A Christmas Visit with Grandma

 

 

 

                                                                           Illustration copyrighted by Carol Mayer 12/20/14

Christmas, a Time of Joy and Happiness

Christmas, a time of joy and happiness.

Christmas

an annual festival commemorating the birth

 of Jesus Christ, observed generally on December 25 .

                                                  --Google 
 

I like that definition of Christmas. A day set aside to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. It says nothing about shopping til ya drop, getting trampled at the entrance to Walmart, exceeding credit card limits, and buying presents for everyone on your contact list (presents that show up six months later at their yard sales).

Time

a measure in which events can be ordered from the
past through the present into the future and the
measure of durations of events and the intervals
between them. Or it can be a magazine.
                                               --Google

From the past--a far, far away wonderful, magical place when young Jason and his sisters were innocent, naive, and enchanted Santa believers)--through to the present (when they are not), my measuring time stick indicates the extended celebration of Christmas takes up way, way too much time, and as I age the intervals between Christmases gets shorter, which means the durations are longer.

Joy

a feeling of great pleasure and happiness.

                                      --Google

Uh...no.

It's not that I don't want to feel joy from the first sign of Christmas trees showing up in Lowes garden center in late August or when I hear I'll be Home for Christmas on my shop's radio in September. It's not that I don't want to feel happiness when I see commercials on television that show functional families standing around a piano singing Christmas Carols or sharing a meal together. It's not that I don't want to feel great pleasure when I think about how much I love and miss my family--a family that is spread out across the country. It's not that I don't want to feel great joy when eating Christmas breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Denny's because that's Tom's 96-year-old mother's favorite restaurant. It's not that I don't want to marinate in the "life is wonderful" sentimental emotions that Christmas time is supposed to elicit.  I do. No, really I do. Well, maybe I would change one thing. This Christmas could we pulllleeezzee eat at Huddle House?

Dirty Little Leaking Secret

Marianne does it when she walks by bottled water at the grocery store. Ellen says the sound of running water causes her to do it, and Shirley does it when she touches water, especially when it's warm. I do it, too, but not when I see, hear or touch water.  For me, it's about proximity, i.e. distance to the toilet. The closer I get to that white porcelain bowl, the more desperately urgent the urge becomes. As soon as I can see the john, I have five seconds to close and lock the bathroom door, WAIT! unbuckle my belt, NOT NOW! unzip and pull my pants down, HOLD ON! and sit. TOO LATE!

Incontinence, leakage, peeing in your pants, not having complete control of your bladder used to be considered one of those embarrassing personal secrets that you wanted no one to know about. Discussing malfunctioning body parts was considered bad form and it just wasn't done.

Well, that was then and this is now. The world has been turned upside down (haven't you noticed?) and things are not as they used to be. We live in a reality world now where truth rings supreme. No, really it does.  No more hiding in the lonely shadows of our dirty little leaking secret. One by one, we can all step forward into the spotlight and tell our truths. "My name is Marianne and I leak." "Hi there, I'm Ellen and I am a leaker." "I'm Shirley and I too am a leaker." "My name is Carol Louise and I'm here to support my friends who pee their pants."

Okay, I'm not ready to go public just yet. I'm telling you but I know you can keep a secret. I'm going to wait until more leakers expose themselves. Wait! This just in from Good Morning America.

BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING OVERNIGHT! BREAKING NOW!  Kris Jenner (leading actress and matriarch extraordinaire of The Kardasians Show) pees her pants.

Okay, that's encouraging. A famous celebrity exposes her incontinence and dirty underwear on television for millions to see and for no monetary gain or fame or to satisfy an insatiable appetite for attention. No, really. She just wants to show support for her fellow leakers.  That's so altruistic of her, but I'm still not ready to come out of the bathroom.

BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING OVERNIGHT! BREAKING NOW! The Today Show is reporting that Lisa Rinna (voluptuous lip model and former Dancing With the Stars alumni)  is wearing Depends at a Hollywood red carpet event. The caption under this breaking news reads "Making Incontinence Sexy." Her husband runs his finger across her behind and says "I can't feel a thing," to which Lisa responds by seductively running her tongue across her big wet lips and giving him a provocative grin, "I know, I know. Check out the boo-tay."

Um.....another incontinent celebrity comes forward. It's tempting but I'm still not ready to get up off this toilet, step forward and announce to the world that I too am a lea...

What? Now? Someone is on the phone for me? Tell them I'm in the bathroom, kinda busy right now writing this blog.

Tiger who? Woods? He thinks I'm what? He wants me to do what?

Okay, everything I said above about my leaking secret...never mind.

My Favorite Family Photos

The following are some of my favorite family photos.

My mother's 90th birthday party. 

(On my copy of this picture I have written captions for each

person. For example, "I'm so pretty, oh so pretty," and, "I could

be home right now watching reruns of The Bachelor,")

At the annual gun club meeting, the ladies decided, three to

two, to stop hunting buffalo. Lorene (left) was the swing vote.

Lynnette was elated when her mother discovered 

she had enough material to make her a dress, too.

Louise couldn't decide--star or angel or star or angel or star or angel

or star or angel--so Orville made the decision for her: STAR DAMMIT!

I asked for one thing for Christmas, Mom.
One thing. An accordion. That's all I asked for.
Not a stupid white blanket. I'll stand here
with it on for your stupid picture but I'm
not gonna smile. No! I will not shush.

All Things Big and Small

Oprah, my life coach and spiritual guide for all things big and small that matter on earth and beyond, told me once that by the time I reach the age of fifty, I should 1) be mentally and emotionally stable, 2) have eliminated negative baggage, 3) know who I am, 4) like who I am, 5) be gentle with myself, 6) not sweat the small stuff, and 7) I forgot the seventh thing. Bleep my bleepin' memory;  I bleepin' hate my bleepin' self. 

It wasn't long after my relationship with Oprah began when she introduced me to Dr. Oz, my medical advisor for all bodily malfunctions big and small that matter on earth and beyond. This genius knows everything about how my body works, and he said that by the time I reach sixty I should 1) stop having children, 2) fart at least fourteen times a day, 3) stop kissing my dog's butt, 4) lick a salt block twice a day, and 5) eat green acai berry coffee beans to bust my fat apps, or something like that. Oh, I don't know now. Sixty was a long time ago and my memory's not so good anymore.

It was Oprah who guided me through the pre, peri, actual, and post menopausal mental anguish that I didn't suffer but could have. My friends did so I was able to pass on to them Oprah's immortal words of wisdom during their darkest moments like 1) keep your feet on the ground, girlfriend; just wear nice shoes, 2) think of yourself as a queen; I do, 3) imagine Heaven as one big baked potato just sittin' there with butter and sour cream waiting for ya, 4) don't think of yourself as a deprived ghetto girl; that's my gig, and, and, and... . Oh, shoot! I forgot the fifth thing but I'm feeling so good right now just thinking about shoes, Heaven, and that baked potato.

Did I mention how amazing my doctor is? He's a wizard when it comes to the care and maintenance of the human body. He has all the answers to every question, and on the rare occasion when he's stumped, there's always Google. But his expertise doesn't stop with physiology. Dr. Oz knows all about psychology, spiritualism, and marketing as well. Have a phobia for germs? Call the automated hotline 1-888-555-DROZ. Answer: Lick a toilet seat. Didn't think it would be that simple, did you? I told you he was amazing. Want to get in touch with dearly departed Aunt Mable? That's an easy one for the doc, too. #TALKINGDEAD. Is there anything this miracle man can't do? Well, there is one thing: he can't market any products even though he's an expert in the field of selling things.  Dr. Oz says he doesn't market products and I believe him. Why would he lie, even under oath before the Senate Subcommitte on Consumer Protection leading an investigation into deceptive marketing practices that raise health and safety concerns? Claire McCaskill, chairwoman of the Senate Committee said, "I don't get why you need to say this stuff when you know it's not true. When you have this amazing megaphone, why should you cheapen your show? ... With power comes a great deal of responsibility." Well, that was not very nice, Claire. Now look what you've gone and done; you've hurt the doctor's feelings. Are those tears?

Since it was Oprah who first introduced me to Dr. Oz, I thought maybe she could help him not sweat this small thing--okay, it's a big thing but Oprah can fix anything, and if she is stumped, there's always Google.

WHERE'S OPRAH? DR. OZ NEEDS HER.

What? Google told you she's where? Because of a nervous what? Excuse me, it must be my hearing, but I just thought you said Oprah, my life coach and spiritual guide for all things big and small in the world and beyond, had a nervous breakdown.

Uh...okay. About everything I just said above...never mind.

A Visit with Grandma

Illustrations copyrighted by Carol Mayer 11/5/14

Growing Old is Not for the Weak

Growing old is not for the weak," my aunt used to say before she passed at eighty-five. I would usually hear the faint-of-heart speech after each one of her half dozen trips to the emergency room that oftentimes resulted in an extended-stay at a rehabilitation center. I witnessed Aunt Gracie's extreme challenges with aging and I heard her warnings, but I never gave either one any thought because I was preoccupied with chasing my tail, I was feeling good, and I had just enough arrogance to think I would circumvent completely the not so pleasant part of aging.  I'll just skip on down the road to where it simply ends. Bye Bye now, adios folks, been nice knowing y'all, so long suckers. No pain, no suffering, no visits to the ER and definitely no extended stays at the Medicare hotels, where it is double-occupancy rooms only, the food is to die for, literally, and the residents' mantra is "Heelllllpppp!" No way. Not for me. No thanks. You go on ahead without me. I'm gonna have to pass. Ain't goin' there. Nope.

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak," was the loop that was going through my head as I lay flat on my back yesterday morning while the room was spinning around me. (Age-related vertigo, my doctor calls it...old age.) As I crawled on all fours into the bathroom to give up the prior night's meal, a whisper from the toilet bowl, "Growing old is not for the faint of heart.""I hear you," I whispered back, "now shut up!" Whisper was all I could offer because the night before I had lost my voice after screaming for fifteen minutes straight from pain level 10 cramps in both legs at the same time. 

"Growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak" the loop continued a few hours later as Tom stood over me with two Hydrocodones for pain and a glass of water. Seems the elusive stone in my gall bladder (modern technology can't locate it) has come for a visit again and it has something to tell me. Let's hear what it has to say, shall we?

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak." 

"Oh, shoot! I know that." I said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay," the stone said.  "You ain't seen nothing yet, honey."

************************************************

The Weak

Whimp, alarmist, baby, chicken, invertebrate, mouse, faint of heart,

quitter, shirker, scaredy-cat, gutless, lily liver, yellow belly

                                         -Google 

I'm going with "yellow belly." It has a nice ring to it.

Yep! I'm scared.

Pile a'Poo

There are those among us seniors who say that as we age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences, we should learn a valuable lesson: things are not always as they seem. Some will even boast and say that they learned this lesson long ago, thereby avoiding embarrassment, loss of credibility, diagnosis of instability, and banishment from the village. Even though banishment rarely happens anymore, I've been told that it feels like it when everyone leaves your village and you are left standing alone contemplating the error of your thinking.

It's not the error in thinking that causes the havoc and chaos that often times follow, these self-proclaimed wise old people will say. It's the hysteria that accompanies the misunderstanding that causes the floor under you--and those around you--to shake, rattle and roll. Calm, stability and the voice of reason are no where to be found, but they've left a note on the kitchen counter, "When you get your facts right and the hysteria subsides, give us a call."

As I age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences myself, I've found that 99% of the time things are exactly as they seem. I'm not concerned about that 1% I get wrong. I don't need to process, analyze, scrutinize the events in my life before I react to them. I trust my gut feeling. I'm a quick draw kinda gal who shoots from the waist, and I'm rarely wrong.

Will you excuse me for a moment? Maggie Mae is sniffing at something on the floor.

Whatcha sniffing, Sweetheart?

 OH NO! OH NO! OH NO!

NOT IN THE HOUSE, MAGGIE MAE!

TOM, COME HERE AND SEE

WHAT "YOUR" DOG HAS DONE!

What do you mean by "calm down" and I should

take a closer look before I react.  I'm looking

right at it, Tom. It's round like poo, it's brown

like poo, no doubt about it; it's poo.

I think you should stick "your"

dog's nose in that, Tom. What?

No! I will not settle down until you

get that pile a'poo outta here!  

Oh...never mind

Where did everyone go?

 Oh, look, there's a note on the kitchen counter.

Mutiny in my Mouth

It can be embarrassing at times. My lips are moving, my tongue is waging, words are coming out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I'm saying.

I blame the increasing episodes of words gone amuck on the plaque, tangles and gooey stuff blocking the information highways in my brain. My thoughts, along with accompanying words, are speeding along in the fast lane;  they know exactly where they're going; they've been down these roads thousands of times before. Then, with no warning, everything comes to a screeching halt.  Could it be a chunk of plaque in the road? Or a glob of goo? Or a twisted gaggle of tangles? It doesn't really matter what has caused the roadblock; all thinking has stopped. But the words just keep on going.

Apparently, with all of the road deconstruction going on in my head, my words have decided to veer off on to the shoulder, speed on past the slowdown and go it alone. Who needs to be chaperoned by thoughts? Not my words. After spending decades in captivity being told what to say and when to say it, they are taking advantage of the blockades in my sixty-nine-year-old brain. They can express themselves now in ways only imagined before. They invent words when the right ones are stuck in a synapse traffic jam. "I heard that The Jerry Sprinkle Show is looking for couples who don't use perphylapstix."  See what I mean? I would never say something like that because I never watch The Jerry Sprinkle Show; I prefer Maury Polvichsky instead.

My words will tell you that there's a memory problem with their host--"I can't remember if I've told you this already, but..." and then they will repeat the same story you've heard a dozen times.  What you don't know is my words like to hear themselves talk so they say the same thing over and over and over again. Have I mentioned that my words like to repeat themselves? They will say the same thing over and over and over again. They'll tell you it's a memory problem. Don't believe them. They just like to hear themselves talk. Have I mentioned that?

Without my permission, my words add much more information to a story than is necessary. "I asked the lady--the one on the register closest to the front door, not the one by the bakery--where the silk milk--chocolate flavored, not vanilla--was and she said it was on aisle 16, but when I went to aisle 16, it wasn't there, so I went back to the clerk--this time the one by the bakery--and I asked where the silk milk was--chocolate, not vanilla--and she told me the very same thing that the lady at the register closest to the front door did, so thinking I had overlooked the silk milk--chocolate, not vanilla--I once again went back to aisle 16 and... ."

OH MY GOODNESS! MAKE IT STOP!

I can't. My words have a mind of their own; they don't need mine. My inability to control them has emboldened them, and they will stop at nothing to say what they want. They will not be encumbered by brakes in the brain. Because of this mutiny in my mouth--made up words, repeating, rambling, repeating, and lies--I don't think you should hold me responsible for anything I might say in the future.

Why are you looking at me that way?

What do you mean "the chocolate brownies are all gone"? I have not gone anywhere near those brownies on top of the refrigerator today. Do we have brownies? I didn't know we had brownies. Are they all gone?

What do you mean you can see chocolate under my fingernails and on my teeth? I have been digging in the dirt, planting pornsettas, and my teeth are black because I haven't brushed them yet today.

What do you mean you can still see a brownie in my mouth? That's no brownie, honey. That's mutiny.

Summer is Gone

Summer is gone; the leaves are shedding, the flowers are waiting for the first frost, the veggies in the garden have been digested, all the hummingbirds have left. Now what? Time to come inside...and blog? Nah!

Five Days in April

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

She walked to the far end of the lobby and selected a chair next to a big picture window that looked out onto the parking lot. Once she was settled comfortably in, she patted my hand and smiled up at me. "I'm fine," she said. "Go on. Do what you have to do." But when I returned less than five minutes later, she had passed out and was slumped over the arm of the chair.  As soon as the alarm was sounded, the once empty lobby was full of concern. None of my attempts to revive my mother-in-law were working. Was this the end?

This story actually begins one week earlier when the Florida assisted living center where Tom's mother lived called to say she was no longer able to stay with them.  Her short-term memory failures and need for oxygen were a combination that did not work well in their facility, they reported. She needed to move out as soon as possible.

MOM IS COMING TO NORTH CAROLINA

Thursday, April 24, 2014

After the checklist of travel essentials was reviewed over and over and over again, Tom, Maggie Mae and I pulled out of the driveway as the sun was coming up over the Nantahala mountains. Twenty-five minutes later, our truck pulled back into the driveway because one of us (not Maggie Mae) forgot their cell phone. No problem. We're off again and this time we've made it four hours down the road before one of us realizes we forgot... . No problem because we don't have to turn back; it's not a travel essential. It would be nice to have, though. Really nice, actually.  Love, love, love to have it on this trip. Okay! Alright! We'll stop and buy one! What's another hour added to a thirteen-hour trip? 

Since Tom had just had surgery to repair a torn rotor cuff--the shoulder was being held together by a thread the doctor said--his right arm was in a sling and non-functional, which meant that he could not drive or pack or aid in any way the removal of his mother from Florida and the subsequent transfer of said mother to an assisted living center in Franklin, North Carolina. No problem. I can do it. How hard can driving fourteen hours one way and packing a one-bedroom apartment be? How difficult can transporting a 90-pound, 95-year-old lady on oxygen with short-term memory issues be? Besides, Tom's brother and sister-in-law are coming to help, right? What? They've caught a bug?

Friday, April 25, 2014

Packing, packing, packing. Tom wishes he could help. No, really he does. He looks so handsome sitting on that recliner on the assisted living center's veranda holding his sweet tea with his left hand... while I pack. No, really he does.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Packing, packing, packing. While I am transporting boxes from the apartment to the truck, someone comes into the room and takes one hundred dollars, a table and two chairs. No problem, though. The assisted living center's management will get to the bottom of this. What? They want to know if Tom or I took the items, but due to short-term memory issues, we have forgotten. 

Later around midnight...

What is that awful wretching sound coming from the bathroom? What? Tom has a bug?

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Tom is getting worse as the day progresses. Lethargic and nauseous with pain. A trip to a MedCheck reveals nothing, however, he is given an anti-nausea pill. The staff at the assisted living center asks once again, "Is it possible that you or your husband took those missing items, but forgot?"

Later around midnight...

More wretching sounds from the bathroom. Pill not working.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Wonderful Day! Great Day! Mom is coming to an assisted living center in North Carolina where she will have advocates who live only fourteen minutes (not hours) away. With her two sons and two daughters-in-law by her side, Mom grins big and steps up into the backseat of our truck. Waiting for her are pillows, blankets, snacks and a tail-wagging Maggie Mae. Oh, how she loves that dog, she says.

Off we go, north on Interstate 95. The plan is for us to drive all the way to Franklin and stay in a hotel because Mom can't negotiate the steps at our house. At eight o'clock the next morning, she would be sitting in the lobby of an assisted living center, ready for a new chapter in her life.

"I'M FREE, I'M FREE!" Mom screams from the backseat. I adjust the mirror on my visor so I can see her big smile. Even though we're not sure what she means, Tom and I both agree with her, "Yeah, Mom, you're free."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom, who is still sick, turns around and answers, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet." 

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom again, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Are we there yet?"

Tom, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."

Two Hours later... (only twelve hours to go)

"Are we there yet?"

No response.

Tom is pretending to be asleep and I have a rule "The driver doesn't talk." That's what I told her but she has forgotten so she keeps asking if we're there yet and then I say...

"How would you like a chocolate shake?"

"Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," she says. So we stop at McDonalds and she's as happy as she can be.

Four hours later...

"Are we th..."

"How would you like a chocolate shake?" 

And that is how the trip went all the way into darkness and into North Carolina, where we had to stop for another travel essential, this time for Mom.  It was eleven o'clock when we walked out of Walmart and into a severe thunderstorm. We hadn't heard the alarms and warnings about wind and tornadoes but we soon discovered on our own as I was driving over Cowee Mountain, our last few miles before finally reaching our destination. The rain was coming down so thick that I couldn't see the road. Mom, thankfully, was sleeping as I crept along at ten miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my nose ten inches from the windshield. I thought about pulling off the road but in mountain country, that is not wise. Cars were stopped, blocking the lanes. I continued on and at midnight we arrived at the Comfort Inn.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014, 12:30a.m.

Mom, Tom, and Maggie Mae are all in bed. Mom has her oxygen, Maggie Mae has her ball, and Tom is snoring. All is well, until...

6:00a.m.

"Carol Louise, I think I need to go to the emergency room," Tom said.

6:15a.m.

I drop Tom off at the emergency room and hurry back to the hotel where Mom and Maggie Mae are still sleeping. We have to be at the assisted living center at 8:00a.m. which is over an hour from now, but getting Mom ready takes time. There's the dispensing of her medicine, and getting her attached to oxygen is also time consuming, so I wake her up and she says, "Are we there yet?" to which I respond, "Yes, we are finally there." She smiles.

8:00 o'clock sharp

She tells me she needs no help getting out of the truck, but she really does. I hold both of her arms as she slides down from the seat onto the pavement. She's perky this morning and happy. She walks without help into the front door of the assisted living center and to the far end of the lobby where she selects a chair next to a big picture window that looks out onto the parking lot. Once she is settled comfortably in, she pats my hand and smiles up at me. "I'm fine," she says. "Go on. Do what you have to do." I leave her and walk to the receptionist's desk to announce our arrival. But the receptionist says she has no record of anyone being admitted today, to which I respond, "But I have an appointment with Teresa at 8:00." "I'm sorry," the lady says, "I have no record of that."

I return to the lobby to find my mother-in-law slumped over the arm of her chair. I notice that her oxygen tank is empty.  I send out a request for help and the room fills with management and staff but no one can touch her because she is not a resident...yet.  Could her unresponsiveness be due to her lack of oxygen? Could someone direct me on how to hook up a new tank? No is the answer, but rules sometimes are meant to be broken. At least that's how one staff member feels as she jumps right in and replaces a depleted oxygen tank with a full one. 

I tell the staff that I must leave now and go to the emergency room at the hospital to see about my husband. They say "Go, she'll be fine now."

9:00a.m.

Tom is released from the hospital with a diagnosis of Norovirus and a different type of anti-nausea pill. I take him home where he immediately goes to bed, and I return to the assisted living center to check on Mom. She's still not conscious, but she is checked in and has a room. Could it be something other than lack of oxygen? I ask. Yes, I'm told. "How much Xanax did you give her this morning?" they want to know. "I gave her the dosage I was instructed to give her by the nursing staff," I reply. "Well, there was a typo on the paperwork," they say, "You gave her a double dose."

Later that same day...

"I need to go back to the emergency room," Tom tells me. The right side of my body is jerking uncontrollably." I stand over Tom and watch as his arm and leg do the jig without his permission. I check the side effects on the paperwork that came with the anti-nausea drug and see a warning: Contact your doctor immediately if parts of your body jerk uncontrollably after taking this drug. So off to ER we go. Good news, kinda. It's not life threatening and it will wear off in a day or two.

Later that evening...

Tom is sleeping comfortably. Only an occasional moan can be heard from the bedroom so I go back to the assisted living center to find Mom in her room but still unconscious. Well, not unconscious, but non responsive. "Way too much Xanax," the dispenser of the meds told me. "No problem, though, she'll be fine."

Later that night...

I fall into bed next to Tom. Half of his body is doing the jig and the other half is sleeping peacefully.

Four Months Later...Thursday, August 28, 2014

And so it was, five days in April, 2014, that I'll never forget. No problem, though. I was grateful that I was among those "able" to help and not among those who needed help. Four months later Mom is doing great and Tom is back in the creeks and rivers fishing and life is good.

The Migration of the Paperclip

Have you ever thought about the migration of the paperclip? No? Well, neither had I until, during an early morning visit to the bathroom one day last week, a tiny, shinny object on the floor in front of the toilet caught my eye...the left eye because the right one was still crusted shut.

Day 1

It took me several long seconds to make sense of what I was looking at. Not that I don't know what a paperclip is; it was the why that puzzled me. Why would a paperclip be away from its home which is three rooms away, in the top drawer of a file cabinet, and inside a little black magnetic box? And then there's the how. How did it get past the magnetic strip that is designed to keep the loopy little holders of papers confined? Did it climb out on its own or was it let out by someone other than me and allowed to roam free?

In an effort to answer the above questions, I decided to follow this lone paperclip's migration through our house and hopefully, eventually back to its natural habitat. Would it find its way back where it belongs on its own, or would it wander around aimlessly until it became prey to a hungry vacuum cleaner?

Day 2

On Day 2 I found it no longer in the middle of the bathroom floor but next to the wall hobnobbing with the toilet bowl brush and snap-on toilet thingy that never, ever stays where it belongs. It wanders. I wonder, will the paperclip wander, too? Does it have wanderlust? Does it aspire to be more than a piece of twisted steel whose job it is to hold paper together? How boring a life would that be? And then there's the long wait in the enclosed cardboard box or, if you're a lucky paperclip, a black magnetic box that allows clips to stick their heads out and peer at a world they rarely get to experience.

Day 3

Day 3 found our little social paperclip on the kitchen counter lollygagging with a penny and a safety pin. Is this a mass mutinous migration of all things small and undervalued, or is this a case of someone simply shirking their responsibility by not putting things back where they belong? If the latter, I am not the guilty party because I always put things back when I'm done with them. No, really I do.

Day 4

On the fourth day the wandering paperclip found my missing sock, calcium pill, and dental floss. It was a shindig in the middle of the floor that was hard to ignore. Things were getting out of hand. The madness needed to stop.

There is no finger pointing in this house, no stern looks or hands on the hips to show disgust, and no accusatory statements like, "Why did you let the paperclip go free to roam?" or "Have you been wearing my socks again?" or "Haven't I always told you to put my string of dental floss back on the lamp shade when you're done with it?" No, we don't treat each other with disrespect even though at times we may feel like smacking each other in the head with a 2 x 4 loaded with rusty nails. Okay, okay, you know I'm lying. Neither one of us would want the 2 x 4 to have rusty nails in it. So, because of our sweet, kind, and gentle treatment of each other, I decided to not say anything to Tom about his lack of responsibility when it comes to putting things back where he found them.  Instead, I returned the paperclip and its finds along its migration through our house to their rightful homes, and then I went to bed and pouted for the rest of the day.

The paperclip is back home now where it belongs, but during its time on the outside, it developed a secret admirer, another wanderlust who never, ever stays where it belongs. Know who the secret admirer is? 

One of those Small Things in Life

Do you know what this is?

 

Is it a marshmallow? A calcium pill? Half of a hard boiled egg? Eyeball without the iris and pupil? No, no, no and no. Here are some clues: It's confined to a small room; it rarely sees the light of day; where you find one, you'll usually find another; and it's peed on a lot.  Know what it is now?

It's one of those small things in life that irritates the heck out of me because it NEVER, EVER stays where it belongs.  It's not that it doesn't know its place; it does. It just doesn't want to stay in its place. It's a roamer; it roams. You never know where you're going to find it.

It knows its place; it just doesn't

want to stay in its place.

It's always somewhere other than

where it's supposed to be.

It drinks out of the toilet

and out of the sink - YUCK!

But what irks me the most is 

its addiction to sex.

Because now I have to find a home

for six illegitimate toilet snap-on thingies. 

Oh, wait a minute! They're so cute

I think I'll just keep'em.

Sale on Cherokees

This could be a good deal. It all depends, though, upon how many Cherokees fit in a carton.

Riddley Riddley Re

She'd been through this a thousand times before. Dealing with stupid people--people who don't follow the rules--annoyed her. I annoyed her. My neglect of the instructions sent her on the defensive. Glaring over her bifocals, she caught me in the act. "Did you forget to sign in, Ma'am?" she said. "How do we know you're here if you don't sign in?"

I took the pencil she thrust at me and signed my name on the patient register. Through a deluge of tears I realized my signature was illegible, so I erased my scribbles, then carefully printed my name. My hand was trembling as I handed back the pencil. The small glass partition between us slammed shut, and I was alone in the waiting room to think about the error of my ways.

The room was bare except for an old church pew with the varnish warn off the arms. Constructed of cement blocks, the walls were painted white, and the floor was black and white linoleum squares that, by my guess, had not seen soap and water since its ice cream parlor days. Above the pew hung one bare light bulb that soaked the room in a yellow haze. Nearby a tiny spider was busy weaving an elaborate web, stopping long enough to contemplate a fly that was sitting motionless on the wall only inches away.

Eleven forty-seven. I was early. The only sounds were the clickety clack of Ms. Congeniality's typewriter and an occasional buzz as the fly took to flight, always careful to avoid the spider's trap. There were no magazines to distract me, so I watched the fly to pass the time. I wondered what he was thinking. "Oh, here's another poor soul," I imagined him saying. "Look at her. Full of doubt and self pity. If she only knew what I know. I see so much from my view on the wall." I wondered what he knew. "Riddlely Riddlely Re. I see something you don't see and the color is... ."

Suddenly I felt sick. I found a wastebasket with a plastic grocery bag tucked inside to protect it from the unexpected. Kneeling down I wrapped my arms around the basket and gagged. Sweat from my forehead dripped onto the used tissues left by some other poor soul who didn't have the knowledge of a fly.

Twelve thirty and I was still alone in the room. Clickety clack, clack, clack. Every molecule in my body cried out, "Don't do this! Leave now before it's too late." I laid my head back against the wall, closed my eyes and thought about him. God, how I loved that man.

Another hour passed. I didn't care. I had no place to go. No one was waiting for me. No one cared that I was desperate and sitting on a church pew with no varnish on the arms in a stark black and white room hidden in an obscure building in a seedy part of town while Ms. Compassion was busy typing behind a glass partition, and a fly was hovering over me knowing things I didn't know.

The one person I wanted to care wasn't certain he loved me anymore--said he needed time to think. What I didn't understand--and probably the fly could have explained it to me--was why he suddenly questioned his love for me. Just three weeks before, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. But that was before I told him the news.

The fly buzzed me again, then landed in my hair, pulling me out of my daze. He knew I was safe territory while the spider's web was a hazard to avoid. "HEY!" DO THAT AGAIN," I yelled, "AND I'LL SMASH YOUR GUTS ON THE HARD, COLD, LINOLEUM FLOOR!"  The glass partition inquisitively slid open. "Excuse me?" Clickety Clack said, annoyed at the interruption.

"Nothing," I said. "Just talking to myself...and the fly." The partition closed and he buzzed me again.

I sat motionless on the church pew with no varnish on the arms. Alone in a stark black and white room. There were no magazines to distract me, so I stared at the dead fly on the hard, cold linoleum and wondered what the spider knew. "Riddley Riddley Re. I see something you don't see." 

12/1997

I'm Still Here

I'm still here. In the summer it's difficult to stay inside, spend hours in a dark room typing on a computer, and ramble about this and that and those and them when just outside my door is a panoramic wonderland of rivers and mountains and forests and wild life and blooming things and then there's the sun, the always-shining sun (except for today which is forecast 100% rain, thus this post) and the warmth that comes from the sun (except for today which is forecast to stay in the 60's, thus this faux bear-skin--with the head still attached--rug I'm wearing that you can't see but can only imagine; it's quite warm under this fake bear).

Oh, wait a minute! Is that a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds? I believe it is, so with the promise of a day spent outside enjoying life in the backwoods and foothills of the Nantahala Mountains, I'm saying bye now. Who knows when I'll be back.

When is it Okay to Ask?

When is it okay to ask?

Nope! Not now.

Well, how about now?

Nah! Not now either.

Okay then. Is now a good time?

Nope! Not a good time.

How about now?

Yeah! Now is probably a good time. Now is

probably a good time. Did I mention that

now is a good time? It's my memory;

not so good anymore.

Half a Man

Another story found in the long-lost box of writings from yesteryears. The following story, written in 1986, is a work of fiction, or is it?

His confession came after they tied the knot, took the plunge, bought the farm. She was married to half a man, he informed her with tears in his eyes. She would never have known if he had not told her. She could have sworn all of the parts were there. Maybe she was focussing on only the good parts and didn't notice that 5/10ths were missing.

She had been married for two months to the man of her dreams, a young, handsome farmer who had rambled into her life just when she was about to give up hope on finding her Prince Charming. Tall, rugged, and silent, Mr. Right drove up on his tractor--what? were you expecting a white horse?--and they road off into the sunset, plowing a few cornfields along the way. Her plan was to live happily ever after, but that was before the 50% off confession.

She sat at attention listening to her half-husband's dilemma and wondered what a defective-man recall letter would look like:

Dear Occupant:

We regret to inform you that the man you recently vowed to honor and obey--wait! let's start over. We regret to inform you that the man you recently wed is defective. We do have a Quality Control Department here at Big D, but occasionally defective merchandise does slip though the cracks and escapes our inspections. The bottom half of your husband went with the man in front of him and was shipped without notice. (As a side note, this gentleman's wife sent us a very nice letter thanking us for her husband's generous endowment. We thought you would find that humorous considering your situation.) Unfortunately, we do not have a return policy on half men. If you had received one that was 17/32nds, was less than one-year-old, and had fewer than 12,000 miles, then we would allow you to trade him in on a newer model.

Thank you so much for your inquiry and have a nice day.

Sincerely yours,

Mgr., Quality Control
Testosterone Division
Big D, Inc.

She was lost in her imaginary recall letter when he said it again, "I'm half a man." Since he looked whole, complete, one unit, intact, 10/10ths to her, she needed more proof to substantiate his claim.

"I've done something, and it makes me feel incomplete," he said.  She sat perfectly still, waiting for more.

"Duffy and I...uh...we...uh..."

"Did you say Duffy as in 'Duffy' my best friend?"

"Yes. That Duffy. We...uh...we... uh...we did the nasty-nasty."

There! He said it. With a wave of relief, his shoulders relaxed and he released a long sigh. Once his secret was out, he said, he felt complete, whole, intact, 10/10ths again.

"Feel all better now, Honey Dew Dew?" she said.

"Uh huh," he nodded, as one lone tear ran down his nose, stopped at the bulbous tip to contemplate its fate, and then leaped to its death.

She staggered to that slimly sludge in the back corner of her doubting mind and languished there for, in retrospect, way too long before slowly untying the knot, swimming to the surface, and selling the farm.

Twelve Years Ago Today

Actually, it was twelve years ago yesterday.

It's my memory; not so good anymore.

The Gooey, Tangly, Plaque-filled Labyrinth in my Aging Brain

In the past month I've had dozens of stories for my rambling blog take residence in my brain--usually when I'm taking a shower with no pen and paper handy. While I'm rubbing the bar of soap all over my body (well, not everywhere; I would never, ever put our shared bar of soap there, Tom. No, really I wouldn't), a really good story will appear out of nowhere. Bam! It's all there for me: Title of the story, beginning/middle/end, funny quotes, clever anecdotes and a moral to the story.  All I have to do is remember everything I've been given in the time it takes me to rinse, towel dry, and run through the house naked while I search for paper and pen. Simple, right?

WRONG!

By the time I find a piece of paper and an instrument to write with, I've lost the funny quotes, clever anecdotes, and the moral to the story. When I discover the pen I've chosen is out of ink, I still have the title and beginning sentence but the middle and end have vanished, and after I've gone through three inkless pens before finding one that works, I've lost the title and first sentence. Another great story lost in the gooey, tangly, plaque-filled labyrinth in my aging brain.

I read recently that 50% of people over eighty-five have dementia. That's sixteen plus years away, a life-time really...if you're a dog. But still, sixteen years is a very long time and time goes so slowly, so no need to worry. But then again I suspect that senility doesn't happen overnight.

 At 11:59:59 p.m. the day before your eighty-fifth birthday, you're playing chess (and winning) with your grandson, and one second later--the stroke of midnight--you're eating the pawns, hiding the Queen in your Depends, accusing the King of cheating on you, and begging little Jason to return your black and white 13" television that he stole before he was born. 

No, dementia is not a sudden, overnight occurrence. It stalks you for years. At first, it seems innocent enough: can't remember a word here and there; forget a doctor's appointment; misplace your keys. Then for it's own amusement it increases ever so slightly the intensity of its evil intent: can't remember a friend's name; forget a doctor's appointment that you remembered earlier in the day; throw your keys in the trash can. Still benign, right?

WRONG!

It's coming, honey. Can't remember the name of your favorite coffee that you've been drinking for years? At the doctor's office but can only remember one of the three things that ail you? Find yourself looking for the car keys that are in your hand? No big deal, right?

WRONG!

So why am I telling you this? You, with a goo-less, tangle-less, plaque-free brain. You, who are still young and arrogant and prideful and confident that you'll be in the 50% who won't get dementia. You, who are looking at me right now and wondering why I'm hiding green M & M's in my underwear. Well, because the red ones are carcinogenic, that's why, Smarty Pants.

So, what were we talking about? Oh, it'll come to me later. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower and hope for another great story that I can share with you...or not.

New Blog Book

Coming to an Amazon near you...one year of rambling blog posts in a book called The Meaning of Life. To be released on June 3, 2014.

Sixty-something baby boomer Carol Louise knows the meaning of life, and she is willing to share it with the younger members of her family who are behind her on the path of life. But will they listen?

The Meaning of Life