrito, she wants to go to the cafeteria though. It's very crowded with the after church throng.
She gets beef liver [insert gagging here], potato salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, buttered coconut pie (coconut custard) and sweet tea (hello carbohydrates!). Sweet potato pie and unsweetened tea for me (guess I wasn't that full!). It was an excellent people watching day with all the church outfits, hats, and shoes.

On the way home as we drove past Dillard's, Mom observed we had been in there once. Just a few weeks ago as a matter of fact.
(Good Lord, that was exhausting. Like herding ten ADD cats.)

Me: Yes, you bought the shirt you're wearing and another one with a heart on it.

Mom: Cow heart?

Me: No, a red shirt with a heart on it.

Okay people, cow heart is funny. I can't stop laughing.

Mom: I'm going to give you something for your mouth!

I think she means she's going to smack me (jokingly), and that's funny as hell too.

Mom: Oh, I'm going to come out!

No - no coming out in the car, I will have to charge a clean up fee for that. She is having a full on spell* now. Then, there was an odd noise, not sure if it was bodily or car.

Mom: Did you do that or did I?

Me: I didn't, did you?

She doesn't think so, but it starts her off on another laughing jag.

It is the best medicine.


*In Southern vernacular a spell can mean a laughing fit such as my mother was having; illness/drinking,"Uncle Bert had one of his spells last night."; or a length of time, "Sit a spell."
(In our house "having a spell", also meant my father wasn't talking to anyone for about two weeks. These spells usually coincided with a holiday or anniversary. Yep, that was fun.)

How to Use the Bathroom With Cats

Second in series (see archives Nov. 2009 on How To Sleep With Cats ).

I'm ensconced in the bathroom with a trashy tabloid magazine, looking forward to some quiet time with Brangelina. The bold decision to fully close the door has been made.

A few seconds pass...hmmm, really not a fan of Brad or his icky beard, what's up with tha...the meowing starts. Ah, that would be Lillie. Smallest cat, biggest mouth. A petite black paw slides under the door to accompany the "mah, mah, mah". "Shut up!" The paw disappears.

A few more seconds pass...then, a dainty, delicate, barely there meow. Oscar.

Scratching on the door (Oscar). "Get away from the freakin' door!" Scratching persists. "I said knock it off!"

A gray paw appears under the door. Then a chocolate brown one.

Suddenly, a scuffle breaks out.

Finn and Oscar are jockeying for key position of being first to run in the door the nanosecond it opens. The door bucks as twenty five + pounds of cat smacks against it. "Are you kidding me?! Cut! It! Out!"

Now only a gray paw forlornly searches under the door. "Get out of here!"

High pitched "meeeeeeeee" (Finn). Chocolate paw appears again. "I hate cats! Go away!"


Another scuffle. The latch is holding - so far. "Sigh..."

I hobble to the door and throw it open. Three flashes of fur (bonus points for tripping me on the way back) and my quality magazine time is over.

Finn jumps in the sink, attacks the faucet, then decides he needs to move the blinds so he look out the window. Oscar jumps up on my lap (WTH? I don't bother him when he's using the toilet!). Lillie walks along the edge of the tub meowing. Loudly.

All is well.