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. 

Pearls and Tennis Shoes

I've spent an inordinate amount of time looking at this photograph trying to figure out the story behind it. With very little information I've attempted to piece details together, but no matter how hard I try, I simply can't figure out what was happening when this shot was taken.

What I do know is these are my ancestors; the progenitors of my children, my siblings, and me. The colorful, crusty, unrefined gene pool from which we are descended. Coming from a line of sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable types would have been boring. But we don't have to worry because there wasn't a sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable soul among them.

These are our people.

The one on the left is my grandmother, Beatrice. The two in the middle were her younger twin brothers, Bert and Boyd. The little one, on the right, wistfully looking into the distance was their older sister, Nellie.

There are so many unanswered questions about this photograph. Why is my grandmother wearing a white dress, pearls, and blue tennis shoes? Why are the others dressed casually but she's dressed up? Why do they all look sad? Or worried? Or discouraged? What is Nellie thinking as she gazes somewhere else, not paying attention to the photographer? Where are they? What is the occasion?

I'll never know. Nobody who knew anything about this picture is still alive. All of these siblings have gone on to the other side and while I have no idea what the afterlife looks like, I'm pretty sure if it is calm and serene and gentle, these four aren't there. If it involves smoking and drinking, swearing and gambling, befriending outlaws, and telling bawdy jokes, however, I've no doubt they are happily settled in.

When I was a little girl a lot of things scared me. My grandmother among them. As I grew into adulthood, though, I learned that she was funny and lively and genuine. She spent her final years playing bingo, going to dances, and riding a bus to Las Vegas several times a year. I don't think she ever saw a show in Las Vegas, for her it was all about playing the slot machines. She never fit into the 'grandmother' mold.  Thankfully. She never really fit into any mold. I liked her style. Be who you are and ignore what others think.

My memories of Bert and Boyd are dimmed by a haze of cigarette smoke. Most of my recollections of them are around a poker table. I grew up hearing the stories of their friendship with the notorious outlaw Pretty Boy Floyd. As a little girl my mother was with them when they hid Pretty Boy under a pile of laundry so the police wouldn't find him. On the surface that may seem undesirable but to them their friend wasn't a 'bad guy.' He was a 'good guy' who was helping the poor. I liked their style. Live by your convictions even if others don't agree.

Nellie was tiny but strong. She was divorced when it wasn't a socially acceptable thing to do and she never remarried. In an era when few women wore pants instead of dresses, Nellie bucked convention and dressed in slacks. She lived in the city, had a career, and went against the grain of social expectations for her time. Nellie told me bawdy jokes and laughed heartily. She died in Las Vegas with her sister, gambling to the very end.  I liked her style. Shun oppressive convention and walk through life with confidence.

I'm never going to know the real story behind this photograph. It is too late. But I do have memories of the way these four people lived their colorful, meaningful lives. Maybe I'll use what I know of them to piece together a fictional story to go along with the picture. A story to guide my children, my siblings, and me in how to live fully and courageously. A story to remind us.

These are our people.

Miley Dearest

True confession: I got a little drawn into all the hysteria about Miley Cyrus's VMA performance. I couldn't resist clicking on the 'Watch it Here' link embedded in a voyeuristically detailed Internet article and saw, with my own eyes, all the wriggling and writhing and foam finger action.

It disturbed me.

But maybe not for the reasons it bothered many people. I found myself feeling a little distressed by Miley's performance because I kept thinking that's probably how my mother behaves in her retirement community. Hannah Montana gone bad.

Minus the teddy bear onesie.

 

(Source: Google Images)

 

Mommie Dearest's early dementia seems to be taking her further and further down the path of silly party girl. Not that I think this is unfamiliar territory for her, but she is slightly obsessed with drinking and boys. Well, no. She's completely obsessed. Granted, the boys are hauling around portable oxygen tanks, but if they fall into the category of male, my mother is plotting a way to go in for the kill.

Without her walker, Mommie Dearest is barely mobile. But with her walker, that girl can move. And if the right man comes along, she's all about catching him. Right basically means alive. The ability to hear is apparently optional.

Every week the residents in my mother's retirement community have 'Happy Hour.' Some of the residents don't seem so happy about it but for my mother this is a highlight event. Not only do they serve the finest quality boxed wine, but she has found a way to beat the two-Styrofoam-cup limit, thereby consuming as much wine as she can finagle in an hour. She does this by shamelessly flirting with the male residents; cooing, and smiling, and doing some weird coy thing until she talks them into delivering a cup of wine. They comply, although it isn't exactly on a silver platter. Usually the delivery is rolled to her on the seat of a walker.

You'd think two brimming Styrofoam cups of wine in one hour would be plenty. I'd think that too. Mommie Dearest does not. It is all about the conquer. All about not letting someone tell her what to do. The more cups of wine she has brought to her the more she feels she's won. She does not, however, talk any of the female residents into her deceptive little game. Unimpressed by her girlish act, the women tell her to get her own wine. But she manages to talk the men into it. Every time.

In addition to drinking the most wine, my mother boasts of having the most 'boyfriends.' No single man with teeth is safe from her womanly wiles. At 'Happy Hour' last week, I met her latest victim, Ralph. It went like this:

MD:  Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Karen.

Ralph: (Shaking my hand) Nice to meet you, Karen.

Me: (Shaking back) Actually, my name is Sue.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, June.

MD: Oh! You're Susan! Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Susan.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, Susan.

Ralph: (Looking at my mother with a confused expression)

At that point it just wasn't worth clarifying that nobody in our family is named June, my sister is named Karen, and I actually am Susan, although nobody really calls me that unless I'm in trouble. Which, apparently I was. Probably for impersonating other people.

Ralph wouldn't have heard me anyway.

I didn't attend 'Happy Hour' with her this week. I can only take so much of her wild child act before I need a break. It doesn't matter. She's doing her thing regardless of whether I'm there.

But really, I guess all of this is fairly harmless. I mean, she's 85-years old. If it makes her happy, why not? At least I haven't seen her twerking.

Yet.