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| Pucker up, honey! (Source: Google Images) |
I'm just putting this out as a public service announcement since my mother felt compelled to ask me about it last week. Maybe others want to know.
Mommie Dearest turned 87 a couple of months ago, and these days life is getting more difficult. Not because her health is failing, but because she doesn't have anyone to kiss. Nobody to flirt with. No elderly 'boyfriend.' A fact she bemoans to me at every opportunity.
What is the point of living?
As her July birthday approached I contemplated what to give her. It's hard to know what a woman who has outlived two husbands, several 'boyfriends,' her entire family of origin, a boatload of friends and acquaintances, and had more than a few brushes with death could want. Unable to come up with a gift to wrap, I decided this year I would give her the gift of service. I had been noticing that her apartment was taking on that suspiciously chaotic look of a hoarder. Because, in fact...she is a hoarder. Every time I mentioned that we needed to clean her apartment she would say, "Oh yes, we do. But I don't want to throw anything away!" So really now, what's the point of that?
One day I stopped by to see her and after knocking on the door I heard her say, "Just a minute," followed immediately by an alarming 'thud.' Next she yelled, "I just fell," and I took off running to find someone who could unlock her apartment. When I entered, she was on the floor but seemed unhurt. I picked her up, put her in her chair, and after a few minutes told her I wanted to see if she could stand. In her crankiest voice she said, "Oh I'm fine." I insisted she stand up. Then, I told her I needed to see if she could walk. At this she got very irritated and in her best 13-year old smart ass voice said, "There. See. I can walk," while shuffling along, wiggling her butt, and doing a little dance.
She was fine.
The fall made me realize that her apartment had become a danger zone and I could no longer avoid conflict by not cleaning. On the other hand, trying to clean while she insisted I not throw anything away had the potential to make me contemplate pushing her down. Since I would prefer to avoid elder abuse I knew I needed a plan. Fortunately Anna Queen of Planning, was home for summer and concocted a strategy whereby Steve, who basically deserves sainthood, would take Mommie Dearest to lunch and shopping while we stayed behind to clean. Perfect. She'd have to choose between making sure we didn't throw away grocery lists from 2010, junk mail, and crushed packets of saltine crackers, or shopping, which is her favorite activity following flirting. And kissing. Oh, and drinking wine. Whatever. We had this.
What is the point of living?
As her July birthday approached I contemplated what to give her. It's hard to know what a woman who has outlived two husbands, several 'boyfriends,' her entire family of origin, a boatload of friends and acquaintances, and had more than a few brushes with death could want. Unable to come up with a gift to wrap, I decided this year I would give her the gift of service. I had been noticing that her apartment was taking on that suspiciously chaotic look of a hoarder. Because, in fact...she is a hoarder. Every time I mentioned that we needed to clean her apartment she would say, "Oh yes, we do. But I don't want to throw anything away!" So really now, what's the point of that?
One day I stopped by to see her and after knocking on the door I heard her say, "Just a minute," followed immediately by an alarming 'thud.' Next she yelled, "I just fell," and I took off running to find someone who could unlock her apartment. When I entered, she was on the floor but seemed unhurt. I picked her up, put her in her chair, and after a few minutes told her I wanted to see if she could stand. In her crankiest voice she said, "Oh I'm fine." I insisted she stand up. Then, I told her I needed to see if she could walk. At this she got very irritated and in her best 13-year old smart ass voice said, "There. See. I can walk," while shuffling along, wiggling her butt, and doing a little dance.
She was fine.
The fall made me realize that her apartment had become a danger zone and I could no longer avoid conflict by not cleaning. On the other hand, trying to clean while she insisted I not throw anything away had the potential to make me contemplate pushing her down. Since I would prefer to avoid elder abuse I knew I needed a plan. Fortunately Anna Queen of Planning, was home for summer and concocted a strategy whereby Steve, who basically deserves sainthood, would take Mommie Dearest to lunch and shopping while we stayed behind to clean. Perfect. She'd have to choose between making sure we didn't throw away grocery lists from 2010, junk mail, and crushed packets of saltine crackers, or shopping, which is her favorite activity following flirting. And kissing. Oh, and drinking wine. Whatever. We had this.
While Steve and my mother dined and shopped, Anna and I cleaned and discarded. We scrubbed, and vacuumed, and organized until finally, tired and dirty, we plugged in a sweet smelling air freshener; our denouement. Moments later Steve and Mommie Dearest returned. I was concerned that she would be upset about all the things we had removed. She didn't even notice. She was so excited about the over sized purse Steve had bought her she could think of nothing else. The purse was way too big for her bony, arthritic shoulders to carry but that didn't matter. She had something new. And something new meant she might not be too old. And not being too old meant she might be able to attract a man.
A reason to live.
A few days ago I went to see her and asked how she was feeling. A stomach virus had made her ill in the days prior. She said she was bored. The boyfriend thing again. I asked how she was feeling physically. She said she was fine. But bored. No available men. She pointed around the room and said, "Just look at what I have to choose from!" She proceeded to point to a nearby man, and said, "That one doesn't even have any teeth!" Imagine that, I thought...she does have standards. Nevertheless, I suggested she stop being mean. Ignoring me, she kept repeating it and finally said, loudly, "Have you ever kissed someone with no teeth??" No, I assured her, I had not kissed someone without teeth. Maybe someday. But not yet.
A few days ago I went to see her and asked how she was feeling. A stomach virus had made her ill in the days prior. She said she was bored. The boyfriend thing again. I asked how she was feeling physically. She said she was fine. But bored. No available men. She pointed around the room and said, "Just look at what I have to choose from!" She proceeded to point to a nearby man, and said, "That one doesn't even have any teeth!" Imagine that, I thought...she does have standards. Nevertheless, I suggested she stop being mean. Ignoring me, she kept repeating it and finally said, loudly, "Have you ever kissed someone with no teeth??" No, I assured her, I had not kissed someone without teeth. Maybe someday. But not yet.
It's been a while since Mommie Dearest has had a steady beau. I guess when you're 87 and insist your guy has chompers you limit the field a bit. Regardless, I'm sure there's someone out there for her. Someone to play a very old Rhett to her walker laden Scarlett. It probably won't be long before she crooks her gnarled up little finger with its long, red acrylic nail at some unsuspecting bachelor and nabs him. Then she can commence flirting. Kissing. Drinking wine.
And living.
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