I am going to have to ask my male readers to look the other way on this one. It is a saga only the ladies will understand.
It was Christmas season 2010. Mother was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's in the fall of 2007, but we had seen indications of the disease as early as the spring of 2005. While the progression seemed slow at first, there was an rapid advancement during 2009 and early 2010. By the fall of 2010 mother could not be left alone to do anything at all. This includes the most basic of needs in the restroom.
While I have been very lucky in that she has maintained her sweet and gentle nature, mother's communication and skill levels are that of a three year old. If you have a bigger glass of tea, she will say, "You have all that up there." meaning I have more than she does and she resents it. It does no good to explain to her why she has a smaller glass. She is not be able to understand that I have to limit her tea intake because she will drink two glasses to fill her stomach and not eat all her food, or she would need to make a trip to the restroom mid-meal. This is never fun when you are dining out. And dining out alone with her is completely off the list of possible activities. Now that I pack a bag of adult supplies with a change of clothes for mother, carry my own purse, have her purse and cane and an extra coat (at all times) to oversee, one needs a spare human to leave behind at the table to monitor all the stuff. Otherwise it looks like we set up camp at a table and abandoned the site if we make a trip to the ladies' room. A smoldering campfire is the only thing I don't bring with us.
There are other reasons it is good to dine with someone else. They can report back to you all the funny things mother is doing while you are not looking directly at her. One such occasion was my brother's birthday dinner. He and his whole family joined me at church on Sunday evening, December 19. We had a service of lessons and carols at the little church I attend and his family filled two pews. We ended the evening with dinner at a nice steakhouse.
We prepared to enjoy a wonderful meal. However, it didn't take long for my brother's grown daughters to start laughing. As I would stop mother from grabbing items she wasn't supposed to have, put her small glass of tea in front of her and remove knives from her napkin set, they began to giggle. It seems that every time I did something that prevented mother from getting into something she found interesting, she would glare at me and roll her eyes the minute my head would turn. She would make little faces with her mouth to indicate she felt thwarted, which the girls couldn't resist laughing at. I would say, "What is so funny?" With mother not understanding most of the conversation around her they were able to tell me everything. When mother asked me why I was taking something from her, my reply was, "Because it will make your hair turn green and you'll start robbing banks again." and she would be satisfied with the answer. Then roll her eyes and glare at me the minute my head turned. We entertained the whole table.
Dinner rocked along smoothly enough until mother started fidgeting. I inquired what was wrong and she indicated she needed to go to the restroom. I sighed. You will soon find that, in regard to the public restroom scenario, I have come to set my self-esteem aside and leave it crumpled with my napkin on my chair. And I have learned that the only opportunity I have of taking my turn in the ladies' room is when I take her. Otherwise, it is a complicated dance of the trip with her, washing her hands, walking her back to the table to leave some other poor soul the task of chaperoning mother while I return to the restroom. All that trafficking back and forth causes a lot of attention. And, ladies, we all know this is something we just don't like. If there was a black whole we could step into where no one could see us opening the door to the ladies' room it would be infinitely better than having that sweet guy from the bar standing there ready to open the door to the restroom hallway, sweepingly bowing with a grand gesture as if to say, "Go right on in and make those noises of a cow peeing on a flat rock. We don't have a clue why you are going in there."
I have realized that I must, for the sake of my own sanity, make the most of a lousy situation. With mother donning two coats and walking with a cane, I have timed this out to create the minimum of fuss. The routine is to take her into the handicap stall, get her gloves off her hands and into the coat pockets, take the overcoat off and hang it up on the hook. Once she is finished with business, cleaned and flushed I set her aside to put the overcoat on and take my turn. Since she usually takes the time to zip the under coat, button every single button on the overcoat and tie the waist band belt, I am usually able to relieve myself and only have to admonish her not to touch the door knob until I open the door for her.
Well, needless to say, I wouldn't be writing this if all had gone perfectly as planned. There I sat with my Christmas dress held up away from the toilet clamped to my side with my left arm, my panties are at my knees, and I am trying to pry the toilet paper out of the holder with my right hand while still attempting to hold that side of the dress in mid air. Mother has dutifully put on her coat. She appeared to be meddling with buttons. I was saying my usual mantra of, "Mom, don't go near the door until I am ready." "Okay." she replied. "Mom, finish putting your coat on." "Okay." "Mom, wait for me." "Okay." Next thing I know her little hand zipped out and flipped the latch. "Mom," I shouted, "don't open the door." She was proceeding forward as if she hadn't heard a word I said.
Ladies, we all know that there is always a line for the women's restroom. Typically, you will have women three deep waiting for a stall. I have no idea why architects design things the way they do. They put an equal number of stalls in the men's room, plus there are urinals on the wall. Why they don't take two of those stalls and make the ladies' room larger I have no idea. Oh, wait, yes I do. Men are impatient. Men don't have half the clothing we women have. And no man is going to have to share his stall with his elderly mother. They have NO CLUE.
So there I was - sitting on the handicap toilet (which is taller than normal toilets) with my panties at my knees, my feet swinging in mid air like a child's, my left arm clutching my Christmas dress against my ribs and my right hand filled with toilet paper. What was I to do? My only thought was to put the clean toilet paper under my arm pit so I wouldn't drop it on the floor, reach out and grab mother by the coat and drag her back toward me. I clutched the back of her coat, fussing at her the whole time. The door continued to swing open. As par for my luck, this was the one time she did not button every button and tie the waist belt. The coat slid straight off her body as she walked forward. I pitied the ladies standing on the other side of the door waiting for an empty stall. Mother continued to walk out as I pleaded with her not to go out the door. The coat dropped onto the floor in a deflated heap, and I was facing strangers without a thread of dignity left to my soul. I could only look into their embarrassed eyes and asked in a pathetic voice, "Don't let her escape." "Oh, and could you push the door shut, please?"
Nothing spells togetherness like Alzheimer's and the handicap stall of a public restroom.
Okay, Thank You
Fall 2009
It happened one dark and stormy night. I can actually open with that line. I needed a break for a weekend get-away and took some time off to go to Fort Worth to visit my daughter. My sister and I had agreed that mother did not need to be alone for a whole weekend. At this stage in mother's battle with Alzheimer's we weren't quite to the point of needing a sitter all day and care all evening, but a weekend was cause for concern. In my absence during this particular weekend, my niece Rebecca was the one who drew the short straw of who would spend the weekend with Granny.
I precooked mother's meals. I had everything ready for Rebecca to stay. I told Rebecca I would leave the garage door opener by the front door behind the safety gate. All she had to do was let herself in. I tried to explain to mother that I was going to be gone and Rebecca was coming to stay. I got that blank look that said, "You speaking dah Greek again" but the words that came out of her mouth were "Okay. Whatever."
I packed the car, left the garage door opener in its spot and drove away. With the promise of a wonderful weekend with my daughter and her husband, I did not have a care on my mind. Until I got the call from my sister.
Alicia "Did you forget to leave the garage door opener for Becca?"
Cheryl "No. I put it behind the safety gate by the front door."
A "Well, it's not there."
C "Surely someone didn't pick it up."
A "It's storming here and Becca is locked out. She has been ringing the doorbell, but Granny isn't answering."
C "Did you call the house and see if mom answers?"
A "Let me try that. Tricia and I are driving over there now."
By this time Rebecca was drenched and huddling on my front porch in the dark. Alicia called the house and mother answered the phone. Here is the conversation from Bizzaro world.
Mother "Hello?"
Alicia "Mother. Open the door."
M "The door? I just did that."
A "Open the front door. We're trying to get in."
M "The door? I just did that to let those dogs out. It was doing that stuff up out there and the dogs didn't want it that."
A "Not the dogs mom. Open the front door. Rebecca is trying to come in. She's ringing the door bell."
M "Do what?"
A "Open the door. Can't you hear us banging on the door?"
M "I did that already."
A "No, mom. We're trying to come in."
M "Oh, you're coming over? That's nice. Thank you." And she hung up.
Alicia called again. "Mom. We're here. Let us in."
M "Okay. Thank you."
A "Mom. Open the door."
I don't know how long this went on. Eventually mother must have noticed the dogs going crazy at the front door and opened it to investigate. As the light from the open door spilled into the darkness to reveal the bedraggled and frustrated trio, mother beamed "Oh. You're here. So nice."
Alicia questioned mother as to the whereabouts of the garage door opener. "Mom, did you pick up something by the front door?"
Mother, "Do what?"
A "Did you pick up something by the door? Outside? A little black box?" She finally opened the door and pointed to the place the truant mechanism should have been. Mother perked up and said, "Oh, yes. Someone put this little thing down there." and the item surfaced.
On the first day of good weather after that my sister pulled her Honda into my driveway and programmed her garage door opener to match my garage system.
The moral of the story is: Don't go thinking you've covered all your bases. Something's going to go wrong, and you will be standing in the rain wondering what on earth you did to deserve it. This time - It Wasn't Me!!!!
It happened one dark and stormy night. I can actually open with that line. I needed a break for a weekend get-away and took some time off to go to Fort Worth to visit my daughter. My sister and I had agreed that mother did not need to be alone for a whole weekend. At this stage in mother's battle with Alzheimer's we weren't quite to the point of needing a sitter all day and care all evening, but a weekend was cause for concern. In my absence during this particular weekend, my niece Rebecca was the one who drew the short straw of who would spend the weekend with Granny.
I precooked mother's meals. I had everything ready for Rebecca to stay. I told Rebecca I would leave the garage door opener by the front door behind the safety gate. All she had to do was let herself in. I tried to explain to mother that I was going to be gone and Rebecca was coming to stay. I got that blank look that said, "You speaking dah Greek again" but the words that came out of her mouth were "Okay. Whatever."
I packed the car, left the garage door opener in its spot and drove away. With the promise of a wonderful weekend with my daughter and her husband, I did not have a care on my mind. Until I got the call from my sister.
Alicia "Did you forget to leave the garage door opener for Becca?"
Cheryl "No. I put it behind the safety gate by the front door."
A "Well, it's not there."
C "Surely someone didn't pick it up."
A "It's storming here and Becca is locked out. She has been ringing the doorbell, but Granny isn't answering."
C "Did you call the house and see if mom answers?"
A "Let me try that. Tricia and I are driving over there now."
By this time Rebecca was drenched and huddling on my front porch in the dark. Alicia called the house and mother answered the phone. Here is the conversation from Bizzaro world.
Mother "Hello?"
Alicia "Mother. Open the door."
M "The door? I just did that."
A "Open the front door. We're trying to get in."
M "The door? I just did that to let those dogs out. It was doing that stuff up out there and the dogs didn't want it that."
A "Not the dogs mom. Open the front door. Rebecca is trying to come in. She's ringing the door bell."
M "Do what?"
A "Open the door. Can't you hear us banging on the door?"
M "I did that already."
A "No, mom. We're trying to come in."
M "Oh, you're coming over? That's nice. Thank you." And she hung up.
Alicia called again. "Mom. We're here. Let us in."
M "Okay. Thank you."
A "Mom. Open the door."
I don't know how long this went on. Eventually mother must have noticed the dogs going crazy at the front door and opened it to investigate. As the light from the open door spilled into the darkness to reveal the bedraggled and frustrated trio, mother beamed "Oh. You're here. So nice."
Alicia questioned mother as to the whereabouts of the garage door opener. "Mom, did you pick up something by the front door?"
Mother, "Do what?"
A "Did you pick up something by the door? Outside? A little black box?" She finally opened the door and pointed to the place the truant mechanism should have been. Mother perked up and said, "Oh, yes. Someone put this little thing down there." and the item surfaced.
On the first day of good weather after that my sister pulled her Honda into my driveway and programmed her garage door opener to match my garage system.
The moral of the story is: Don't go thinking you've covered all your bases. Something's going to go wrong, and you will be standing in the rain wondering what on earth you did to deserve it. This time - It Wasn't Me!!!!
Cooking the Christmas Goose
Well, actually, it was my goose that got cooked.
December started off relatively quiet. We now have a sitter who comes to the house to stay with mother while I work during the day. This still means I am on duty on my days off, which include Fridays since my office has a four day work week. Being “off” on Friday is just a term, but it is a term that lulls me into a false sense of complacency. My Fridays are spent cleaning house, doing laundry, some occasional cooking and a host of other boring things to write about such as balancing the checkbooks and paying bills.
One quiet Friday I decided to indulge in a nap. I turned the television off, left mother playing with her puzzle and settled in under the covers of my bed. A blissful hour went by before I heard the dogs scuffling around in the kitchen. A yip and a bark told me something was going on. I bolted out of bed to see what they were up to. All three dogs were hovering around mother, bouncing up and down, licking the floor as mother dribbled raw egg splatters to treat them. The dogs weren’t the ones up to no good. Mother had decided to find a snack and settled on sampling raw eggs out of the carton – shells and all. There was only one egg left in the back row of the carton, which meant that five eggs had been consumed. Strike taking a nap off my want-to-do list. I had already locked up most of the food goods in the hall closet. Now I realized nothing was safe. I had already thrown out bags of frozen veggies that I discovered had been opened and put back in the freezer. In the effort to hide the open packages, mother would stick them behind something. It would rain frozen peas when I opened the freezer door. Not even the dogs were interested in cleaning them up. They rolled everywhere like little green bee-bees. At least frozen veggies couldn’t make mother sick. This latest incident with the eggs put me to taking another action – locking the refrigerator. With Christmas just weeks ahead, I knew there would be too much temptation sitting on the shelves. Even watching her like a hawk, I still had to do laundry and take a shower. I came to the conclusion that an open fridge was better than the apple tree in the Garden of Eden. I went to the garage and returned with a ratcheting tie strap. Not kidding. I wished I had a camcorder set up to film mother's first effort to break in. It would have been a YouTube moment. With the fridge bolted shut it was now safe to procure Christmas dinner goodies.
As mother’s Alzheimer’s progresses, there is one good thing that has happened…the grocery store now baffles her. She is no longer capable of getting on the power scooter and zooming away from me in the one nanosecond I am not looking at her. I hark back to a day two years ago when I took her to that well known mega store to buy a few things. She mounted the handicap scooter, slapped her cane across the top of the basket like an M2 fifty caliber machine gun mounted on an M-1 Abrams tank and turned on the nearly silent electric motor. The only sound that could be heard was the electric whine when the wheels turned. I admonished her to stay with me and watch how close she was to items as she turned the steering handle. “Okay” was the only response I got. We did fairly well until we made the first corner. I took four steps, turned around, and she was gone. I retraced my four steps thinking I would catch her in the main isle we had just left. Zip. Nada. Nuttin. She was nowhere in sight. I raced back and forth, too short to see over the massive isles of stuff in Super Mega Mart. I called her name. I asked people if they’d seen a little lady on a scooter. One person said they had seen an older woman in the make-up isle. Off I went, only to discover that this little lady had on a blue shirt and mom was wearing burgundy. I found a sales associate and gave him her description. Oh, yes. He had spotted her in the grocery section of the store. Across the 40 acres of store tiles I went. Up and down isles, around the freezer section. No sign of her. I turned and saw a curly grey head bobbing back and forth with the lurching of the power scotter starting and stopping as it traveled through the fruit section. My plan was to nab her at the banana bin. I turned and started fussing, “I told you not to turn away from…..” - not her. Man, it seemed like it was Elderly Ladies on Scooter Day in Mega Mart. I finally found a manager who put an APB out on her over the intercom system. The call came back – little lady in a red colored top discovered in isle 12. Once again I trecked the length of Mega Mart. Drat! The occupant of this scooter had a red top on alright, but she was Hispanic. I picked up my cell phone and called my sister. “Hey, I have a confession to make. I have misplaced mother in Gynormous Mega Mart.” I heard my sister put the phone aside as she spoke to her two daughters. “Aunt Cheryl just lost Granny in Mega Mart.” Next thing I heard was their three voices collectively laughing out loud. I was not amused. I headed to the front of the store to wait. There she was. Parked in the center of the area by the cash registers, her basket piled full of the spoils of her conquest of Mega Mart. I stopped taking her with me after that.
Back to present day and the grocery store. I had the Christmas dinner list I toiled over for days and knew I couldn’t leave mom at home alone after the egg incident. I took a long, slow breath to calm myself and put her in the car for the trip to the grocery store. When we entered the store I walked her past the motorized carts. She didn’t even glance their way. I placed her hands on the handle of the basket, took her cane away so she would have to hang on to the basket and steered her into the store. She looked around in complete bewilderment. I steered the cart as she walked slowly behind it. I shopped to my heart’s content in complete silence. No argument about what she could have. No running after her as she wandered away. Once home, my Christmas dinner goodies were safely locked in the refrigerator, just waiting to be whipped into fabulous wonders for the holiday meal.
I decided to try something really different this year for Christmas dinner. I elected to tackle a pork crown roast – one of the fancy smancy roasts with the bones sticking up all majestic-like accompanied by its television-touted perfect companion of baked apple herb dressing. My menu consisted of asparagus with a creamed asparagus sauce, roasted corn, baked chicken leg quarters over saffron rice, two beer batter breads - one orange flavored and one pumpkin flavored - and a fabulous dessert I saw on the show of one of the home and cooking channel divas. You know the one – she got to write the book on “How to Achieve Feng Shui with Concrete” also subtitled “Making that 4x8 Space All Your Very Own.” The dessert was a take on Bananas Foster. It was a trifle layered with angel food cake and the banana mixture of melted butter, brown sugar, cinnamon and dark rum. Of course there was the whole math thing to give you the right quantities for your guests. She had about 20 guests, so there were 20 bananas and two cups of dark rum. With 15 coming to my house, several of them being big sweet lovers, I used her count for 20. Now, mind you, she never showed them lighting the flambe’ mixture, nor did she say to do so as you do with Bananas Foster. By the end of the program she was swimming in a sea of compliments over her stunning dish of crown roast with the baked apple dressing. You heard lines like, “My, how superb is this dessert!” “Simply delightful and sinful.” “Why, I don’t think I even need eggnog after this.” etc. Well, let me tell you, I think her guests had long since swilled the eggnog down to the last drop, then got into the cooking sherry behind her back. They had to be toasted already to think that dessert tasted like anything other than pure gasoline. The amount of brown sugar cooked to an almost candy state with pure dark rum was a dreadful combination. It needed a kiss of alcohol, not a raging torrent at full strength. It needed the match put to it prior to loading it in the trifle dish. Prepared in real life as presented on TV did not net the same compliments. Rather, I saw my guests sniff it with eyes full of merriment, delight and expectation. Once it hit the tip of their tongues it became a spittoon hitting contest. Me no likum firewater in banana dish. It sat in its container like the newest twist on an IED just waiting to blow. Dessert was a complete disaster. Oh, and that baked apple dressing? Makes for great fertilizer. Just don’t dump the flambe' in the rose garden or those puppies are goners.
Taking Out the Trash
My least favorite job.
I have often said that the only reason women get married is because men don’t mind taking out the trash and they come with tools. But wait, now there’s Home Depot and Lowe’s and a brand of tools named Tomboy Tools that fit into a woman’s hands. So taking out the trash is the only real reason to keep a man on hand.
I found myself muttering under my breath last night as I dragged a can to the curb in a cold rain. What redeeming qualities could garbage duty have? My sister told me her husband sent her a text yesterday about putting the garbage can out in the back yard filled with bleach water – it was very smelly. I asked if it could be any smellier than mine with adult diapers in it. Her answer – deer heads from the recent hunting trip four days ago. Ouch. In our weather. Baking in a plastic bag for days.
I wondered how on earth do the trash guys do this job every day? And with no reward other than a minimal salary. I wonder if they have discussions at lunch about the worst thing they picked up that day. I wonder if anyone ever says thank you. I wonder how their family stands the smell when they arrive home. Then I had this mental image of a little boy racing down a cracked sidewalk to greet his dad with open arms. No holding back. Daddy is home from his day at work. Daddy is just daddy, not a smelly garbage collector. He is the hero of the house. He is the strongest man on the planet. He is the smartest man his child knows.
I now see these people with new eyes. I see the faces of determined men who, for lack of education, will never amount to much more than the title of trash guy. However, their grit and determination to work and put food on the table will do much to install the drive in their children to expect more and do better.
A while back I met a Home Depot delivery man the evening we purchased a refrigerator. The delivery was very late, and I thanked him for his time. He informed me that evening delivery was his second job. He had a daughter in college. Guess what? She wasn’t in the local community college, either. She was in an Ivy League school. This father set everything aside in life to make that possible for her. It also shows that he spent her formative years implanting the knowledge that a certain course in life was possible. It was obvious that he wasn’t content with letting her plug into a computer game or stay on a cell phone for most of her young life.
We see so many cases where the young people we observe today create a stereotype that instills almost fear for our future. I mean, if they don’t know what pant size they should be wearing so their
underwear show, or they have to hold them up to walk (God forbid if they had to run from a burning building!) and their language and grammar are atrocious, who the heck is going to run this country? I’ll tell you who - some garbage man’s daughter or son who watched a hardworking parent make the sacrifice for their future.
It’s the people who are handed the best and the easiest way of life that we need to worry about. The Paris Hiltons of this world will never contribute anything to the betterment of society unless some board trustee overseeing their money makes hefty donations to charity, not for charitable reasons, but for the tax advantages.
No, give me the hope that some underpaid, sweaty, unshaven man riding shotgun on the garbage truck will have vision for his children. And grant me the spine to approach them to say thank you. I just bought three gift cards to a restaurant to hand out Thursday morning. I may be late for work, but I will come to work with a fresher outlook on life.
I have often said that the only reason women get married is because men don’t mind taking out the trash and they come with tools. But wait, now there’s Home Depot and Lowe’s and a brand of tools named Tomboy Tools that fit into a woman’s hands. So taking out the trash is the only real reason to keep a man on hand.
I found myself muttering under my breath last night as I dragged a can to the curb in a cold rain. What redeeming qualities could garbage duty have? My sister told me her husband sent her a text yesterday about putting the garbage can out in the back yard filled with bleach water – it was very smelly. I asked if it could be any smellier than mine with adult diapers in it. Her answer – deer heads from the recent hunting trip four days ago. Ouch. In our weather. Baking in a plastic bag for days.
I wondered how on earth do the trash guys do this job every day? And with no reward other than a minimal salary. I wonder if they have discussions at lunch about the worst thing they picked up that day. I wonder if anyone ever says thank you. I wonder how their family stands the smell when they arrive home. Then I had this mental image of a little boy racing down a cracked sidewalk to greet his dad with open arms. No holding back. Daddy is home from his day at work. Daddy is just daddy, not a smelly garbage collector. He is the hero of the house. He is the strongest man on the planet. He is the smartest man his child knows.
I now see these people with new eyes. I see the faces of determined men who, for lack of education, will never amount to much more than the title of trash guy. However, their grit and determination to work and put food on the table will do much to install the drive in their children to expect more and do better.
A while back I met a Home Depot delivery man the evening we purchased a refrigerator. The delivery was very late, and I thanked him for his time. He informed me that evening delivery was his second job. He had a daughter in college. Guess what? She wasn’t in the local community college, either. She was in an Ivy League school. This father set everything aside in life to make that possible for her. It also shows that he spent her formative years implanting the knowledge that a certain course in life was possible. It was obvious that he wasn’t content with letting her plug into a computer game or stay on a cell phone for most of her young life.
We see so many cases where the young people we observe today create a stereotype that instills almost fear for our future. I mean, if they don’t know what pant size they should be wearing so their
underwear show, or they have to hold them up to walk (God forbid if they had to run from a burning building!) and their language and grammar are atrocious, who the heck is going to run this country? I’ll tell you who - some garbage man’s daughter or son who watched a hardworking parent make the sacrifice for their future.
It’s the people who are handed the best and the easiest way of life that we need to worry about. The Paris Hiltons of this world will never contribute anything to the betterment of society unless some board trustee overseeing their money makes hefty donations to charity, not for charitable reasons, but for the tax advantages.
No, give me the hope that some underpaid, sweaty, unshaven man riding shotgun on the garbage truck will have vision for his children. And grant me the spine to approach them to say thank you. I just bought three gift cards to a restaurant to hand out Thursday morning. I may be late for work, but I will come to work with a fresher outlook on life.
Shopping With Cheryl
I have recently been reminded of how much I hate to shop. Well, let me correct myself. Put me in my favorite market with all that fabulous produce and I will spend more money than I have sense and spend hours over a hot stove for friends and loved ones serving up all manner of fodder. And may I mention that no-one has thrown anything back at me? When I start a sentence with, "Hey, I'm cooking, wanna come over and" I never get to finish the sentence. Let's go back a few years and start with a perfectly good example of what it is like to shop with Cheryl.
I don't even know what time of year it was, but a shopping spree was planned that included myself, my mother, my daughter and my sister. We ended up in one of those department type of stores that had home goods in the middle surrounded by a lovely walk path and different departments flanking that walk path. And let's all remember that I am short. Shorter than most clothing racks. Mother spent untold hours looking at every garment. I'd swear it was hours. My sister was in the shoe isle. I bet every pair in her size was tried on. Tina was planning a wedding, so house wares were on her shopping list. I looked around and then took a stroll.
Everyone lost sight of me. My daughter spotted a sales clerk and asked if she had seen a short lady with red hair. The clerk said, "Wait here about another 18 seconds and she will pass by. She has been circling the building like a caged lion." People! I was strolling!
Not long after I landed this new job it came to my attention that I needed to be back in suits and not the rather casual sportswear that I had donned at my previous employment where I was climbing in attics, fixing toilets and shoveling dead bunnies on top of running a rather large church office. I was now in a nice office with people who did those other jobs.
Explain the shoveling bunnies you ask? Well, one Spring near Easter time, the head mistress of our church school came into my office in a panic. "There's a dead rabbit in the main drop off driveway. Kids will be arriving at any moment. We don't want them to think we murdered the Easter Bunny. What do we do????" Well, the obvious answer was to get a shovel and place poor Peter in the dumpster. But I didn't say that. I said I would take care of it. I went to the custodial closet, got the shovel and scooped up poor Flopsy Mopsy and walked to the back of the church. Once at the dumpster I realized that the dumpster was much taller than me or my reach with the shovel. I GENTLY set Peter-Flopsy-Mopsy on the ground, raised the dumpster lid with the shovel, scooped him back up again and hoisted said bunny in the air. Uh, Oh. The best laid plans of mice and men started to go South on me. Peter began to slip down the handle of the shovel. He slid at a rate so fast an Olympic Luge team would have been proud. I tried twice more with the same results. Now my sleeve was coated in various bunny parts I knew were not the best of accessories for the day. So I grabbed him by the ears and hurled him over the dumpster like dunking a basketball. He hit the bottom with a thud just before the first car pulled in the drive. I slammed the lid to the dumpster shut and returned to my office. My assistant asked if I had been successful. I said yes. However, my outfit was not a success. Needless to say, the staff howled with laughter at the telling of my tale.
So the old wardrobe had to be left behind and a new one was in order. I summoned my sister and her red headed daughter, Patricia. If you haven't read the piece on Patricia, do so. It will help you visualize what transpired on the shopping trip to hell.
About the only clothing store I will patronize is Palais Royal. They generally carry a couple of petite sizes. My choice is limited, so if I see nothing to try on, I am off the hook and can walk out without the obligatory humiliation in the dressing room. While not necessarily on the line, my job was certainly part of the big picture in this venture. Alicia and Tricia accompanied me on the field trip and helped me scope out a few suits. I needed at least five or seven to start with. Once I was ensconced in the dressing room, they would bring me a new outfit as I passed over others.
It wasn't twelve minutes before I was disgusted with my choices, pissed off at the size of my ass and ready to get out of there. I said, "I'm through." and pressed down the door handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge. Patricia had set herself on the floor with her back against the door, placed her feet such that they could wedge her body to the door, thus she effectively barricaded me in the dressing room. "Hey. I can't open the door. Go get someone." "We know that." was the response on the other side. "You can't come out until you have five outfits." "No way. Let me out." "Not gonna."
Trapped. In a dressing room. With black and pink wall paper. Standing with mirrors on three sides to clearly show me how much weight I have gained. This was not fair. Why couldn't it be one of those uptown boutiques that had those skinny mirrors? Remember the old Seinfeld episode with Elaine buying the dress, then seeing herself in other mirrors down the street? Well, my panic was much worse. I was well past my good behavior time slot for shopping. Three more suits came sailing over the door and landed on my head. My sister, who is a shopper, was in her element. I just knew she was getting back at me for something from the past. We'll just say I wasn't gracious. We finally came to an impasse. They took pity on me after other customers in dressing stalls started laughing while listening to our conversation, especially after I cried out in desperation, "There's nothing here that will cover the Buick parked on my back porch! Please let me out." One patron two stalls down said, "Oh, honey. I know the feeling."
Months later, still trying to complete a wardrobe, I was in a specific section of a women's wear store. I like to wear larger, loose shirts over a shell top with pants. So I patronize the 1x department. They have lovely stuff. However, I am still shorter than the racks and have a tough time getting attention from sales clerks. I approached someone and posed a question. She was quick to respond, "Oh, sweetheart, you don't belong in this department. This is the women's department." while trying not to say the words BIG WOMEN. I quickly responded, "Have you seen the Buick parked on my back porch? I qualify as big in places. Besides that, a hundred years ago I was a big lady!" She chuckled and gave me a little help as she was helping another patron, with whom I struck up a conversation. My shopping counterpart was fussing about all the new blouses having such low cut cleavage and how all the young girls didn't mind if their bras showed or what hung out. She stated that this poses considerable issues for young men in church. She went on to say it also posed issues for older guys in church and began to tell me about one particular Sunday. Now I must say that I really admire black women. They are beautiful. They don't show their age because of all that wonderful Melanin in their skin. They don't mince words, and they take action when action is needed. She proceeded to tell me about one Sunday when prayer meeting went a little long. A lot of prayers were needed that Sunday, and she was thinking her husband was getting hungry and restless. She could feel his movements. Then she realized that she needed to not be so 'prayerful' and take a look-see at what was going on. Every chance he could get, he was swinging his head to get a look at a young lady with all the goods she could possibly display out in plain sight for anyone to enjoy. She said she quietly slipped her left arm through his right, rested her other hand on his upper arm and slipped her fingers in and took a chunk of flesh between her two fingers and twisted it good. He settled right down. I told her that was priceless. We went on to thumb through racks. I lasted about five minutes.
I'll just wrap it up to say, if you need a shopping partner, don't call me unless you have a good story to tell. And may I state firmly that there will never be a trip for the garment known as the bathing suit! I'll be pregnant before that happens.
I don't even know what time of year it was, but a shopping spree was planned that included myself, my mother, my daughter and my sister. We ended up in one of those department type of stores that had home goods in the middle surrounded by a lovely walk path and different departments flanking that walk path. And let's all remember that I am short. Shorter than most clothing racks. Mother spent untold hours looking at every garment. I'd swear it was hours. My sister was in the shoe isle. I bet every pair in her size was tried on. Tina was planning a wedding, so house wares were on her shopping list. I looked around and then took a stroll.
Everyone lost sight of me. My daughter spotted a sales clerk and asked if she had seen a short lady with red hair. The clerk said, "Wait here about another 18 seconds and she will pass by. She has been circling the building like a caged lion." People! I was strolling!
Not long after I landed this new job it came to my attention that I needed to be back in suits and not the rather casual sportswear that I had donned at my previous employment where I was climbing in attics, fixing toilets and shoveling dead bunnies on top of running a rather large church office. I was now in a nice office with people who did those other jobs.
Explain the shoveling bunnies you ask? Well, one Spring near Easter time, the head mistress of our church school came into my office in a panic. "There's a dead rabbit in the main drop off driveway. Kids will be arriving at any moment. We don't want them to think we murdered the Easter Bunny. What do we do????" Well, the obvious answer was to get a shovel and place poor Peter in the dumpster. But I didn't say that. I said I would take care of it. I went to the custodial closet, got the shovel and scooped up poor Flopsy Mopsy and walked to the back of the church. Once at the dumpster I realized that the dumpster was much taller than me or my reach with the shovel. I GENTLY set Peter-Flopsy-Mopsy on the ground, raised the dumpster lid with the shovel, scooped him back up again and hoisted said bunny in the air. Uh, Oh. The best laid plans of mice and men started to go South on me. Peter began to slip down the handle of the shovel. He slid at a rate so fast an Olympic Luge team would have been proud. I tried twice more with the same results. Now my sleeve was coated in various bunny parts I knew were not the best of accessories for the day. So I grabbed him by the ears and hurled him over the dumpster like dunking a basketball. He hit the bottom with a thud just before the first car pulled in the drive. I slammed the lid to the dumpster shut and returned to my office. My assistant asked if I had been successful. I said yes. However, my outfit was not a success. Needless to say, the staff howled with laughter at the telling of my tale.
So the old wardrobe had to be left behind and a new one was in order. I summoned my sister and her red headed daughter, Patricia. If you haven't read the piece on Patricia, do so. It will help you visualize what transpired on the shopping trip to hell.
About the only clothing store I will patronize is Palais Royal. They generally carry a couple of petite sizes. My choice is limited, so if I see nothing to try on, I am off the hook and can walk out without the obligatory humiliation in the dressing room. While not necessarily on the line, my job was certainly part of the big picture in this venture. Alicia and Tricia accompanied me on the field trip and helped me scope out a few suits. I needed at least five or seven to start with. Once I was ensconced in the dressing room, they would bring me a new outfit as I passed over others.
It wasn't twelve minutes before I was disgusted with my choices, pissed off at the size of my ass and ready to get out of there. I said, "I'm through." and pressed down the door handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge. Patricia had set herself on the floor with her back against the door, placed her feet such that they could wedge her body to the door, thus she effectively barricaded me in the dressing room. "Hey. I can't open the door. Go get someone." "We know that." was the response on the other side. "You can't come out until you have five outfits." "No way. Let me out." "Not gonna."
Trapped. In a dressing room. With black and pink wall paper. Standing with mirrors on three sides to clearly show me how much weight I have gained. This was not fair. Why couldn't it be one of those uptown boutiques that had those skinny mirrors? Remember the old Seinfeld episode with Elaine buying the dress, then seeing herself in other mirrors down the street? Well, my panic was much worse. I was well past my good behavior time slot for shopping. Three more suits came sailing over the door and landed on my head. My sister, who is a shopper, was in her element. I just knew she was getting back at me for something from the past. We'll just say I wasn't gracious. We finally came to an impasse. They took pity on me after other customers in dressing stalls started laughing while listening to our conversation, especially after I cried out in desperation, "There's nothing here that will cover the Buick parked on my back porch! Please let me out." One patron two stalls down said, "Oh, honey. I know the feeling."
Months later, still trying to complete a wardrobe, I was in a specific section of a women's wear store. I like to wear larger, loose shirts over a shell top with pants. So I patronize the 1x department. They have lovely stuff. However, I am still shorter than the racks and have a tough time getting attention from sales clerks. I approached someone and posed a question. She was quick to respond, "Oh, sweetheart, you don't belong in this department. This is the women's department." while trying not to say the words BIG WOMEN. I quickly responded, "Have you seen the Buick parked on my back porch? I qualify as big in places. Besides that, a hundred years ago I was a big lady!" She chuckled and gave me a little help as she was helping another patron, with whom I struck up a conversation. My shopping counterpart was fussing about all the new blouses having such low cut cleavage and how all the young girls didn't mind if their bras showed or what hung out. She stated that this poses considerable issues for young men in church. She went on to say it also posed issues for older guys in church and began to tell me about one particular Sunday. Now I must say that I really admire black women. They are beautiful. They don't show their age because of all that wonderful Melanin in their skin. They don't mince words, and they take action when action is needed. She proceeded to tell me about one Sunday when prayer meeting went a little long. A lot of prayers were needed that Sunday, and she was thinking her husband was getting hungry and restless. She could feel his movements. Then she realized that she needed to not be so 'prayerful' and take a look-see at what was going on. Every chance he could get, he was swinging his head to get a look at a young lady with all the goods she could possibly display out in plain sight for anyone to enjoy. She said she quietly slipped her left arm through his right, rested her other hand on his upper arm and slipped her fingers in and took a chunk of flesh between her two fingers and twisted it good. He settled right down. I told her that was priceless. We went on to thumb through racks. I lasted about five minutes.
I'll just wrap it up to say, if you need a shopping partner, don't call me unless you have a good story to tell. And may I state firmly that there will never be a trip for the garment known as the bathing suit! I'll be pregnant before that happens.
Gunnar Has Arrived
Alas, it was not me presenting mother with her first great grandchild. Younger brother Steve and wife Marlene have earned that title. His second daughter, Jessica and her husband Wesley, have brought the most delightful bundle into the world. The really sad part of the story is that mom is clueless as to the special place this baby holds in all our lives. If he had been born 10 years ago, I am sure mother would have moved earth and sky to be near him. Once he was placed in her arms, she would not have let him go. Now, she held him for the first time for a few brief seconds and was ready to give him back.
I, however, have the distinct pleasure of being titled Great Aunt Cheryl. Get that word Great. Being the family photographer, I get the first opportunities to play with him that only immediate family have the pleasure of. But it was well noted on our first photo session Gunnar wasn't impressed with my greatness or my prowress with the camera. He slept right through it. Best shot I got was of his foot being held in Wesley's hands.
Second photo session didn't go any better. His cousin [a whole week older than him] was the perfect photo baby. She looked right at me. She didn't cry. She didn't fuss when her mother changed outfits numerous times. Again, Gunnar slept. He stirred long enough to cry when his mother tapped the bottom of his feet. They lifted him in the air and whirled him around. He wouldn't wake up for anything. They called his name out loud, raised their voices, shook him around a bit...one eye rolled slowly open and shut. Drat.
I fully understand what those baby photographers at the mall feel like. Babies crying. Mothers getting frustrated. Dads getting impatient to get the heck out of the mall. All those toys being waved and squeaked for naught. Then you think you have a moment coming without tears, so you reach out and straighten little Adorable's outfit and uck, Baby Adorable has just puked down your hand.
Let's not leave out the most despised photo opportunity character of all time. Santa Claus. Yeah, we all have those first photos. Baby's first Christmas visit to the mall. You plunk the child down on the red velvet lap. There comes that moment when the baby realizes you have stepped away and that little head turns to look behind them. As the head turns back to the evil parents who have done this dreadful thing to them, the mouth opens. The New York Fire Department doesn't have sirens to compete with those wails. I now know why they hire retired guys to play Santa. First question on the application is, "Are you Deaf? If yes, then you have the job."
I have that very picture of my daughter. Like every other parent in line, I was sure I was going to get a delightful shot of the first visit with Santa. I got mouth wide open, tears streaming, face turning beet red, and sobs that shook her body into a near convulsive state. Between Santa and the baby photo studios in the mall, it's a wonder children aren't terrified of the mall setting. Maybe puberty erases those memories, because that is the only place tweens and teens want to be.
At any rate, my brother and his family are starting new memories and embarking on a whole new life. As the family photographer, I get to peek vicariously in on the wonderful life of grandparenting. And yes, I will be right behind them with my camera when they make that fateful trip to the mall at Christmas time.
I, however, have the distinct pleasure of being titled Great Aunt Cheryl. Get that word Great. Being the family photographer, I get the first opportunities to play with him that only immediate family have the pleasure of. But it was well noted on our first photo session Gunnar wasn't impressed with my greatness or my prowress with the camera. He slept right through it. Best shot I got was of his foot being held in Wesley's hands.
Second photo session didn't go any better. His cousin [a whole week older than him] was the perfect photo baby. She looked right at me. She didn't cry. She didn't fuss when her mother changed outfits numerous times. Again, Gunnar slept. He stirred long enough to cry when his mother tapped the bottom of his feet. They lifted him in the air and whirled him around. He wouldn't wake up for anything. They called his name out loud, raised their voices, shook him around a bit...one eye rolled slowly open and shut. Drat.
I fully understand what those baby photographers at the mall feel like. Babies crying. Mothers getting frustrated. Dads getting impatient to get the heck out of the mall. All those toys being waved and squeaked for naught. Then you think you have a moment coming without tears, so you reach out and straighten little Adorable's outfit and uck, Baby Adorable has just puked down your hand.
Let's not leave out the most despised photo opportunity character of all time. Santa Claus. Yeah, we all have those first photos. Baby's first Christmas visit to the mall. You plunk the child down on the red velvet lap. There comes that moment when the baby realizes you have stepped away and that little head turns to look behind them. As the head turns back to the evil parents who have done this dreadful thing to them, the mouth opens. The New York Fire Department doesn't have sirens to compete with those wails. I now know why they hire retired guys to play Santa. First question on the application is, "Are you Deaf? If yes, then you have the job."
I have that very picture of my daughter. Like every other parent in line, I was sure I was going to get a delightful shot of the first visit with Santa. I got mouth wide open, tears streaming, face turning beet red, and sobs that shook her body into a near convulsive state. Between Santa and the baby photo studios in the mall, it's a wonder children aren't terrified of the mall setting. Maybe puberty erases those memories, because that is the only place tweens and teens want to be.
At any rate, my brother and his family are starting new memories and embarking on a whole new life. As the family photographer, I get to peek vicariously in on the wonderful life of grandparenting. And yes, I will be right behind them with my camera when they make that fateful trip to the mall at Christmas time.
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