A Reason to Live

I have never kissed someone without teeth.

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.

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.

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. 

My Maid is a Robot

Before you read any further I think you should be forewarned. This is a story about a vacuum cleaner. It's not a product review or anything like that. Just a story about a vacuum cleaner.

Okay, so it isn't really a vacuum cleaner, its a sweeper. A small robotic sweeper that churns and spins and somehow feels like a little worker bee family member.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

We bought our little sweeper a couple of months ago when our large lumbering tank of a vacuum cleaner finally decided it had sucked up its last fluffy cat hair. Realistically I think it had made that decision quite some time ago but I kept pushing it, literally, to go on living. I mean its purpose in life was sucking up stuff. But it got tired. Things stopped working like they were supposed to. Some of its parts started inching toward the ground. 

Wait...maybe I'm thinking of myself.

Anyway, the point is, the vacuum cleaner was done. It had lived its life. Nearly 25-years ago, when we first bought our house, Steve's father bought it for us. It was nice and sturdy and heavy duty. So heavy duty, in fact, carrying it up and down the stairs felt similar to hauling a small adult up and down the stairs. It did its job, cheerfully, I assume, sucking up the various and sundry messes created by the  ever increasing occupants of our little house. 

I vacuumed a lot in those days. Not because I particularly liked vacuuming but because I particularly didn't like seeing things on the carpet that weren't part of the carpet. Kids. Animals. Life. Things just got messy. A lot.  

The kids are gone now and our house doesn't get so messy anymore. The orignial carpet is long gone too, but we still have lots of animals. Lots of animals who shed lots of hair that collects in rodent-like clumps and tufts in corners of the unforgiving wood floors. When the albatross of a vacuum cleaner died recently I decided to buy one of those little robot doodads. My plan was to program it to run every day just before I got home from work.  That way the various wads of pet hair would be all gone before I walked in the door.  Like having a maid. Only without the guilt. 

(Source: Google Images)

We brought the robot home and turned it on. It was sort of fascinating. Mesmerizing, in fact. It spun and whirred and criss crossed around the room while we just watched. After about an hour it decided it was finished, headed back to its charger, docked itself, and turned itself off.  

Weird.

The robot sweeper does its job every day now. Being home while it runs is a little disconcerting. I constantly feel that I'm getting in its way. I apologize. One day Charles came over when we were preparing to have guests for brunch and the robot was doing its thing. I asked Charles to set the table and as he did so he kept shrieking that the robot was following him.  I told him he was being ridiculous.  But it sort of seemed like he was right.

Occasionally I come home from work to find the robot hasn't found its way back to the dock but has instead done battle with an electrical cord, a dog leash, or some other erroneous hazard and shut itself off mid-sweep.  When this happens I speak kindly to it, disentangle it, and gently put it back in its dock, all the while assuming it feels badly for not completing the task. 

Except, of course, I don't have to apologize for getting in its way, it wasn't chasing Charles, and it doesn't feel bad when it shuts itself off.  It doesn't have the capacity for human emotion. Its a ROBOT.

My little robot can spin around the house all day but never once will it feel unappreciated. I can get in its way while its running and it simply changes course without ever feeling I'm being rude. When I find it in a predicament and safely return it to its dock it hasn't ever uttered, 'thank you.' No matter how much anthropomorphism I attach to it, in the end its just a device.  It does its job (well, I might add) but nothing more. 

I suppose it seems pretty crazy to write a story about a robotic gizmo scurrying around my house. It is. But I'm thankful for the way it makes my life easier and I figure its always good to be thankful.  And a little crazy.