Saturday, May 28, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
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 $%#$$!
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 $%#$$! and informed her of the decision, and asked her to ease up on the pressure. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she spat, and followed up by avoiding us. Life moved along.
Fast forward to yesterday when my husband was telling me about his chat with Ms. Nancy. This week when Ms. Nancy walked to the shelter with Jack and informed the volunteer--who’d she’d previously never met-- that they were there to check out Lucky, she was treated to a diatribe.
What! Did Ms. Nancy defend us I asked? My husband called in Ms. Nancy who reenacted the encounter in Technicolor. Ms. Nancy confirmed that she wanted to “slap the girl silly,” when she heard the volunteer parrot what she’d heard. “Did you know that her son won’t let her bring Lucky home?” Ms. Nancy demonstrated how her mouth dropped open, when the volunteer let Ms. Nancy know that Ms. Jack’s son has some nerve ‘since he is living there, and NOT EVEN paying the mortgage.’ We locked eyes. We both knew the source of that evil misinformation. The $%#$$!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Liberation, and LA LA FRA LALA
She’s staging a breakout. We’ve just passed the 30 day mark of Jack’s hospitalization and rehabilitation stint, and she is beyond restless.
The rehab center, located in a tony LA neighborhood, is pleasant, clean and its residents and staff are upbeat. To the occasional visitor like me, it feels as institutional as a suburban dental office. We can visit any time, never have to undergo an enhanced pat down.
Saunter in with the hound and it’s perfectly okay. Jack can wear her own clothes, and go to the on premise beauty salon and find someone to trim her dead ends. There’s a center courtyard where on a beautiful, sunny LA afternoon in December, the residents can work on their base tans. No one is drooling.
Unfortunately, we’re in the eye of the Pineapple Express storm. Good for the lawn, not so good for holiday travelers or the inmates.
Jack was never going to be patient or complacent, but with Christmas around the corner and the incessant rain her feral nature is showing through the cracks. When my mother-in-law’s arms and legs basically gave out she was momentarily sidelined from her singular goal of getting the hell out.
Not lost on me is that this is a place for healing. Now she is forced to take her meds, and miraculously her limbs shrunk down to normal size. With the patient guidance of her physical therapist, Jack can now slide from bed to the wheelchair without the need of the human crane. But, she has pronounced that she is coming home the days between Christmas and the New Year. There is no plan in place, mind you. Watch this space.
The rehab center, located in a tony LA neighborhood, is pleasant, clean and its residents and staff are upbeat. To the occasional visitor like me, it feels as institutional as a suburban dental office. We can visit any time, never have to undergo an enhanced pat down.
Saunter in with the hound and it’s perfectly okay. Jack can wear her own clothes, and go to the on premise beauty salon and find someone to trim her dead ends. There’s a center courtyard where on a beautiful, sunny LA afternoon in December, the residents can work on their base tans. No one is drooling.
Unfortunately, we’re in the eye of the Pineapple Express storm. Good for the lawn, not so good for holiday travelers or the inmates.
Jack was never going to be patient or complacent, but with Christmas around the corner and the incessant rain her feral nature is showing through the cracks. When my mother-in-law’s arms and legs basically gave out she was momentarily sidelined from her singular goal of getting the hell out.
Not lost on me is that this is a place for healing. Now she is forced to take her meds, and miraculously her limbs shrunk down to normal size. With the patient guidance of her physical therapist, Jack can now slide from bed to the wheelchair without the need of the human crane. But, she has pronounced that she is coming home the days between Christmas and the New Year. There is no plan in place, mind you. Watch this space.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Waiting Mode
For me and my immediate life, meaning my job, friends and obligations, life stays the same. For Jack, not so much. She powers on in the rehab place. Unfortunately, she had an injury which results in a setback from the physical therapy goals. My sister-in-law-the-nurse is in residence. She, being a nurse is practical in ways we are not. My other sister-in-law, the CHO (chief health officer for a major county) arrives tomorrow. Someone mentioned to someone else so that now Jack thinks it may be true that she may be there from eight to ten weeks. We wait.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The Messenger
It was "Sayonara, Amber/Carol." But, not before my Veteran’s Day holiday, when she sashayed into the living room, with one hand on her hip, sliding her head side to side Egyptian-style.
“You know,” she started in, “Miss Jack hasn’t been feeling well.”
Dramatic pause.
I knew as much and offered that I also knew that Jack was heading to the doctor that afternoon. “Well, she hasn’t been sleeping in her bed all week!” That I didn’t know, but precisely because Jack doesn’t want me to know. I stammered out something, but it didn’t really suffice for Dr. Amber /Carol’s purposes. “Well,” she continued, “her son should be blah, blah, blah…..”
The best card I could play was that I would let my sister-in-law-the-nurse know about her concerns. I did in fact telephone my husband at work and asked him to call his sister, and as it turned out he had just learned about the nights she spent sleeping in her wheelchair and was in communication with his siblings. When Jack found out that Amber/Carol had tattled (I swear without any prompting from me,) she was angry. I don’t know if that set in motion something bigger, or if what was in the offing would have happened all the same.
A day later, I had to leave town on last minute business. Although he was reluctant to leave his mother, my husband agreed to accompany me once he established that Jack would have some friends and family looking in on her. The rest I have gleaned from various sources.
The first change was the unexpected appearance of the blessed Wanda. Apparently, Wanda had been one of Jack’s hired workers prior to our arrival in LA. Her tenure must have been brief though because I had never even heard her name in passing. When we came back home on Sunday night, the house was tidy and the floor was mopped, and clearly not by the grace of Amber/Carol.
Jack didn’t let on much to my husband, even after the doctor visit, except to say that her arm or hand wasn’t working well, and that Wanda had called out of the blue, and that Amber/Carol had been dismissed upon her insistence that she’d mop the floor, the next week. We were also to discover later that Jack had a party that weekend. I’m glad that she did.
On Monday we thought we were back into our routine and that Jack was being treated for whatever was ailing her. On Tuesday, my husband got a call at work from Jack informing him that she was checking herself into the hospital, and not much more. There was a strange car in the driveway when we got home from work, and no sign of Jack, Wanda, or Jack’s dog.
Wanda knocked on the front door late that evening. Once she caught her breath from running from the bus stop, she introduced herself and filled us in on the odyssey from which she had just returned. She had been given an hour’s notice that she was going to be accompanying Jack to the hospital. But, before they hitched a ride in that ambulance, she needed to help Jack take her sickly dog back to the (non-kill) shelter from whence he came.
It’s so easy trust Wanda, and to take in what she shares in her lovely, lilting voice. She’s sensible, and calm and insightful. She told us more than Jack would have wanted us to know about how she had endured the days before the hospitalization. But, she also unfolded her wisdom about how she has a gift when it comes to persuading Jack do what is in Jack’s best interest, and that to her mind, family cannot be good caretakers. She has seen many stubborn folks like my mother-in-law she said, and there’s no convincing them to do the right thing if you’re related.
So, Jack has been discharged into residential rehab where my husband visits daily. She frets about her raggedy cat, who I promise is doing well under our watch. We wait, we breathe and thank our lucky stars for Wanda.
“You know,” she started in, “Miss Jack hasn’t been feeling well.”
Dramatic pause.
I knew as much and offered that I also knew that Jack was heading to the doctor that afternoon. “Well, she hasn’t been sleeping in her bed all week!” That I didn’t know, but precisely because Jack doesn’t want me to know. I stammered out something, but it didn’t really suffice for Dr. Amber /Carol’s purposes. “Well,” she continued, “her son should be blah, blah, blah…..”
The best card I could play was that I would let my sister-in-law-the-nurse know about her concerns. I did in fact telephone my husband at work and asked him to call his sister, and as it turned out he had just learned about the nights she spent sleeping in her wheelchair and was in communication with his siblings. When Jack found out that Amber/Carol had tattled (I swear without any prompting from me,) she was angry. I don’t know if that set in motion something bigger, or if what was in the offing would have happened all the same.
A day later, I had to leave town on last minute business. Although he was reluctant to leave his mother, my husband agreed to accompany me once he established that Jack would have some friends and family looking in on her. The rest I have gleaned from various sources.
The first change was the unexpected appearance of the blessed Wanda. Apparently, Wanda had been one of Jack’s hired workers prior to our arrival in LA. Her tenure must have been brief though because I had never even heard her name in passing. When we came back home on Sunday night, the house was tidy and the floor was mopped, and clearly not by the grace of Amber/Carol.
Jack didn’t let on much to my husband, even after the doctor visit, except to say that her arm or hand wasn’t working well, and that Wanda had called out of the blue, and that Amber/Carol had been dismissed upon her insistence that she’d mop the floor, the next week. We were also to discover later that Jack had a party that weekend. I’m glad that she did.
On Monday we thought we were back into our routine and that Jack was being treated for whatever was ailing her. On Tuesday, my husband got a call at work from Jack informing him that she was checking herself into the hospital, and not much more. There was a strange car in the driveway when we got home from work, and no sign of Jack, Wanda, or Jack’s dog.
Wanda knocked on the front door late that evening. Once she caught her breath from running from the bus stop, she introduced herself and filled us in on the odyssey from which she had just returned. She had been given an hour’s notice that she was going to be accompanying Jack to the hospital. But, before they hitched a ride in that ambulance, she needed to help Jack take her sickly dog back to the (non-kill) shelter from whence he came.
It’s so easy trust Wanda, and to take in what she shares in her lovely, lilting voice. She’s sensible, and calm and insightful. She told us more than Jack would have wanted us to know about how she had endured the days before the hospitalization. But, she also unfolded her wisdom about how she has a gift when it comes to persuading Jack do what is in Jack’s best interest, and that to her mind, family cannot be good caretakers. She has seen many stubborn folks like my mother-in-law she said, and there’s no convincing them to do the right thing if you’re related.
So, Jack has been discharged into residential rehab where my husband visits daily. She frets about her raggedy cat, who I promise is doing well under our watch. We wait, we breathe and thank our lucky stars for Wanda.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
U Can't Touch This
For the record, I have never dallied in the stock market. Still, like a preteen waiting for the prom, I collect good advice about the market and store it away for the big day when I can. As for stocks, I have been advised to buy what I buy. For some people that means Home Depot, and for others that means stints.
For me that would be paper towels. There is a great future in paper towels. I am betting that seniors across the globe are trading useful tips about paper towels. In large part, Jack has lost the ability to use her hands. A paper towel serves so many needs. With those gnarled fingers plastic wrap is too difficult to negotiate out of the box, so when the leftovers need covering, a paper towel does the trick. Out of dessert plates? Grab a paper towel. The dog made a mess, you’ve dropped the coffee cup, your bagel and cream cheese needs a cozy? I have seen it all remedied with great lengths of paper towel.
I haven’t witnessed this first hand, but my husband tells me that Jack opens her bottles of seltzer with a nutcracker. Ingenuity? Forgive me for being so presumptuous, but I am thinking this is really about fierce independence. Nothing pains Jack more than to ask me to do something for her. She’d rather crawl to the computer, and find and hire someone from Craigslist before she’d allow me to sweep up something she has spilled on the floor.
We all have boundaries. I get it and try to respect them. Sometimes it is just too absurd. Last week my husband and I left at dawn to escape into our version of normal. Breakfast at a dive diner, a great dog walk, furniture shopping. We stopped back at the house in the late afternoon hoping to drop off the dog and carry on with the chores. My husband parked and waited in the driveway and I walked in through the back gate and walked into Helter Skelter . Her empty wheelchair was wedged just inside and just outside the sliding glass door. The down jacket that she wears even in hot weather was crumpled on the porch floor, and the watering hose was wrapped elaborately through the spokes of the wheel chair wheels. I am numb to fear and simply followed the hose through the hallway and halfway to the living room.
I heard her craggily voice. She had, I imagine over several hours, managed to inch out of the wheelchair, over the hose and dragged her body the six feet to her bedroom, and had dressed herself into some crazy-ass, hippy skirt and was talking on her cell phone to her daughter. I looked in and she furiously waved me back. “I’ll fix that LATER,” she growled.
Enough said.
For me that would be paper towels. There is a great future in paper towels. I am betting that seniors across the globe are trading useful tips about paper towels. In large part, Jack has lost the ability to use her hands. A paper towel serves so many needs. With those gnarled fingers plastic wrap is too difficult to negotiate out of the box, so when the leftovers need covering, a paper towel does the trick. Out of dessert plates? Grab a paper towel. The dog made a mess, you’ve dropped the coffee cup, your bagel and cream cheese needs a cozy? I have seen it all remedied with great lengths of paper towel.
I haven’t witnessed this first hand, but my husband tells me that Jack opens her bottles of seltzer with a nutcracker. Ingenuity? Forgive me for being so presumptuous, but I am thinking this is really about fierce independence. Nothing pains Jack more than to ask me to do something for her. She’d rather crawl to the computer, and find and hire someone from Craigslist before she’d allow me to sweep up something she has spilled on the floor.
We all have boundaries. I get it and try to respect them. Sometimes it is just too absurd. Last week my husband and I left at dawn to escape into our version of normal. Breakfast at a dive diner, a great dog walk, furniture shopping. We stopped back at the house in the late afternoon hoping to drop off the dog and carry on with the chores. My husband parked and waited in the driveway and I walked in through the back gate and walked into Helter Skelter . Her empty wheelchair was wedged just inside and just outside the sliding glass door. The down jacket that she wears even in hot weather was crumpled on the porch floor, and the watering hose was wrapped elaborately through the spokes of the wheel chair wheels. I am numb to fear and simply followed the hose through the hallway and halfway to the living room.
I heard her craggily voice. She had, I imagine over several hours, managed to inch out of the wheelchair, over the hose and dragged her body the six feet to her bedroom, and had dressed herself into some crazy-ass, hippy skirt and was talking on her cell phone to her daughter. I looked in and she furiously waved me back. “I’ll fix that LATER,” she growled.
Enough said.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Pass the Sodium, Please
Tonight I enjoyed my first M.O.W. Meals on Wheels packages arrive here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Delivered by some really sincere and/or criminal person. I have inside information about M.O.W, because my BFB from my last city was the supervisor for M.O.W. I know that they routinely hire sincere criminal persons because she told me so. I also introduced her to her best delivery man (whom by the way, is the least criminal person you’d ever meet.) If you are hyperventilating at this point, please note that they don’t actually ever step beyond your doorstep.
Here at home in LA, I see the M.O.W detritus pile up every week in the too small space in the ancient fridge while Jack wheels home oversized, greasy bags of NORM’S meals that we don’t want to eat. Admittedly, I’m not a saint. But, I hate seeing food wasted. Week after week I have watched from the hard shoulder as Jack has presided over the fridge and instructed her home care worker to toss out the oldest, untouched servings of sodium-free tray-lets of green beans, muffins and fish sticks. I don’t actually blame her. I am a picky eater from on high. The concept of free radicals permits me to eschew anything that wasn’t just garden picked or newly born.
Food, food waste. I have made some coin as a wine and food writer for publications you might have actually skimmed, so give me the license to talk about our meals. I love food. I don’t have the ancillary trait of loving to prepare it, yet I pour over cookbooks, recipes, restaurant reviews , anything written by M.F.K Fisher and Amanda Hesser and take in all that the Food Channel and Top Chef programs offer.
My house (where my tenant resides) is glorious foodie living. Granite and all stainless steel appliances, counter space for miles. I digress, yes, I digress. The house where we live with Jack doesn’t have that. You might note, if you were paying attention that I have glossed over the past several weeks because it hasn’t been ....fun.
Yet, tonight I felt we had a nexus. I, on occasions have suggested a potluck as an alternative to NORM’S. Hey, how about using what we have in the fridge? Tonight, for the first time Jack suggested that we compose dinner from what we had stored and frozen, thrown in with the M.O.W. I was tired, but I gave the green light. Husband,would you hand me the truffle oil so I can drizzle it over my low sodium potatoes?
Here at home in LA, I see the M.O.W detritus pile up every week in the too small space in the ancient fridge while Jack wheels home oversized, greasy bags of NORM’S meals that we don’t want to eat. Admittedly, I’m not a saint. But, I hate seeing food wasted. Week after week I have watched from the hard shoulder as Jack has presided over the fridge and instructed her home care worker to toss out the oldest, untouched servings of sodium-free tray-lets of green beans, muffins and fish sticks. I don’t actually blame her. I am a picky eater from on high. The concept of free radicals permits me to eschew anything that wasn’t just garden picked or newly born.
Food, food waste. I have made some coin as a wine and food writer for publications you might have actually skimmed, so give me the license to talk about our meals. I love food. I don’t have the ancillary trait of loving to prepare it, yet I pour over cookbooks, recipes, restaurant reviews , anything written by M.F.K Fisher and Amanda Hesser and take in all that the Food Channel and Top Chef programs offer.
My house (where my tenant resides) is glorious foodie living. Granite and all stainless steel appliances, counter space for miles. I digress, yes, I digress. The house where we live with Jack doesn’t have that. You might note, if you were paying attention that I have glossed over the past several weeks because it hasn’t been ....fun.
Yet, tonight I felt we had a nexus. I, on occasions have suggested a potluck as an alternative to NORM’S. Hey, how about using what we have in the fridge? Tonight, for the first time Jack suggested that we compose dinner from what we had stored and frozen, thrown in with the M.O.W. I was tired, but I gave the green light. Husband,would you hand me the truffle oil so I can drizzle it over my low sodium potatoes?
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