On Turning 56

I just woke up from a nap and it's raining. One of those typical rains with big drops and slanted. It has been a hot and rainy summer and it's fall now and I would like cooler weather. It's mid-October, for Pete's sake. It's normally cooler by now. Thank you global warming.

This Tuesday I turn 56. Around my birthday I usually write about how I feel.

Today I didn't feel like spending any money...so I didn't. Instead I took Poppy to a local park and we walked the path that encircles it. Here's a pick of Poppy I took by accident during our walk. I was trying to turn the camera off:

Here's a pic of a family of ducks that live on the pond in the park. I took this one on purpose:

 

Each year around my birthday I take stock of my life. This year I

1. Left my old job for a new job
2. Was let go at my new job by my supervisor. Not the one that hired me. She was fired from her position after I was there one week. I was let go by her replacement.
3. Was unemployed for 4 weeks
4. Landed safely and happily where I work now. 

This is one of my mother's rabbit statues with a gecko in the middle of its face. I took this yesterday as I have gotten in the habit of spending my Saturdays with Mom. This was also taken on purpose:



 Speaking of my mother, I introduced her to the new very large Goodwill store down the road. I have been getting rid of things I no longer want or need so one Saturday she and I went there to drop off my donations. Afterward, Mom wanted to see the inside of the retail store, which is next door. I plead guilty to introducing my mother to her new drug - Goodwill shopping. It is located in an upscale neighborhood so you can imagine how nice some of the things are there. 

Getting back on point, I can't take stock of my life without including her and her changes. She doesn't wash her hair often enough now. She thinks it is okay to just pull it back into a comb or barrette when it is clearly not.

My mother has always hated to cook even though her cooking is close to gourmet. This past Tuesday, she invited my younger sister and her family along with me to break the Yom Kippur fast. Beforehand we discussed the different dishes she could make. Mom decided on chicken in wine sauce. This is one of her specialties. She used to make it often and it was always mouth watering.

I got to her house a half an hour early and she took the dish out of the oven to turn the chicken over. She had used large chicken breasts instead of fillets and the chicken was clearly pink. I told her we needed to raise the oven temperature to get them cooking faster and that they wouldn't be ready on time. Mom cursed a blue streak and exclaimed how much she hated to cook. Her rant ended on, "So we'll eat late." I answered with, "I'm sure none of us have fasted anyway." We can talk about how bad of a Jew I am another time.

 Here is a pic of a racoon mom and her baby keeping an eye on me while I walked to my mailbox. Mom climbed high in the trees and her baby followed:



Getting back to my mother. Her cooking one of her go-to dishes incorrectly was a road sign flashing in my face. 



Yesterday I spent the day with Mom. Her behavior was not the norm. For the past few months I have gotten used to her sometimes having a hard time following conversations and being able to call up a word but yesterday her personality was different. On top of that, once we got back to her house after all the running around we did (I always do the driving now), I laid down on the couch with Poppy and fell into a light sleep. I could hear Mom puttering around cleaning her new treasures and deciding where they should go. Then, it was silent. I opened my eyes to see her sitting on the couch doing nothing. No book. No TV. No newspaper. Just sitting staring straight ahead. I asked her why she was just sitting there. She said she didn't want to wake me up by turning on the TV. Mind you, there are two other rooms with working televisions she could have watched without disturbing me but that didn't cross her mind.

I am starting to lose my mother. For those of you that have experienced or are experiencing an aging parent, it feels like a part of you is disappearing. Trying to hold onto a wisp of smoke as you watch it disperse and disappear.

As I turn 56, it is bittersweet. So much of my life is finally on track. Now the part I could always count on is starting to get offtrack. As a former Russian co-worker would say, "Not nice."

Wait. How old are you?

My mother is 79 years old.  This coming January she will be 80.  She still drives, still cooks, still cleans, and is able to take care of her two dogs and walk them regularly.  My mother doesn't act or look her age.  This holds true when it comes to men, too.  "I know he likes me."  "I could tell he liked me."  It doesn't matter if the guy is 25 years old, single or married.  It doesn't matter if he is 50 or 65.  In my mother's mind she is still the belle of the ball and the life of the party.  Men find her fascinating and that, my friend, is her reality.

Apparently she has been learning some new slang as the other day when I was talking to her on the phone on my drive home from work she was telling me about some man she talked to somewhere.  I don't remember the details but that isn't the part of the story you need to know.  In her mind, he was enamored with her and she said, "I would do him."

Last Sunday morning I was over at my mother's house having my weekly visit.  I was requested to get there within a certain time frame as she had a neighborhood party to attend later that afternoon.  The way it works is each neighbor takes turns hosting and everyone on the street is invited.  My mother decided she is never going to host but periodically she does attend these gatherings.  One of the reasons she moved into this new development was because they represented themselves as actively providing social events within their community.

My younger sister, Eve, dropped by and it is always a treat to spend time with her, too.  The three of us were sitting on bar stools belly up to the kitchen island gibbering away when my mother announced that she bought a new top for that afternoon's party.  She said, "You know how I hate to shop," as she jumped from the bar stool and walked to her bedroom to get this new top we had to see.  Eve and I looked at each other. "Hates to shop?"
"I was being sarcastic."
"Oh."

Mom walks out of her bedroom with a sheer black lacy top.  Eve and I are speechless but we manage to oooo and ahhhhh over it because it is very pretty.  Eve then states the obvious.  "You know you have to wear a camisole underneath it, right?"
"What's a camisole," my mother asks irritated.
"Like a tank top," Eve says glancing my way.
I chime in, "Yeah.  They have spaghetti straps."
My mother is even more irritated.  She's the mother, after all.  "I don't need one."
The battle is on.  Eve and I are now talking over each other trying to convince my mother she absolutely cannot wear that top without a camisole underneath.  My mother's answer?  "I tried it on in the store and it looked fine."  "I have a black bra.  It will be fine."  To which Eve asks, "You have a black bra?"  To which my mother answers, "Yes.  I have two."

That shuts us both up for a second as more questions and weird thoughts dance around inside both of our heads.  We manage to bring ourselves back on point to the emergency we are trying to fend off.  My mother finally acquiesces and goes to the hall mirror to try on the shirt to prove to us we are wrong.  She whips off her current top and lo and behold, she is wearing a black bra.  The sight is a little unsettling.  She then pulls the new top up over her head, fidgets with it as she regards her reflection in the mirror, and walks back over to Eve and me.  Eve says, "See?  You can see your stomach.  You have to cover  your stomach."  That was a very polite way of saying, "Mom.  You are clearly almost naked right now and you CANNOT go out in public dressed like that."  I am nodding and agreeing.  My mother looks down and finally cannot deny or defend any longer.

"Where do I buy a camisole?"







  

Beautiful Soul

Saturday is my day to run errands.  I plot my route like an air traffic controller keeping in mind all of the different needs and details each stop requires along with one eye on gas usage.  Going to the grocery store 99.9% of the time is my final destination before home.

Since Winn Dixie has great ground beef, prices, and gas rewards, I shop there.  Winn Dixie has wider aisles and less tumult than Publix.  The cement floor is homely and the clientele watch their pennies.

One of my hangups is I cannot grocery shop comfortably when a store is crowded.  I get anxious to the point where I will forego picking up everything on my list just to get the hell out of there.  The anxiety sometimes makes me feel like I can't breath so I will do the "Can I live without this item until I go again?" thing in my head.  If I can, boom!  It is added to my next grocery store list and I am released from the torture sooner rather than later.

Today there were very few people shopping and I was in my own little world of indecision as I stared at the meat prices matching up which of what was on sale and which of what was buy 1/get 1 free when I felt someone looking at me.  I stood up and looked behind me to my right and saw a young woman maybe in her mid twenties.  She had her straight light brown hair cut short and was pretty.  Her left hand was bent at the wrist in an unnatural position and she held onto the cart with that along with her right hand.  I noticed her stance was off kilter, too.  I smiled at her and she smiled back.  "Am I in your way," I asked.  It wouldn't have surprised me if I was as I become oblivious to my surroundings when deep in thought.  She replied, "No" clearly enough that I could understand her.  That was the final clue that she probably had cerebral palsy or something similar.  I smiled again and once again she smiled back but there was more that was unspoken.  I was treating her as I would anyone else.  I was showing her respect one person for another; I was not transmitting pity or averting my eyes.

There was an older woman about 6 feet away from the young lady looking at the cold food items and I figured it was her mother.  She wore the same no-nonsense clothing and haircut.  Even though they were not near each other or talking, I sensed a strong bond between them. As the daughter grew, the mother allowed her her own space.  The mother had to decide a long time ago how she should behave when it came to caring for her child when she became an adult.  By the way they both respected each other, it was clear they had worked out a healthy balance between hovering and independence.

I went back to concentrating on what I should buy and eventually we passed each other.  I met the daughter's eyes one last time.  After they both were behind me I turned around and saw that because her right leg was shorter than her left she walked on her tip-toes on her right foot.

There was something very beautiful about the young lady.  Maybe I was seeing her soul as it touched my soul.  To me she glided over the floor.  I would have like to have talked to her.  While the muscular dystrophy reeked havoc with her body, her spirit was not disfigured.  It was gentle.  In my mind I untwisted her limbs and unfroze her tongue.

One Dollar

When I tell people I live near downtown Sarasota, they get all starry eyed as their minds fill up with thoughts of beautiful high-rise condos and amazing sunsets.  Their fantasy melts like hot wax when I tell them my neighborhood is a few blocks to the north of downtown and it is composed of Hispanics, Blacks, and Whites, in that order.  I am not rich.  I don't have a partner, rich or poor.

As their thoughts of utopia wave bye-bye in their mind's rear view mirror, they come back to reality.

Because of Lithuanian descendants, I am dark haired with olive skin darkened even more by the sun.  When I take Poppy out for his walks, it isn't unusual for me to be approached by people.  He is a cutie-pie and we all know it!  They say, "¿Cómo está usted?" or "¿Cómo está?" It has happened enough that now I reply with, "Fine.  You?"  It is when they walk up to me and speak a whole lot of Spanish that I have to respond with, "I don't speak Spanish."

It is an interesting place to live and when I visit my mother, and I do every week, who lives in money-is-no-object suburbia, it is a bit of a culture shock.  There is no blending of the races because everyone is one race...at least that has been my experience so far.  I walk my dog there, too, but usually not alone as my mother has two of her own.  We do it together and our goal is getting to the dog park which is located around the block next to the kid's playground which is located next to the bocce ball area which is located next to the 2 pools and 1 Jacuzzi which are attached to the clubhouse.

What am I trying to say?  I live in a poor neighborhood.  I was in the Save-A-Lot a couple of nights ago for milk and being that it is the closest grocery store I opted for convenience.  As I am walking to my car with a box bottom filled with a few heavy items, I see a man holding money in his hands counting it.  I knew what was going to happen and instead of turning my head signaling that he should not approach me, I kept looking at his unshaven face as I rested the box on my trunk.  As he walked over to me he said, "Ma'am.  Do you have 79 cents?  I am embarrassed to have to ask but I need...."  I couldn't make out exactly what he needed it for but it didn't matter.  Was it the truth anyway?  I would never know.  I opened my wallet and counted my change.  "I only have 54 cents," I said.  His face fell with disappointment and the bubble over his head read,"What am I going to do now?"  He wasn't expecting me to finish my sentence with, "So here is one dollar."  I took it out of my wallet and gave it to him.  As he reached out his hand to take it, he was a bit stunned.  Then thanked me and thanked me again and wished me a great night.  He was smiling and all it took was one dollar.  What he doesn't know is that he made me more happy than I made him.  I felt it best to leave it at that.

Itchy Hives

I've got a 5-page paper I need to write, create an eye-catching poster board, and then ready myself for a mini presentation in front of the class for school.  I am over a week behind at work.  I am crossing my fingers and toes and anything else that will comfortably cross that my June 18th divorce hearing will not only stay as scheduled but go off without a hitch.  I am gritting my teeth hoping that the husband I am crossing everything for so that the divorce on June 18th happens will mow the lawn and allow potential buyers into the house so that it can be viewed and sold.  A couple of weeks ago I had to take $10K out of my IRA to save it from foreclosure because my hopefully ex as of June 18th has decided that even though he is the only one living in the house he shouldn't have to help pay the mortgage.  I am living with my mother who never stops creating sound.  She is either humming, singing, or talking and not necessarily to anyone in particular or for any reason.  You know those dog owners that silence their dogs from barking?  Yes, I do appreciate all she has done for me so don't get your feathers all flustered.  My mother has also given me multiple opportunities to learn how to politely yet firmly set and reset boundaries that keep getting crossed.  At first I wasn't so polite.  Hopefully I am better at ti now.  I have decided I have to figure out my finances to see if I can safely move out.  As a matter of fact as I am writing this she is talking to me.  A week ago my son-in-law was shot and murdered by a woman off of her meds.  Now my daughter, at 29, is a widow with a 2.5 year old.

I am getting over a yeast infection (TMI?) and have been battling hives ever since I got the news about my son-in-law.  My body is talking to me.  Well, I think it is yelling at me.  I've got too much stress.  I do walk as often as possible.  At least 3 times a week.  I have a fantastic boyfriend that does what he can to help me take it down a notch whether it is affection or just talking me off the ledge.  At the age of 51 I never thought I would be using the word "boyfriend" to describe a part of my life. 

Stress sneaks up on me.  This time it was in the middle of the night and that is why I woke up with hives.  My brain stays awake while my body sleeps.  Hold on.  I have to take a scratch break.

Ok, I'm back.  I normally try to wrap these up somehow.  Draw a conclusion.  Say something humorous.  I don't have any answers and that is why I'm writing.  So.......I'll see you soon.

P.S.  My mother is still talking.

It's either just the rain or I am actually really pissed off.

I've been living in Florida for one week now.  I have crossed off quite a few of the entries on my list of things that must be accomplished including changing over the tags on my car and transferring my MD driver's license to a FL one.  Last night, despite the three nightmares in a row, I slept in later than 4:30 in the morning.  I'm going to have to learn how to use the DVR because I missed Mr. Ed.

As I'm writing this, I see that it is pouring outside.....again.  No draught here!  Yesterday when I was driving Jesse to the airport to catch his flight back to Baltimore, I nervously drove through a deluge.  I'm sure the intermittent storms are normal for this time of year, but they are bumming me out.  Add to that being pissed off that at 50 I am starting my life over, well, just ask my mother if her tongue isn't shredded yet from biting it.  Yes, I am pissed off and the weather isn't helping.

Those that see the glass as half full tell me that I should look at this as an opportunity for new beginnings that I otherwise wouldn't have.  While I understand this on an intellectual level, my emotions are wearing boxing gloves and mouth guard while dancing around the ring looking for a fight. 

The good news?  Trixie the cat is showing signs of feeling more comfortable around the house when it isn't just me walking around.  Shadow the dog can't wait for Trixie to want to play with him.

Necessary Adjustments Friday, March 26, 2010

If you have read my other notes, you know that I work on the top floor of an office building. It is located in a mixed section of town that is both residential and commercial. Depending on what window on what side of the building you look out of your scenery will be one or the other.

This afternoon I was at one of my staff's cubes as I needed to speak to her about something. To all those managers out there, I assure you, it was work related. Since she was finishing up a conversation with someone else, I decided I would rather bide my time there and wait instead of walk back to my cube only to get a call from her that she was ready to talk to me just as I was bending my knees lowering my butt into in my chair. The windows she is situated near have a residential/commercial mix. This means that some of the houses are just for living and others are the home of a business. I turned to look out the window and across the street movement caught my eye. One of the houses is a daycare. At the front door made of glass and wood I noticed a little boy holding a stuffed animal standing inside looking out. Many things crossed my mind in a matter of seconds because, you know, I'm really quick like that.

Was he sad? Was he lonely? Was he bored? Where was everyone else? Did all the kids play that close to the front of the house? Where was the adult? Was he looking out the door for any signs of his guardian?

That last thought triggered a very clear memory. My first day of nursery school. It isn't even called that anymore. Raise your hand if you feel old. Doesn't nursery school sound better than pre-k in an innocent kind of way?

Back to my memory.

I remember sitting in the back seat of the car while my mom chattered away about how she was taking me to a place where I would have so much fun and there would be other kids to play with and everyone would be so nice....la di da di da. We pulled up to this unfamiliar building and there must have been some kind of religious symbol out front because I remember thinking that if I am Jewish why am I being taken to a place that wasn't? I don't know if I said anything or not but I do remember my mother reassuring me that that was ok. Now that I think about it some more, I probably did say something. At 4 or 5 I was actively questioning my mother's decision-making prowess.

Mom took my hand and I remember walking up some stairs and down a hallway. We got to the door and I panicked. I did not want to cross the threshold into the room. I did not want to be away from my mother. It was a bright, sunny, and welcoming room but it may as well have been the abyss to hell.

The teacher had short dark hair piled high on top (it was the sixties) held together with hairspray and teasing. She seemed very tall to me as she came over quickly as, I'm sure, she was correctly assessing the situation and needed to take control of it before it got out of hand and scared the other kids. The details of the three-way conversation are sketchy, but I remember being assured that I would have fun and it was ok because my mom would be back for me in a little bit. As my hand slipped out of my mother's and the teacher took it into hers, a wide gaping empty whole formed in my body. I had never felt so empty. How would I make it?

The teacher nodded to my mother and my mother left. I have to hand it to whoever this woman was because she just kept talking to me and brought me to the play area where the boys had their section and the girls had theirs. The sections were marked off by the back wall, the side walls, and a short wall in between. We could see each other over it and stand in front of it to talk to each other but we were not allowed to enter the opposite sexes area.

The girls section had the play stove and an assortment of kitchen items. It had dolls and other stupid boring stuff. I looked over at what the boys had and was immediately jealous. They had those cardboard fake bricks and cars and trucks. Why did they get the all the fun stuff? Why was I not allowed to play over there just because I was a girl? This was not fair at all and I had to find a way to be able to play with their toys, too.

My emptiness became manageable as indignation filled my chest and I had something other than sadness to focus on. My mom did pick me up that day as promised and each day after that when she dropped me off, as that emptiness returned, I reassured myself that she would be back again.

I know as I grew more accustomed to my surroundings on a regular basis I argued with my teacher about this secularization until I had a small victory. I remember the day I was allowed to play with some of the stuff in the boy's section and vice a versa. I stayed on the periphery because I didn't want to venture in alone but I was so happy to have the freedom, to have the choice. I also recall the other girls wondering why I wanted to play with the boy's stuff so much when our things were so great. I didn't try to explain. Come to find out, there were some boys that wanted to play with the girls things, too.

I'm not going to get all philosophical. It's just a slice of life from a little girl.