Appearances

While I am not acutely self-conscious, I generally try to present my best side, most of the time. My mother's first career in the fifties was as a beautician, a concept that has as much resonance today as the three-martini lunch. I surmise that those were different times. And she was beautiful. When she left our house she was flawlessly dressed, with her styled hair and fresh application of lipstick. She and my father were also very conservative, in the middle class Catholic sense. For me and my sisters that played out as strict curfews, long hemlines when minis reigned and an immaculate mien. While naturally I rebelled, my picque with their directives only extended as far as they tried to control my social lifestyle. For some reason much of the rest of it stuck, and today as I type this on my Ipad I am making an appearance in court as a member of one of the most buttoned down professions, in a black wool crepe suit.

I experienced a magnificent rush of love for my husband soon after the start of our courtship despite his scuffed, inexpensive shoes with broken shoelaces and his dingy shirts and frayed cuffs. He demonstrated his love for me by cleaning up, and still does--most of the time. Fifteen years after our hookup I still experience a significant culture clash with the in-law nonchalance. I've described at length how the house resembles Miss Havisham's. My mother-in-law is a sight to behold as well.

Yesterday at dinner we were recounting what a drag it was to come home after a perfectly lovely afternoon to another animal control officer on the door step investigating yet one more animal abuse complaint about Stinky. My mother-in-law chimed in. "People stop me on the street and ask me if I have enough to eat," she craggled with an air of disbelief. "Do you think" said I, "it's because of that big hole in your shirt and because you don't comb your hair?" Oy vez.

Minutia

Give me the cursed and flawed Broadway play, Turn Out the Lights, I could do something with it.  I know I could save it.  Action, drama, character flaws. My life is less than epic.  Picking up the pace would be welcomed. I pick up filthy forks from the floor. 

I had my first meltdown. I cried. Over the unrelenting unsanitary condition of the kitchen, compounded with the fleas that Jack’s cat doled out to my animals.  I must add that I had an extraordinary event that week—another lawyer was physically violent and insane towards me and my client during a deposition. That, not Jack put me over the edge.  We had a long weekend to regroup, and to gain some perspective. 

Husband soothed the way he knew how. He cleaned our room and authorized the hiring of a housekeeper. I flipped through the MLS for affordable condos.

The Husband Weighs In: Magma, I'm Home

Husband guest-blogging here.

 

Just got new job.Gonna have at least one 12-hour day a week, probably two. Biggest concern? Wife's cranium.

 

It is routine for the first one home from work to encounter paper plates of dessiccated cat food on the floor, a lamp knocked over by a wide turn in the electric wheelchair, half-empty cans of dog food entertaining flies in the kitchen, CNN blaring on tv and 96.7 ("The way--uuh-aaave") on the radio.

 

All quickly remediable, but tedious and not fun to come home to after slaying the red-eyed dragon that is the westbound 10.  This is especially true for my wife, as these are mother-in-law quirks we're talking about.

My wife's private space was reduced to one bedroom when we moved in, and I fear she might blow like Kilauea one of these days. Gotta get her out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do. But the stars are not yet aligned, and the fact is everyone is trying their best to make it work -- orange cat, other cat, mom's cat, Stinky, Superdog, my best half, the old bat and me.

 

Will my new hours stir up the magma? I hope not.

To Be Honest Witch You

Life deals plenty of place markers. When I was first married I took great care to select keepers. That, in retrospect is a challenging task when you are in your twenties. Really, the adult hologram looks at that first wedding and sighs. Yes, I know they were meaningful to me when I was twenty-five. Not so now. I look at photographs and count seven people who are still alive and actively part of my life. I am a big town girl who lived in more than one country. I've lived with a different reference point.

So now I am chagrined about the headspace that Carlotta and Alex siphon from my brain? These are Jack's two caregivers. They are both hardworking women. Carlotta has the weekend shift. She has never been a minute late to her afternoon shift. I trust that she will care the best way she can for my mother-in-law and that should suffice. But, I fret.

Part of her pattern with Jack means that she shares weekend dinners with us. Thankfully, husband and I always have an away Saturday dinner plan and so she and Jack cook up some fast food adventure. Come Sunday it is a different story.

Left to my own I would be happy to cull the fridge, make a lovely Sunday repast of leftover
parts made into salads, pate and delicasies. But, I halt when I hear, "to be honest witch you" ... "I don't eat fish" ... "I don't eat pork"...to be honest witch you...."

Cassie skulks in the morning when we are gone, at 11:45 am to deliver her services mid -week, and weekday evenings around 8 pm when she finishes her shift at the fancy house in the Palisades. She also is remarkably responsible with time. She hates me. The situation should be explained some day when she and I are both earning over 200 k. Meanwhile, suffice to say she is a bitch. A bitch who strikes me as singularly motivated by the dream of a Bakersfield tract house. To be honest witch you.

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: Seeking Equilibrium

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: Seeking Equilibrium: "We’ve marked the year milestone . Some of us have adapted to the tumult with remarkable coping strategies. Husband has choreographed his ..."

Snore!

You read this post at your own peril. When I am sleep deprived, like now, my evil avatar springs to the fore. I am new to town so haven't identified a doctor to prescribe Ambian. I guess I see a blessing in that it has been a year since I've needed any meds.

I want to avoid cliches like "the perfect storm". I'm in a putrid pond with a straw just above the surface. Professionally, I am working on a motion to dismiss a million dollar lawsuit. It's due next week and I have been grinding it to the bone. Needless to say I need food, sleep and some head space. I got a mother-in-law with a diarrehea dog. Fine. I am donating the couch that cost me three thousand dollars fifteen years ago to him and his distress.

I should be so Lucky, Get it? I have Jack Crashing inTo walls and doorways at 2:30 a.m. I'm so sleepy and biototchy. Get it? Why? Does she really need to cram by our bedroom door with all her noisy, heavy metal at two in the morning?

Blur

I’ve spent a month without contact lenses. In fact that has left me blind except for images that are inches from my nose. My back-up plan? The trendy Swedish glasses (super expensive ten years ago) that I hate to wear. Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses. Unfortunately, blindness makes the other senses more acute. Like the lingering smell of Lucky. Husband busted him hanging out in our bathroom. Yuck.

One of Jack’s caretakers left her diaper bucket in the kitchen sink. Yuck. The newest coffee stain on the white carpet. Super yuck. I have spent weeks trying to eradicate it to no avail.

I cringe when I see Jack sailing by with my tea towels. She uses them as personal towels on her lap. I feel that the towels that wipe my wine glasses should not serve her needs as well. We apparently don’t see eye to eye. I feel mean spirited when I snatch them from her lap. Yes, I do.

Yesterday I was preening in the restroom that has a view onto the backyard. Without my glasses I sensed something amiss. I perched the glasses on my nose and headed to the backyard where I discovered a baby car seat. I am former law enforcement and determined that there was no baby in situ. I queried Jack who claimed to be as unknowledgeable as I was about the mystery baby car set. Fast forward to the end of the day. Caretaker had asked Jack if she could place the car seat in the backyard overnight. Jack, I surmise forgot.

On most days, after spending capital challenging weighty legal arguments on the job I want to blur my senses with an adult beverage. I am Catholic. Yet, I am nagged by a sense that I should be more charitable towards my mother-in-law. God help me.

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: The Laws of Distraction

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: The Laws of Distraction

The Laws of Distraction

Pets, parents and pampered babies. The key to control is to have something other than lint in one’s pocket. Whiny children in my experience are easy to misdirect. Whenever I board an elevator I inquire “who wants to press the buttons?” Invariably I get a taker and then, a quiet ride. Cats are pests, yet uncanny. They sit on the section of the New York Times calling my name. I whip out the catnip toy and throw it aloft. Joy.

Senior mothers-in-law have preoccupations. Tonight we set the table for a barbeque alfresco. At the last, possible, moment, she must walk Stinky around the block. “Knock yourself out” I say as I shimmy to the table in my sandals, cropped top and cocktail. Husband loosens the tie and bestows a kiss. Our dog luxuriates in the fading son.

Inside, the message machine bleeps in vain. After the sun fades we walk inside and hear it. “Son” she croaks on tape. We have no idea how long ago that plaintive cry was recorded. Husband puts on his belt and shoes, but then I hear the clang from Stinky’s collar. Jack is safe, but had encountered a homeless man and wanted us to bring him money.

We demurrer and bring her gently back into the fold. I had lots in my pockets, but she says she can’t hear much. That I believe since I scream lots of my everyday dialogue. She has an estate. She can do what she wants.

Lucky

Yesterday we were slashed by harsh criticism. It’s not a clean wound, but one with deep, ragged edges. I am plotting my revenge.

I arrived home mid-afternoon in a pretty fine mood having avoided the rainstorm, and the dreadful, evening traffic, and discovered my husband splattered with paint. Without any prompting, he had spent his day off patching the grotesque cracks in the plaster, and was close to completing the first glorious coat of bright, white paint in what had been the mightily depressing dining room. Ms. Nancy was at the stove, humming as she stirred the steaming pot of spaghetti carbonara. My hound thrust her wet snout at me with uncontainable enthusiasm. Without question, it was a lovely homecoming.

Jack was occupied in her bedroom with both the television and radio at full volume, and Ms. Nancy had the funky beats playing loudly in the kitchen, so the din afforded a few minutes for me to unwind and for us to chat. Since my husband had been home he recounted his mother’s day, and his role, like meeting the physical therapist, and conferring with Ms. Nancy about how things were going with Jack’s care. Ms. Nancy works week days until three o’clock, so we rarely have a chance for in-person encounters. We should talk more often.

My husband learned from Ms. Nancy that she and Jack head to the animal shelter several times a week so they can check out Lucky and walk him around the ‘hood.

As my former law partner used to say, if Lucky didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. Before Jack “rescued him” he lived at the no-kill shelter for seven years. This is God’s honest truth, he is bereft of fur. Poor Lucky suffers from this chronic auto-immune disorder which afflicts him with raw, red, itchy skin that is sensitive to any kind of pressure--like a dog collar. He also has rheumy, beady eyes. And it’s not like he has a winning personality. If you walk into the room, nine times out of ten he runs into the closet. If Jack was nearby however, he’d plop down beside her wheelchair scratching and gnawing at his itch. During dinner.

Despite his unfortunate habits, he somewhat grew on us, and during the five months we lived together we’d agree to take him for car rides and to the park. Since Jack can’t really hear much, between us we referred to him as Stinky, because, OMG he was. I dreaded taking him in my car because of the detritus he’d leave behind, so my husband usually volunteered his car, and at the park to hold his leash. I couldn’t always bear the looks and comments from people who thought we owned a dog with mange.

Jack loves to walk Lucky. Lucky, not so much. I’d often spy them out the window. She rolling along in her wheelchair, dragging the protesting Lucky behind. About two weeks before Jack was hospitalized, one of our thoughtful neighbors called animal control to report Lucky’s “abuser.” Fortunately, one of the no-kill shelter volunteer walkers observed the ruckus, and was able to get the shelter to intervene and explain to the officer that God, not Jack made Lucky that way.

Lucky is a needy and expensive patient. He is on a strict regimen of medications and a special diet, and needs to be taken weekly to the pet hospital for a medical baths. Jack struggled to care for him, a challenge made harder with the limited use of her hands. She was grateful for the help of her neighbor $%#$$!, an outgoing divorcee who came to our home every afternoon to help with the pills and the eye medicine. We were too, and frequently invited $%#$$! to dinner and gatherings, and to spend evenings with us.

When Jack had to check into the hospital a few months ago, and had to take Lucky back to the shelter, $%#$$! volunteered to go to the shelter daily to walk Lucky until Jack came home. We saw how sad and depressed Jack became every time we heard $%#$$! tell Jack that Lucky was desperate for Jack to bring him home.

As we prepared for Jack’s return home, my husband and his siblings expressed trepidation about Lucky’s return. The consensus was to see how things progressed. That was the logical dialogue.

On the other hand, there was $%#$$! droning on to Jack about bringing Lucky home. My husband, falling on the sword, telephoned $%#$$! and informed her of the decision, and asked her to ease up on the pressure. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she spat, and followed up by avoiding us. Life moved along.

Fast forward to yesterday when my husband was telling me about his chat with Ms. Nancy. This week when Ms. Nancy walked to the shelter with Jack and informed the volunteer--who’d she’d previously never met-- that they were there to check out Lucky, she was treated to a diatribe.

What! Did Ms. Nancy defend us I asked? My husband called in Ms. Nancy who reenacted the encounter in Technicolor. Ms. Nancy confirmed that she wanted to “slap the girl silly,” when she heard the volunteer parrot what she’d heard. “Did you know that her son won’t let her bring Lucky home?” Ms. Nancy demonstrated how her mouth dropped open, when the volunteer let Ms. Nancy know that Ms. Jack’s son has some nerve ‘since he is living there, and NOT EVEN paying the mortgage.’ We locked eyes. We both knew the source of that evil misinformation. The $%#$$!

Life is a Bowl of Scaries

Are we bad people if our domestics don’t recycle? I spend waking hours cringing over concerns like this, but stop short of rummaging through the trash. It’s scary in there. Are we going to be sued because Jack is flagrantly violating labor laws? I requested a copy of our insurance policy so I’ll be ready if the day comes, but I’m not about to be the bad cop. There’s no clear direction of where we are headed, but, by my calculations Jack’s wad will run out in about nine and a half weeks. On all things financial Jack is making scary choices. Even the domestics agree.

Getting proper care on a dime from her new roster of care workers is of the highest priority. Right now, as before, Jack insists on being like George Bush—the decider. She has no budget and certainly has no cogent plan. But, she still has access to a checkbook. She is hemorrhaging money.

She currently employs Ms. Crisco, and Miss Toast. Ms. Crisco is recycled. Her former appearance was as the caterer who prepared my late father-in-law’s repast—her term. Repast? Anyway, Ms. Crisco visited my mother-in-law in the rehab hospital with her erstwhile boyfriend in tow. Jack offered him a job. We saw that he was clearly a shyster, but Jack saw two strong arms lifting her in and out of the wheelchair. A ticket to her version of paradise. When Ms. Crisco dumped him two days later, she emerged as Jack’s caretaker and personal chef. The good news is that Ms. Crisco is whipping up elaborate meals all the time so Jack no longer has the need to haul home bags of fast food that we refuse to eat. The bad news is that I cannot open the refrigerator any more. It’s scary in there.

Miss Toast joined our happy family three days ago courtesy of Craigslist. Astoundingly, she is an incredibly thoughtful person and appears to have a work ethic. Rather than lounging during the down time like most of the domestics, she organizes drawers and cupboards and sweeps the floors. That’s in addition to her other full time job as a nanny for a wealthy family in the Palisades. Both women work incredibly long hours. They don’t complain, but are puzzled by Jack’s confusing and contradictory decisions about which hours they are supposed to work. Jack is flummoxed by her inability to come up with a scheme that allows her to live the life she enjoyed before she checked herself into the hospital. Sadly, there is no amount of money to achieve that goal.

When Jack arrived here two weeks ago it was clear she was relieved to be home. But, her physical limitations are very pronounced now, and she requires someone to tend to her basic needs all the time. She loudly rails against the notion that my husband or I assist her in any way, and politely and firmly resists suggestions on how to structure the home care. Naturally, Ms. Crisco and Miss Toast want to look to us for guidance. Out of instinct we duck and cover our eyes. It’s scary in there.