Where Are You Big Bird?

It was a good thing I wasn't really hungry. We had an 11am appointment to take dad to an assisted living place for a tour and then they ushered us into the large dining room for "dinner." What is it about these places that believe old people want to eat "dinner" at noon? Actually, my dad would rather eat "dinner" at eight. After the cocktail hour. But, I guess those days are kind of over. At 84 he's lost driving, living alone and eating when he wants to. Kind of lost the cocktail hour too, but that's a different story. A sort of shy looking girl came by with a cart and asked if we'd like salad. "Do you have any diet dressing?" I inquired. Hey, it was worth a shot. Actually, she handed me a packet of fat free ranch, and I was happy, but I did kind of wonder, how older people with arthiritis would open it. Then came another girl with a cart, this time with little plastic glasses of liquid in them. I couldn't help but think they looked like the pretend dishes my youngest daughters used when they played with their dolls. Pretend this is real. Pretend you're in your own home. Pretend you're not drinking out of tiny plastic doll glasses. We got to choose between apple juice, milk or....really I'm not kidding (I was going to say making this up, but that's so Dave Barry)...prune juice. I asked if they had coffee, and thank goodness they did, and I gratefully turned over the china mug in front of me and let her pour. Sigh. What in the world is the main course going to be? I didn't have to wait long. Chow Mein or Meatballs. The chow mein looked....well...interesting. I said "meat balls please." So did dad. My sister Cathi chose the Chinese option, but looking over at her plate, I don't think she touched it. Dad hardly ate a bite, but I suppose he was kind of nervous being in a new place and all. He did eat the bread pudding dessert though. Good move on their part. Bread pudding. Dad loves that. We looked at the room and it really was great, and had sliding glass doors to a tiny patio and an area where we could put chairs for him to sit outside. He'd like that. Then we had "the meeting." The one where they ask you all the questions, and you hope you answer correctly so your loved one "passes" the test. That's when it became kind of...well...funny. I know it wasn't supposed to be. Really, I was trying to be good. It's just that, the head lady...what was her name?...well, I can't remember...but she was sitting across this big mahogony desk and asking us all these questions and that's when I asked her about times the residents have to be home, like if there was a certain "curfew" or something. Anyway, she smiles. Looks straight at me and says: Okay now I really can't resist because it sooooo fits....And I'm not making this up...."This isn't a facility...we want you to think of this as your neighborhood..." Well, I want you to know , right then and there, as the mother of six kids, who has made it through 23 years of "Sesame Street" my mind wandered immediately to the themesong of that show...you mom's out there know which one I mean..."We are the People in your neighborhood....in your neighborhood...." Oh dear. Not a good plan. I started to laugh. Not just a little giggle... no way... a real, out loud...LAUGH. Right there, in the office of this...some kind of important, old people place person's office. "Your Neighborhood?" This place was going to be my dad's "Neighborhood?" Oh dear. They totally didn't know why I was laughing. And now really...did I? It's just that it was kind of one of those "What's it all about Alfie?" kind of moments when you wonder: "Does life do a complete turnaround, from pre-schooler to the elderly? Are we all going to living in a "Sesame Street" neighborhood in our 80's? Are we doomed to drink out of doll sized plastic glasses?" All I know is I think the important lady behind the desk found an extra room for me at this place...with padded walls. But that's okay...as long as I get my own patio, unlimited coffee...and "Oscar The Grouch" brings chocolate!

We've Been Talking To Your Neighbors......

I can't believe it just happened again. There's a loud knock at the front door, and I race upstairs like I always do, assuming it's someone I know, or actually want to talk to. Or maybe the muscle bound electric company workers wanting me to move my car again. But, no. It's two overly cheerful guys with clipboards and the same ole familiar phrase. "We have some appointments with your neighbors this week and we're..."
"Stop!!" I interrupted. "Let me guess.Windows?"

They actually looked surprised. How did I know? Well, maybe because it's like ...the FIFTH time this month I've had the same visitors. Well, not actually the same exact visitors, but guys with clipboards, wanting to give me quotes on new windows, and who ALL reported having appointments with my neighbors. What I don't get is WHY they aren't over at these neighbors if they have so many appointments with them? Is our street on some kind of crazy internet list out there, advertising homes with the shabbiest looking windows? Is there some kind of statistic that says the tenth time you knock and talk the owner will finally cave and sign up for $20,000 in tempered glass and frames? I don't get it. Why do these guys think "We've been talking to your neighbors" is a persuasive sales technique? Maybe I should have asked them to point out "which neighbors?" Was it the one who had the political sign out for the guy I thought was sleaze-ball nut case? Or maybe the one who starts his diesel truck every Saturday morning at 5am? Yeah. I shoulda asked. Hmm, maybe I should actually consider this a little more. Who knows....with better windows, I could see even more of what's going on out there in the neighborhood, or at least spot the next two guys peddling something with clipboards...in time to hide.

Passing The Test

Today is the day the people with the rubber hoses rule my life. My 1996 Oldsmobile (our newest car) flunked the DEQ (department of air quality) test set up by our friendly government. After several new parts on visa and wads of cash paid out to our mechanic, it still...didn't pass. Today is it. The last day we can legally drive the thing. Maddening part is..it drives FINE. Always starts. Sure the driver's side window no longer goes up or down, and the dash board rattles when you drive over 40, but who's picky? Owen our trusty mechanic and loyal friend replaced one more worn out hose and did everything his hand held computer told him was wrong with the silly thing. Now we just have to try again and pray. My question is, what do people do in this situation that have only one car? What if that car is the only one they have to get to work, and it runs fine but will not pass? They have two choices. Lose their jobs, or drive illegally. What kind of a choice is that? I'll admit it makes me want to go right out and buy a new car. Well, at least one that has less than 100,000 miles on it. That's really new to us. Trouble is the ads for those kinds of cars are worrying me. Here's a sample from the list I found yesterday:

Only needs one head gasket
A little hard to steer when turning left...
Smokes sometimes when you take off from sitting at an idel for a bit.
Car has a "rod knock" but the rest of the car is in real good shape.


Guess I'd better make sure the Oldsmobile passes. I'm driving right over there this morning. Don't worry I won't resort to trying to bribe a government official or anything. Although, there is a Krispy Kreme donut shop nearby....

That's My Story, and I'm Stickin To It!

Today is one of those days I'm not sure how to define. Happy? Sad? Or just wondering how it all works. I've had such an incredible high. Trouble is...I'm not sure what's next. I am so incredibly grateful for the blessing. I won the Erma Bombeck Humorwriter's Award. Me. It was just a year ago I sat in that big ballroom at the writer's conference in Dayton, Ohio honoring Erma. I looked around at all of those people who had been "published" and wondered if I would ever get there. Wondered how disiplined they were, how many degrees they had, what they ate for breakfast. Stuff like that. I still can't believe it. And the best part is, I won with a story about my mom. That's so cool. It feels like, even in death, she's helping me. She's still connecting. I knew she'd find a way. She was that kind of mom. But what now? What is God telling me to do next? I tried working on some stories today, but I found out something. Writing is hard, brain splitting work. I treasure the days the words just come pouring out of my head, like when the kids flood a bowl of lettuce with ranch salad dressing that overflows and seeps between the crack in the table and drips down to the floor. That kind. It's hard to sit at the keyboard and not think about our blue oldsmobile that won't start because maybe it needs a new alternator, but the mechanic isn't sure, which is after we already put $300 into it, and it still wouldn't pass DEQ and what are we gonna do because we only have till the end of the month before the plates expire, and then the good car the Mazda...the 17 year old van, was boiling over last Saturday when I returned home from a two hour drive on the freeway. Well anyway...it's hard to concentrate sometimes. But I will. Honest. Because I heard it said that we should be grateful for what we have. And what I have is the greatest award I could ever dream of. I owe for that. I will keep on plugging away. That is, as soon as I go upstairs and eat something. In the meantime...here's my story! http://www.wclibrary.info/erma/2007globalhumor.asp

Go Melinda Doolittle!

I just can't believe it. I know, I know this has no doubt been already blogged to death, but really. How could they dump Melinda Doolittle on American Idol? I rarely tuned in...really! But, the few times I caught her tunes, I actually agreed with Simon...she has it. So why did twenty million people decide to vote her off? Can we really believe the network? Hmmm. I guess what really worries me is the thought that these same people may be voting for our next president. Let's just hope without sequins and a back up band...they just won't bother. In the meantime... you go Melinda....you're gonna be a star!

Do You Speak Triangle?

How many little old ladies do I have to squash before I "get it?" Last week, we were visiting my step-mother who lives on the second floor in one of those assisted living places. She has a walker, and we were all piling into the elevator to take her out to lunch when it happened again. I couldn't figure out what button to push! I scooted inside first and frantically searched the panel with all the buttons for the word "open" to hold the doors. Guess what? The word has virtually disappeared from all electronic devices. In it's place are triangles. Sometimes there are two trianges going left and two going right. Sometimes they're going upside down. Sometimes they're hitchhiking. I don't understand triangles. I don't speak their language. I definately don't know which ones to pick. All I want to do is keep two doors from amputating a loved one's arm. Yelling "Help! help! what triangle do I pick?!" doesn't work either. I tried it.

I thought I was over the stress of the dillemma when I decieded to remove a DVD from the player last night. The remote wasn't in its usual spot (under the couch cushions) so I got up and stared at the buttons. More triangles. It's still sitting in the player. I think I'll just go "open" a book while I still know how.

That Will Be One Dollar Please....

My eleven year old daughter Melinda got off the bus, and I couldn’t believe what she had in her hands. Fistfulls of dollar bills. Tons of them. Turns out her hall mates were paying her to organize their lockers. And that was what she had left over after she admitted blowing most of her windfall on Tic Tacs. My daughter! Do I need a DNA test here? This is from the mother who only knows where things are by remembering the last place she stepped on them. It really must be true--some people are just born organized. Of my six kids I have about half claiming that impressive trait. Really, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Why can’t I be more like that? I too yearn for an escape from CHAOS, (can’t have anyone over syndrome) but I keep failing to make the grade. If I made the grade, I sure wouldn’t know where I put it. Each New Year I promise this will be the year I really change. I stand in the living room (next to the wadded up socks) and proclaim as the ball drops, that this year my family will have clean clothes, delicious dinners and couches free of newspapers, hairbrushes, and buried remote controls. Why can’t I achieve such a simple thing? I knew I needed help, so I called in some experts. I’ve started checking in with flylady.net and taking baby steps to my clutter addiction. One of fly lady’s goals I really liked was just to do one load of laundry a day. One load to sanity. Who knew? I love that tip! I now can see my laundry room floor , after..well…after a really long time. I also enrolled my youngest daughter with the house fairy at housefairy.org. The house fairy makes visits like the tooth fairy and boy does my eight year old buy it. She now has a magazine cover room, but mine still looks like Goodwill exploded. If you are a recovering, or not yet recovering slob, maybe these sites can help you. As for me, I think I need to have a chat with my inner brat. I met her at bratfactor.com. and boy is she stubborn. All she wants to do is play!

Of course, if none of these ideas work for you, feel free to send in your dollar. Melinda is getting low on Tic-Tacs and you will have the cleanest locker in town.