My mom is so cute. She gets very excited when she goes out in the car by herself. This morning, she went to a friend's house. Yesterday, she took back a few things to the grocery store. She's self-sufficient again and loves it. She still has to go very slow when she gets in and out of the car, but she uses her walker and gets around quite well. I'm really proud of her. She didn't just sit around getting worse - she didn't just give up.
My dad, on the other hand, gave up a long time ago. It makes me sad to watch him, a figure who looks nothing like he did when he was younger. He sits in his chair all day, watching the news or the military channel or the channel about animals. This is his escape from the reality that he will die one day. He either sits in his chair watching tv or sits in his office at his computer. I tried to get him into the pool when it was warmer, but for some reason, he wouldn't budge. He never goes anywhere and doesn't even sit on the screened in porch, where he would at least get some fresh air. I ask them to open up the doors in the morning to bring in some kind of breeze, otherwise it's stuffy and sad in here. There's something about fresh air that gives life to what is dull. My father, I determined, is just sitting there, waiting to die. Not consciously, I think, but because he does nothing, he mindlessly watches the world go by via the tv and computer, even though every now and then he calls my brother to change one of his stocks. My kids are not coming down to get me after all. I'm disappointed about that, because my parents would both have enjoyed Ashanti and it would have given my dad a change in his day.
I'll be flying home this week and instead of sitting here writing, I should be packing. I'm being very lazy about this for some reason. I'm not sure what I should take and what I should leave here. Because I'm flying, I can't take it all like I was planning. I really don't have that much stuff, so it's not a big deal, but I've never been good at making choices. If you give me a menu with a hundred things on it, I calmly freak out because I don't know what to choose. If I have to clean up a big mess, again, I can't figure out where to start. Big grocery stores are troublesome for me, as there is too much to look at, at one time. It's sensory overload, just like carnivals or circuses. Well, scratch that - I hate circuses, so I would never go there. But whenever there are a lot of choices or decisions or things to look at, I sometimes have a hard time distinguishing what is what. I decided that this is from adult ADD, but then it may not be that at all. It could be that I'm just weird. That's probably the best explanation.
So, I'll be moving home and won't be living with old people after this week. So it seems a good time to complete my blog. But I really don't want to. I mean, it can't go on forever and ever, so it has to end at some point, and this is the most logical point. Maybe I'll start another blog on an entirely different topic. I really don't know what to do, but I'm not done yet. I still have four days left living with old people, and I have no doubt my parents will give me something more yet to write about.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
It Was What It Was
I am back in Florida for a few weeks and then I am moving back up north to live with my daughter. My parents are doing well - my mom actually looks good and my father is doing well, however he looks like Howard Hughes. He refuses to cut his hair or his beard until he absolutely has to and wears a baseball cap on his head, I suppose to feel young again. I don't know. I hope he doesn't scare Ashanti when she comes in a couple weeks. This is the same man who made my brothers wear crew cuts when they were young, and wore his hair like that as well, all the years I was comin' up. It was definitely not the style at the time and I'm sure my brothers hated their hair like that. He was exactly like that sgt. in the Marines on the TV show "Gomer Pyle," way back in the 60's. In fact, when I watched the show, it was scary how much that actor and my dad looked and acted alike.
When I first walked in the house, I noticed that my mom looks much better. She actually had more skin on her face and looked healthy. She told me that she gained 5 pounds and I told her that that was awesome. She still weighs herself at Publix on the giant scale in the front of the store. I'm positive that she still announces to whoever is around at the time how much she weighs. She delights in this as much as I delight in a hot fudge sundae. As much as I love my mom, we are so not alike. She and I have much different ideas about beauty, self and raising children.
My mother is, in the truest sense of the word, a food "nazi." No matter which room in the house she is in, if I go into the kitchen at any time of day or night, she will be in there in the matter of seconds. She is quickly alerted by the sound of the refrigerator door being opened, no matter how quiet I try to be. Sometimes I think she flies in there with a swoosh of her wings. She feels she must sit or stand, guarding the refrigerator and watching every single morsel I put in my mouth. She will recite endearing phrases such as "Don't forget dinner is in twenty minutes," or "Why don't you go and take a nap now," or "Is that all the cookies that are left?" She has, and always had, a vehement desire to see that my brothers and I adhere to her strict serving sizes and demand for complete food submission. And because she was such a food "nazi" when we were coming up, as soon as her foot stepped out of the house, we would steal as much food as we could from the refrigerator and the freezer in the basement. And so, you see, because she wanted us so much to be thin and trim, she actually caused us to all be overweight. It's such a reverse-psychology kind of thing that I learned in grade school. She has yet to learn this and I'm sure it puzzles her why she never got us the way she wanted us.
The freezer in the basement was awesome. It held little pound cakes and treats that we would gleefully eat and then stuff the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can. We did this for a long time before she actually began to wonder why the treats in the freezer seemed to disappear so fast. Those treats were not for us - they were for my father, who also got to eat ice cream from the container, eat off bricks of chocolate my Nana would bring for him and drink pop - all of which were off limits to us. Instead, we would have Jello for dessert, or fruit, or something equally not as exciting as what my dad would get. We would drool watching him down a 1/2 carton of ice cream with a spoon and imagined what it would be like to be able to do that. It became too much torture, so we actually snuck and ate several times out of the container, attempting to make the spoon carvings just like my dad's, and we got away with it for awhile. That is until she made my dad put the ice cream in a bowl.
In comparison, my kids pretty much ate whatever they wanted to, when they wanted to. I mean, I made dinners most of the time, but they were usually simple meals and I didn't worry about how many carbs there were, etc. I was always tired coming home from work, so I bought a lot of frozen pizzas and made tons of macaroni and cheese, because we received "free" cheese when my kids were young. The cheese was so processed that it hardly melted - it would just sit there and you really had to mix it up good or it was one big blob. But it was food (I think) and it filled our bellies. They also ate a lot of Ramen noodles. Whatever was cheap and still filled the belly. I never hounded my kids on what they ate or didn't eat. I never told them that people were starving in China so they had to finish all the food on their plate. I was determined that I wouldn't raise my kids the same way I was raised, but I probably should have made them healthier meals. When you're on welfare or making minimal money at your job and still have to pay for day care, the cheapest food is what you could afford. I'm not proud of that fact - but it's just the reality of it. It was what it was. It is what it is. I like that phrase a lot. It is what it is. Simple but absolutely true, without going into a plethora of explanations.
When I first walked in the house, I noticed that my mom looks much better. She actually had more skin on her face and looked healthy. She told me that she gained 5 pounds and I told her that that was awesome. She still weighs herself at Publix on the giant scale in the front of the store. I'm positive that she still announces to whoever is around at the time how much she weighs. She delights in this as much as I delight in a hot fudge sundae. As much as I love my mom, we are so not alike. She and I have much different ideas about beauty, self and raising children.
My mother is, in the truest sense of the word, a food "nazi." No matter which room in the house she is in, if I go into the kitchen at any time of day or night, she will be in there in the matter of seconds. She is quickly alerted by the sound of the refrigerator door being opened, no matter how quiet I try to be. Sometimes I think she flies in there with a swoosh of her wings. She feels she must sit or stand, guarding the refrigerator and watching every single morsel I put in my mouth. She will recite endearing phrases such as "Don't forget dinner is in twenty minutes," or "Why don't you go and take a nap now," or "Is that all the cookies that are left?" She has, and always had, a vehement desire to see that my brothers and I adhere to her strict serving sizes and demand for complete food submission. And because she was such a food "nazi" when we were coming up, as soon as her foot stepped out of the house, we would steal as much food as we could from the refrigerator and the freezer in the basement. And so, you see, because she wanted us so much to be thin and trim, she actually caused us to all be overweight. It's such a reverse-psychology kind of thing that I learned in grade school. She has yet to learn this and I'm sure it puzzles her why she never got us the way she wanted us.
The freezer in the basement was awesome. It held little pound cakes and treats that we would gleefully eat and then stuff the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can. We did this for a long time before she actually began to wonder why the treats in the freezer seemed to disappear so fast. Those treats were not for us - they were for my father, who also got to eat ice cream from the container, eat off bricks of chocolate my Nana would bring for him and drink pop - all of which were off limits to us. Instead, we would have Jello for dessert, or fruit, or something equally not as exciting as what my dad would get. We would drool watching him down a 1/2 carton of ice cream with a spoon and imagined what it would be like to be able to do that. It became too much torture, so we actually snuck and ate several times out of the container, attempting to make the spoon carvings just like my dad's, and we got away with it for awhile. That is until she made my dad put the ice cream in a bowl.
In comparison, my kids pretty much ate whatever they wanted to, when they wanted to. I mean, I made dinners most of the time, but they were usually simple meals and I didn't worry about how many carbs there were, etc. I was always tired coming home from work, so I bought a lot of frozen pizzas and made tons of macaroni and cheese, because we received "free" cheese when my kids were young. The cheese was so processed that it hardly melted - it would just sit there and you really had to mix it up good or it was one big blob. But it was food (I think) and it filled our bellies. They also ate a lot of Ramen noodles. Whatever was cheap and still filled the belly. I never hounded my kids on what they ate or didn't eat. I never told them that people were starving in China so they had to finish all the food on their plate. I was determined that I wouldn't raise my kids the same way I was raised, but I probably should have made them healthier meals. When you're on welfare or making minimal money at your job and still have to pay for day care, the cheapest food is what you could afford. I'm not proud of that fact - but it's just the reality of it. It was what it was. It is what it is. I like that phrase a lot. It is what it is. Simple but absolutely true, without going into a plethora of explanations.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
A Letter to the Church
When even one person dies or becomes seriously ill in the body of Christ, it affects us all. It's like a ripple effect that groans with pain, even for those who knew not the peron who died or became ill. That makes the meaning of "body of Christ" much more real. I've heard that term for over 31 years now and I had an idea what it meant, but now I experienced what it means. Just as when you burn a finger or stub your toe, that particular pain affects my whole body, and until it starts to mend itself, that's all I can think of. The same applies to the mourning and grief of one who has died. Time is what heals in this situation and the scripture that says, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning," is the absolute truth.
The young man who died the other day was only 25. So young with so much life to live. And yet it was cut short for only reasons that God knows. And I think of all the young men and women who end up in prison for the rest of their lives for their own doing and I mourn the waste of a life. And life or living becomes more paramount in my mind. When you're young, you tend to think that you have the whole world in your hands and that you're invincible. When you get older, you realize that none of that is true and you think quite a bit more about life and death and eternity. And you realize that the days we have here are truly short indeed.
I don't mean to be a downer for those who are reading this, but I sincerely believe that we need to examine our lives often to make sure we are living the best way we can. I want to be a blessing to others and live my life as one pleasing unto God. And because that is sometimes so difficult, I pray all the time that God's will would be done in my life.
I know some of you will roll your eyes over that statement, but that's ok. We each have to find our own way in life, and I've found mine. And you're thinking "I wish she would have written something funny instead," but there is a time for every season. I personally would much rather laugh out loud than cry, but that's just not the way life is. I picture in my mind that life is one very long (or perhaps short) road that has hills followed by valleys all along the way. So we're not always sad, but we're not always happy either. Kind of like a roller coaster. Kind of like the moods of someone with bi-polar. Except we're all in the same boat, traveling down this road of life together. A boat traveling down a road. Ok, not a great analogy, but you get the gist.
Love others, be kind to others and be a blessing to others. We just never know when our time on this road comes to an end.
The young man who died the other day was only 25. So young with so much life to live. And yet it was cut short for only reasons that God knows. And I think of all the young men and women who end up in prison for the rest of their lives for their own doing and I mourn the waste of a life. And life or living becomes more paramount in my mind. When you're young, you tend to think that you have the whole world in your hands and that you're invincible. When you get older, you realize that none of that is true and you think quite a bit more about life and death and eternity. And you realize that the days we have here are truly short indeed.
I don't mean to be a downer for those who are reading this, but I sincerely believe that we need to examine our lives often to make sure we are living the best way we can. I want to be a blessing to others and live my life as one pleasing unto God. And because that is sometimes so difficult, I pray all the time that God's will would be done in my life.
I know some of you will roll your eyes over that statement, but that's ok. We each have to find our own way in life, and I've found mine. And you're thinking "I wish she would have written something funny instead," but there is a time for every season. I personally would much rather laugh out loud than cry, but that's just not the way life is. I picture in my mind that life is one very long (or perhaps short) road that has hills followed by valleys all along the way. So we're not always sad, but we're not always happy either. Kind of like a roller coaster. Kind of like the moods of someone with bi-polar. Except we're all in the same boat, traveling down this road of life together. A boat traveling down a road. Ok, not a great analogy, but you get the gist.
Love others, be kind to others and be a blessing to others. We just never know when our time on this road comes to an end.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
The Holidays
The holidays seem to bring out either the best or the worst in us. In my family, it's usually a combination of the two. We are initially excited and prepare meticulously who will bring what and where This event will be held and how. The problem begins well before we are all in the same place at the same time. Now, I raised these people so I should know what they're about, but I seem surprised every time when things don't play out as planned. Well, I shouldn't say surprised, but more of shocked would be the appropriate adjective. I shouldn't be either, as the same issues happen every single time we are celebrating holidays.
It's a good thing when we're all actually eating, as when there is food in our mouths, we can't speak at the same time. Jews, like Italians or Greeks or Chicagoians, are highly emotional and loud creatures and we tend to talk all at once. The loudest one will be the one who is heard and so the volume increases to the glass-breaking point. Glass doesn't actually break of course, but you think it will. At this point, shy people in my extended family are usually quietly freaking out in a corner. I try to reassure them that this is all normal for us and they have nothing to fear. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn't. Frankly, I've never understood quiet people. They always seem to have an agenda for which I am not privy to. Don't get me wrong - I love quiet people too. I just don't understand people who don't express themselves. I think that as soon as I leave the room, they will be talking behind my back. But then, why would they? I'm simply not that important. But you never know....
I'm also leary of people who don't finish all the food on their plate. How can you leave a little bit - or a lot of food on your plate? Didn't their mother raise them with the same quality education that they had to eat everything on their plates because people in Russia were starving? We were, although I never understood how finishing the food on my plate had anything to do with starving Russians. As far as I was concerned, they could have the peas and carrots and broccoli, although I would have been smacked if I had told my mom that. To this day, it is a compulsory act on my part to finish every morsel on my plate, whether I am full or not. My mother accomplished her goal and I'm sure starving Russians thank her.
So, the holidays. A time when we eat truckloads of food and sit around and play games, sing or discuss politics, religion or the people who frequent Walmart. Sometimes these conversations lead to angry discourse, slamming fists or rolling of eyes, and sometimes they lead to much laughter. Sometimes I wonder when and how my children became autonomous adults, who all have strong opinions and loud voices, much like their mother. I wonder how their childhood was so fleeting and seems like so long ago, and yet it really wasn't. I wonder how their children will be when they are grown, and I hope to see my great-grandchildren. I realize that these people who I bore and raised have become their own individual persons, but still have a bit of me in them. And although I did a mediocre job in raising them, they have grown to be intelligent, spiritual adults with whom I am very proud.
So with all the bickering and the attitude, the laughter and the love, we're not as dysfunctional as once I had feared. We are normal, opinionated and stubborn people who express our feelings openly and without abandon, and as long as we don't hurt anyone else, we are, in fact, ok. Thank you, Lord for the holidays, for it's at these times that we learn how to link our past with the present to create memories for our future.
It's a good thing when we're all actually eating, as when there is food in our mouths, we can't speak at the same time. Jews, like Italians or Greeks or Chicagoians, are highly emotional and loud creatures and we tend to talk all at once. The loudest one will be the one who is heard and so the volume increases to the glass-breaking point. Glass doesn't actually break of course, but you think it will. At this point, shy people in my extended family are usually quietly freaking out in a corner. I try to reassure them that this is all normal for us and they have nothing to fear. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn't. Frankly, I've never understood quiet people. They always seem to have an agenda for which I am not privy to. Don't get me wrong - I love quiet people too. I just don't understand people who don't express themselves. I think that as soon as I leave the room, they will be talking behind my back. But then, why would they? I'm simply not that important. But you never know....
I'm also leary of people who don't finish all the food on their plate. How can you leave a little bit - or a lot of food on your plate? Didn't their mother raise them with the same quality education that they had to eat everything on their plates because people in Russia were starving? We were, although I never understood how finishing the food on my plate had anything to do with starving Russians. As far as I was concerned, they could have the peas and carrots and broccoli, although I would have been smacked if I had told my mom that. To this day, it is a compulsory act on my part to finish every morsel on my plate, whether I am full or not. My mother accomplished her goal and I'm sure starving Russians thank her.
So, the holidays. A time when we eat truckloads of food and sit around and play games, sing or discuss politics, religion or the people who frequent Walmart. Sometimes these conversations lead to angry discourse, slamming fists or rolling of eyes, and sometimes they lead to much laughter. Sometimes I wonder when and how my children became autonomous adults, who all have strong opinions and loud voices, much like their mother. I wonder how their childhood was so fleeting and seems like so long ago, and yet it really wasn't. I wonder how their children will be when they are grown, and I hope to see my great-grandchildren. I realize that these people who I bore and raised have become their own individual persons, but still have a bit of me in them. And although I did a mediocre job in raising them, they have grown to be intelligent, spiritual adults with whom I am very proud.
So with all the bickering and the attitude, the laughter and the love, we're not as dysfunctional as once I had feared. We are normal, opinionated and stubborn people who express our feelings openly and without abandon, and as long as we don't hurt anyone else, we are, in fact, ok. Thank you, Lord for the holidays, for it's at these times that we learn how to link our past with the present to create memories for our future.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Goin' to See My Babies
My father has a tender heart after all. Who would have guessed that? We were talking about them getting a small dog because they both grew so attached to Kita and I think that it would do them both a lot of good. My father started to say, "Yeah, but what happens if he runs out the door like Kita did? All I did was open the door a little and she went running out. And now all I hear is you (me) screaming 'No, no!' and I can't get that picture out of my head!" I felt like a priest in a confessional - it was very weird. I said again, "Dad, I don't blame you for Kita's death - you didn't know and she was so fast you couldn't catch her. But I still think you and mom should get a small dog because it's just so dead around here." Maybe I shouldn't have said "dead," but what I meant was that a dog gives "life" to a household and something else you can focus on instead of yourself. I watch my dad and he is depressed. He has also admitted to a neighbor friend that he is afraid of dying. He will sit in his office with the computer on the desktop page, with his legs propped up on the desk and he is just staring at the computer. He needs to love something other than himself.
I had sent a letter to the editor of the newspaper here and my mom got the paper today, saying that the letter was in the paper. My dad read it and I think it really touched him although he didn't say much. It was a short, but to the point letter that I have copied and pasted here:
I had sent a letter to the editor of the newspaper here and my mom got the paper today, saying that the letter was in the paper. My dad read it and I think it really touched him although he didn't say much. It was a short, but to the point letter that I have copied and pasted here:
"On Friday, December 2, 2011, in the middle of the morning, my little dog and best friend, Kita, was struck and killed by a motorist driving fast on S. Gondola Drive in Venice. She ran out the door through a small opening and as much as I tried to get her back, she kept going toward the street. I was shouting and walking towards her when the car hit her, so they must have seen me shouting, as well as her, as she was all black. It would have been impossible to not have at least seen me. The motorist never stopped - they just kept on going. There was another motorist coming by the same way at the same time and they slowed down but they didn't stop. They saw me pick her dead body up and carry it into the house. Blood was coming out of her mouth and head, her tongue was hanging out and her eyes were open and glazed over. Unfortunately, I will never forget that picture. It would be nice if the person who hit her would at least apologize for not stopping. There's nothing that can be done now, but apparently this isn't the first time a dog has been hit and killed on this street. There are speed bumps in the road, but that doesn't stop most motorists from speeding. Mine and my parents' hearts are broken because someone was too distracted not to see her or me and then just drive away. If they didn't see her, they must have heard and felt her because she went right under their tires. Please, please slow down on these streets. And if you happen to see a dog or cat or any animal for that matter, PLEASE slow down and stop if you have to. That animal is somone's best friend."
So when I return in January, I will do searches at the shelters in this area to find a little dog who is already potty trained for my parents. I think they can find the perfect dog in one of the shelters. I am a huge advocate to try and locate dogs in shelters first, because most of those dogs have been abused or neglected and desparately need a home. I'm not against buying dogs from reputable breeders, but I am against buying dogs from pet stores and puppy mills. Puppy mills are horrendous places and pet stores get their puppies from these mills. Just thinking about it, makes me crazy.
So I am leaving tomorrow for home and I'm really looking forward to it. I have missed my kids and my grandkids and looking forward to spending Christmas with them. I will be returning to Florida in the middle of January, and hopefully everything will be well with my parents. If that is the case, I will move back home permanently, probably in February.
My parents are taking me to the airport tomorrow - I'm driving there and my mom will drive home. She's been driving locally here and doing fine - a little slow, but fine. I'm a little concerned about her driving home, but she will not take the highway because she says she's not ready for that yet. She will however, take 41 all the way home in busy traffic. She can see ok, whereas my father can't see in front of his nose. But he will feel the need to yell at her if he thinks she's not doing something right, so it should be a fun-filled ride back home. I won't be there to referee, but my mom can stand up to him when she wants to. All she has to do is give him one of her "Eunice-glares" and they'll be just fine.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Short True Story
My parents' neighbor and friend came over last night and we all talked for awhile. Her name is Mrs. Crowe and I say "Mrs. Crowe," because we were taught as kids to call all adults Mr. or Mrs. so and so - never by their first name. I guess it was ok to call them by their first name if they weren't married - I don't remember that. So it's still ingrained in me to use these titles, but there's really nothing wrong with it - I actually think it can be respectful. Anyway, she told us a true story that I thought was entertaining, and I imagine it wasn't at the time, but I want to re-tell it now for your amusement. Besides, you don't know these people so no one will ever know the difference.
We'll call them Ed and Zelda. They were neighbors of my parents for many years. Ed was practically deaf and you had to really shout in his face for him to hear you. One day, he was having a conversation with another almost-deaf neighbor and neither one of them could hear what the other one was saying, but they both had a complete conversation anyway. Zelda was a weird, but nice lady according to my dad. He really liked her, so that says something about her.
Mrs. Crowe was telling us that Ed died before Zelda. Mrs. Crowe knew them very well because she was their guardian. Zelda was kind of nuts and Ed couldn't hear, so the combination was a mess. So when Ed died, Mrs. Crowe went to the funeral home on the day of the funeral and brought Zelda with her before the visitation. Ed was lying in the casket as most dead people do. Zelda came by his casket and yelled, "That's not my Ed! I know what MY Ed looks like, and that's not him!" Mrs. Crowe looked in the casket and sure enough, it wasn't Ed, but someone who looked like him. She hurried over to the funeral director and told him the situation and he was moritifed. Apparently, there were two dead bodies at the hospital and they sent the wrong one. The other man, who would be Ed, was cremated. So the guy in the casket was some unknown person. I was dying laughing at this point. Mrs. Crowe said that there wasn't a thing they could do, so they went ahead with the funeral, pretending it was Ed in the casket. Zelda must have forgotten that it wasn't Ed, because as the priest and the funeral director were bringing her into the ceremony, she screamed out, "Ed, you $#*&@%! Why did you die before me??" At that point, I couldn't stop laughing - I pictured it all and I thought it was hysterical. So Mrs. Crowe said that some unknown guy is buried in Ed's burial plot, and then Zelda passed away, so she is next to him.
Wow - you can't make this stuff up.
We'll call them Ed and Zelda. They were neighbors of my parents for many years. Ed was practically deaf and you had to really shout in his face for him to hear you. One day, he was having a conversation with another almost-deaf neighbor and neither one of them could hear what the other one was saying, but they both had a complete conversation anyway. Zelda was a weird, but nice lady according to my dad. He really liked her, so that says something about her.
Mrs. Crowe was telling us that Ed died before Zelda. Mrs. Crowe knew them very well because she was their guardian. Zelda was kind of nuts and Ed couldn't hear, so the combination was a mess. So when Ed died, Mrs. Crowe went to the funeral home on the day of the funeral and brought Zelda with her before the visitation. Ed was lying in the casket as most dead people do. Zelda came by his casket and yelled, "That's not my Ed! I know what MY Ed looks like, and that's not him!" Mrs. Crowe looked in the casket and sure enough, it wasn't Ed, but someone who looked like him. She hurried over to the funeral director and told him the situation and he was moritifed. Apparently, there were two dead bodies at the hospital and they sent the wrong one. The other man, who would be Ed, was cremated. So the guy in the casket was some unknown person. I was dying laughing at this point. Mrs. Crowe said that there wasn't a thing they could do, so they went ahead with the funeral, pretending it was Ed in the casket. Zelda must have forgotten that it wasn't Ed, because as the priest and the funeral director were bringing her into the ceremony, she screamed out, "Ed, you $#*&@%! Why did you die before me??" At that point, I couldn't stop laughing - I pictured it all and I thought it was hysterical. So Mrs. Crowe said that some unknown guy is buried in Ed's burial plot, and then Zelda passed away, so she is next to him.
Wow - you can't make this stuff up.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Driving Instructor
I let my mom drive yesterday for the second time and she actually did pretty well. I felt like a driving school instructor and kept telling her to stay in her lane. She wanted to hug the middle line and I kept saying, "Move over, Move over! You're in the middle of the road!" "Oh," she said and moved a little more to the side of the road. When she turns, she turns the wheel little by little, it was driving me crazy. I said, "Mom, take the wheel and pull or push it all the way around, because otherwise it will take you all day to make one turn." "Oh," she said. We drove into a parking lot and I told her to parallel park in front of the Goodwill store so they can come out and pick up the bag she brought. She had a difficult time doing this, but finally did, almost hitting a woman who was walking in back of her and who she didn't see. First I yelled at my mom, "There's someone in back of you!" "Oh," she said. Then I shouted out the window, "Watch where you're walking, lady!" I know, I know, not my finest moment. But it's better than what I wanted to yell.
Next, we went to her doctor so she could pick up her prescription, then we went to Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions. She had to back up and get closer to the window to reach it, and when the lady put my bag of prescriptions in the drawer, my mom couldn't reach them to get them out. She had to unbuckle, open the door and reach to her very limit, scooting all the way up the seat, to grab the bag. I suggested that next time she put her seat cushion in the seat so she is a little higher up. She can barely see over the steering wheel which makes me a little nervous. She says she sees everything, (except for that minor detail of the woman walking in back of us whom she almost hit.)
But she really wants to drive and become more independent. And I want her to also. Next, we drove into another busy parking lot and she eventually got us safely to a parking spot. When she turns, it's this wide sweep into the other lane, very slowly, and I had to keep telling her to turn in her own lane. I went into Panera for bagels and she went into Publix for a couple things. I got done first and came out to the car and when I saw her coming out of Publix, she had a big smile on her face. She got into the car and said she drove enough today and that I should drive home. She actually thanked me and gave me a kiss for letting her drive. I said, "Well, you'll have to tell dad that you drove, I won't." She said she would, and she did before supper and told him that I was a good teacher. He said, "Well, we'll go out tomorrow and I will be your teacher." Ok folks, I know it's time for me to move back home. I've done what I set out to do and they're both doing much better and my dad is acting like my real dad again.
My dad is irritated with me because I asked him to print out several papers for the bank that I need to fax to them and for some reason he couldn't figure out how to do it. I told him that I would print them off, if he would just sign me on to his computer. Well, I sat at his computer which has at least 100 icons on the desktop and I finally got onto his email. The whole thing is so screwed up that I, being an ex-clerical worker for 35-plus years, could not figure out how to simply print a document. It was the most ridiculously constrewed way to print and I tried and tried but failed to print out simple documents. I said some choice words about his computer and he got real angry with me. His computer is his best friend, and so he was insulted at my comments. So now he's giving me the silent treatment. So I emailed what I needed printed out to a friend at work and she printed them out and is mailing them to me. How ridiculous is that? Anyway, I should get them in 2 days and then I will fax them in. My dad has downloaded more junk on his computer that it's impossible to figure out how to use the most basic components. All power to him. I'll stick with my simple, little laptop....
My mom just rolled her eyes over the whole situation. So, you see - everything is back to normal, or as normal as this household can be. My mom is getting her independence back, my dad is ornery as usual and after watching how I deal with my dad, my mom is finally, in small ways, standing up to him. I don't think my mom needs a referee any longer. They both refuse to move into assisted or independent living, so they will stay in their house as long as they can. Which I do understand. I may not agree with it, but I understand. So really my work here is done. I just need to tie up some loose ends and then I will be moving back to Madison.
In the meantime, though, I am still living with old people and so I will continue with this Blog until I start living with young people. Old people, I'm sure, are much funnier than young people, and since I am getting closer and closer to the "old people" side of the equation, I may have to keep writing under a different title, like "Living with Old People Like Me," or "The Department of Social Security Disability Fiasco and Me." The latter would be good therapy as I plod through this unbelievably complex system.
Next, we went to her doctor so she could pick up her prescription, then we went to Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions. She had to back up and get closer to the window to reach it, and when the lady put my bag of prescriptions in the drawer, my mom couldn't reach them to get them out. She had to unbuckle, open the door and reach to her very limit, scooting all the way up the seat, to grab the bag. I suggested that next time she put her seat cushion in the seat so she is a little higher up. She can barely see over the steering wheel which makes me a little nervous. She says she sees everything, (except for that minor detail of the woman walking in back of us whom she almost hit.)
But she really wants to drive and become more independent. And I want her to also. Next, we drove into another busy parking lot and she eventually got us safely to a parking spot. When she turns, it's this wide sweep into the other lane, very slowly, and I had to keep telling her to turn in her own lane. I went into Panera for bagels and she went into Publix for a couple things. I got done first and came out to the car and when I saw her coming out of Publix, she had a big smile on her face. She got into the car and said she drove enough today and that I should drive home. She actually thanked me and gave me a kiss for letting her drive. I said, "Well, you'll have to tell dad that you drove, I won't." She said she would, and she did before supper and told him that I was a good teacher. He said, "Well, we'll go out tomorrow and I will be your teacher." Ok folks, I know it's time for me to move back home. I've done what I set out to do and they're both doing much better and my dad is acting like my real dad again.
My dad is irritated with me because I asked him to print out several papers for the bank that I need to fax to them and for some reason he couldn't figure out how to do it. I told him that I would print them off, if he would just sign me on to his computer. Well, I sat at his computer which has at least 100 icons on the desktop and I finally got onto his email. The whole thing is so screwed up that I, being an ex-clerical worker for 35-plus years, could not figure out how to simply print a document. It was the most ridiculously constrewed way to print and I tried and tried but failed to print out simple documents. I said some choice words about his computer and he got real angry with me. His computer is his best friend, and so he was insulted at my comments. So now he's giving me the silent treatment. So I emailed what I needed printed out to a friend at work and she printed them out and is mailing them to me. How ridiculous is that? Anyway, I should get them in 2 days and then I will fax them in. My dad has downloaded more junk on his computer that it's impossible to figure out how to use the most basic components. All power to him. I'll stick with my simple, little laptop....
My mom just rolled her eyes over the whole situation. So, you see - everything is back to normal, or as normal as this household can be. My mom is getting her independence back, my dad is ornery as usual and after watching how I deal with my dad, my mom is finally, in small ways, standing up to him. I don't think my mom needs a referee any longer. They both refuse to move into assisted or independent living, so they will stay in their house as long as they can. Which I do understand. I may not agree with it, but I understand. So really my work here is done. I just need to tie up some loose ends and then I will be moving back to Madison.
In the meantime, though, I am still living with old people and so I will continue with this Blog until I start living with young people. Old people, I'm sure, are much funnier than young people, and since I am getting closer and closer to the "old people" side of the equation, I may have to keep writing under a different title, like "Living with Old People Like Me," or "The Department of Social Security Disability Fiasco and Me." The latter would be good therapy as I plod through this unbelievably complex system.
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