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.

Confusing

Because I work during the weekdays I have a habit of coming to see my mom when she is, as our caregiver says, "confusing". Mom is confusing at various points in the day and lately it's between dinner and bedtime. Once our caregiver finishes preparing mom for bed, she settles down.

So I arrived at an unfortunate time, bringing supplies for the apartment. Mom was in the bathroom, and when she came out she was happy and began to frown as she got closer to me. Then we sat together on the sofa and she started to cry. Like the emoji where tears are spurting out of the face or, for readers of a certain age, the cartoon Cathy.

So the caregiver and I began catching up -- I got a little further in the story she told me a few years ago about her employee stealing her furniture business in Tonga, which she realized after he had a chicken and a goat that he said someone gave him. And nobody gives you a goat for nothing.

Mom doesn't like it when the caregiver and I talk, and especially when the caregiver vents her frustrations to me. It makes my mom, who can't track the conversation think something is wrong. So she slapped my hand a few times, and then pounded me with the heel of her hand:

Mom: You are not my child.

Me: Do you promise?

Mom: You can just go to hell!!

Me: Will I find you there?

Caregiver: Hides her face in her hands, turns away and laughs uncontrollably

I live for making her laugh. Especially about religious stuff.

I wasn't really able to shift mom's mood, so I left. I didn't want to make things worse for her and the caregiver. It's sad that I arrive and mom cries. I often wonder if it would be better if I didn't visit.

On the way out I saw my fake mom, Joan (real name). As usual she greeted me with a big smile, and reached up to me asking where I've been. She reminds me of a more together version of my mom, but more outgoing. Absolutely beautiful, with eyes that could slash you if you made a misstep. I've seen her get into it with another resident. I bet she treats her son horribly, but she treats me like I matter and I always say hello. In many ways Joan is dessert when I arrive and when I leave my mom, as I get to interact with her both times. 

It helps.

Pants Freedom

Once upon a time mrguy and I were members of a very large ukulele band. Leading up to the Aloha Festival Auntie Mary (real name) was firm: we had to wear black pants and closed-toe black shoes. She said, quite specifically, that she didn't want to see our toes.

On the day of the festival Phil, a much beloved member of the band, rolled up backstage wearing his usual almost pants -- shorts that were only about 4 inches above his socks. As punishment Auntie made him stand in the back row. He was about 5' 2", and nobody would see him back there. We still talk about it. 

A few years later, when a bunch of us formed a ukulele band of our own, we were joking around in the car on the way to our own gig. Our bandmate made a joke about the fact that he was wearing shorts, not pants. Mrguy said "I declare pants freedom!" by which he mean that pants were mandatory but the kind of pants was not. 

For some reason mrguy's been talking a lot about pants freedom this week, clarifying that pants freedom is freedom of pants, not freedom from pants.

And speaking of pants my friend's mom, who lives in independent living in the community where my mom lives, declared pants freedom of her own recently. Apparently she went to the lobby without any on, and was invited to move to memory care soon after. She'll be three doors down from my mom. 

Sorry I missed the inciting event. 

Someone Paid 100 Tacos For This: A Haiku

Half Buddha candle

Celebrity root beer mug

Dennis Hopper's stuff

The Latin Orgy

JVL had the best calves in the business. Toga-wearing Latin teacher business, that is. He was bald, charismatic, bespectacled – a fantastic storyteller who made history come to life. And he put on a hell of an orgy. I was one of his students for freshman and sophomore year.

Yes! It was the 1970s, and if you were to look at my freshman yearbook you would see photos that proudly showed the Latin Orgy, which was the highlight of the end of the school year. Our quiz and test results for the year were calculated numerically, giving each student a certain amount of coin to spend on one thing – slaves. We freshmen were the slaves.

The run of show went something like this.

Morning:

• Orientation
• Slave auction
• Olympiad (track and field events – long jump was my fave)
• Lunch: served by slaves to their owners. Mine, dubbed Davidens Fortens, was super cute and pretty much a kind despot. After all, we were a bunch of introverted Latin nerds.

Afternoon:

• Chariot race around the exterior hallways. JV looked fantastic. He really sold his role as Senectus (literally wise person) with his scrawny legs and impressive calf muscles. Do I recall some varicose veins? With his toga artfully pinned but still waving in the breeze he stood tall in his plywood chariot (pulled by students?) and made it about halfway around the school before the chariot began to smolder and the race was abandoned.
• Then we had a warship battle in the pool in inflatable boats.
• Finally, we watched the movie Hannibal, with Victor Mature in one of his finest historical roles.

It was probably one of the best days of my high school experience. I recall it as respectful and hilarious and fun. And I know that when those of us who participated get together as adults we talk about it and wait for the shocked reaction of our partners. “You had a Latin what?? You had slaves? That is so wrong.”

Yeah, it was!

Other Things That Happened

A lot of staycation 2023 was taken with mom stuff, as usual. The first weekend was so relaxing. I attended a zoom genealogy society meeting, and I simply un-laxed. Much needed. I did *not* see my mom other than introducing her caregiver on Saturday. The caregiver, who was on time, was also well-spoken, asked good questions and seemed like an adult. She listened to caregiver #1 and I's advice on how things worked at the memory care unit, and understood the two important things: 1) please do not use your phone other than to communicate with us and 2) never leave my mom unattended because she is a fall risk. New caregiver left us floating on a cloud, sending cheery photos of mom and not asking for help.

And then Monday came and all of the people who work at the facility gave our caregiver a piece of their mind. The weekend person was basically a lying sack of shit who used her phone constantly and left my mom in a public area and blew the scene for two hours. She was spotted at a local Starbucks by an employee of the facility. Not only that, the guy who runs memory care, who is generally uninterested in his job, told the caregiver never to come back. I told the agency point person that we are not paying for last weekend.

The agency is a problem. Our point person does not have follow through. But how do you hire for my mean (or nice, depending) but definitely racist mom? I had to settle down my sisters this week, because this is super stressful. My agency people never work out and I don't have the energy to look for a different agency. Middle sister arranged for one caregiver to work an extraordinarily long shift in order to cover Saturday days, and now the agency and I are covering Sunday days only. Now that we only are asking for one shift, the agency is even less interested. Me too, man! I'll keep introducing new ladies every Sunday until my mom dies, and hopefully the rotating cast of caregivers won't kill her. But it's a lot of work every week, even when the person doesn't kill my mom.

You Know That Thing?

That thing where your caregiver randomly asks to borrow 1500 clams by Friday until the end of November, and that you need to keep it a secret from her mom who is your other caregiver? And that thing where her mom asks to borrow 400 clams, until who knows when, for the same important church tithing thing? Yeah, I guess you probably don't. I love our caregivers, but we are also helping them care for the Tongan church. Don't get me started on the pyramid scheme that they contribute to, where everybody gets paid every once in a while unless someone who is contributing dies, in which case their heirs get the whole pool and everybody loses a turn. Our caregivers are super smart and upright ladies, and I don't like to think of what would happen if it didn't pay off for them. I guess they'd come to us for help and they'd be ok. Haha

We are so into one another's business that we should just all adopt one another.

Or you know the thing where your dear brother-in-law who has undiagnosed and untreated ADHD mistakenly takes a wrong turn into Canada on the way home and is pulled over without identification (I think) and is just high enough to get his truck impounded and can't figure out how to get it back? The thing where your sweet husband has to figure it out and explain it to the brother who then doesn't have the money to get the car back but *also* can't tell you how to get the money to him. No PayPal or Venmo, no place to cash a check. Where do his SSI checks go every month? That has to be a bank, right? 

You know that thing? Happens to everybody, right?

We are super happy to help. Super happy that although we've known lots of super broke times we are now people who can provide for others. But mrguy says that sometimes he feels like the big cartoon pork chop walking around surrounded by cartoon wolves licking their lips waiting to gobble him up. I get it. 

mrguy's family has no-money and mental illness problems. mrsguy's family has money and mental illness problems. We are doers of favors and providers of clams, and sometimes he and I feel like we're huddled together, secure, in the middle of a shit blizzard. We want to take the kitties and get in the car and drive to the moon.

And with that, welcome to Staycation 2023, which is better than no 'cation at all, but still.