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!