Fred Provides

We finally got Fred to a Coinstar location. Rather than go somewhere around here, in a supermarket where you sometimes have to check your rotisserie chicken for the right number of extremities, we went across the water to a super fancy market where the air smelled like...scallops. Truly. It was so much fun!!

Some Fred facts:

Weight prior to Coinstar: 13.8 lbs

Dollar amount before fees: $108.22

Dollar amount after fees: $94.19

Here is Fred in his native habitat, stopping the door in my home office.

We shared a seatbelt during the ride:

So much rain:

Coinstar rejected a handful of nickels, a Sacajawea dollar coin, a random quarter and some Lira.

Nobody batted an eye that I was carrying around an 18" high Fred Flintstone bank at FancyMart. They just kindly gave us our cash and we drove home in the rain. Mrguy gave me my cut while I made us our dinner of stuffed potatoes, green beans and salmon. It's a partial Christmas, Observed. Still haven't opened presents, but we're catching up :)

Christmas is Over!

OK, it only worked out partway, but it could have been worse.

The last few years' Christmases have been so difficult.

2022: Two days of hosting grandkids at my mom's. Then the Christmas from hell where I was her caregiver. She was angry, called me a slut, wouldn't let me change her depends, tried to break her own finger and tried to eat a figurine, which she later broke.

2021: Two days of hosting grandkids at my mom's. After that Thanksgiving (during which mrguy had a migraine) I promised myself that my mom would not ever sleep here again, so when I was hosting grandkids, it was by picking her up at her place, bringing her to mine, and then sleeping over at her place. We had Christmas dinner at her place. She complained about how I'd given her too many presents. Complained about the food I served her so I made something else and she complained about that also. Challenged the clock, thinking it was morning. 

2020: Made and delivered Christmas dinner to mom and her caregiver. The next morning, when mrguy and I were having Christmas, Observed, she called twice and I didn't pick up. Then she made her caregiver drive her over here and I wouldn't let her in (still pandemic time). Then she called crying a few hours later and wanted my forgiveness. Mrguy got a migraine. 

And yesterday? The plan was for us to go for a walk and take the Fred Flintstone bank to Coinstar. But mrguy got two migraines on top of the migraine that he just got over. I hung out with boy kitten and cooked. I made deviled eggs and stuffed potatoes and delivered eggs and Chex mix to our neighbors next door and to the clam family down the street. Then I stated rewatching The World at War, cause nothing says Christmas like the Holocaust, right? I have no idea why The World at War seemed cozy, especially since the subject matter is so horrifying, but it reminds me of being fascinated by history and watching the series with my parents when I was a kid. I got to stay up until 10pm just because of this show. Also I was completely fascinated by the Holocaust when I was in middle school. It (1973) was a time when people who had been through the war (soldiers, survivors of the American camps and German camps) began to speak about their experiences. Anyhoo, I'm still mystified about how Hitler managed to gain power. And quite afraid of the xenophobia and right wing power grabs happening across the world and at home. I want to understand. And that was Christmassy. And then I watched a reality show and went to bed.

On the light side, I did go out doors and I saw some happenings in the garden. First, our camellia Debutante is starting to bloom.

And then this guy is blooming for the first time since being planted. I guess it has bloomed in the past but the cloven one has eaten it before we can see. Ahhh.

And in a final happy note, I spoke to The Broham, and he picked up an 8-string Kamaka tenor uke for me while helping clean out a friend's garage. I can't wait to see it in person!

Another Obsession. What?

Makeovers. Physical items.

Current obsession: Baumgartner Restoration. A second-generation art restorer. Yeah, he kinda talks like if Rod Serling were trying to get with you. Or maybe it's *yeah!* he kinda talks like if Rod Serling were trying to get with you. His videos are so compelling -- he makes art look better and ensures it a longer life. 

In this one he returns a portrait that had been oddly painted over into something more like the intent of the artist. Not quite as bad as Monkey Jesus, but related in its enthusiasm and well-now-I-have-to-paint-over-the-whole-thing-and-maybe-nobody-will-notice-ness of it. After watching certain other of his videos he makes you want to wash every painting of its varnish, if only you knew how.

And then there's any restoration of a tool. Usually includes an acid bath and dangerous-lookin electricity. Like this one. So good!

And...Norwegian Wood. Man in cabin in Norway repairing stuff with an accent? Wish he was my relative (although my cousins are really great).

As always, more than you needed to know!

Anxiety Dreams

I had an interesting chat with my soon to be former therapist this week about my anxiety dreams. I didn't tell him about all of my scenarios, but they usually have this setting:

College, version 1. A combination of my high school (1960s concrete) and my junior college (1970s wood). I have a class I need to pass in order to get my degree. I have taken several incompletes in this class over the past few years. I really want to not let myself down again. I don't know where the class meets. I desperately search for a place where I can find the course catalog so I can find the classroom and attend.

I attribute that one to the shame I feel about my undergrad days where I totally procrastinated, took incompletes in classes and had to make them up a year later and was a terrible student. 

College, version 2. Takes place on the UC Berkeley campus, and the sociology class I have not attended all semester is in Dwinelle Hall, a building that looks normal on the outside but is notoriously confusing to navigate. I want to find the classroom and start attending the class, but rather than look for information about what room I'm supposed to be in, I think it's reasonable to just wander the halls and see if I can recognize my class through an open door in a hallway. I do not. I feel terrible that I've procrastinated on such complex material, because I probably won't be able to bullshit my way through the final with my good writing skills.

I attribute this one to shame I feel about basically bs-ing my way through life. Why is it always Sociology? I never had to take Sociology for any of my degrees. Also I did my penance, went to graduate school and was mostly an A student (I got an A- in Reference, of all things. Still bothers me). Why can't I forgive myself?

Restaurant. I still work on Sundays for my old employer. Everything in the back of the restaurant is totally disorganized, so nothing is findable. The restaurant fills quickly, and I'm still looking for matching water glasses long after I should have been taking orders in my section. Everyone pitches in to help me but I'm not really a full team player. I get blazingly mad about not being able to find stuff. I'm searching in the basement which seems more like a sewer than a basement, but there are folks cooking down there.

Family vacation. I'm putting away dishes in the kitchen of our rental house (this is a customary scenario) and Chevy Chase comes in (a first, just the other night!). He's a real asshole, but I guess he's a friend of some other family member and was invited on vacation. He starts giving me a hard time about the kind of therapy I'm receiving -- he uses big words and tells me that people who do "x" kind of therapy are jerks.

So ends my short list of anxiety dreams. I really just wanted to mark the occasion of the Chevy Chase dream (what an unwelcome element!), but there you go.

Pineapples

I kinda have a thing for pineapples. Mostly ever since we came home from family vacation with a pineapple and I forgot it in the beer fridge for two weeks and then opened the fridge and smelled the heavenly aroma. Best pineapple of my life.

I always thought they were a real pain. I don't know where I got this notion. They are no more difficult to prepare than a cabbage. I even got lucky at the thrift store and got an Oxo pineapple corer, not really thinking about the fact that I wasn't in the habit of buying pineapples in the first place. Or that they were expensive, and we were broke and that I routinely chanted "Put the mango dollar in Fred (our Fred Flintstone bank)!!" when mrguy would buy a mango. Who was *I* to chant when I was spending dollars myself on pineapples and pineapple tools?

We're in our pineapple years, now. I will buy and eat the occasional pineapple. 

Adding to my pineapple interest, five or so years ago I was watching an episode of "Who Do You Think You Are (UK)?" when a subject, on air announcer of the Chelsea Flower Show, was told about an ancestor of hers who grew pineapples in a greenhouse in England. This was during the Georgian era, and the ancestor would *rent* pineapples to people for use on fancy occasions. Fascinating! I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about them as an ornament in architecture,  furniture and decorative items, but once you see it you can't unsee it. A really great article about the glory days of pineapple can be found here.

My further interest in the pineapple comes from, of course, a genealogical connection. I have been trying to trace my ancestry back one generation further than my 5th great grandmother, whose last name was Touchy/Touchi/Touche. The only person I can find who is even a possible candidate is a guy named Ferdinand Christian Touchy. He was a farmer and author, and even descendants who lived in the early 1900s weren't able to figure out who he was or where he came from. He wrote under dozens of pseudonyms, which really doesn't help very much, but made him a little more fascinating. One of his books, written in 1801, purports to instruct ordinary people how they can raise fancy fruits and veg in a portable greenhouse (I think), even in winter (I also think). His pseudonyms boil down to variations on these names:

Anton, Karl Friedrich

Baer, C. F. 1736-1808

Blotz, J.F. 1736-1808

Claß, D. F. 1736-1808

Dietrich, Christian Heinrich 1736-1808

Düchänie 1736-1808

G., C. B. M., 1736-1808

Gaschütz, G. 1736-1808

Gaudich, C.F. 1736-1808

Goetz, Johann Friedrich 1736-1808

Meißner, C. H. 1736-1808

Tiessen, Christian 1736-1808

Touchy, F. C. (Ferdinand Christian)

W., C. F. 1736-1808

So when I see a pineapple, I often think of this family mystery. Nobody in my family cares about this, and that's ok. I can't really move the needle on what my family cares about. I think it's fascinating, but the thing about genealogy is that if you are into it, it lets everybody else think that they don't need to know about it because we're all going to live forever and you can just ask. Right?

Anyhoo, two days ago I saw a pickup truck full of pineapples on the way to work. A gigantic pile of loose pineapples in an old truck. Nothing to protect them. All of them bearing a hang tag saying "SWEET" in bold red type. I snapped this photo at a stoplight. Instead of turning right, in the direction of a famous tiki restaurant and bar, it turned away from the bay and into the hills.

I have so many questions.

Mapeleine

My oldest sister sent us a yummy looking pancake gift box in the mail for Christmas. I thanked her via text and it went like this: 

"I hope you like real maple syrup"

"I don't know. I was raised on medium simple syrup flavored with maple extract"

"I think the extract was called Mapleine. Kinda sticks in my mind, and my thoat, like maple nut ice milk." 

As soon as she said Mapleine I knew it was in a blue and white box. And there you are. Makes 24 pints of rich Mapleine flavored syrup.

A quick poll of my fb friends shows that West Coast people all knew Mapleine, and East Coast people were horrified. It was the thrifty option for folks who were broke :) 

Ah the memories!

The Golden Bachelor

Oy. Can we talk about it?

I can't really tell you the last time I watched The Bachelor. The behavior is sooo bad. It's not my thing. But when the old person version debuted a while back I watched. The dude was so smarmy -- that voice drove me nuts! And the women were pretty funny and mostly great. I expected more of it, and came away disappointed.

Come on, ABC. You gave us this guy's CV and it wasn't true. He told his story (my life partner died and I've been a heart-broken loner ever since) and that was rubbish, as well. And then he started telling all of the women and their families that they were the one. Only there were three at that point and three is not one, if you know what I mean. When he finally made up his mind and broke the heart of the woman who he had told "I really think you're the one," his response was to try to comfort the woman. Who wants to be hugged by the person who just confessed to preferring someone else? She gave him what for, and I'm happy about that. The day after the finale, Hollywood Reporter released an article that outed Gerry the Bachelor as being a miser who refused to take his girlfriend to his class reunion "looking like that," i.e. 10 pounds heavier than he liked. This guy has problems, and I didn't like his lady choice, but I hope she isn't disappointed in the end.

And now on to Buffy Sainte-Marie. I've been obsessing about her this week. Who knew that North America's most famous indigenous performer, winner of accolade after accolade intended for true indigenous performers, is a big fat faker? Super sad. She did do some good, but she did it in red face and now she lives in a time where anyone can research her heritage. People who trusted her and her story are hurt and flabbergasted. She refuses to take a DNA test, and we all know what that means. Her son explains her choices as being a girl with unconventional looks who explained them away by saying that she was Native American. Then she just went with it from there. But to what lengths? And at what cost to others? 

Heck of a way to end a career. Here's a link to the expose.

New Car!

Chin Ho was a venerable car. He was a 2009, but I'd had him since May of 2008. And yesterday he sailed off into the sunset.

For quite some time now I've been on the hunt for a compact SUV. I wanted something that is hybrid (for range, since our other car Horus is an electric). I also wanted something with enough room that would allow us to pack out easily in an emergency without worrying how to stack the cats in their carriers and their emergency supplies. And I had a fantasy of a car that I could put my bike in and drive somewhere to ride without dealing with a bike rack or taking off the wheel. For two years I've had a bicycle but no way to get it down our very steep hill.

Yesterday we bought a RAV4 in the color that I really really wanted, with the contrasting trim. I *had* really wanted a BMW X3, but they stopped making hybrids for a while (coming back in 2025), and the grill on the 2024 is so...birth control. Like I would have to decorate it somehow to live with it.

I had some initial resistance to the RAV4, while studying all possible options for a new car. And a casual comment from my sister about the RAV4 stuck in my craw. But I swear that when I started seeing the Cavalry Blue with black trim I was all "Hubba hubba!! Mama likes!!" Had to have it. And it is a nice ride and has lumbar support (happy back, happy life) and Apple Car Play. The dealer hooked up Car Play and all of a sudden I was terrified that my audiobook of "Leslie Motherf*cking Jones" would start to play because the woman has caused a worldwide shortage of the word mutherf*cker with this book. Good lord. The chapter that uses this condiment least like a main course is her chapter recounting her very awful hemorrhoid surgery which, no less interesting than the other chapters, is not as sweary. Thankfully, my Audible app chose to start playing "Our Secret Society", a book which contains zero MFs and is a wonky and much less interesting book centering on the National Urban League and one of its luminaries, Molly Moon.

And here we are. While we were mid-purchase I just kept thinking of the color, and how I'd want to wear certain colors while driving the car. Pink would look amazing. And I do have the matching nail polish. And in the day, when I was driving Maceo (a turquoise metal flake '68 Oldsmobile) I would buy super fancy cigarettes (Nat Sherman's Fantasia) and save the turquoise ones for smoking in the car, because they matched my dashboard. As I recall, they tasted horrible, like American Spirits (the health cigarette!).

Anyhoo, I'm going to go now. Need to paint my nails before entering my new vehicle and figuring out a) how to use all of its amenities and b) how to drive it.

The car color is Cavalry Blue. The nail polish color is called Irresistible.

2024: A Lovely Thanksgiving

This was a rare Thanksgiving without my mom. I cooked while watching or (more accurately) listening to the Macy's parade and the dog show. I missed mom a little bit, but it was so comforting knowing that she had a random new caregiver who didn't know my phone number. Ahhhh.

Our friends came over with their dad, who is 88. He is really dear to me. We'll call him Murray. When I get to spend time with him I get all of the coziness of hanging out with older people without the judgment and overt disappointment that my mom makes sure I enjoy when I'm with her. It is awesome.

Murray told us his story about getting Jackie Robinson's autograph when he was a kid, and I mentioned the story that *I* knew about 15-year-old Murray winning a local tv station's baseball trivia contest. He told us that the prizes included a set of luggage (which he took with him to college) and a wall safe. I guess they expected the winner to be an adult.

My gal pal and I both made pumpkin pies, and she and mrguy put candles in them for her husband and my recent birthdays, which are a few days apart. And when we all had a slice of each and I said "I think I like yours better," she said "Well you ought to!! I put a lot of elbow grease into that!" and I laughed until I almost cried. She's a sketch.

We heard from the caregiver, who said that mom had a busy night.

And I do not care. 

I have asked the agency for caregiver coverage on Christmas and New Year's. I have told my sisters that I no longer care whether those caregivers are skilled or not, only that someone is with mom and it isn't me.

The Joy of Solid Food

If by solid food you mean a scramble of an egg, shredded cabbage and goat cheese.

I just changed out of my Kiffness shirt after 2.5 days.

Can I go back to bed now? Still feeling the body aches. I have cancelled my plan for the day which was to see a Godzilla movie with a friend. He really knew how to lure me in a few weeks ago, telling me that the film had been pretty much thoroughly repudiated.

Anyhoo, I certainly wouldn't want to pass along whatever this is, so I'm going to take a little Alka Seltzer Gold and go back to bed with the wee beastie. Maybe I'll reappear Punxatawney Phil-like later in the afternoon.

Cut Down In The Prime of Life

Not really, but kinda.

It's birthday week, and I took today off in order to go to a food festival. Instead, I have some sort of flu. I haven't been sick since Covid, a year ago, and I stood next to little kids for several hours on Weds, so maybe this is to be expected.

Oh my gosh. Wednesday was amazing. We went to a club and saw my favorite YouTuber, The Kiffness. Mrguy bought me a t-shirt and everything. I drank some beers and a free bourbon, and stood for three hours. Met very many nice people who like kitties (and The Kiffness) including nice moms who brought their little kids. Mrguy is now a The Kiffness convert (not that he wasn't before) and is at this moment enjoying going down the rabbit hole of memes that Kiffness builds his songs around.

Me? I'm down for the count. I woke up the next day not feeling excellent. Then I took a bath and had five or six or ten watery poops before I realized that I wasn't going to be able to go to work. I did a fair amount of work while sitting on the sofa, and it wasn't until right before therapy that I started to feel exceptionally poorly. I thought of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and if you miss the reference, that's ok.

This was followed by a phone call with my sister about problems with the caregivers. I truly sympathize with her, but have a hard time hearing her woes explained to me in her particular tone of voice. She persists and persists, telling me that she lost her temper with our one caregiver who keeps changing her schedule and then in the same breath tells me that she's a really nice person and a good boss and that she's being taken advantage of. In addition:

"Nobody who isn't me can understand how difficult this is."

Apparently so. I know that she's suffering, but she likes to share the suffering. She also suffers on behalf of others, telling me that she doesn't sleep at night because she worries that something will happen with a caregiver and it will affect me. She seemed to be insinuating that I am responsible for her suffering on my behalf. It's twisted, I tell ya.

In conclusion, then we argued about something and she quasi hung up on me and then sent me a conciliatory birthday greeting a few hours later. With love.

Sure.

Standard Time

It's Standard Time, and I guess that I'm liking it. The light seems more delicious and I can enjoy a cozy blanked at the same time as feeling a cool humid breeze drift in from the open window.

There were delights this week.

Clam came over to catch up pre sumo, which starts this weekend. We ate very many snacks.

I took the day off work, learning to navigate transit with my phone app so that I could go to an cookbook author q&a. I arrived early and ate a sandwich on the steps of a church while reading my new book. 

As I ate, grey haired ladies such as myself began arriving in groups, and filled the church. My people! The sound was problematic (they had mic'd everybody but the author perfectly), and I could see lots of folks fiddling with their hearing aids to adjust to the volume. The smartest thing I heard her say was that she'd been asked to be a judge on Top Chef, and they'd tried to lure her by saying "It'll change your life!" Before this she'd been on the fence, but since she didn't want her life to change it became an easy no. After the event I did not stand in line with the hundred or so folks who wanted a photo opp. I know I was there. 

The clouds were gorgeous and puffy as seem from light rail.

I had to see my mom this week because a caregiver suddenly needed $1400 and someone asked me if I could deliver it that day in person. Sure. Mom, who I promised myself just days earlier that I would NEVER see again because of her general evilness, was smiling and sweet and held my pink hand with her blue one. On the way out of the facility, I got to see darling Joan. She grasped my hand gently, covered my arm in kisses and told me that she loved me. I love her too.

And on Friday we finished the acquisition of the personal archives of one of our company's founders. A project long in the making, we had boxed the material years ago and waited for him to finish his book. Then the pandemic happened, and this year he let us know he was really ready. Due to the march of time and very small mammals, we brought fresh boxes to his house in Friday's final installment. We decanted the material into the new boxes, cut our circa 2014 labels off of the original boxes and taped them to the new ones. Our Facilities guys brought the van over to their house and hauled the boxes out of the basement for us, while stopping to say "Thanks for making Hammerslag!" "I'm pretty proud of it," the founder replied modestly. All in all a great day.

Of course by the next morning I was back on mom's chain gang, dealing with urgent caregiving and sister stuff. All in a day's work.

For MrGuy -- Nobody Else Really Needs To Read This

This post is for the benefit of mrguy, after a week of mom stuff.

Monday -- relatively fine

Tuesday -- my sister loses her calendar. Realizes that she hasn't told me about upcoming caregiver days that we need covered soon. I tell her to start using the Google calendar. She says that she will. After lunch I have to leave work to help the caregiver. My mom is acting out.

Wednesday -- took a personal day because this is hard. Alzheimer's support group in the pm.

Thursday -- a caregiver bails on us and I learn (via text while I'm in a meeting) that we suddenly need coverage for Friday. I leave a phone message with the agency. Then I go back to work in the collection and get pulled into a different meeting. Then I learn that the hillside near our house is on fire. My sister also calls the agency. Then I text her to say please stop. I am on it. Then I get a text from her saying that we no longer need a sub, and I get *back* in touch with the agency and tell them that we don't need help. The fire on the hillside is out. I ask my sister to let me be the contact with the agency. She is hurt. Elapsed time: 1.5 hours

Friday -- mom is behaving well. Mrguy and I get Covid vaccines and are feeling poorly for the next few days.

Saturday -- mom is behaving well.

Sunday -- I'm the contact for the caregiver, who lets me know that mom's mood is getting ugly. I put on my pants and go over there to intervene. I walk into the memory care neighborhood and hear her yelling "Nooooo!" She's reaching around to hit her caregiver, who is dealing with it really well. I get my mom's attention and tell her to stop. She growls '"What are you DOING?!" and I tell her we're going back to her apartment. I have brought a cart full of supplies with me. She latches onto the end of my cart, so I pull the cart and drag her back to her apartment with the caregiver pushing from behind.

Once in her apartment, she's still having a fit. She says that her caregiver is trying to hurt her (all while flailing her arms and trying to hurt the woman). We get her onto the sofa, and she quasi relaxes. By relaxing, I mean that she's no longer flailing. Instead, she's grabbing my arm and pressing her fingernails into my veins declaring "She's hurting me!!!! You don't love me. You don't care about me. All you care about is yourself!!" I tell her I love her, and I try to comfort her. She starts punching whatever that big muscle is on the topside of the forearm, and I think "That almost feels good!" It is not lost on me that she is hurting me while telling me that I am hurting her.

Whatever

She starts talking about sex again. She says that she'll tell the world that I like sex. She starts taunting me about how I only love myself *and* how I don't like myself. She rubs her hands up and down her midriff over and over while telling me that I like my body. 

Honestly, this does suck. What do I owe her?

Monday -- another week. The same flaky caregiver asks for a random day off this week, and I add it to the schedule for the agency to figure out. I write an email telling my sister not to come for Christmas if it's for mom's sake. My sister emails me to say that the caregiver now says she doesn't need the day off after all. I tell the agency.

My sister still hasn't put the dates in the Google calendar.

Explore The Silence

The prompt was to explore the silence.

But what if there is never silence? Or stillness? The birds are cheeping after a brief shower, and the sound of 90s rock bands drifts up to me from downstairs, where the husband is digitizing 4 track tapes in the man room. There's tinnitus and traffic. But the sound that I carry around with me most is not the sound of breathing or internal organs but my internal music. I have an internal jukebox that is almost always spinning snippets of familiar songs.

The inner jukebox currently features the songs of The Kiffness, a musician who autotunes memes of funny animal sounds as the basis of musical collaborations. His songs are devilishly catchy.

Currently playing: Hold Onto My Fur

But my head could be conjuring any song or part thereof. The theme from Suits. Or Jerry Lewis singing "I'll See Your Light". This is a pop song that a friend who died sent me summer before last. Every time I think of him I see the youtube video in my mind, where a fervent and sweaty Jerry Lewis gives it his all, wearing a cherry red golf sweater, on Hullabaloo. He looks like he might have some artificial energy going on there...and it is really compelling.

Sometimes I don't even know the songs are there. I find my foot jiggling in a certain rhythm and work back to see what my brain is doing. Or my fingers are working a specific pattern and I find I'm typing out a lyric to a song I didn't even know was in my head.

I'm not sure I'm cut out for silence. Or stillness. But I'll look for some today.

Things I Like: A Single Item Food Festival

We're going to Pittsburgh. Don't know when, but we are. I don't quite understand why I've felt drawn to it other than mrguy's grandfather had a shoe store there, and it's an industrial town. But I've had my eye on Pittsburgh for a while. One of my favorite auction houses is there, and I've come to learn about some artists from there, like Virgil Cantini and Lucille Kleber.

I told a friend that I was going to Pittsburgh and she told me how much she liked it, and I hold her opinion in high regard, and she told me that there is a Heinz Museum.

And this led me to knowing about Pickleburgh, the Pittsburgh pickle festival. OMG. I love a food festival centered on a single food item. Too bad it's held in the height of summer.

Corn Festival
We've been to a corn festival, which was the site of my last heat stroke! Also, frankly, not enough corn. There were only 4 or 5 corn booths, and the folks doing henna tattoos didn't even have a corn design on offer. Poor showing, but the corn from that area is stupendous. I'll buy it at the store.

Rice Festival
We've been to a rice festival in Honolulu, in the shadow of one of my favorite modernist buildings, the IBM building, by Vladimir Ossipoff. Here is a guy dressed as a Spam musubi. Another hot one, but worth it for the photo opp with a guy in a Spam musubi costume.

Asparagus Festival. Repeat Offenders!
We've been to the Asparagus Festival in 2019 and 2022, tying some genealogy in while we were at it. The asparagus margaritas were really tasty. And the location of the festival had a dirt track for racing, which I didn't think was a thing you could find within three hours of there.

Butter and Eggs Day -- Technically Two Food Items, But Little of Either
And *this* year we went to Butter and Eggs day, but they were really devoid of butter and eggs, if you ask me. I goofed, and the local deviled egg contest was on the Sunday, not the Saturday.

Krautfest 2016
And then there was the one that got away. In 2016 I heard a news item about a lack of entrants for the title of Kraut Queen at the Racine, Wisconsin Kraut Music Fest. I self-nominated and would have absolutely gone to Wisconsin in order to do my duty. Here is my cover letter:

"Melanie R.
Kraut Queen/Princess Coordinator
[address redacted]
Racine, WI 53406

Dear Ms. R. and the Kraut Queen Committee,

It was with great interest that I read that the Kraut Fest was looking for Kraut Princess and Kraut Queen contestants, and with great sadness that I then realized that there is no category for a more mature Kraut Royalty Applicant. I beg you to rectify this omission and expand your royal court to consider kraut lovers of a certain age.

I am emboldened to suggest this expansion of your pageant categories because in 2016’s nonsensical electoral cycle, where anything goes, self-nomination in the currently non-existent role of Kraut Matron / Kraut Dowager doesn’t seem terribly out of place.

My qualifications are:

1) I can and do eat kraut.

2) In 1994 I personally helped increase the public knowledge of kraut juice by sending a kraut juice label to my friend, [name witheld], a writer, who was inspired to write about kraut juice. His article about kraut juice helped popularize kraut juice in the 1990s.

3) For many years my kitchen featured a display of a dozen Meeter’s Kraut Juice cans. Had other brands been available to me on the West Coast, I would have included the brand of your sponsor, Frank’s, in my display.

4) If selected, I will write and perform a kraut-themed song for you at the festival (ukulele and vocals)"

Despite their zero entrants, they rejected my application. I feel like this was such a missed opportunity for all. I would have *rocked* the whole Kraut Matron thing. Oh well, my preferred brand, Meeter's, is from Oconomowoc, anyway and they have a kraut festival (sometimes, when it isn't being shut down due to corruption).

Mandarin Oranges, Anyone?
This week, at the height of the mom nonsense, I went on the lookout for food festivals to look forward to. I was rewarded for my research, and in a few weeks we are headed to a mandarin orange festival. Who knew?

I will report back

Halloween

My joke for today was that my mom was her own Halloween costume: angry old woman who wants to chop you up with a knife.

By the time I got to her place this afternoon she had been raging for hours -- breaking furniture (no really), swearing, hitting. My sister called me to see what could be done about her episode of mania and wanted to have her taken to the hospital. She was sad to hear that you can't have someone committed unless they are a danger to themselves or others. Because mom is pretty useless from the waist down, all someone has to do is to step away from her and they're safe. Sadly she doesn't fit the criteria for hospitalization. We would all love it if she'd get locked up permanently but that's not going to happen. The only thing I could do to change things was to leave work and go over there to try to interrupt the mania.

By the time I left her, mom was feeding me chocolates. Whew. And in between, I draped my arm over her shoulder on the sofa and patted her leg while she told me how she wasn't going to leave me anything in her will. Except maybe a little stuffed scarecrow that's in a potted plant in her room. "Isn't it cute?" I suddenly had an image of having her cremated with it if she loves that thing so much, and I burst out laughing.

I admit that I baited her a bit for part of my visit, because I'm tired of being nice. She kept saying that she knew something about me that the caregiver didn't know: that I like to fuck, and that if she were dead I could do it wherever I want. So then I made a game out of pointing out various places in her room, asking "Should I do it there?" "Over here where you're sitting?" This was amusing to our caregiver, and that was partially the point -- she definitely needed some levity.

But today started out even better, this morning, with an apology from my sister that we need fill-in help for one of the caregivers in a week, and that she'd forgotten to tell me. She wrote it down on one of her pieces of paper and lost it. And she was so proud that she'd started a new paper calendar but put it in a place so special that she couldn't find the calendar (like why would you tack it to the wall, or anything normal like that?). She was so distressed by her failings this morning that she was taking a pill to feel better. I told her that pills were good but calendars were better and she needs to start using our effing shared Google calendar. I know she can do it!

This is after the weekend, where I started planning caregiving for the holidays, and my sister told me of her plans. She's been invited to Christmas at our nephew's house, and she's thinking of taking my mom with her. Out of her secure locked mental environment, on a 3 hour drive to a relative's house where they will share the holiday with family? I mean what could go wrong? This is partly because I said I wouldn't take care of my mom on Christmas myself, but the cure may be worse than the original affliction...

This has been mrsguy's late night ramblings about her embarrassing family.

'Awapuhi Blooms in Suburbia!

A few years ago a neighbor was giving away ginger rhizomes. She had dug so many out of her garden that it looked as if a dump truck had unloaded them on her driveway.

I didn't end up planting that many in the garden because our dirt was hard as a rock. So I potted some in big old plastic pots with potting mix and put *those* on top of the dirt underneath our kitchen window. I keep meaning to plant them for real at some point...and then I don't. 

In the meantime the ginger seems to like it where it is.

And this week our first yellow ginger flowered. It smells amazing. As the song goes:

My yellow ginger lei

Reveals her scent through the day

Enchanting moments with you

Make me love you.

Kuʻu lei ‘awapuhi melemele

I puīa me ke ʻala onaona

Hoʻohihi ka manaʻo iā ʻoe

E kuʻu lei ʻawapuhi

Quick Quiz!

I'm going to take a guess that this song was written by Johnny Noble, because he often used the metaphor of a fragrant flower to describe his beloved (he was blind).

Wrong!

I looked it up, and My Yellow Ginger Lei is by a guy I don't know, John Ka'onohiokala Keawehawaii.

Johnny Almeida and John Keawehawaii perform it on this recording.

Listening to the original, I kinda get why artists like Led Kaapana make a medley out of it with other songs. It's super repetitive. And maybe that's a reason that it's popular with non-professional hula dancers -- the verse in Hawaiian and English is the same, which means that the dance is easy to remember.

Another random thought: on this particular recording they don't credit the female vocalists. Bummah, but a quick search of Discogs shows that JKK's group, The KeaweHawaiis, credits Linda De La Cruz as one of the vocalists. They were lucky to have her.

A favorite version of a song we used to do in the big ukulele band.

Verb. It's A Noun.

Yesterday was magnificent. I went shopping at Canned Food Warehouse, and it did not disappoint. The people who once brought me HammerMan Toothpaste have now done something that was previously thought undoable. 

They have made verb into a noun. A proper noun.

How did this product make it to market? Howwwwww? I took this photo just because of the name, and it was only when I went to add it to this here post that I noticed the full-throated absurdity of the product. It's definitely for nerds. First...Verb. Second, it is a cookie dough flavored energy bar. Third, it's caffeinated. If only it were Captain Crunch-flavored. Then you'd have everything. Wow.

Plus Sauerfrau. 

The squeezable kraut for vegans who hate women and are too lazy to open a jar:

Squeezable

Non GMO

Bavarian

Vegan

Fermented

With caraway seeds

Enjoy!

Nature

In a quiet, redwood-scented suburban landscape, a small maple tree stands, struggling. The redwoods, here long before the houses, stand tall and firm, unconcerned by the breeze. 

The birds, here long before the houses, mistake the windows for air, and lay stunned on the threshold. 

Orange termites, their wings heart-shaped when at rest, will quietly dine on the house and the bits of trees cast down from above, and people will replant and rebuild. 

The maple does not belong here, but adds a heartbreaking flash of visual impact as it casts off its party dress for winter. A lone leaf dances in the breeze, tethered to the branch by a cobweb. It wants to join its family in the leaf litter below but can't seem to let go. 

It will continue its performance, the struggling, the figure eights, battering itself against a branch until nature, mercifully, breaks it free.

She's Not There

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it68QbUWVPM

By which I mean the mom I knew. Her body is here, but her "self" is not. 

Mrguy and I had really interesting discussions about the idea of self, yesterday. It's mutable over time. Mom's prior "self" cared about manners and how things looked. She hated vulgarity, and made you spend your time on vacation writing postcards to people back home. She hated things about me that even her most respected peers liked...and could not let them go. I did not stack up. Well at least that *last* part hasn't changed!

Now who wins the prize in vulgarity? That would be mom. And while I knew to expect that as part of end-stage Alzheimer's, I did not know that she would also become violent. While we were on vacation last week she was out of control for three full days, physically and verbally tormenting all of the people who care for her. This week is not much better.

Quote of the week from her most beloved caregiver: "She talks all day about how she will find a knife, stab your heart and slice you apart."

There you go. More laughs from the fun factory.

Street Corner Vacation

Last night while sweltering and sitting outside, we decided to take a street corner vacation today. About a mile down from our house you can park, and:

Charge your electric car

Check out the progress of the graffiti on a shuttered bar

Drink the yummiest Guatemalan grape soda

Buy that cumin you need at a Tibetan market.

One Two Three -- A List

I took two weeks off in September, just because. Just because I thought I was never going to be able to take a real vacation and go somewhere before the end of the year. I didn't want to leave vacation days behind, so I did a staycation. And here's what I did, organized in honor of the Jimmy Cagney movie One Two Three (1960).

One

- Vet appointment for boy kitten (antibiotic shot)

- Eye appointment: selected a new eye doctor based on neighborhood recommendations and his website's acknowledgment of his love for Earth Wind and Fire. He was great, and the EWF stuff was no joke. He also loves Lionel Ritchie and Con-funk-shun. His office was next to a famous shoe repair place, so I brought along my clown shoes to get a spa treatment. When I told my beloved trainer about the doctor she said "Is it Dr. X? I've been seeing him for 20 years." Of course you have, friend!

- One hour or so transcribing Freedman's Bureau records.

- One end of mourning period gathering on zoom. My friend's mom, who became my friend also, was a long-time member of an ashram, and so a lot of the folks who shared their memories filled in the gaps, a bit, on the time when my friend was raised in the inner circle of this religious community and which community it actually *is* so I could do a little followup research. Now I get it. Remember the cleanse of 2021? All of those folks were part of that community, even the ones who didn't present as hippies. They were all from the ashram. Popping back up to the top, this event was one of the most enjoyable and best curated memorials I have ever attended. I was so impressed.

- Made one mackerel mousse. So delish.

- Made a cheese ball. Also delish.

Two

- Genealogy workshops: Irish and Familysearch. Learned a few things and got a bit more information about my Irish ancestors. Turns out that two of my grandfather's siblings died in early childhood in the workhouse in Navan.

- Writing workshops: my regular third Sunday writing group and a special workshop on self-love and forgiveness. Fun fact: that second workshop was hosted by a person whose famous novel took place in the religious community that my friend was part of. Didn't know that until my research after the memorial. 

- Sumo viewings with a girlfriend (one of them in person, with outrageous snacks and cold sake in cedar cups)

- Batches of deviled eggs.

Three

- I communicated with three different people from work who Slacked me to do handoffs of archival material while I was on vacation.

- Movies: I watched One Two Three, starring Jimmy Cagney, which I'd liked in the past. Favorite line? "Put your pants on, Spartacus". Also saw The Inventor (in a theater!), and Piramida, which follows the band Efterklang, as they gather sounds at a former Soviet coal mine in northern Norway to use in a recording. This film was a download from years ago that was given freely with the requirement that you could do a viewing with five people. I could never get five people to watch it, so it languished in my list of dumb things I feel guilty about for ten or so years. The film wasn't what we thought at all, and the most interesting parts ended up being about the parallel story of a former Piramida worker who narrated vintage footage that he'd shot while working there.

The end. Two weeks off, and another vacation -- this time out of town.

News from Wirecutter

New York Times' Wirecutter delivered this important combo toilet paper dispenser / grab bar information today, when they let me (and the world) know that they exist. I love a grab bar. Wirecutter -- I am finally your demographic!!

Last summer, when Mom was still ambulatory and coming over to our house every week, she'd use our half bath and use the toilet paper dispenser as a grab bar. It was not engineered for that. We only realized this halfway through our remodel, and after we had made the wall cut for the traditional in-wall toilet paper dispenser.

Mrguy made a change order to patch the wall, and then we ended up getting one of these:

I always felt judgy about this style of dispenser, but I'm happy to have the toilet paper not sit on top of the toilet tank.

Three months after we finished the remodel, mom took a fall and since then stairs make it impossible to visit.

Had we only known about this:

It looks cool, it's old age proof and I love it. If only our walls weren't all sealed up.

Voice Memo

When I visited my mom yesterday to deliver supplies and meet our caregiver (who has been fabulous so far), I arrived to find mom with a death grip on a pillowcase, swatting the caregiver and threatening to kill her. By the time I left, she had kissed her on the cheek, sweetly.

In between:

She tried to break my finger. She tried to bite me. She likes to fix her mean, almost turquoise eyes on you, and sneer while crunching whatever part of you she's got a grip on. It's pretty cinematic.

Then she went on many unpleasant rants, captured on my iPhone. Thank you, Steve Jobs, for Voice Memo!

Mom:  I hope somebody kills her. Got it? She is trying to kill us. I'm going to get up and see if I can hit her [the caregiver] in her head. And if you get in my way I'm going to hit you.

Mom: You want someone to come up to you and say "I'm going to kill you?" 

Me: That didn't happen.

 

Mom: You don't care if you live or die?

Me: You are extra extra today

Mom: You're the baby I shouldn't have had.

Me: I know, but that's your fault, not mine

In the background, on tv, soothing Ben Napier of HGTV's Home Town waxes rhapsodic about what he loves about cedar.

Mom: I don't want to die. I want to stay with you. 

Me: Please don't die, then.

Mom: You better be working on saving me.

Me: Every day I work on saving you. It's my life mission.

Later

Mom: You're stupid....

Me: I may be stupid, but I love you. I don't really know what to say when you say such awful things, mama.

And this crazy interlude, where she began hectoring me about my not having a baby went on forever. She was sobbing and snapping at me and that seems to be about abortions of the past. I never had one, but other family members did.

Mom: Aren't you glad? Sure. You didn't want a baby anyway. Well you could have let somebody else have it.

Me: That's gross.

Mom: You're such a dumb bunny. I'll sock you. 

And then the weird riff -- 

Mom: You never did want children. We'll get you a gun and you can have it. Yeah -- other people's children, You HAVE, too. And you made up children.

Me: I made up children? Ok, I did.

Mom: I've seen it happen. I'm gonna hate you. 

Me: It's ok. You can hate me if it makes you feel better. I love you. 

Mom, sobbing -- That's what you wanted. You wanted NO children. Don't you feel good? You're stupid...stay away from me from now on. You're ugly. 

Me: You trained me not to fight back, lucky duck!

Mom: I want to go home right now. Maybe I could find somebody to give a child. I feel sorry for the child.

And...scene!

Tomorrow mrguy and I are going for a few days out on the Coast. I gave my sisters the information for the mortuary and I told them I hope they get to use it. I asked them not to call me, email any of my email addresses or contact me in any way because I don't care and I hope she dies soon.

I'm Not Ready

Yesterday was weird. I visited mom and she was talkative and morbid.

Previously, she has danced around the subject of death just a bit. And when she does, or she mentions her mom (which is a rare occurence) we're certain that it's a sign. Well yesterday all she talked about was death.

At first, she told me that she was afraid of dying. I asked for more info and got nothing.

Then she started to riff on my brother and his health problems. And she also referred to his wife by her (first) sister-in-law's name. That is remarkable because my brother has a strong resemblance to my mom's brother and now she can't tell them apart sometimes. And that is messed up.

It gets worse, but I don't want to share.

Then she asked me if I wanted to die, and asked her caregiver if *she* wanted to die. I told her that we aren't ready. Finally she dwelled on her own death. Did I want her to die? I told her repeatedly that I didn't (which is a lie, but whatever). After a few rounds of telling her no or “not today", I told her that if she wanted to die she should, and if she didn’t want to die she shouldn’t. I mean, really, at this point it is completely up to her. She is miserable and I don't want her to lead a miserable life. But if she wants to stick around for it she can do that.

Anyhoo from that conversation it seems like Mom is at least beginning to think of end of life. The only way she wants to go is if she can take us with her.

Good old selfish Mom. I had the conversation with our caregiver that if anything happens Mom has a DNR. She gets it, but has said that she doesn't know what she'll do when Mom goes because she loves her like a parent. We are so lucky to work with our caregiver. She's truly an amazing (and fun) person. As I was leaving, my mom turned to her and asked if she will help when the time comes. That was kinda heartbreaking. Poor mom.

On the way out last night I had a good conversation with my fake mom, Joan. She has a little knee pain, but saw the doctor and is actually doing pretty well (she says). She was reading the newspaper upside down, which I think is the most darling thing. 

Every Item Has A Story

My brain is too full. Yesterday I was at a work gathering and a long-time employee showed a photo of herself and a former employee. When she told me who the other guy was, I said "I know him. They had his farewell party at a park." Mind you I have never met the guy, but when I hear that guy's name I can visualize his employee photo, and the photos of him in the department he was part of, and the photos of that picnic. I do not need this information about the guy, who was an intern, but being able to summon this info is a parlor trick that probably allows me to keep working in my current capacity.

So when I looked at my breakfast this morning I thought visually, as I often do. Why am I wired to remember the origin story of every item I own?

From the left -- Wheetabix cereal (sentimental purchase reminding me of a childhood trip to Otherlandia) in bowl from a set purchased that time my sister decided that I was going to host Christmas and I bought new dishes and then she said that mom was sad that she wasn't hosting Christmas that year and completely changed all my plans while asking me to help with hers. The spoon? Ecko Eterna Canoe Muffin. I bought a fork in this pattern at the Purple Heart thrift store in the Old Place, tracked it down on Ebay, and have bought Canoe Muffin ever since. The classic 1990s mug is from a trip to Vashon Island to see mrguy's dad. The little salt and pepper caddy was inspired by the table settings at our hotel in Dessau, but purchased from the Bauhaus museum. Blue thing in the background? Aqua Zinger, as seen in Sky Mall on a work trip. Make your own spa water. And over on the right, the recent purchase -- a Magic 8 Ball.

Will the lasagne that mrguy is making be tasty?

Most likely.

Oh Siri

After seeing Waipuna last night (first time in person since before the pandemic), we went out for a beer. Our bandmate said that he keeps a Hawaiian state quarter in the pocket of his puffiest winter coat to remind him that warm places exist.

Then I reminded him that mrguy keeps an original Hawaii dime in his ukulele case. Thennnn I got to talking about Mercury dimes and how I want my Tubmans (delayed until 2030), and we looked at a current quarter and ended up asking Siri about the Bombay Hook.

But Siri went wacky and this is what she found:

Whatever, Siri.