This is Pretty Normal, Actually

It is hard to know what is normal these days. But having a party at the end of October seems like a fairly normal thing to do. And, it is not fake news to anyone who knows me, that I love a party.

I wouldn't exactly define myself as a party girl. For one thing, I'm not a girl, and for another, I generally keep my wits about me when throwing a party. Yes, I give in to plenty of laughter and perhaps even some outrageous behavior, but that isn't due to the influence of alcohol. That's just how I act. Anyway, the point is, I love a party and can generally find any excuse to throw one. October was no exception.

Side note: My family has been given strict instructions that when I die they are to have a party in my honor. I don't want a sad, gloomy remembrance. They have been told to throw a party with lots of laughter, maybe some dancing, plenty of food, and an abundance of goofiness. So, if I die and you see my family doing the gloomy thing, you have my permission to 'mean mug' them the whole time. 

That said, I am very much alive at the moment and, in fact, one of the reasons I so enjoy a party is that it gathers people together in a spirit of joy and community and life celebration. I love the laughter and food and stories. There is a feeling of unity when friends gather to celebrate. Rarely does it matter what is being celebrated. What matters most is that we are together embracing life and shared humanity.

To that end, in October we had a witch party. I'm not entirely sure it was my idea to begin with. I honestly can't remember. It isn't at all unusual for my friends to decide they want to have a party and to ask if we can have it at my house. My friend, Debbie is the queen of theme parties so it may well have been her idea originally. A few years ago, at her behest, we had a 1960s themed Christmas Party after I inherited the silver aluminum Christmas tree from my childhood. The primary reason for that party was to drink martinis, dress my daughter as a young, pregnant woman smoking and drinking 1960s style, and to take photographs. Because that is normal. Right?

A Witch Party was all about dressing up and dancing. When I first put on my orange striped witch socks I declared it the happiest day of my life which, admittedly, might have been a little over the top but wearing witch socks was especially satisfying. Until they started cutting into my thighs. But hey, fashion is pain. Even for witches, apparently.

We make a pretty convincing couple of hags, don't we?

A gathering of costume clad friends and family obliged our request that they attend as witches and warlocks, except for a couple of people who stretched the definition. Nevertheless, they came dressed up and that was good enough for us! Anna's boyfriend had loaned her his cow costume and Steve wore it for a few minutes. He was stripped of his costume, however, when he claimed that he was a warlock whose spell had gone, 'udderly wrong'.

Nope. No more cow costume for you.

This was before he made his bad pun.

The bovine warlock did show up again later, however, when Parker opted to put it on, having been unsure what constituted warlock wear. Granted, witch clothing, in the form of black hats and striped socks, does seem easier to come by. We ended up with a cadre of witches and warlocks, with one gender confused cow, and a Star Trek guy. Because, that is normal. Right?

I love my people!

I got a little taken up by the whole thing in the days leading up to the party and, although she didn't attend, I gave Mommie Dearest a witch hat. She liked wearing it. She seemed to have an uncanny sense of belonging in it. She was pretty convincing when she pretended to cast a spell on me. Ever since then I have felt the urge to supply my mother with alcohol and men.

"You'll forever do my bidding!"

Of course I had to dress up the dog because...that is normal. Right? Sadie didn't seem nearly as pleased to wear it as my mother did. She also didn't seem nearly as threatening. I think she was imploring me to let the newts keep their eyes. Sadie is a very empathetic dog.

"Why me?"

Finally, I couldn't resist putting it on the cat too. He seemed least thrilled of anyone. He looks downright despondent about the whole thing. I'm pretty sure if there had been a magic wand around I'd be scurrying about as a mouse right now.

"This is so humiliating."

Anyway, my mother and pets aside, our witch party needs were met, for this year, as dear longtime friends and a couple of special new ones joined in the fun. We all gathered on our outdoor deck for a bit dancing with the warlocks on the sidelines, bewitched by our spectacular talent. Because, that is normal. Right?

In all, it was the perfect October evening gathering. Grown adults, dressed in costumes, dancing, and finding joy in the company of one another. Ironically, that really is what's normal. The current political debacle is decidedly not normal! The division, and culture wars, and lack of civility is NOT normal.

It also doesn't represent the majority of people. The majority of people are good, caring, and loving, with an abundance of humanity and bewilderment at the appalling condition of our country. I truly believe this. The majority of people are, indeed, normal.

So, a party with people we love, dressed up as mythical beings, feels pretty normal currently. All the witches and warlocks don't view our current cultural and political situation the same. And we don't have to. Because in the end, that isn't what matters. What matters is our shared humanity, our ability to see past our difference, and our mutual love for one another.

And striped socks. Those matter.

That is normal. Right?

The Resurrection of Mommie Dearest

I haven't written much about Mommie Dearest lately. I used to write stories about her quite regularly, but in the past couple of years her colors seemed to have faded out, dimming and greying, along with her short-term memory. She's become fairly bland. Fewer crazy antics. Less fixation on men and alcohol. More and more of her life color drained; leaving me with less and less storytelling fodder.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, she was just saving it all up for one giant color burst; a solar flare of crazy. Apparently she still has a whole spectrum of adventures just waiting to get out. Silly me. I thought we were past all that.

Last summer, after realizing that living independently in a retirement community was no longer serving Mommie Dearest well, my siblings and I made the decision to relocate her to assisted living. We found a charming house with a small number of residents, amid lovely tranquil trees, in a quiet community. Bliss.

With fewer residents she would receive more individualized care. A single room would provide her with less space to hoard junk mail. Laundry service would mean I didn't have to add laundress to my already full resume. It seemed perfect to us.

She hates it, of course. I regularly hear about how she has only one room, is bored, and all the people she lives with are old. Nevertheless, things had been going along uneventfully. No major medical dramas.  No unseemly relationships with Viagra popping geezers. No taxicab escapades to nearby bars.

(Pause here to reflect on the fact I'm referring to a nearly crippled, almost 89-year old woman.)

On Memorial Day, I was awakened at 5am by a telephone call from my mother. She said she had been watching television and had decided to go downstairs to dinner. When she went into the hallway, however, she found the lights off. She assumed that she had been left in the building alone. I explained that, actually, everyone was asleep, because it was 5 o'clock in the morning!  At 7am I received a call from a nurse who said my mother was very confused and thought it was 7 in the evening. This level of confusion means that my mom has a urinary tract infection so, it being a holiday, I took her to an emergency room.  Later that day she was admitted.

As I prepared to go to the hospital on Tuesday morning, I received a telephone call that, in all honesty, I couldn't have anticipated. When I answered, the voice on the other end of the line was Lynn, the wellness nurse at the assisted living facility. I knew my mother was safely in a hospital bed, complete with an alarm should she decide to get out of it alone, so I wasn't terribly concerned. After a few opening pleasantries, however, Lynn began to hem and haw, finally saying, "I don't exactly know how to discuss this with you." My mind did a quick scan of possible topics. Pregnancy? No, she's 88. STD? Possibly. Marijuana? Likely. I told her to just blurt it out.

It seems there has been a noticeable consumption of alcohol, which is kept at the facility for weekly Happy Hour, since the beginning of the year. Lynn had grown concerned that someone from the staff had a problem and was stealing it. The employee responsible for purchasing the alcohol had been reporting a significant increase in spending. They had been trying to figure out the mysterious disappearance with little success. Over time, however, the mystery began to resolve when they caught two different residents sneaking into the bar area of the facility late at night, after the staff had gone home and the resident caregiver had gone to bed, lifting entire bottles of unopened wine and liquor and taking them back to their rooms.

The mystery wasn't completely resolved, however, because although they had caught the thieves red-handed, they knew someone else had to be the ringleader. The staff felt strongly that the two thieves, both in advanced stages of dementia, had carried out their underhanded duties at the bidding of someone with greater mental acumen. Someone still able to conjure up such a plan, provide direction, and encourage their dark deeds. A mastermind. A mob boss.

A Mommie Dearest.

Turns out my mother, fancying herself some prohibition era vigilante or something, preying on the less cognitively advantaged, had convinced the two women to form an alcohol thievery ring.

I guess that's one way to relieve boredom.

(Source: Google Images)
This isn't my mother. But I'm pretty sure this is her attitude.

Mommie Dearest blew her own cover on Friday night when she was apparently taking her turn at the five-finger discount. The trouble is, by that time the alcohol had been moved to a staff member's office and locked up. My mother was caught opening cupboards in search of booze to lift. When confronted with the knowledge that 1) the bounty was no longer available and 2) she had been found out, Mommie Dearest became enraged.

On Memorial Day, while we sat in the hospital emergency room, staff at the assisted living facility searched my mother's room. There they found numerous bottles of red wine as well as Bailey's Irish cream. The rooms of the other thieves netted similar evidence.

At least she stole the good stuff.

My mother had kicked the empty bottles under her bed. There weren't any partially consumed bottles so, presumably, the trio finished bottles off in one sitting while having their regular 'nightcap.' The full ones were stashed in the closet, stuffed in shoes, and tucked under clothing in dresser drawers. She even stole a corkscrew. Given her serious arthritis, she couldn't have opened the bottles herself so in picking out her crew of bandits, she must have considered physical strength. She's nothing if not conniving.

While at the hospital I mentioned this turn of events to the physician who assessed my mom for symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. She doesn't appear to have them. Nor does she seem to be an alcoholic. It appears she simply stole from the bar for the thrill of it. I repeat. The thrill of it.

Her fun is over, however. In a charming little assisted living facility with Victorian era decorations and a warm, friendly staff, the bar honor system is no longer in play. The maintenance man has installed locks on all the cupboard doors to keep my mother's sticky fingers off the booze. Geepers. I feel so proud.

That whole thing about my mother's colors dimming, I'm not falling for that again. I might have been naive once, but not anymore. Those colors will be radiating in full force as long as she lives.

God help us all if she figures out how to con someone into installing a stripper pole.

All Together Now....Breathe

I practice a little yoga now and then. Not a lot, because I'm not very good at it. I tend to lose my focus, fall over, and bump into things. I try to do it when I need to, though. One of the things I like most about yoga is that it forces me to breathe. Granted, my autonomic breathing responses are in fine working condition, but yoga forces me to breathe deeply and intentionally, and to actually pay attention to what I otherwise do thousands of times a day. Maybe millions. I've never counted. Anyway, hard core yoga folks call it pranayama, but I call it good old deep breathing. Whatever. I just know it relaxes my body and mind.

It seems to me we need to take a big collective pranayama breath in the United States. The whole country. All together. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.

(Source: Google Images)

What a time to be alive. I remind my children regularly that whatever they missed in Government class in high school, when they were goofing off, flirting, or thinking about something else, is being redeemed during this period of history.  Some day, when they are old, they can tell their kids or grandkids about this crazy, bumpy, turbulent ride through the not so friendly skies of divided.

As the cool kids say, "This shit cray!"

I had the good fortune to walk in the Women's March in Denver the day after Inauguration. It was a beautiful, crisp, Colorado day. I walked with my son and dear friend and 'communed' with the like-minded. As we made our way through the downtown streets, people thanked police officers, smiled at one another, chanted, and sang. Nobody lit a single thing on fire. Well, okay, we did have to wade through occasional clouds of pot smoke (we're in Denver after all!) so I guess something was being lit on fire. But no cars or buildings. I'm glad I did it. We marchers had fun doing something very serious.

I was told, by someone with an opposing view, that protesting is evil. I'm pretty sure it's just our Constitutional right. In addition to the march, I also write my members of Congress on a daily basis, not because I'm a big 'ole troublemaker, but because that is how my voice gets heard. There are plenty of people who didn't march and who likely write their members of Congress on a daily basis, saying the opposite things I say. It's okay. They can. That is what democracy is.

In these contentious, ugly-spirited days, it doesn't feel okay, however, for us to have differing opinions. There is so much vitriolic dogma and biting sarcasm on both sides, we're just talking over one another. How about some grace? A little dose of empathy? Opinions can be expressed without slander. It might do us all good to remember and employ the seemingly ancient art of simply being polite.

After the Women's March, a friend asked me what it was about. His question appeared sincere and I gave him my answer. We didn't discuss it, but I assumed he at least heard me, even if he didn't agree. His question made me think that it would be interesting to post an offer on Facebook to talk with anyone who wanted to know why I chose to march.  I posted it. And not a soul asked. It's hard to know what to make of that. Maybe people are just tired of talking about it. Although based on the number of memes and articles both for and against the march, posted daily, I have to assume people are still talking. Or maybe they are much more interested in expressing their own opinion, than actually finding out about anyone else's. Possibly they are afraid I might say something that would make sense and it would challenge them to think about it.

This election has brought out the worst in America. But we can do better than this. I know we can.

Maybe it is time to start listening. Listening doesn't mean agreeing. It means being quiet long enough to hear the other person. It means trying to understand. Look, I feel strongly about our government today. The truth is, there are a lot of things I'm not ever going agree with. But maybe, if I listened to the heart of the person 'on the other side,' I could get at least understand. I'm probably still going to write my members of Congress on a daily basis. I may even march a few more times. It possible to do those things and listen.

Quite possibly, if we just took the time to stop our strident screaming, we might learn something from one another. We might grow. We might become better people. I'm all about freedom of speech but just because we can, doesn't mean we should. We could all do with a little more self-governing and a little less blasting.

No one is entirely correct in their opinion or ideology. I think the problem is, we are all scared. Scared we won't be heard. Scared for our children, our grandchildren, our future. The truth is, both sides are scared. I know it feels like life or death for some. And, in fact, I believe it is. We simply cannot keep up this constant stress, tension, and fighting, We are all getting tired, and worn down, and increasingly mentally ill.

Let's stop.

I'm not suggesting complacency. Not at all. I'll be fighting for what I believe in like I've never fought before. And I hope people who are of a different mindset will fight for what they believe in too. How about if we just fight the issues and stop fighting each other. We are not each other's enemy. We are better than this. Remember that whole, 'house divided' thing? Yeah. I'm pretty sure it is true.

Be involved. Be active. But please...be kinder.

I suggest the country do a little collective yoga. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Sure, we might lose our focus, fall over, and bump into each other sometimes. But if we do, let's take a pranayama breath, start over, and find a place of grace.