Connected by Crazy

I made a best friend the other day. Granted, the relationship only lasted about 30 seconds. Maybe it was a minute, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, for those few seconds we were the only two people in the world. The next thing I knew, she was gone.

Never underestimate the power of a chance encounter with a stranger.

(Source: Google Images) 

The day hadn't started off great. Well, actually the day started off just fine but shortly after waking it took a bit of a turn. As I was enjoying some early morning coffee and alone time, my peace was disrupted by a phone call from my beloved cat's veterinarian. The doctor apologized for calling so early but said that my Princess's blood chemistry revealed some fairly dire health concerns. My girl is quite sick and while we can't cure her, the vet felt the most compassionate thing we can do is make her comfortable so she feels better until the inevitable happens. That call and the subsequent trip to the veterinarian's office, with the unhappy cat in tow, changed the tone for my day. Although I'm not one for feeling sorry for myself, the truth is, I was decidedly sadder.

I couldn't just sit around and feel sad, though. There were things to do and life to be lived. I love my cat very much but she is, after all, a cat and not a human. I will do what I can to make her remaining days comfortable and when she dies I will grieve, but I've been through enough feline deaths and human deaths to know they aren't exactly the same. Life will go on and, in fact, on that particular day a lot of life needed to happen.

Anna was home for Thanksgiving break and she, Steve, and I set out to do a few errands. I needed to go to Costco. Of all things. Two days before Thanksgiving. Who in their right mind goes to Costco two days before Thanksgiving?  Apparently all of Denver.

And us.

The crowds were thick. Oodles of people were steering gigantic carts in front of others, cutting them off without warning, to grab a bite-sized sample of canned cinnamon rolls. People in motorized shopping carts weaved wildly through throngs of shoppers, as though they were being pursued in a high-speed police chase. Small children dawdled in the middle of the isle, dancing and singing to themselves while harried shoppers tried to navigate past them.

A typical day at Costco.

I wasn't overly bothered by all the mayhem. It comes with the territory. If you're gonna go to Costco two days before Thanksgiving, don't expect to shop alone. The problem wasn't the mass of humanity buying groceries, office supplies, and twerking Santa's. No, the problem was my very own darling husband who, for whatever reason, chose this time, this location, and this day to temporarily go insane.

I'm not entirely sure what was the actual problem. We were at the store to purchase food for an event he was attending. Right there, in the middle of Costco chaos, Steve's ability to make any decisions vanished. Along with losing decision making capabilities, he lost all capacity for hearing and considering my suggestions. Frustration, anger, and agitation all entered the scene as we stood, in the way of frantic shoppers, having a circular conversation about what to buy. Or not. Reasoning skills made a hasty, stage right exit. It went on and on and on. At one point Steve stepped away and Anna quietly said to me, "Is this weird, or is it just me?" My response...."So weird!"

I had no idea what was happening to Steve, but look, we all get nutty at times. I get it. He just happened to have chosen a very bad day and a very busy place. At some point in the ever deteriorating scene, he decided to purchase a pre-made Ceaser salad. Whew. We started making our way from the back of the store to the cash registers, navigating the human landmines grabbing samples like they had been deprived of food for days. When we finally got close enough to survey the lines and choose a lane to stand in, a man whom I'd never seen before in my life, sidled up next to me and said hello. I said hello back. He proceeded to stand there smiling at me like I should know whatever secret he held. I awkwardly smiled back.

OMG. Now what was happening??

Finally he said, "I see you have a salad there." Glancing into the cart I said, "Yes, I do." He proceeded to say, "I just heard on the news that there is an e coli outbreak and they are recalling ALL Romaine lettuce."  Seriously? We just spent 45 minutes in chaos deciding what to buy and now, just as we are about to pay for it you tell me it is contaminated?  I thanked the man for telling me, as Anna quickly looked up the information on Google and confirmed that he was right, the announcement had just been issued. Literally. While we were debating what to purchase, the CDC had put out a statement saying all Romaine lettuce was unsafe to eat. There hadn't even been time to pull Romaine from the store shelves yet. A defeated Steve muttered, "Well, I can't buy that now," and pulled the salad out of the cart to return it to the refrigerated shelves in the back of the store. Back to square one.

As we stood in the mass of humanity with endless lines to the cash register, I said aloud, "This is crazy." A woman about my age, maybe a little older, standing next to me, surveyed the crowd and offered, "Oh yes, isn't it?" I turned to her and gesturing to all the people said, "Oh, I didn't mean all this. This I can handle. I'm talking about my husband." A couple of seconds of silence hung in the air and then her eyes widened, she threw back her head and started laughing. Loudly. Her response sparked my own laughter and she grabbed my hands. There we stood, in a sea of harried Costco shoppers, two strangers, holding hands and laughing with abandon. Knowingly. Our souls connected.

We've all been there.

When our laughter finally slowed, she released my hands and off she went, immediately melting into the hundreds of people. Right then, right there. A stranger had changed the tone of my day.

My cat was still sick and my husband was still a temporary nut case, but in those few moments of laughter with a stranger, I knew it was all going to be okay. I'd deal with the cat issues as they came and my husband would eventually return to the sane, charming man he usually is. Spontaneous, unabashed laughter with a total stranger had been the release valve I needed.

Here's the thing. We forget how connected we are as humans. I didn't have to explain to my momentary buddy what had transpired with Steve. She just knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew. She had been there. That man who told me not to buy the salad cared enough to keep me from buying something potentially harmful. And that person who darted in front of me to get a tiny slice of ham, we had something in common too. Maybe not ham lust but...something. There is some experience or feeling we've both had that is a point of connection.

All it takes is a moment, a comment, or a small action to realize we are all in this together. Despite how it seems, there is more of love in this life than hate.

It is easy to get distracted by all the noise and fear and 'other-ing' bombarding us on the daily. Sometimes it just takes a burst of laughter with a stranger to remember.

We are all connected.

And our connection is love.

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.

Required Reading for the Betterment of Society

I'm convinced book people should take over the world.

I've actually put a lot of time into thinking about this. For years I have maintained that if I were a dictator, citizens under my rule would have mandatory reading for the betterment of society. The assigned readings wouldn't be dense or obscure, they would be accessible to as many in the population as possible. I'd offer optional readings for different levels and, of course, everyone would be encouraged to do as much 'free-will' reading as possible. Literature wouldn't come from just one genre and required reading for the betterment of society would include both fiction and non-fiction. For those with reading disabilities or vision issues, audio books would be available. I'd be a benevolent dictator, after all.

Think about it. There would be no more mind-numbing reality TV. Nobody would care what inane people with no real talent were doing. They'd be too busy reading. Intelligence reducing twenty-four hour news cycles would be obsolete. People wouldn't have time to listen to factless drivel. It would be a calmer, gentler, smarter, quieter period in which people expanded their minds, increased their compassion, and generally exercised civility. Society would be better, I'm sure.

Because book people are nice.

Okay, I may be speaking in gross generalities here but I'm pretty sure I'm on to something. I've figured it out after years of observing book people at a local library annual used book sale. The sale is huge. Books are everywhere. Readers flock to the sale en masse.

(Source: Google Images)

Table after table is lined with books of every type. Fiction. Non-fiction. Classics. Mysteries. Cookbooks. Children's literature. It is all there. Some books are older. Some are newer. Some are foreign. Some are simple. Some are complex. Some contain hate. Some contain love. And they all mingle together with only loose classifications. It isn't unusual to find a love story set in Burma amid the travel books, or a romance novel cozied up to the cookbooks. Their links may be loose, but somehow they find themselves together co-existing under the general 'species,' books.

At the book sale, shoppers browse up and down the rows with little personal space, but an abundance of patience. If someone lingers in a particular area, the other browsers simply say, excuse me, and go around. I've never heard anyone yell. Never seen anyone push. Not even an exasperated sigh. Occasionally, a shopper will pick up a book by a particular author only to have the stranger standing next to them ask if they have read anything else by that writer. If the answer is no, they recommend one. If the answer is yes, they briefly discuss the merits of the tome. Sometimes there are outbursts of joy when a particular book finds its reader. Sometimes shoppers search for a copy of a much desired book for another bibliophile they just met. Their links may be loose, but somehow they find themselves co-existing under the general species,'reader.'

Mystery readers don't disparage those who immerse themselves in historical fiction. Readers who hang out in the science section never mock the ones who love classics. It's a caring place; the book sale. The books are peaceful. The patrons are kind. Differences abounds. But then, so does respect. Maybe we should all consider behaving like book people in our regular, everyday lives, regardless of our religious beliefs, racial differences, or political dispositions. Maybe we should show more compassion. More patience. More kindness.

Because our links may be loose, but somehow we find ourselves co-existing under the general species, 'human.'

Mommie Dearest's Whole New World

Heed my advice. Do not give a person with dementia a cell phone programmed to speed dial your number at the push of one button. If you do, it is entirely possible that every day the person with dementia will discover, anew, they can call you in an instant. Chances are, they will use this new found skill over and over and over. All day. Every day.

This advice was born of my own ill conceived idea to purchase a cell phone for Mommie Dearest so she could have it at the assisted living facility where we recently moved her. 

Live and learn.

For some time now I have been thinking that we needed to move my mom to a higher level of care. Her worsening dementia was making it hard to keep her in an independent living situation. Granted, the facility she was living in was for senior citizens but it was for those who could largely care for themselves. When we moved her to Colorado she was fairly capable of doing so, but over time her independence became more and more of a burden. I knew something needed to change.

During a recent visit with my siblings we decided to pursue an appropriate assisted living facility for our mom. We visited a few facilities and found the place we felt would be just perfect for Mommie Dearest. It had all of the important amenities: staff to administer daily medications, a cook to prepare and serve meals, weekly happy hour with wine. Men.

Or so I thought.

In reality the men aren't very plentiful in this new living arrangement. I was deceived by the man who lives across the hall from my mother, thinking he was representative of a larger male population. Turns out he is one of only two. Honestly though, It doesn't seem to matter that much.  Mommie Dearest has lost some of her zeal for wooing men. It was one of the first signs things were digressing. It was as if she forgot that she liked to be the center of all male attention. She even started forgetting to go to happy hour. Malaise about wooing men and not registering opportunities to guzzle boxed wine from a Styrofoam cup? These were bad signs. 

We took our mom to visit the new residence and she was surprisingly amenable to the idea. She gave it a slightly crooked, arthritic thumbs up and I set a plan in motion.  It all seemed remarkably easy. Until it wasn't. But that's the way it is with Mommie Dearest. One minute things are going along just fine and the next minute we've entered a whole new reality and I haven't recognized the switch. Admittedly, I have a little trouble keeping up.   

Within days of my giving notice that she would be moving out of the independent living facility, staff started mentioning that my mother was telling them she rescinded the notice. I got daily phone calls from her saying that she was not moving and that was that. She dug her heels in. Truth be told, however, she didn't dig very far or fight very hard. In the end, she moved with very little kicking and screaming. Either she forgot she likes to make things as difficult for me as possible or, maybe, like chasing men, she just doesn't have the stamina anymore. I'm not sure.

She's in her new place now, no longer in a two-room apartment but in her own bedroom within a large house. She gets loving care and reminders, all day long, to do the important things like eat lunch and play Bingo. She mentions the sparse male population regularly but it is seemingly more out of habit than any real desire. She doesn't appear to even remember where she lived just days ago. 

I put sticky note reminders all around her room, including one that tells her to press 2 on her cell phone if she wants to call me. Every day she discovers how to call me again. It's a perpetual surprise.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I like this simple-minded Mommie Dearest with her Swiss cheese memory a little better than the narcissistic, mean-spirited woman who raised me. Then I remind myself that guilt is a useless emotion. Feel what you feel. Besides, being with my mom helps with my never ending quest for life balance. Watching her slowly drift away reminds me that everything in life is a cycle. Change is inevitable and constant. Every day I get older. We all do. That's the way it is supposed to be. Holding on to youth is impossible, so I'm learning to embrace aging. Sort of. Most days.

Until my grey roots start showing.

For the most part, I'm thankful for this phase of life with my mother. She, unintentionally, reminds me to live intentionally, and breathe in the life I've been given. I appreciate the lesson. It is good to remember that the problems I'm solving at work, the relationship challenges I'm navigating at home, or the finances that will seemingly never be enough to retire with, are all fleeting. All that truly matters is how I live in the here and now.

I live with intention today, because at some point I too might be discovering the magic of speed dial. All day. Every day.

Politics, Decency, and Rainbow Sprinkles

Thank God for rainbow sprinkles. Everybody knows they make everything better.

Okay, maybe everybody doesn't know that. And maybe they don't make everything better.  But the other day, when I was feeling utterly dismayed, an internal force demanded that I buy frosted donuts with colorful sprinkles.

I complied. It seemed the only reasonable thing to do. 

Last Friday morning, as I readied myself for work, I decided to stop on my way into the office and buy donuts. My staff had been working hard and they were all exceedingly tired. In the world of the college recruiter, the early months of a new year are particularly taxing. Having criss-crossed the United States, attended dozens of college fairs, and talked with thousands of people, I knew my delightful little crew was feeling road weary. They needed a boost and a thank you. But I didn't want to ply only my direct reports with sugar, flour, and fat; I figured everyone in the office would enjoy some tasty, greasy, albeit empty calories.

As I drove to the donut shop I did what I do every morning and turned on my car radio to catch up on the latest news. I listened in horror. Not the kind of horror one feels when something unthinkable happens and lives are lost. Not the kind of horror rendered by vengeful supernatural beings. No, this was a horror provoked by the behavior of political candidates who aspire to lead our country. 

I use the word lead loosely.

I listened in horror as I heard grown men bullying, making fun, chiding, speaking vile and ugly things. Making up lies. Talking over one another. This was the reality TV of politics. And these are the people who want to take over leadership of our country???

There was nothing in their behavior that represents leadership.  Not. One. Thing. Although I rarely think shame is a good or called for emotion, in this case, those men should be ashamed. Deeply. To their core. I fear they aren't ashamed in the least. As I listened to the recorded clips of their appalling public display I was utterly horrified, disgusted, and terribly disheartened. What a degrading display of immaturity. 

Lead our country???

In a world that seems increasingly nasty and rude, where dignity and grace fade into the background of vulgarity, I would hope that the very people who desire positions of leadership would present humility and self-respect. A leader makes the world a better place. Instead this group of men bowed to the antics of the most debased, tasteless, lowest common denominator, demeaned themselves, and demonstrated behavior unsuitable for even the most ill-behaved children. It was sad. It was discouraging. It was coarse and uncivilized and represented everything a leader should not be. 

Listening to the news made me feel desperate. Surely this can't be. Granted many politicians have behaved in less than becoming ways. But this?  This was as inglorious a display as we have ever seen. Surely we are so much better than this.

It was truly disheartening. I stopped at the donut shop and did the only thing I knew to do. I not only bought donuts, I bought the most brightly colored, rainbow sprinkled donuts available. I specified that I wanted the prettiest donuts on the shelf. I watched as the woman behind the counter carefully selected each donut and gingerly placed it in the box. When she picked up one with white frosting and brown chocolate sprinkles I stopped her and asked that she include only the ones with colored sprinkles. I didn't tell her that the world felt very dark and sad and the only thing I could think to do in my moment of despair was to treat my coworkers to something vibrant and celebratory. Not because I celebrated the moronic behavior of the politicians who had so badly degraded themselves and our country, but because it was the only positive thing I could think to do in the moment. I had to do something light to counter their dark, ugly, negative, destructive behavior. Rainbow sprinkles were all I had. 

At work I made a little sign that said, "Have a donut. Because you can. 😊" and left it next to the brilliant display of cheerful little donuts.  A few people thanked me and, although I make it my policy not to discuss politics with anyone outside of my family or my closest and kindest friends, I did mention that the sprinkles were my response to deep sadness I was feeling while looking at the political horizon. 

They all understood.

All of my coworkers; hard working, caring, passionate, kind and decent people, who will never be President of the United States understood why rainbow sprinkles were so important that day. 

Nobody chided me. Nobody bullied me. Or made fun of me. Or talked over me. Nobody lied about me or acted like a belligerent, insecure child. Nobody scattered water around and mocked me for sweating. They all had compassion for my despair. And they all said thank you.

Because they are decent human beings.

The People's Princess

I've made a lot of mistakes in my parenting years. Too many to count. While I don't particularly want to list them all right here, I will confess my most recent faux pas. In my defense, I didn't maim anyone or destroy their psyche. All I did was laugh. Loudly.

It was a Sunday evening and I was sitting outside on the sidewalk watching the lunar eclipse drape the moon in a dark red hue. They call it a blood moon, although frankly, if I saw someone with blood that color, I'd be pretty concerned.  Nevertheless, it was a beautiful evening. Anna had texted me a couple of times and I had responded with truly stupid comments such as, "What? There is a lunar eclipse in Nebraska too??" and, "Tell me what happens next since your eclipse is an hour ahead." These were done for comedic effect and because I often forget to take life seriously. I'd say I'd try harder to approach life more soberly, but let's face it, I won't. 

Anyway, just about the time the entire moon was shrouded in darkness, my cell phone rang. It was Anna telling me she had just found out, by being sprayed with Silly String, she was nominated for college homecoming royalty. I laughed. She says I cackled but that is such an unattractive word. I prefer to think of it as a melodic and charming lilt.

Alright fine. I cackled.

The whole thing seemed uproariously funny. It had never occurred to me that she would be nominated for homecoming royalty. I associate such things with popularity contests, and being popular has never been something Anna aspired to. She desires to be well liked, a good leader, to learn new things, and expand her horizons, but being the popular girl has never much mattered. The irony of it made me....cackle, I guess.

Anna relentlessly drives herself to achieve. This is the girl who, in third grade, having been in home school up to that point, calmly requested that she go to public school because she didn't think I was teaching her enough. When she started public school she wouldn't be content unless enrolled in advanced courses. This is the girl who, at the end of middle school insisted on applying for the IB program in high school despite her parent's recommendation that she relax and enjoy herself. And the girl who, upon turning 16, went out and got a job even though we told her we thought her courses were challenging enough she didn't need an outside job. She worked 20-hours a week, completed the IB program, and made it all look quite breezy. We never worried about her going out and being wild. She didn't rebel that way. She just quietly went about doing what she wanted; none of which involved being popular or the center of attention.

But there she was. Covered in Silly String.

It probably goes without saying that for a young woman who is relatively shy, being homecoming royalty felt a little uneasy. Nevertheless, Anna handled it with typical poise and aplomb. When, at the Friday evening dinner she was crowned Homecoming Princess I tried very hard not to cackle. 

Wearing the cute little crown would have been funny enough, but shortly after the coronation came the realization that she was going to have to be in the homecoming parade the following morning, riding in a convertible and undoubtedly having to do that weird waving thing. This was followed by the realization that the homecoming prince had football warm ups and wouldn't be able to join her.  

Riding in a convertible. By herself. Doing the princess wave. This was definitely not her thing.

To make the parade easier and more fun for her, Parker agreed to help out in typical Griggs fashion by holding the prince's head on a stick and standing in. 

More grace fell on the reluctant princess when, just as it was time for the royalty motorcade to commence, the battery on the shiny red Jaguar died and Anna and Parker were left to walk, providing a much more 'down to earth' style, far more suited to this particular royal couple than regally riding. 

Following the outgoing, stiletto heeled homecoming queen and the equally heeled incoming homecoming queen, both in convertible chariots, came the People's Princess, walking in flat boots and handing out candy.

I'm extraordinarily proud of what Anna has quietly and steadfastly accomplished thus far in life. Going to another state for college wasn't easy for her homebody self, but her soul knew it was where she belonged. While there she has bravely embraced new experiences and relationships and academics, but I believe it is her quiet, compassionate, and dedicated leadership that most prompted her peers to vote for her to wear a sparkly sash and tiara. 

It turns out being voted homecoming royalty wasn't about popularity. It was about leadership. And for that Anna deserved every vote.

I probably shouldn't have cackled.

Our Lady of Perpetual Winking

I'm not trying to brag, but my sweet little cattle dog knows how to wink. I don't think this is a typical dog trick. I mean, I don't know that many dogs who can wink on command. I'm pretty proud of her. She's come a long way from homeless and pregnant puppy on death row, to rescue dog, to being put under house arrest, to trained winker.

Look at my cute wink!

Unless I'm lying.

Which I might be.

Okay fine. She winks. But it isn't exactly by choice.

A couple of months ago I was getting ready for work on a Friday morning and noticed that Sadie's right eye looked odd. It appeared cloudy and swollen but it was dark in the house and I just thought it was one of those weird glowing animal eye things. I wasn't concerned. A while later Anna mentioned it and after looking carefully at Sadie's eye and seeing that it was in fact cloudy and swollen, I asked Steve if he could take her to the veterinarian to get it checked. Later that day they came home with an eye infection diagnosis and some antibiotic salve. The next morning Sadie's eye looked better. I thought that was the end of it.

By Tuesday, though, her eye looked odd again and she started acting like she felt poorly. Thinking she must have a nasty eye infection, I took her back to the veterinarian expecting to get a different, more powerful antibiotic ointment. What I got, however, was a diagnosis of rapid onset glaucoma. The veterinarian declared her left eye blind and said her right eye wasn't far behind. Unbeknown to me, glaucoma is excruciatingly painful and his next statement took my breath away. The only way to eliminate her suffering was to remove her beautiful, albeit now swollen, cloudy, and blind, brown eye. 

Remove her eye? Is that called that an 'eyeectomy? My dog has to have her EYE removed??

Despite her teen pregnancy and brushes with death and the law, I do love this little dog. Nevertheless, I brokenheartedly asked the vet if it would be more merciful to put her down. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't want her to suffer. Without hesitation he said, "Oh no, dogs have no vanity. They use their sense of smell and hearing much more than sight anyway. She'll be fine." He then instructed me to drive across town to a dog opthamologist. And to get there as soon as I could. I didn't even know such a specialty existed but apparently rapid onset glaucoma takes the rapid part of its name seriously, so I loaded my suffering dog into the car and weaved my way through rush hour traffic to the dog opthomologist. There I met a kind and gentle spirited doctor who confirmed the veterinarian's diagnosis and instructed me to have Sadie's blind eye removed as soon as possible.

The next morning I dropped my sweet little half-blind puppy off for surgery.

My poor puppy.

Unable to fathom what post-surgery would look like (pun intended, I guess) I picked her up after work with some trepidation. I was surprised, however. Except for her rather gruesome appearance and the large plastic cone around her neck, she seemed just fine. She was excited to see me, at least with her one remaining eye, and greeted me with tail wagging and excited dancing. To my amazement, her healing and recovery were swift and speedy. Sadie didn't seem to care about how she looked. I'm fairly certain if I had to have my eye removed I'd be far less gracious about the whole thing.

The opthamologist assures us that Sadie will go blind in the remaining eye, although we are hoping to avoid having to remove it. We give her eye drops twice a day to slow the progression of glaucoma. She's pretty compliant with the whole routine, knowing she gets a treat after each drop. I made up a little song and dance we perform before each treatment. It pretty much involves her jumping around the kitchen while I dance and sing. The words are:

Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one.....

...well, you get the idea. Now that I type it, I guess it isn't the most creative thing I've ever come up with. The tune is catchy, though. You'll have to trust me.

Anyway, our one-eyed doggy doesn't seem to know she only has one eye. Life for her is just wrestling with cats, sleeping on the couch, going for walks, and getting lavished with love.

Which I guess is her purpose.

Adopting Sweet Sadie feels a lot like a marriage. For better, for worse. In sickness and health. 'Till death do us part. We had no idea what we were getting into but we are in it for the long haul.

Because she's not just our dog. She's our family.

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. 

Youthful Foot Folly

My left foot is getting old. I know that seems a bit odd since, presumably, my left foot is the same age as the rest of my body. Knit in my mother's womb and all that. But for whatever reason, my left foot seems to be getting old faster than any other part of my body. It troubles me with a variety of aches and pains which, no doubt, can be traced back to when I was in my 20s. 

In those days I didn't think about middle-aged pain. My fashion awareness dictated that my wardrobe  include several pair of cute and colorful high-heeled pumps. No sensible one-inch heels for me, thank you.  Put the emphasis on 'high.'

Turns out all that stuff they tell you about the perils of pitching your body forward and standing on your toes all day is right.  Your feet develop a slow but seething hatred. Of shoes. Of walking. And most particularly...of you.

I started noticing this pedial rebellion a couple of years ago when, in the morning, my left foot would ache through my first waking steps. Over time my daily walks started to induce numb toes and throbbing arches. Next, I acknowledged that wearing heels was causing pain far more intense than the younger me had grown accustomed to. When I started looking at footwear with a wary eye toward the level of pain it would cause, and opted for flats instead, I knew I was in trouble. 

After attempting a variety of home remedies for my ever increasing pain, I eventually decided to consult a physician.  I generally don't find much point in going to a doctor for the simple stuff.  I figure I'm just as capable of guessing what is wrong as they are, but when things get more complicated, I acquiesce. Medical professionals have fancy machines that see below the surface and, since I possess neither x-ray vision nor the equipment for such a sophisticated view, I opted to make an appointment. 

Turns out my left foot has a number of issues. Whatever can cause pain, my foot pretty much has. Bunions.  A pesky Morton's neuroma. Some run of the mill arthritis. And a little plantar fasciitis for good measure.

Okay, so that explains the pain. I asked about a remedy. The doctor recommended I change my footwear to no heels, a wide toe box, and sturdy soles.

Geepers, that sounds attractive. What's the point in having feet if you can't wear cute shoes? 

Eventually though, I had to get realistic. It's not like hobbling around on cranky old feet is all that fetching. I went on the Internet and started researching shoes to match the criteria. There wasn't much. It seems few shoe manufacturers are concerned about healthy feet. And those who are have very underdeveloped stylistic sensibilities.  

Goodbye fashion.

Hello Grandma.

I ordered these in every color.

Hot, sexy mama shoes

There's a moral to this story, of course. Don't be foolish. Be practical and follow the advice of wise old crones who tell you to consider the future. Your feet will thank you.

Nevertheless, would the 50-something me advise the 20-something me to forgo fashionable footwear in deference to later consequences? Probably not.

Would the 20-something me listen to the 50-something me? Assuredly not.

Because there is also an Epicurean moral. Wear heels when you're young...because you can.

I don't regret my youthful choice of colorful stilettos. Granted, in retrospect it wasn't very smart. But smart can be over-rated. There is something to be said for choosing whimsy over practical. Cute over boring. Fuchsia over brown. Was choosing fashion over pragmatism the brightest decision I could have made?  Of course not. But it sure was fun. Besides, some of my foot complications might have happened anyway. Plenty of men who never wore high heels have similar issues. I wouldn't change a thing.

Eat, drink, and wear cute shoes for tomorrow we get bunions.

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.

The Love Actually Mishap

Christmas has been a little different at our house since my mother moved to Colorado a few years ago.  Our special little five-some has had to change slightly to accommodate our brash, narcissistic, slightly crazy, octogenarian party girl. We still manage to celebrate with our sweet traditions, we just have to make room for Mommie Dearest in some of those now.

Having my mother around on Christmas isn't that big of a deal anymore. It took some getting used to but we've learned to just go with it. She likes to make everything about herself but we've managed to navigate around that pretty well. We listen to her stories of flirting with elderly boys and charming people into buying her booze with mild amusement. She's perpetually sixteen and stories highlighting the paradox of her actual age and her perceived age are entertaining. The first few times. But after a while her conversational loops get a little tedious and by the tenth or twelfth time she's telling the same story I notice my children's eyes glazing over or anxiously darting to locate an exit.

I watched it all unfold on Christmas Day, just a few weeks ago. Grandma's repeated topics were getting a bit stale so Steve asked if she'd like to watch a Christmas movie. Although I was fairly firm in my convictions that TV should not be a babysitter when my children were young, I admit I have no qualms at all about using TV as a babysitter for my mother.  Steve checked the channels and saw that Love Actually was playing. Having watched the movie a few years ago he thought it would be a good way to keep Mommie Dearest occupied. A cute Christmas movie about love. What better way to stifle my mother's constant chatter? It was a good idea in theory, only Steve had forgotten a few key elements to the plot line.

I went upstairs, probably to escape my mother, but after she'd been watching the movie for a while she started to holler, "Susan!"  "Susanne!" I couldn't imagine what she needed but I assumed it was a refill on her glass of wine so I didn't rush. Steve, who can only be described as a saint for the way he treats my mother, ran to find out the source of her excitement.

It was sex.

Steve had forgotten Love Actually includes a story about two 'body doubles' who simulate sex during the filming of a movie and casually chat about life while doing so. My mother hadn't been able to follow the numerous loosely woven story lines of Love Actually and didn't understand what was happening. All she saw was two people she thought were engaging in sex and started calling for me. Whether she wanted me to come and watch with her, change the channel, or grab a pen and paper so she could take notes was unclear.

In all honesty, without the context, the scene could be considered a little graphic.  Well, even with context the scene is a little graphic so I understand Mommie Dearest's excitement. She said she was alarmed because she thought she was watching 'a porno,' but I'm not convinced.

Because that's all she talked about for the rest of the day. Over and over and over she exclaimed, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

I was in the kitchen cooking dinner and she came shuffling in to announce, "I was watching a movie and THEY WERE SCREWING!"

We were enjoying a lovely Christmas dinner and then right in the middle of it, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Having dessert. "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Driving her back to her retirement home, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

Sometimes just out of the blue, "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

No delicate euphemisms or cute code words for my mother. Every time she exclaimed about it I tried to refocus the conversation. She'd have none of it. She insisted that we all hear the story. Over and over and over. "THEY WERE SCREWING!"

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that not all that many families spent the holidays with an 86-year old wild child who witnessed a momentary on-screen fake sex act depicting a momentary on-screen fake sex act and spent the rest of the day not only fixated on it but regularly blurting out the details. It's just a hunch.

So yeah, Christmas has been a little different since my mother moved to Colorado a few years ago. 

Just a little.

The Accomplishments That Weren't

The calendar has just rolled over to a new year.

(Source: Google Images)

I mention this in case you've been taking a very long nap. It's a new year and as I take stock of the one that just passed I feel pretty good about it. Overall, I accomplished quite a bit. Except for all the things I said I was going to accomplish.

Of those I accomplished nothing.

On my birthday, just before the kickoff of 2014, I read an article about a woman who on her 31st birthday was lamenting several aspects of her life. She had just stepped outside, into a puddle, and was whining to herself when she looked up and saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. Somehow the ice cream parlor provided her with an epiphany about her own life and how it needed variety, much like the variety of available ice-cream flavors. I'm pretty sure she explained it more eloquently than this but anyhow, even though Baskin-Robbins had dropped the 31 flavors from their name some time ago, she must have been old enough to remember it, and all the whining, puddle-stepping, birthday reflecting, and ice cream flavors fit together into an idea about how to change her life. She decided to ask her friends and family for suggestions of 31 new things she could do in the coming year to broaden her life experience and perspective. I admired her sense of adventure.

I liked the idea so much I decided to write a blog post asking for similar input. Except I wasn't turning 31. I was turning 55. I also wasn't lamenting my life nor had I stepped into a puddle but I guess I just got so caught up in the idea of doing new things that I didn't think the idea through very carefully. I planned to compose a list of 55 of my favorite suggestions. Had I taken the time to consider this I would have realized that doing 55 new things would mean accomplishing more than one per week. This was highly unlikely.

As it was I didn't get 55 ideas. I got 11. And two alternates which I wasn't sure I could commit to. Even so, undertaking 11 new challenges seemed a respectable list and I appreciated the input of those who had chosen to participate.

And that's as far as it went.  Not only did I not accomplish 55 new things, I didn't even accomplish 11.

I didn't even accomplish one.

There are a myriad reasons why I didn't complete my list of eleven new adventures. Probably the most important is that I didn't create a plan for how to accomplish them. The idea was a little hair-brained from the beginning. Without a plan it was pretty much doomed.

I could chastise myself for never even starting. I could call myself a failure or feel bad that I didn't follow through. I could try to hide the fact that I made a public plea for input and then never did a thing with the ideas people provided.

I could. But I won't.

Because whether the idea was a good one or not really doesn't matter. And whether I completed some, all, or none of my list really doesn't matter. I am not defined by what I accomplish. No one is defined by what they accomplished. Not really. There are a lot of people out there accomplishing a lot of great things, but in the end we aren't defined by what we accomplish.

We are defined by how we treat others.

We are defined by our offerings of joy and hope.

We are defined by our demonstrations of charity.

We are defined by the way we are good citizens of the world.

I'll hold on to my list. There are some really good ideas on it and some day I might be lamenting my life and step into a puddle and decide to accomplish them all. Or maybe I'll never accomplish any. It doesn't matter because I'm not defined by my accomplishments.

I am defined by love.

Tiny Tim Goes Shopping

There is nothing my mother enjoys more than shopping.

Well, okay. That's not entirely true. We all know she likes collecting men  But just after collecting men, she likes shopping.  And if she can collect men who will take her shopping...all the better.

Of course she likes her wine too...I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but shopping ranks right up there as something my mother enjoys most in life. Wine. Men. And shopping.

She particularly likes to go shopping at Christmastime. My mother firmly adheres into the notion that Christmas is about the buying and giving of stuff. Every December she calls me and whines that she doesn't get to go shopping and wants to buy presents. And I, who dislikes shopping and holiday crowds, tell her how cold it is and how frenzied the stores are, and negotiate the purchase of gift cards on her behalf, which can be opened on Christmas morning so that she feels she's given a gift and I've avoided having to take her shopping in December. It was a system that was working just fine until Steve entered into the mix. He's such a little Christmas elf.

Every year Steve suggests we take Mommie Dearest shopping, just for the pure joy of getting out in the hustle and bustle with her. Every year I say no. The words pure, joy, and shopping with my mother cannot be formed into a single sentence. This year when he started saying we should take her shopping I responded only slightly less adamantly than I would have if he said we should vacation in North Korea.

NO.

So he tried an different tactic by appealing to Anna's sense of compassion and, less jaded than I, she agreed. They went yesterday, Bob Crachit and Fred, and loaded little Tiny Tim and her walker into the car and took her out into the Christmas decorations, lights, and music. It even snowed all storybook and perfectlike.

Scrooge stayed home and worked.

(Source: Google Images)

They didn't take her out for long or to very many places. She doesn't have the stamina for much. They took her to a Charming Charlie store loaded with costume jewelry, purses, and scarves where she got so excited she developed a  headache, heart palpitations, and lightheadedness.  She had to sit down for a while. Three times. Fortunately she didn't have a stroke. That would have put a damper on the whole storybook outting. Nevertheless, she was thrilled and her Christmas was made. He joy was complete.

All it took was a kind-hearted man and his daughter to put in the effort to take an elderly woman out to do what she loves best. Or second best. Maybe third. Regardless, they lived out the meaning of Christmas. And giving. And sacrifice. They personified what this Christmas business is all about. I can see that now and I've considered what they did.

I'm prepared. Next year when Mommie Dearest calls me complaining that she can't go Christmas shopping I'm pretty sure I know what my answer will be.

Bah Humbug.

I'm gonna need a few more ghostly visits for that one.