Well. Grandad, who lives near Amarillo, had a stroke last Friday. Now he’s out of the hospital and going into a nursing home, and he’s apparently objecting to it rather violently. They aren’t sure they can keep him there, he’s behaving so badly. He can’t go home. He can’t go into the facility where Grandmother’s living, as it’s not set up for nursing care. I have plane tickets to fly out there in April, but my aunt (their daughter) wants me to come next week.
How do you tell a 93 year old man, who’s cussedly independent, who has always ALWAYS been in charge, that he has to give it up, and let some young woman handle his most private matters? How long will a man like that last in such a situation?
Everyone seems to think if anyone can get through to him it will be me. How am I supposed to do that? I’m his 6 yr old Rootietoot in blond pigtails.
The stroke took some of his cognitive functions, but none of his physical abilities. He has some trouble speaking, thinking of the words he wants to use, but no trouble at all hitting the physical therapist, or slapping at the nurse.
He is a proud, bitter man. I cannot possibly see how he’ll last long.
Dear Lord, give me the words and the strength, because I sure don’t have them on my own.
Yesterday I made the mistake of watching a car show on TV. I wanted something to occupy my eyes whilst folding laundry, and I can only watch so many office re-makes using MDF and ugly green paint. So, car show it was.
Oh boy. I’d managed to repress my lust for an amazing car for close to 2 years. Statesboro doesn’t have so many truly astonishing cars (unless your jaw drops for a 6 inch lift kit and 26 inch rims…amazing indeed, but not lust-worthy, in my opinion)
The Mother’s Show was on. Now, The Mother’s Show isn’t about cars owned by mothers, tho it might oughta be, especially if I’m a mother with a car in the show. Nor is it about cars that only a mother would love. No, Mother’s is a brand name of car care products, thus the name of the show. It has all sorts of restorations. Some were the sort Sweet daddio would do, if he had the time, not really Numbers Matching, nor original paint colors, but snazzy looking orange and turquoise Ford Torinos (ok, I know I dissed orange and turquoise in an earlier post, and I stand by that, but this Torino was quite eye catching) I can’t find a picture of it or I’d show you. There was (ahhhhhh….goooorrrrgeous!) a red 1957 Chevy Nomad. We have a nice big driveway. We could have a Nomad. Let me rephrase that. I want a Nomad.
Anyway, I’m watching this show and a covetous thought creeps into my mind. Don’t get me wrong, I’m lovin’ Little Martha, she’s a kick-ass little car that I get great pleasure out of denying my children the privilege of driving her, but I am, in my heart of hearts, a Vintage car kinda gal.
After the Mother’s show, came an auction, featuring convertibles. Oh Lord. Be still my beating heart. I won’t say that I wept, because I only weep for specific reasons, but I will say that I felt lust in my heart. I don’t mind lusting after these cars, because if I had one the Love of My Life would get to ride next to me, and enjoy the benefits of my deep satisfaction. No, the world accoring to Rootie does not revolve around a (REALLY! FINE!) piece of utilitarian machinery, but I do enjoy feeling the envy of SUV driving mothers everywhere. And, I’m thinking one of these would make mens heads turn more often than a Tahoe.
Doncha think?
This one is nice, too, and probably easier to find than the pink one. At least for a better price. The pink one, unfortunately, costs as much as a house, not to mention the 5 mpg that would make it impractical for jaunts to Savannah.
We live in a region most conducive to driving a convertible. 9 months out of the year I can put the top down on Little Martha, and wear freckles on my cheeks. When it’s 95 outside, having the wind at 65 mph feels good on your skin, as long as one remembers the sunscreen. It’s just that, I am such a vintage sort of person, what with my Chromex kitchen goodies, and closet filled with 1950’s style clothing, I’m thinking a pair of cats-eye sunglasses and a chiffon scarf would look awesome with that pink Bel Air, or the Nomad, or the Malibu.
Maybe, one day when the kids are on their own.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I hope, when I’m 90 and living in an Assisted Living place, that I have children and grandchildren who will come see me. I hope I am living somewhere with family just up the street, who will take me to dinner occasionally. I hope I will be remembered. I hope that the best part of the day *won’t* be when some woman with a dog, who’s bored and all, just knocks on my door to say hello.
Because that would be really, really pathetic.
What does it say when a man who built a house with his own hands, who fought in a war, and was decorated for it…what does it mean when the happiest day of the week is the one where a person he’d never met comes in with a silly little dog and talks about politics with him? Why does that upset me so? Why is it so hard for people to take an hour to spend with someone?
You know, old people are just like any other people, only slower and with more perspective. They’re like little kids with experience, in that they don’t care what kind of car you drive or where you go to church. They just want someone to talk to them, to treat them like they matter. Isn’t that what we’d all like?
Today, Mr. Al and I talked about bass fishing. He has a rod&reel hanging on his wall, and Willow Pond is so named for a reason. I asked if he went fishing, and he said he’d like to, but fishing alone isn’t as fun as doing it with a buddy. (Huh. I thought. #3 likes to fish.). He told me of the 29 pound striped bass he caught once. I told him about catfish noodling. He was suitably appalled, saying “You wind up catching alot more than catfish, I bet.”
He liked Rosy, asked me to bring her again next time. Rosy KNOWS how to suck up to old guys. She curled up in his lap and fell asleep. He was utterly charmed.
Well, the whole thing has me feeling a little strange. And committed. Maybe this is the direction my calling lays.
Y’know, most of the time I am content with my life. really, I am. I have 4 children, mostly independent, a husband who’s willing to work long hours so I can stay home and tend house. I can get dressed when and how I choose, cook what I want for supper, have lunch with a friend…all that good sort of housewifey stuff. It’s a good life and I’m liking it, mostly.
Kids,tho, they have a way of monkey-wrenching the works sometimes. They get these personalities, each one different from the other, that clash like orange and turquoise. One makes the other feel stupid. The other makes the one feel dorky. Fisticuffs ensue, people threaten to run away, or they punch holes in the door, or they just disappear into their room until everyone has gone to bed, emerging for a cup of ramen or a bowl of cereal.
You can *try*, making them sit down and write a list of everything good about the other…that works when they’re 6, not so much when they’re 16. Each one says they’re not going to show the other respect until the other shows respect first. Yeah, that works. *snort*
So, you negotiate a cold war of sorts. You tell the one who has a car that he is not required to drive the non-carred one anywhere, unless he just wants to. You tell the non-driver (don’t ask, I don’t feel like going there right now) that he isn’t required to spend time with the driver, but he can’t ask for rides either. You seperate them, congratulating yourself on the wisdom of having their rooms at the opposite ends of the house. You send one off to school on the bus (O! The Humiliation!), and talk to the other about his propensity for making one feel really, really stupid.
You also realize he comes by it naturally. I was the Uber-Nerd in high school, picked on by everyone unless they wanted to cheat off my test. I grew a thick skin and a potent tongue, dripping with sarcasm. I was stellar at making people feel stupid. He and I discussed this, how it’s one thing at school, it’s another to do it to one’s own brother.
I guess it’s largely my fault. Sarcasm still finds it’s way into my conversation.
Maybe I shoulda been a psychologist.
I wonder sometimes, especially when negotiating the treacherous waters of teenage angst, what would have happened if I chose education over parenthood. What if I had decided to get that degree in biochemistry, gone to medical school, and become a psychiatrist. I’d be doing exactly the same thing, only getting paid $300/ hour for it.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I don’t have a thing to say.
Huh.
I am almost positive I was born in the wrong century. Just this morning, I found myself wishing for a complete cessation of bodily functions. They bother me, this generation of odors and secretions and all. I wish I could be a Fine Mid (18th) Century woman and pretend such functions didn’t exist.. Oh, I know, women back then had periods too, and dealt with them in their own special way, but still.
Thing is, men take great pride in their ability to make a righteous stink. From the time they are wee infants, they smile with pride when they generate an odor, even better when there’s solid evidence to go along with it. Sweet Daddio tells me of going into the public men’s room, and if there’s someone in a stall, creating noise-enhanced green clouds, there’s another someone congratulating him on his accomplishment. “Good one, man!” they’ll shout. When women (well, here in the South, anyway, I don’t want to speak for other regions) make a odor or a noise in the restroom, they hide in the stall until it’s all clear, before coming out, so they won’t put a face to the shame of what they’d done. I know I do it. Sometimes you’ll hear “toot..SCUZE ME! toot OH SORRY! toot Oh Goodness!”, but never, ever congratulations.
I remember being taught as a young child that discussing bodily functions was never appropriate for a young lady, it went along with the lesson about keeping one’s knees together and legs down. The funny thing is, if you look at it logically, these functions are a logical extension of something we all talk about regularly. I even have a blog dedicated to the subject, yet, you don’t see many blogs dedicated to the inevitable result of the regularly discussed topic. Wonder why that is? I am fairly certain there are blogs out there dedicated to various forms of scatalogical discussion, you just don’t see them quite as often as ones like Epicurious.com or Allrecipes.com. Yet we all do it, unless we don’t, then we wind up in the hospital with tubes stuck in various orifaci and people with worried looks standing around.
A friend of mine has a couple of books she bought for her young kids “Everyone Poops” and “The Gas We Pass”. These are good things, teaching the kids that normal bodily functions are…well…normal, rather than the way I was raised, that, as a girl, they are shameful and to be ignored at all possible costs.
Still, I wish I could turn them off. I wish, once #4 was born, I could simply quit with the menstrual cycles, quit dealing with the paraphenalia every month. I wish I knew that I would go into the bathroom at 8 am every morning, stay there 5 minutes, and be done until the next morning. I wish I knew that I could eat what I like and not deal with gas 8 hours later, or have heartburn after eating tater tots, or whatever. Oh, I know, our bodies are a big biological function acting symbiotically with all sorts of bacteria and enzymes and such, and all these by-products are a natural result. I know the biology behind it all. I just wish it didn’t have to be so…so very…Biological.
The Great Project for 2007/08 is finished all the way with backs in the cabinets and handles on the doors! Yay! And I even got the hidden European hinges I craved! Whee!
Here’s how it looked BEFORE:
Here’s Sweet Daddio working on it:
He doesn’t have the benefit of a shop building, just a shed for storing tools, so work had to be done when the weather cooperated.
Here’s me putting on stain. 2 weekends later, I put on the varnish , and the weekend after that we were able to get it installed.
And Heeeeere’s the finished product!
Boy, it felt good to have a project 
)
Filed under: The Garden
3 of the 4 kittens now have homes elsewhere. The last one #3 wants to keep for himself, says that they are buddies, and I can see this is true from the way the kitten follows him around everywhere, and is in his lap when he’s sitting still.
Sweet Daddio is hanging the doors on the entertainment center. Pictures will ensue.
4 roses got planted, 3 in the ground and one in a pot. Here’s pictures of them:
Crocus Rose (in a pot)
Tuscany Superb
Pat Austin
Lady Emma Hamilton
I know, I’ve put pictures up of them before, but they’re so PRETTY and I do love me some English roses…except that the Tuscany Superb is a Gallica, but it’s an ancestor of an English, so it’s ok.
I now have an official rose garden, with 6 bushes and filler-in of daylilies and perennials like lantana and blue sage. Some herbs too, since I don’t spray my roses with unpronounceable chemicals, I feel comfortable planting herbs like thyme, various mints, and rosemary..
Rootie’s Rose Spray: Use weekly or after rain
1 quart water
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teapoon liquid Ivory detergent
The baking soda alters the pH on the surface of the leaves so molds (like black spot) and mildew won’t stick. The soap works on aphid and soft bodies insects by breaking down the waxy protective coating on their skin, and they dehydrate and die. Since the spray is not systemic, it has to be reapplied after rain, and if there’s a new infestation of aphids. This spray does nothing to rose chafers, tho. My experience with them is to go outside every evening when they’re active, and pick them off by hand. Crush them directly under the bush, and they give off a warning, kind of a chemical “This is a Bad Place” marker, and eventually they’ll quit hanging around.
It feels good to have dirt under my nails again.
Filed under: Disease and infirmity
So. last night during the night my left big toe started to hurt. “Ridiculous!” I thought, and tried to go back to sleep. But, even in my sleep that stupid big toe made it’s presence known, featuring itself in lurid dreams that weren’t at all peaceful or restorative. Ridiculous.
When I got up this morning, upon examination I determined there was a bit of ingrown toenail, not big, and not deeply set, just a little bit right at the top corner. So I removed it and my toe was sore, as one might expect.
*ok Rootie, why the long-winded discourse on the state of your left toe? Who Cares?*
Bear with me, there’s a point here.
After removing the small annoying bit, I pondered the possibility of pain relief, as my toe was sore from it’s surgery. When I stepped into the bathroom, my eye was drawn directly to Sweet Daddio’s Shelf O’ Remedies, and a tiny bottle of benzocaine, used for the occasional sore tooth.
Benzocain, I pondered. ‘caine. Lidocaine, Novocaine, Benzocaine, pain relief. So I dabbed a bit of SD’s sore-tooth elixir on my poor toe, and in less than a minute…pain free. Still is, here an hour later.
Good Public, may I recommend to you Benzocaine topical pain relief, found in the tooth care aisle of your local Walmart, for all your surface pain issues. Just a dab, is all it takes. Further tests will ensue, as I am seeing uses for such things as splinters, scratches, all manner of skin-related damage.
So, what sort of creative home remedy do you swear by?
So, this morning I threw caution and common sense to the wind, loaded up 2 kids (the other one wanted to sleep) and we went to Tybee Island. The beach was busy, for February, as the tide was on it’s way out and tourists knew the value of seashells during a waning tide.
Not only were there seashells, but there were JELLYFISH! Big dead ones, little dead ones, some a rosy hue with ruffled edges, others looking (in #4’s words) rather like “a dog’s chew toy”.
#3’s curiosity got the best of him,
and he handled a couple, being careful to touch only the bell, because he’d read in National Geographic that all the sting is in the nether parts.
There were the requisite pelicans, and seagulls, and oyster shells (ugly things, those). There was the expected teenage girl drawing big hearts in the sand, with “Hannah+Mitch” in the middle, and taking a picture of it with her phone. And me, overweight housewife picking through the small shells with her 8 yr old son, looking for pretty ones to glue onto a frame, then needing #3’s help to get up. I’m glad he was there, for I woulda just sat there ’til dark before I would crawl to the boardwalk to haul my fat self up. *sigh*. It’s not the fat. It’s the still somewhat weak hip. It’s getting better, but it’s still not quite there yet.
/aside. The Good Dr. S, my orthopedist, checked me yesterday, and gave me the go-ahead to do whatever I wanted, except for kickboxing. “Even skydiving?” I queried. He looked thoughtful and said “Yes, even skydiving.” I really have no desire to skydive, but knowing that I CAN if I want to, that’s enough in itself. I’ve been told all my life that I can’t ski, or skydive, or horseback ride, or perform in Circe du Soleil, and now I have permission from a medical professional to do just those things. My life is a little bit richer for knowing I CAN, if I want to.
It was warm on Tybee today. 65 with a very light breeze. There was no sign of garulous policemen, and I only saw one person (relatively) scantily clad, and she was running. The seagulls were not particularly aggressive, but they certainly showed know fear, letting you get within just a foor to two of them before lazily hopping away. “He knows I don’t have a rock to throw.” said #3.
Lunch was at The Flying Fish, where I had another bowl of crab stew (It wasn’t as good this time as it was last, not as creamy), #3 had a plate full of fried cow booger…I mean…oysters, which he said were Quite Good, and #4 had an enormous plate of beer battered homemade fishsticks. Now THOSE were good. There were more than he could eat, so #3 and I helped him out. #3 bullied #4 into trying a cow boog…um…oyster, and #4 ate with great fear and trepidation, but loudly announced to the whole restaurant that “WOW! Those are GOOD!” They were little boog…er…oysters, about the size of the end of your thumb, which I’ve heard make the tastiest fried.
The ride home was quiet, punctuated with the gentle snores of #3 and Garth Brooks wailing on about friends in low places. The only thing that would have improved the trip would have been having Sweet Daddio along. Next time.
