Posts
It’s fascinating to me how we all obsess about the craziest things; the little things you just can’t get out of your mind, but know are absolutely ridiculous. Mind obsession happens to everyone, I guess, and right now I’m in one of those obsessing states.
A local restaurant, let’s call it Harold’s Inn because that’s it’s name, not only has great food, but in the summer they open the patio for dinner, drinks, and some fun things to do like a game of trivia or a little music. My friends and I have been going there on Tuesday evenings for Bar Bingo, a fun and relaxing way for us to spend a little time together on a summer night. We sit on the patio, have a couple of drinks and the wait staff passes out Bingo daubers and Bingo sheets. We play about 10 games and the prizes are things like a bucket of chicken, a grass skirt and pineapple bra, t-shirts, a free desert. I once won a free Chicken Wrap, my first and only Bingo win.
I’m not a Bingo person and I suspect the people playing Bar Bingo aren’t the same people who go to the weekly Bingo games around town hoping to win the big money jackpot. In fact, I had only been to one Bingo before, an all night affair, and I was a Bingo dud. That’s because me and my friend Ronnie didn’t pay attention to our Bingo cards, chatted and visited with each other and everyone else, ate a whole bunch of greasy bar food, and got really punchy as the whole all night thing went on and on and we got more and more tired. Ronnie’s mom was with us and she was annoyed at our lack of reverence for the game so she ended up watching all of our Bingo cards, along with all of her own 30 or 40 cards, and never forgave us for our lack of proper Bingo conduct. She goes to Bingo halls 5 or 6 nights a week and is as close to a professional Bingo lady as you can get.
Last Tuesday at Bar Bingo we were having a great time, not winning but having fun. The second drink usually increases the fun, I’ve found. The Bingo caller was another friend of ours, sort of our own “Celebrity Bingo Caller” for the evening. The whole Bar Bingo thing only lasts about an hour and our table wasn’t winning but we were happily entertained by Celebrity Bingo Caller Kate who was already celebrating her upcoming birthday and was in high spirits.
The games moved along quickly and the prizes were doled out to the winners. Suddenly, I heard Celebrity Bingo Caller Kate announce that the prize won was a bucket of wingettes. Now, you may think this is a typo, but it isn’t - the prize was a bucket of wingettes.
When the suffix “ette” is added to the end of a word, it usually implies that something is petite; think of a barrette to hold a little bit of hair in place, a little car called a Corvette, a kitchenette, a statuette, a vignette, etc. So what is a wingette? The wings of a hummingbird? A canary? A sparrow? And what would you serve with wingettes? It would have to be something small too, maybe 3 peas or 5 corn kernels, possibly a tiny side of 10 grains of rice? And it would all need to be on a little thing like a dishette, I guess.
I’m not a fan of chicken wings because to me it seems there is very little chicken meat on a little chicken wing and I don’t do well with bones in my food, so I could barely contain my amazement at the thought of what a wingette could be and how much meat would be on one. And the Harold’s Inn menu advertises Jumbo Wingettes! How can something that is an “ette” also be jumbo, I wonder.
I also obsessively fear that the wingettes were the wings of my dearly departed, recently hosed to death friend, Robbee Zee Robin. Have I inadvertently created a banquette by my poor actionette with the hose faucette?
I want to get this obsession obliterated from my mind quickly, so I may have to order some Jumbo Wingettes and find out for myself what they are. I know with certainty, though, that if Harold’s Inn cooks them and serves them, they are probably pretty good for folks who like picking their food off of poor little bird bones.
www.haroldsinnrestaurant.com/
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Me and Heidi Klum
I’ve had some recent dental problems and needed to see a regular dentist, an endodontist, and an oral surgeon. For several reasons it became obvious to me and Scott that I needed a new regular dentist. I’d suspected for some time that a change might be in the cards, or in the teeth, if you will, so I had the new dentist already picked out.
I arrived at the new dentist’s office with all my paperwork in order. The girls in the office were impressed with how organized I was because I gave them a typed list of all my medicines, vitamins, surgeries, insurance information, address, phone numbers, emergency contact information, and a history of my recent dental problems. I still had to copy all that information to their official forms because doctors and dentists like to read messy handwriting instead of typed stuff, but then I was ready to see the new dentist. First they told me they’d want to take a picture of me to keep in my dental file. I imagine this is in case someone else wants to go to the dentist for a new dental drilling and amalgam filling in my place. Anyway, I agreed that they could take a Polaroid picture. I smiled, the girl snapped the button, and out popped the picture. The girl showed it to me, asked if it was ok or would I want her to take another shot. I looked at it very calmly, quickly realized that her camera might be defective, but didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm with the camera or her photography skills.
I expected to see a photo depicting my uncanny resemblance to Heidi Klum but the photo she showed me was one that depicted my uncanny resemblance to my mother. Now don’t get me wrong, my mother was quite beautiful, but I had so hoped for a photo of me looking like Heidi. Okay, an older by a whole bunch Heidi, but still somewhat resembling Heidi. The only likeness between me and Heidi in this photo was that we both had eyes, a nose, a mouth, a chin, and blond hair. Maybe my features were in slightly different places, a little bit lower due to some sagging and a few wrinkles, but the photograph totally failed to pick up on the similarities between us.
Following my appointment I knew what I had to do; I needed to quickly get over to Macy’s Estee Lauder cosmetics counter and see Simone. She has been helping me maintain the Heidi Klum look for a couple of years now. I knew she’d be sympathetic to my situation and would help me find a way to correct it. She sat me on the make-up stool, studied my facial state of affairs and advised me to get some blue eye-shadow and a new foundation. She also told me that a new upgraded wrinkle cream might make a big difference, but she said I should wait until next week to buy the cream because she doesn’t want me to miss the upcoming “free gift with purchase” promotion. The free gift with purchase promotion thing works like this: I pre-order what I want, meet a certain monetary minimum, qualify for the free gift with purchase, pay for it, and go home without any of it. My upgraded wrinkle cream and the free gift with purchase stuff remains in a bag behind the Estee Lauder counter with my name on it. In a couple of weeks when the actual promotion begins, but the pre-order time is over, I can go pick up the new upgraded wrinkle cream I already paid for along with the free gift with purchase stuff. Usually by then Simone has had some time to ponder my particular case and can make several more suggestions for products I might find helpful.
Even I know the “free gift with purchase” is not really free because the whole phrase ends with the word “purchase.” I think of it more as a prize for spending lots of money on stuff I may or may not need only because I want the free gift with purchase. I always get the free stuff because they see me coming and want to reward me with the prize for being the easiest to be fooled make-up customer. I try only to buy make-up when there is a free gift with purchase prize attached and then I will buy something whether I really need it or not just so I can get the free stuff.
Recently I got a big bunch of stuff because the make-up I purchased had a free gift with purchase so I got that loot, and then as I wandered about the store I noticed a big sign informing the customers that if they spent a total of $50 on make-up from any of several different make-up vendors Macy’s would give them an additional free gift worth $75 of all kinds of stuff from several make-up companies. So I went around to all the make-up counters and bought some more stuff to bring up my total receipts to the required $50 and asked for my $75 free gift. I’d already forgotten about the $50 I spent because I had so much free stuff.
The $75 box was chock full of goodies that promised to get me all fixed up. There was eye cream, wrinkle filler, perfume samples, moisturizer and some other stuff to help me get to work reclaiming my Heidi Klum resemblance. I began that very night using the free night repair and lifting cream. I’ve used it faithfully for two weeks and asked Scott how he thought it was working. He said I looked un-repaired and would most likely need to continue the treatment for an extended period of time. I told him the night repair and lifting stuff cost about $80 and I was out of the free sample. He took a second look and said he thought I might look a bit more repaired and lifted than he had noticed at first glance.
Along with the new blue eye-shadow and foundation I already have, and the upgraded wrinkle cream and free gift with purchase stuff Simone is holding for me behind the Estee Lauder make-up counter, I should be on my way to looking like Heidi Klum soon.
And then I’m getting a new photograph in my file at the new dentist’s office.
I arrived at the new dentist’s office with all my paperwork in order. The girls in the office were impressed with how organized I was because I gave them a typed list of all my medicines, vitamins, surgeries, insurance information, address, phone numbers, emergency contact information, and a history of my recent dental problems. I still had to copy all that information to their official forms because doctors and dentists like to read messy handwriting instead of typed stuff, but then I was ready to see the new dentist. First they told me they’d want to take a picture of me to keep in my dental file. I imagine this is in case someone else wants to go to the dentist for a new dental drilling and amalgam filling in my place. Anyway, I agreed that they could take a Polaroid picture. I smiled, the girl snapped the button, and out popped the picture. The girl showed it to me, asked if it was ok or would I want her to take another shot. I looked at it very calmly, quickly realized that her camera might be defective, but didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm with the camera or her photography skills.
I expected to see a photo depicting my uncanny resemblance to Heidi Klum but the photo she showed me was one that depicted my uncanny resemblance to my mother. Now don’t get me wrong, my mother was quite beautiful, but I had so hoped for a photo of me looking like Heidi. Okay, an older by a whole bunch Heidi, but still somewhat resembling Heidi. The only likeness between me and Heidi in this photo was that we both had eyes, a nose, a mouth, a chin, and blond hair. Maybe my features were in slightly different places, a little bit lower due to some sagging and a few wrinkles, but the photograph totally failed to pick up on the similarities between us.
Following my appointment I knew what I had to do; I needed to quickly get over to Macy’s Estee Lauder cosmetics counter and see Simone. She has been helping me maintain the Heidi Klum look for a couple of years now. I knew she’d be sympathetic to my situation and would help me find a way to correct it. She sat me on the make-up stool, studied my facial state of affairs and advised me to get some blue eye-shadow and a new foundation. She also told me that a new upgraded wrinkle cream might make a big difference, but she said I should wait until next week to buy the cream because she doesn’t want me to miss the upcoming “free gift with purchase” promotion. The free gift with purchase promotion thing works like this: I pre-order what I want, meet a certain monetary minimum, qualify for the free gift with purchase, pay for it, and go home without any of it. My upgraded wrinkle cream and the free gift with purchase stuff remains in a bag behind the Estee Lauder counter with my name on it. In a couple of weeks when the actual promotion begins, but the pre-order time is over, I can go pick up the new upgraded wrinkle cream I already paid for along with the free gift with purchase stuff. Usually by then Simone has had some time to ponder my particular case and can make several more suggestions for products I might find helpful.
Even I know the “free gift with purchase” is not really free because the whole phrase ends with the word “purchase.” I think of it more as a prize for spending lots of money on stuff I may or may not need only because I want the free gift with purchase. I always get the free stuff because they see me coming and want to reward me with the prize for being the easiest to be fooled make-up customer. I try only to buy make-up when there is a free gift with purchase prize attached and then I will buy something whether I really need it or not just so I can get the free stuff.
Recently I got a big bunch of stuff because the make-up I purchased had a free gift with purchase so I got that loot, and then as I wandered about the store I noticed a big sign informing the customers that if they spent a total of $50 on make-up from any of several different make-up vendors Macy’s would give them an additional free gift worth $75 of all kinds of stuff from several make-up companies. So I went around to all the make-up counters and bought some more stuff to bring up my total receipts to the required $50 and asked for my $75 free gift. I’d already forgotten about the $50 I spent because I had so much free stuff.
The $75 box was chock full of goodies that promised to get me all fixed up. There was eye cream, wrinkle filler, perfume samples, moisturizer and some other stuff to help me get to work reclaiming my Heidi Klum resemblance. I began that very night using the free night repair and lifting cream. I’ve used it faithfully for two weeks and asked Scott how he thought it was working. He said I looked un-repaired and would most likely need to continue the treatment for an extended period of time. I told him the night repair and lifting stuff cost about $80 and I was out of the free sample. He took a second look and said he thought I might look a bit more repaired and lifted than he had noticed at first glance.
Along with the new blue eye-shadow and foundation I already have, and the upgraded wrinkle cream and free gift with purchase stuff Simone is holding for me behind the Estee Lauder make-up counter, I should be on my way to looking like Heidi Klum soon.
And then I’m getting a new photograph in my file at the new dentist’s office.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Noah! Build Mom An Ark
My mother was temporarily in a new room at the Willows, a dry room on the first floor. That’s because her apartment was flooded when the faucet in her kitchen galley was turned on but not turned off.
Water must have been running for a long time because it spilled out and over the sink, made everything on the floor so wet they had to move her and all her stuff (oxygen, shiny red scooter, blankets, etc.) to another room for that night and the next day so they could extract water, run dryers on the carpets, and check everything out for safety. Even the room on the floor below her apartment was dripping wet. The staff told us she seemed unaware and very surprised that the water was running and didn’t even notice that everything was wet. We wondered if she’d had another of those minor transient ischemic attack (TIA) things.
So when Scott and I went over to make sure she was okay we found her thrilled with her new room. “Do you know why they moved you to this room?” we asked. There was “some sort of a problem” with her apartment, she said, but she wasn’t sure what it was. “Isn’t this room nice, really, really nice? They brought me some new clothes, too!” They were hers, of course, she just didn’t recognize them. She slept like a baby and the next day she was in a cheerful mood, oblivious to the ruckus that had occurred the night before.
What’s with my mom and faucets? Scott and I thought this incident was eerily similar to the problem she’d had at her house in Florida when she couldn’t figure out how to turn off the faucet and had to call her neighbor for help. She told me that she was not responsible for the flood. She said that someone she didn’t know, and had never seen before, came into her apartment, turned on the water, and left. According to her this person must have stopped in to get a drink and then forgot to turn off the water. She did not think this person worked or lived there and they did not speak to each other.
Nights had always been difficult for her and when she was alone she’d sometimes become very nervous and upset. It became much worse after my father died, and then again when my step-father, Walt, died. Now she was ill and the night terrors seemed to be returning. The difference this time was that she had an explanation for the incident, farfetched as it seemed.
Her calls began to come every hour or less while I was at work. “This is your mother. It’s very, very, very urgent that you come here right now.” “Why?” I would ask. “Because I’m all alone.” “Because I’m in jail.” “Because I need you.” “Because I need a cup of coffee.” “Because I cannot find my mind.” Sometimes she only wanted to hear me breathe. At times it seemed as though she was almost herself mentally, but never physically. Her body continued its downward spiral.
It had become a very frightening, tense, and dark time for her and I was not able to cope very well. Intellectually I knew she was not herself, physically or mentally, and that she was dying. I couldn’t change anything, couldn’t resolve my fears and overwhelming sadness, couldn’t imagine life without my mother. She’d always been quick witted and very funny, and some of her behavior now was pretty amusing if I searched for the humor, but most of it was just a sad downhill slide into the inevitable. My fear was that she’d become as incapacitated as her sisters had been at the end of their lives; one had very advanced Alzheimer’s disease and the other two had physical illnesses complicated with varying degrees of dementia. Two of her nieces had died of Alzheimers. By this comparison my mom’s mind was still pretty good. Physically she was more and more frail every day. She told me she knew she was dying. She said she was ready. I was not.
You hear how hard it is to take care of someone who is fading away physically and mentally, someone who is very ill and at the end of life. But no one can tell you how to take care of them, yourself, the other people you love, your home, your work. Life for me became one of getting out of bed and going through the motions of the day until I could see my mom and maybe find her miraculously back to the person that I knew as my mother. Her hospice didn’t have a support group, as some do, and we couldn’t find one in our area. I wrote whiny e-mails to our family and friends and journaled my feelings and her days. I barely functioned as my mother began to leave me.
Of course, I couldn’t fix her and the inevitable happened; her diseases took over and her descent accelerated. And as that all happened my heart was slowly breaking.
Water must have been running for a long time because it spilled out and over the sink, made everything on the floor so wet they had to move her and all her stuff (oxygen, shiny red scooter, blankets, etc.) to another room for that night and the next day so they could extract water, run dryers on the carpets, and check everything out for safety. Even the room on the floor below her apartment was dripping wet. The staff told us she seemed unaware and very surprised that the water was running and didn’t even notice that everything was wet. We wondered if she’d had another of those minor transient ischemic attack (TIA) things.
So when Scott and I went over to make sure she was okay we found her thrilled with her new room. “Do you know why they moved you to this room?” we asked. There was “some sort of a problem” with her apartment, she said, but she wasn’t sure what it was. “Isn’t this room nice, really, really nice? They brought me some new clothes, too!” They were hers, of course, she just didn’t recognize them. She slept like a baby and the next day she was in a cheerful mood, oblivious to the ruckus that had occurred the night before.
What’s with my mom and faucets? Scott and I thought this incident was eerily similar to the problem she’d had at her house in Florida when she couldn’t figure out how to turn off the faucet and had to call her neighbor for help. She told me that she was not responsible for the flood. She said that someone she didn’t know, and had never seen before, came into her apartment, turned on the water, and left. According to her this person must have stopped in to get a drink and then forgot to turn off the water. She did not think this person worked or lived there and they did not speak to each other.
Nights had always been difficult for her and when she was alone she’d sometimes become very nervous and upset. It became much worse after my father died, and then again when my step-father, Walt, died. Now she was ill and the night terrors seemed to be returning. The difference this time was that she had an explanation for the incident, farfetched as it seemed.
Her calls began to come every hour or less while I was at work. “This is your mother. It’s very, very, very urgent that you come here right now.” “Why?” I would ask. “Because I’m all alone.” “Because I’m in jail.” “Because I need you.” “Because I need a cup of coffee.” “Because I cannot find my mind.” Sometimes she only wanted to hear me breathe. At times it seemed as though she was almost herself mentally, but never physically. Her body continued its downward spiral.
It had become a very frightening, tense, and dark time for her and I was not able to cope very well. Intellectually I knew she was not herself, physically or mentally, and that she was dying. I couldn’t change anything, couldn’t resolve my fears and overwhelming sadness, couldn’t imagine life without my mother. She’d always been quick witted and very funny, and some of her behavior now was pretty amusing if I searched for the humor, but most of it was just a sad downhill slide into the inevitable. My fear was that she’d become as incapacitated as her sisters had been at the end of their lives; one had very advanced Alzheimer’s disease and the other two had physical illnesses complicated with varying degrees of dementia. Two of her nieces had died of Alzheimers. By this comparison my mom’s mind was still pretty good. Physically she was more and more frail every day. She told me she knew she was dying. She said she was ready. I was not.
You hear how hard it is to take care of someone who is fading away physically and mentally, someone who is very ill and at the end of life. But no one can tell you how to take care of them, yourself, the other people you love, your home, your work. Life for me became one of getting out of bed and going through the motions of the day until I could see my mom and maybe find her miraculously back to the person that I knew as my mother. Her hospice didn’t have a support group, as some do, and we couldn’t find one in our area. I wrote whiny e-mails to our family and friends and journaled my feelings and her days. I barely functioned as my mother began to leave me.
Of course, I couldn’t fix her and the inevitable happened; her diseases took over and her descent accelerated. And as that all happened my heart was slowly breaking.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Family Matters
Last week I was occupied with housework – both in my house and on my blog. You probably wonder what kind of housekeeping I’d have to do on my blog and frankly, I’m as surprised as you are since I really have no idea what I’m doing in the first place.
This weekend was also the first reunion of my mom’s family in many years. We used to get together every year for Thanksgiving, but as people moved or died the tradition couldn’t be managed easily, so we planned the first ever cousins reunion for this past weekend. Of my mom’s 6 siblings only 2 sisters-in-law and 13 of the 17 first cousins are still living so it was a special day for all of us.
As I was doing the housekeeping things, I thought about what I’d need to take to the reunion and I listened to the news, watched television, read some magazines, and tried to learn a couple of intelligent things to discuss with my relatives. They are all really, really bright and I wanted them to be impressed by the depth of my astute and insightful mind.
As I was pondering how to become amazingly intelligent in an extremely short period of time, I happened to look out the kitchen window and crouching right next to the grill was a stray cat. We’ve had a couple of them around this summer and I usually just open the door, make a noise, and scare them off. This time though, I watched because the crouching thing this cat had going on was so interesting. (Note: I don’t really know a male cat from a female cat just by observation from my window and would not ever get up close enough to a stray – or any other cat – to look and discover the sex, so I’m calling this cat a he because – well, just because.) He lowered his body, stuck his tail straight up with the tip of it sort of hooked, one paw stretched out and raised like a claw in front of the other, looking like he was getting ready to attack something or someone.
A million thoughts went through my mind, all reminders of the sad day I hosed poor Robbie Zee Robin to death. Was the cat after eggs that Robbie might have left in a nest hidden in the underside of the grill? Did Robbie leave family treasures in the wheel well, maybe reminders of his previous nest or clues as to who might have done him in? Were there other members of Robbie’s family lurking in the grill hoping to catch me unaware and repeat a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds movie and attack me when I went out to the patio?
After about 15 minutes of watching this cat, he made a super quick move, ran under the grill, came out on the opposite side of the grill, assumed attack mode once again, and repeated this over and over until he at last came out with a little chipmunk clenched in his jaw. Of course, the poor chippy was limp, obviously critically ill, and near, or already, dead and probably on his way to dinner as the main course for the cat’s stray cat family.
And this means our grill has become a crime haven, a distressed neighborhood on our patio with an attraction for animal killers even though Robbie Zee Robin’s death was accidental. One more murderous incident and Scott will have step in and clean up Grill Town.
Because of the crime spree in Grill Town, I had no time to develop an impressive intellect as I was preoccupied with the state of the patio neighborhood.
The weather was spectacular, the company wonderful, and it seemed everyone had a great time at the reunion. We had a lot of laughs, a few tears, so many shared memories, and an abundance of fun. They are all still really, really bright and I’m content to appreciate and learn from each of them. They let me be who I am, just as I am.
I picture my mom, dad, grandparents and all their siblings watching us take the time to reaffirm to each other that there really is nothing more important in life than family. Family matters. And I’ve been blessed with a really good one.
This weekend was also the first reunion of my mom’s family in many years. We used to get together every year for Thanksgiving, but as people moved or died the tradition couldn’t be managed easily, so we planned the first ever cousins reunion for this past weekend. Of my mom’s 6 siblings only 2 sisters-in-law and 13 of the 17 first cousins are still living so it was a special day for all of us.
As I was doing the housekeeping things, I thought about what I’d need to take to the reunion and I listened to the news, watched television, read some magazines, and tried to learn a couple of intelligent things to discuss with my relatives. They are all really, really bright and I wanted them to be impressed by the depth of my astute and insightful mind.
As I was pondering how to become amazingly intelligent in an extremely short period of time, I happened to look out the kitchen window and crouching right next to the grill was a stray cat. We’ve had a couple of them around this summer and I usually just open the door, make a noise, and scare them off. This time though, I watched because the crouching thing this cat had going on was so interesting. (Note: I don’t really know a male cat from a female cat just by observation from my window and would not ever get up close enough to a stray – or any other cat – to look and discover the sex, so I’m calling this cat a he because – well, just because.) He lowered his body, stuck his tail straight up with the tip of it sort of hooked, one paw stretched out and raised like a claw in front of the other, looking like he was getting ready to attack something or someone.
A million thoughts went through my mind, all reminders of the sad day I hosed poor Robbie Zee Robin to death. Was the cat after eggs that Robbie might have left in a nest hidden in the underside of the grill? Did Robbie leave family treasures in the wheel well, maybe reminders of his previous nest or clues as to who might have done him in? Were there other members of Robbie’s family lurking in the grill hoping to catch me unaware and repeat a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds movie and attack me when I went out to the patio?
After about 15 minutes of watching this cat, he made a super quick move, ran under the grill, came out on the opposite side of the grill, assumed attack mode once again, and repeated this over and over until he at last came out with a little chipmunk clenched in his jaw. Of course, the poor chippy was limp, obviously critically ill, and near, or already, dead and probably on his way to dinner as the main course for the cat’s stray cat family.
And this means our grill has become a crime haven, a distressed neighborhood on our patio with an attraction for animal killers even though Robbie Zee Robin’s death was accidental. One more murderous incident and Scott will have step in and clean up Grill Town.
Because of the crime spree in Grill Town, I had no time to develop an impressive intellect as I was preoccupied with the state of the patio neighborhood.
The weather was spectacular, the company wonderful, and it seemed everyone had a great time at the reunion. We had a lot of laughs, a few tears, so many shared memories, and an abundance of fun. They are all still really, really bright and I’m content to appreciate and learn from each of them. They let me be who I am, just as I am.
I picture my mom, dad, grandparents and all their siblings watching us take the time to reaffirm to each other that there really is nothing more important in life than family. Family matters. And I’ve been blessed with a really good one.
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