Miz S

Put on your yarmulke here comes Hanukkah

Hanukkah dinner for 12 tonight in my tiny little "dining room."  The ironic use of quotation marks is meant to indicate that I don't actually HAVE a dining room. It's dinner for 12 in a small-ish area to the right of the living room couch. We'll have to group all the skinny people on the wall side.

I am cooking a big turkey, and I expect it to be much easier than Thanksgiving at my parents' house when only half the oven worked. No stress about this big dinner because it is a cooperative effort. Grandma is bringing the dessert, sis-in-law is bringing the latkes, the girls are bringing side dishes, etc.

It's all good.

I was going to brine the turkey but, meh. That required just a teensy bit more effort than I was able to muster. I was also going to go outside and collect tree branches and spray paint them silver and make a lovely centerpiece. It was a beautiful fantasy where I thought I was Martha Stewart.

In the end, inertia won. No brined turkey. No silver-and-blue centerpiece. 

And no Hannnuka napkin rings even after going out and scouring the stores. Perhaps I shall fashion them today myself, from pipe cleaners and tinfoil.

Probably not, because I am going out today to cut down a Christmas tree with Josh, the girls, the boyfriends, AND my special little guys, former students Tony and Oscar and their little sister. 

Yes. We do Hannnukkkahh AND Christmas. Our kids had a fake Bar Mitzvah AND were baptized in the Catholic Church.  Oh, and get this: we celebrate Christmas as a family even though not everyone is on board with the whole birth of Christ dealio. You wanna make something of it? I'll kick your ass! 

Oh, that reminds me. I accidently committed thievery last night AND mused about how funny people are at the same time.

Preamble to the anecdote: You know how some people get all bent out of shape when other people use the phrase "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas"?  (Just for the record, it doesn't bother me at all. Say whatever the hell you want. I assume that you are being polite if you say anything at all.)

Anyway, I was at Giant last night picking up some stuff for dinner, including adorable little Chanukah napkins. The nice lady behind the counter said, "Good evening, Merry Christmas" as she started to ring up my stuff. I responded politely, "Thanks, same to you." I thought it was a little unusual that she would be saying Merry Christmas to all her customers so early in the season, especially because we live in such a diverse area. Obviously, not all her customers celebrate Christmas. In fact, last night was the first night of Chanuga.  But, whatever. I DON'T CARE. I wondered if she would notice the Hanukaka napkins and end our transaction by saying "Happy Holidays" or something. Instead, she handed me my receipt and gave me a resolute "Merry Christmas."

And I was thinking, "Damn, woman! You are like a dog with a bone! You don't care if I'm buying Honuka stuff. You're going to Merry the Christmas all over the damn place!" 

When I got to my car I found the Xanukah napkins still in the shopping cart, under my purse.

Whoops.

First Snow

First snow of the season today! I love snow!

Naturally, I would have preferred a snowy Monday because we cancel school at the drop of a hat around here.

Still, I was delighted.

 

It was just starting when I left my house this morning to get my hair cut.

Beth has been cutting my hair for a FUCK of a long time. 20 years, probably. We know a lot about each other. We are only about a year apart in age, and our misspent youths were remarkably similar. I am in her cell phone as "Hot Bitch" and she is in mine as "Big Slut."

What can I tell you? We are both still very immature.

 

What's worse than wearing hiking boots to the beauty parlor? Wearing muddy hiking boots to the beauty parlor. Jane is shuddering with disapproval as she reads this.

 

Strip malls are ugly even in the first snow of the season, so after Beth finished cutting my hair I drove to nearby Brookside Gardens for a breath of fresh air.

 

Here's a picture that's probably been taken, oh, about 10 MILLION times. Still, it's pretty.

I was getting a little wet and cold at this point. My nose turned bright red. Hence the black-and-white effect.

 

Uh-oh. Somebody fucked up. Hope no one got hurt.

Of course I had to stop in an empty parking lot and do some fast circles in the snow. Which made me miss Josh, because he is the KING of snow donuts. So I went home to my little yellow house, where we played Christmas music and moved furniture around in preparation for next week's Hannnukkkahh party. 

Man, I'm getting good at these photo posts. A whole lotta pictures and very little content. I can do this!

Crazy Low Prices. Everything Must Go.

I love that drive to Niagara Falls. Straight up through Pennsylvania on a two-lane road. In and out of small towns.

No one would let me stop and take as many pictures as I wanted so most of these are from the car window.

 

That's my brother Tom driving, and his wife Barb next to him.

Josh and I were in the back.

I like this red building and I like the street light fixtures.
 

 

The paper factory in Johnsonburg, PA.

 

Lots of closed-up stores in these little towns. Hard times. 

Strip mines.

There were some better ones but everyone was all, "No! We have to drive on! This is a 350 mile trip! Blah blah!"  Fuckers!

Dudes working on their car in the empty parking lot of a boarded-up bar called The City Limits. This was right outside Niagara Falls.

 

You see lots of electricity pylons up there. What with the Falls and all.

 

My Aunt Crazy is crazy about Christmas.

 

She seemed happy that we came. Except for when she was hostile and crabby. 

Look! It's the Niagara Casino! We went there after the big birthday party and tried our hand at gambling. I took pictures for you all but the security people made me delete them. I don't get gambling, by the way. It's boring and I don't understand it. And all the twinkling lights and machine noises make me feel weird.

 

Aw. I like him.

 

My baby brother Tom. He is so funneeeeee.

On the way home I spent a lot of time staring out the window and thinking about different things. I felt strangely energized and optimistic about life, the universe, and everything. Maybe because I was off work for 5 days? And spent most of those 5 days laughing?

These ramble-y photo posts are surprisingly hard to put together. How does one end them? With a picture of Pushkin? Okay, then.

Thanksgiving 2009. Where I learn that you can broil a turkey.

For the past several years I have cleverly dodged the curse of hosting Thanksgiving.  Josh's sister has taken the hit a couple of times. And my mother-in-law. And my sister Julie.  Me, I just show up with a side dish, drink a lot of wine, and then skedaddle after pie is served.

It's not that I'm totally lazy. It's more that I routinely work a 10 hour day, including the day before Thanksgiving, and the idea of staging a food extravaganza is just overwhelming to me.

This year, long about October, I was silently congratulating myself because I was pretty sure I was going to be able to manipulate my brother into hosting Thanksgiving 2009. He and his wife Barb just bought a big old house with a huge dining room a couple of hours away from here. I was all, "Yeah! Thanksgiving in Mercersburg! I'll drive Mom and Dad up! And I'll cook one of them sweet potato casseroles! Woot!"

And then my father, who normally never causes any problems, said that he wanted to have one last Thanksgiving at his own house. Which meant that not only did I have to cook Thanksgiving dinner, but I had to cook it at my parents' house. I couldn't even rely on Julie to take the lead because she and her husband went out of town to visit other family.

Oh the agony of hauling coolers of food and boxes of cooking utensils over to my parents' kitchen, where every counter is covered with empty margarine containers, piles of newspaper clippings, mysterious glass vessels, bags of birdseed, etc. 

(Also, let me just mention that I didn't have to do this all by myself. My brother and his wife did the mashed potatoes, the rolls, the green beans. Evangeline did the sweet potatoes. All I had were the pies, the stuffing, and the turkey. But that won't stop me from moaning about how haaaaarrrrd it all is.)

(By the way, my sister Julie does this almost every single weekend. She goes to a farmers' market, buys all fresh ingredients, then drives down from Baltimore with her boxes of stuff and cooks for my parents. SHE is a goddamned saint.)

Cooking the turkey turned out to be problematic because...wait for it...only half of the oven was working! Ta-da!

I became suspicious when the bottom half of the turkey was still white and clammy after 2 hours in the oven. I'm no detective, but even I know that the whole thing is supposed to cook.

We put the oven on broil and then discussed our options.

a. Move the whole party over to my house. (Josh's idea. Immediately nixed by me. The only thing I had to look forward to was a quiet end-of-day in my own unsullied house.)

b. Only use the meat off the very top of the turkey.  (My mother's idea. Obviously crazy, MOM.)

c. Find a fancy store that caters to rich people who are too lazy to cook their own turkey. (My brother's idea. Pure genius.)

We went with option c.

Do you have a Balduccis in your neighborhood? Not only are they open on Thanksgiving, they offer everything you could possibly need for a fancy-ass gourmet dinner, and it's all cooked for you ahead of time. (Note to self: never stress about Thanksgiving again.)

So we popped up there, paid a small fortune for turkey and gravy, and went back to my parents' house. Where, amazingly, the turkey in the oven was completely cooked (albeit a little dry and burned on top). 

We had lots and lots and LOTS of turkey.

My parents seemed pleased by the whole affair. It was a small group. Just my brother and his wife, Josh and me, Evangeline and Nathanialine. Sasha was at Paul's house. Everyone else was at command appearences elsewhere, or out of the country. But we managed to produce enough noise and commotion and laughter to make it seem like a decent-sized group.

So that was my Thanksgiving. It was fun.

This morning I am off to Niagara Falls to visit Aunt Crazy, whom some of you remember from the good ol' days, when I actually updated on a regular basis.

I miss you guys!

Mmmmm. Lingonberries.

Our delightful stay at my in-laws' house came to an abrupt end on Saturday morning. Our floors were ready to be walked upon and there was nothing to do but go home and start moving furniture again. 

Truth be told, we hadn't slept too well the previous couple of nights. Between our dogs insisting they had to go out every morning at 4am, and Pushkin howling in the basement, sleep was elusive.

I had fetched Pushkin to join us because I was worried that the floor refinishing fumes would kill him in the basement. So I moved him to my in-laws', where he was also relegated to the basement, this time so that Edgar Allen Poo would not kill him.

Edgar Allen Poo being my mother-in-law's cat-aggressive miniature French Poodle.  He dances, don'tcha know? 

Anyway, poor Pushkin howled for the entire 48 hours, I swear. When we got home, he snuggled up on the first bed that we moved back upstairs and slept for 14 hours without moving.

The house is still not put back together. I seriously don't want to bring stuff back upstairs. All the rooms looks so pristine and spacious.

On the other hand, WHERE THE HELL IS MY BEDSIDE TABLE LAMP? Is it out on the screen porch, under all the coats from the hall closet? Is it behind the bookcases that were shoved in the back of the laundry room?  Who the hell knows.

I guess that's what we should have focused on today, but instead we trudged all over town looking for an area rug. Costco, Target, Kohl's, Ikea. IT WAS A MIDDLE-CLASS NIGHTMARE.

I wouldn't have minded so much if Josh had let me eat at the Ikea cafeteria. I was really in the mood for Swedish meatballs. And lingonberries. 

We did, in fact, find a wool rug at Costco. It's really pretty (yes, yes, pictures will be forthcoming).

How sad that the animals are going to fuck it up in short order.

My Mother-in-Law is Better Than Your Mother-in-Law.

Thank you all for your kind comments on my last post. I simpered and blushed when I read them. Just be thankful I spared you the other animal-rescue story (also courtesy of Anthony and Oscar) that started with a dog that had been hit by a car and ended with me bursting into tears in front of all the school neighbors and being hugged by a mom who murmured "pobrecita" and rocked me in her ample bosom.

Yeah. Awkward.

Anyway.

When Evangeline and Nathanialine moved to their apartment a month ago, we sent along our old couch. And like the suckers they are, they took it! It's comfortable, I'll give it that, but clawed to pieces by various cats over the years.

Our living room took on a very zen look, with nothing but a rug and a couple of chairs.

We bought a new, very grown-up sectional couch that has not arrived yet. In the meantime, we decided to have the wood floors refinished because they were in horrible shape and because I am trying to live out a complicated lifestyle fantasy that involves polished wood floors, cloth napkins with cunning little napkin rings, and tasteful art on the walls. Oh, and never EVER running out of toilet paper.

Last weekend Josh and I moved almost every stick of furniture from the main floor and the top floor to the basement. That wasn't the hard part. The hard part was all the other shit. The lamps and the photographs and the piles of crap we seem to have in all the corners. The books, the shoes, the magazines I haven't read yet, the stuff from my classroom that somehow made it to my bedroom. Etc.

So now our home is a barren wasteland with plastic sheeting all over the place. 

We have moved ourselves and our dogs over to the most delightful bed-and-breakfast. Actually, it's my in-laws' house. But seriously, it might as well be a delightful bed-and-breakfast. Imagine coming home from work and being greeted with a glass of wine, a tray of appetizers, and the aroma of food drifting in from the kitchen. There was even real dessert, as opposed to some stale Smarties from the back of the kitchen drawer.

This morning I found my cereal bowl and cereal laid out for me, and the table SET for breakfast.

I was slightly disappointed that my bed wasn't turned down for me last night, but hey.

Oh, and I'm so ashamed of myself. I peeked in their bedroom last night after dinner and saw that, as usual, the bed was made, beautifully. My crappy life style involves coming home every day to a jumble of twisted blankets, pillows on the floor, and often a pile of unfolded laundry on the bed. And Pushkin on top of the laundry shedding buckets of black fur. 

BUT THAT'S ALL GONNA CHANGE. I will add "a made-up bed" to the above-mentioned lifestyle fantasy. 

Poor Pushkin is not with us at the bed-and-breakfast. He is locked in our basement among all the ghostly, out-of-place furniture. AND! We had to leave the outside basement door unlocked so I can go by after work to feed him. BECAUSE WE DON'T KNOW WHERE THE BASEMENT DOOR KEY IS.  We have made it very easy for the neighborhood youths to vandalize our home while we are not there.

I will add "find all keys and label them" to my fantasy list. 

Must go to work now.

Tonight, it's homemade soup and a big salad at the bed-and-breakfast! Also, I noticed my mother-in-law put "cocktail napkins" on the shopping list, which is good because I was going to complain about the dinner-sized napkins that she used for the appetizers yesterday.

Josh's sister is reading this and is SOOOOOO jealous.

Kitty Crisis Narrowly Averted!

Some of you probably remember my little friends the Holly Bible Boy and his older brother, Best Kid Ever. 

Tony and Oscar no longer attend the school where I teach (which only goes through 2nd grade), but I still see them a lot because their apartment building is next door to school. Tony is quite the little stalker. He keeps an eagle eye on my car and often, as soon as I walk out the door, I hear him calling my name from up the street. Then ZOOM he comes whooshing into the parking lot on a bike.

"I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU! I WAS LOOKING FOR YOU!" followed by a high-decibel monologue spoken so fast that I cannot hear a goddamned word (don't even get me started on the geezer ears).

His brother, Oscar, arrives a minute or so later and circles casually around us on a bike while Tony fills me on the latest happenings. They call each other "Bro" which kills me dead.

We go places every now and then, like to the zoo or a park or sometimes just over to my house so they can play with the dogs and terrorize Pushkin with all the high-decibel yelling and running.

"LOOK! THERE'S PUSHKIN! I WANT TO PAT HIM! LET'S CATCH HIM!" 

Don't worry, I protect Pushkin. But I let them chase for a minute or two because it's funny to see him get that horrified expression on his face and run under a bed, then run back out when Tony follows him.

A few weeks ago, my cell phone rang while I was in my classroom working at around 5:00. I saw that it was Tony so I ignored it because I was busy. Shortly afterward he materialized in my classroom (having sweet-talked a building service worker into letting him in the locked school building strictly against all rules). I was half amused and half exasperated.

Tony was bursting with URGENT NEWS involving a kitten he had rescued from a boy down the street who made it live outside and fed it dry cereal  "AND HIT IT WITH A BELT!!"

I suspect he added that last detail for color.

Tony and his brothers and sisters were keeping it in their apartment but their mom said they had to give it away. "WE DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!"

Well, as it happened, Evangeline and Nathanial had just signed the lease for an apartment and were planning on getting a cat anyway, so....

One thing led to another and before you could say, "Dig Miz S! She's so spontaneous!" I was on my way to Petsmart to pick up supplies with Tony, Oscar, and a teensy-tiny, worm-ridden, flea-infested kitten named Princess in a laundry basket.

Then back to the apartment to drop off the boys and back home to my house where everyone was gathered, waiting impatiently to see the kitten. 

Evangeline and Nate are delighted with the kitten, who has been re-named Heloise. Bonus points for the person who can guess what name was bestowed on the male kitten they adopted last week as a companion for Heloise. Hint: think 12th century. The pretentious intellectuals among you will not have to use Google.

Tony, Oscar, and all their siblings are delighted the kitten is in good hands. (And how 'bout those sweet little street urchins, looking out for the kittens in the neighborhood?) I brought them over to visit so they could see for themselves that Princess had landed on her feet.

Josh and I are delighted we managed to dodge acquiring another pet.

Not sure if this post makes sense. Hope it doesn't sound selfish.

Man. I kinda wish I could get back on a more regular posting schedule rather than this twice a month gig. How will I ever get a book deal and go on Oprah or be featured on "Momversations" if I don't get my shit together? Hmmm?

Which reminds me of something I have mulled over from time to time lately.

Sigh. I don't know if I can explain it.

Okay, you know how parenthood is a huge defining phase in a person's life? Even if you don't happen to be a parent, you have probably observed your friends and relatives when they become parents and you see how obsessed they are and how all encompassing the whole project is. With good reason. Creating a family, raising the next generation, installing guilt and neuroses in your progeny--it's big stuff, no doubt about it.

Women, in particular, seem to go to Mommy Land and never really come back, you feel me? If it's not the breastfeeding, it's the potty training. If it's not the bedtime problems, it's the sibling fights. And we just kind of work our way up the ladder of issues, don't we? And whatever stage in our children's life we are obsessing about always feels like the most important one. When your own children are in high school and you are grappling with worries about underage drinking, for example, you hear young moms talking about pacifiers and you just roll your eyes because it seems so irrelevant. But when YOU were a young mom, the pacifier issue was huge. You know what I mean?

With my daughters out of college and no longer living at home, I find myself on a new rung of the Mom ladder. Obviously I am still a mother and I still stand by, trying to act all casual and shit but READY TO SPRING at the first sign of danger. But I'm also in this very free place, where I have many fewer obligations than I had in the past. I like this freedom. Mom talk is a little...boring to me now.

Sorry.

(Unless you've got something really juicy for me, like your 16 year old daughter needs to go on the pill, in which case I am all ears.)

I still think your kids are adorable and sometimes I have a momentary pang for when my own girls were little and had chubby kissable faces.

But this particular stage of motherhood? Where the kids are busy and happy and on their own and have nice boyfriends who will likely be our sons-in-law someday?

I'm not gonna lie. It's awesome. You will like it. 

I be fine.

 

Hee!

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your sweet and funny comments. I'm fine, really. Just, you know, a little special at times.

I owe emails to all of you but I can't say for sure when I will get around to them. Don't be hatin'.

Last weekend was awesome. I hung out and rested and did chores around the house. My voice was still all croaky and I could muster up a death-rattle cough if necessary, so my parents were all, "No honey, don't come over, stay in bed."  And Sister Julie, who reads this blog and therefore knew that I was OVERWROUGHT, was all, "Oh, you sound sick, don't worry, I'm going over to Mom and Dad's."

Strictly speaking, I was not really sick. In fact, I made a remarkable recovery on Sunday afternoon and went downtown with Josh on the back of his scooter. His new scooter is huge, really more like a motorcycle, and can keep up with traffic just fine. Normally I am a huge scaredy-cat, but I was firm with myself and dismissed all mental images of twisted scooter wreckage and poor little motherless Sasha and Evangeline. I hugged him from behind and leaned into all the turns, like I was a Hells Angel chick or something.

There was a cool exhibit of solar-powered houses on the Mall, designed by teams of college students from all over the world. It was the Solar Decathalon competition sponsored by the Department of Energy. Josh had been watching the houses being assembled all week (he runs on the National Mall every day, how cool is that?) and he wanted a chance to go inside them. The lines were so long we didn't ever get inside of one but we had fun anyway. I thought it would be BOR-ing, but in fact it was fascinating. It made me want to go off the grid, man. I don't need your stinkin' power!

Then I started noticing lots of people with funny t-shirts and rainbow flags. Oh yeah! The National Equality March! I'm done with you, Solar Decathalon! 

 

Ha! Great Homer t-shirt.

 

How cute is this guy?

 

Did anyone read I Didn't Tell. It Didn't Matter in the Washington Post? Very sad that a patriotic young man eager to serve his country would be treated so shamefully.

 

This is either a really liberal Indian or Pakistani family OR some tourists who didn't understand what that pretty rainbow flag was all about.

The police see it all. From far right to far left. Living in a free-speech democracy is a beautiful thing.

God, I love DC.

The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye.

One day about 8 years ago, I was driving to work very early on a beautiful winter morning.

I made the turn onto my school's street and approached the parking lot, ignoring the dull pulse of dread in my stomach. I felt that way a lot, and I didn't know it was not normal. I just always figured I was a little high strung. After all, I had only recently finished college and returned to the job market, I had my first full-time teaching job, and both my daughters were in high school. I mean, come on! It was the trifecta of dread.

Just as I reached the parking lot, "Rocky Mountain High" came on the radio. My throat suddenly felt tight and achy, and without thinking about it I passed the driveway and continued on down the street to where it dead-ended in a park.

This was before I worked at Some Slummy School. It was when I worked at  Semi-Decent Suburban School which was located right next to a hundred-acre park. Snow had fallen during the night. The sky was a crystalline blue and the sun glinted off the new snow.

I turned the radio up and rolled the windows down so I could feel the cold air on my face. Then I sobbed as if my heart were broken. The song had somehow stabbed me and released a tidal wave of yearning for, I don't know, friends around the campfire and everybody's high? Rainin' fire in the sky? My lost youth?

Then the song was over and I turned the car around and went to work as if I were a perfectly normal person who was not in desperate need of anti-depressants.

Fast forward to earlier this week, when I was all exhausted and croaky-throated with a cold and heavily involved with the preparations for Uncle Sailor's visit. I left work early (meaning, on time) so that I could go home, pick up the food I had prepared the night before (with Josh's help, you have no fucking idea how wonderful he is), then go to my parents' house to serve dinner for 11. (Don't be impressed or feel sorry for me. Sister Julie does shit like this all the time, never complains, and even seems to enjoy it GO FIGURE.)

So, my mom called me in the middle of a resentful conversation that I was having with myself in the car and said, "Dear? Could you pick up salad makings?"  Such a simple request. But you see, she had insisted that she would make the salad. INSISTED. Because she still thinks she can do stuff like that. And I still desperately want to believe she can do stuff like that.

I said, "Yes, of course Mom, no problem." Then I hung up, called Josh at work, and ranted to him in my croaky voice about the unfairness of it all.  At one point he said, "Are you sure you should even go over there and expose your parents to your germs?" and I responded with something so horrible and bitter that I won't even repeat it. He gently suggested that I was a little over-wrought.

After we hung up, I arrived at my house, packed up a box with dinner and accessories, and got back in the car to drive to Safeway for salad makings. And on the way there, Rocky Mountain High came on the radio. (I know, right? What kind of crappy radio stations am I listening to?)

And it was like a fucking dam broke and I began crying so hard I had to pull over because I couldn't see. And I remembered that day eight years ago, and I cried again for my lost youth and my yearning to be somewhere else, somewhere outside, somewhere beautiful and big and peaceful where I could just sit and be. And I cried for my parents who are old and sweet and unsteady on their feet and so fucking difficult. And I cried because I am afraid I will get Alzheimers, too. Or start crapping my pants like my father. Or be living in a house that is falling apart around me and be so lacking in judgment that I won't know that I should have moved ten years ago. And I cried because my classroom is messy and I left work before I could get organized. And because I can hardly ever remember to bring the fabric bags in to the grocery store and it's all my fault we are killing the world with plastic. And because both my kids have moved out. (I mean, I like that they have moved out, I really, really do. But at the same time, oh Christ it's weird seeing your daughter's teddy bear face-down on the floor of her room as she is carrying boxes out to her car, just take my word for it. )

Yeah, nervous breakdown, on the verge of, obv.

I'M THE SENSITIVE ONE.

Probably time for a check-in with my therapist, you think? Or do I need to actually go to the Rocky Mountains next weekend and get high?

Ahoy, Maties! Got Conflict?

Uncle Sailor is coming to town for the Annapolis Boat Show! Batten the hatches!

Uncle Sailor is my mom's 79-year-old baby brother. And I'll tell you whut: Mom may be in the early stages of Alzheimers, but she sure as shit remembers that she can't stand Uncle Sailor.

I can't tell you Uncle Sailor's real name because he is a celebrity in sailing circles and I don't want one of his adoring fans to stumble across my blog. Uncle Sailor is a crusty old sea-dog type who has made his living sailing and writing sailing books. He has a reputation among my extended family for being somewhat irresponsible and self-centered, but ain't NO one who is more infuriated by him then my mother. She has a list of grievances against him that go back, oh, 70 years or so.

Have I ever mentioned that my mother is just a tad difficult? She's kind of like the Moammar Kadafi of her family.

She's always been almost an outsider among her own siblings, for complicated reasons (not all of which are her fault) that we could discuss if we had an hour or eight.

It makes me sad that she is not close to her sisters or brother.

I love my sisters and my brother. I'm sure I get on their nerves from time to time, but we all have each others' backs. You know?

Uncle Sailor comes to town once a year for the boat show, and his arrival generally creates a torrent of outrage-fueled tirades and frantic phone calls from my mother. ("He may NOT use the phone while he is here! He will run up the phone bill and we will never see a penny! And don't let him near the computer! GOD ALONE knows what he will do on the computer! Why hasn't he told me what time he is arriving? If he thinks he can show up here after 9pm HE HAS ANOTHER THINK COMING! I will lock the door!" 

No, I'm not exaggerating. She said all those things and more yesterday. 

My father's job is to gently soothe her while making little Uncle Sailor jabs to further fuel her outrage.

Dad's all, "He'll be here for 3 days? I guess I better buy 2 or 3 cases of beer."

Mom's all, "NO. Do NOT buy him any beer. If he thinks he's going have a free room and all the beer he can drink HE HAS ANOTHER THINK COMING!" 

Sister Julie and I are all, "Oh for chrissakes, Ma..."

Yesterday I fielded no fewer than 4 phone calls from Mom, plus a phone call from Aunt Betty (or "Uncle Betty" as my dad likes to call her). Aunt Betty and my mom can't STAND each other (I've mentioned that Mom is difficult slash crazy?) and honestly, Aunt Betty is a huge bitch. Mom had called her to rant about Uncle Sailor.  And when my mom called Aunt Betty, she interrupted a cozy visit that Aunt Betty was having with Aunt Sally (another sister, the Nice one), a visit my mom never participates in, nor would even WANT to, but again with the Outsider thing. So Aunt Betty in turn called me to point out how "inhospitable" my mom was being.

I assured "Uncle Betty" that this is just an annual ritual and it would all be fine and Sister Julie and I would handle all the details, no worries, blah de blah. I said, delicately, that my mother was "not well" and Uncle Betty countered unkindly with the indisputable truth, "But she's ALWAYS been like this."

Which triggered my loyalty mechanism. I'll trumpet from the rooftop the fact that my mother is batshit crazy and always has been, but Betty better shut the fuck up because she's an insane bitch in her own right. My mom might be crazy but she doesn't have a superiority complex. Well, not much of one compared to her sister.

Aunt Betty brought up the Alzheimers diagnosis and wanted to chat about that a little bit, and I swear goddamn she's feeling superior for not having Alzheimers herself.

And my eyes were stinging with angry tears by the time I hung up, because it's my mom who is difficult and disliked by Aunt Betty, it's my mom who is being discussed in family emails between Betty and the other relatives, it's my mom who is, once again and always, an outsider in her own family.

I Live! For The Moment, Anyway.

My brother-in-law Mike might just be my biggest fan when it comes to The Blog. I had occasion to speak to him last night, and he made sad noises about the lack of updates. So, this one's for you, Mikey.

The thing is, September is always a hard month for me. Lots of late hours at work, y'know.

And feeling like I never, ever should have gone into teaching ("I coulda been a secretary! Or the school health tech! What the hell was I thinking?").

A minor amount of moaning ("I'm too oooooold for this").

And just a soupçon of resentment ("WHY CAN'T I WIN THE LOTTERY AND BE A STAY-AT-HOME-MOM?")

Obviously I kid about the SAHM thing, because my daughters are out of college and have lives and apartments of their own (more on that later).  But won't somebody think of the dogs?! Latchkey dogs are clearly not as well taken care of as dogs with SAHMs, right?

ANyway. September is almost over and I am starting to like my job again. The small chirren that inhabit my classroom from 8:30-3:00 are beginning to act like first-graders instead of kinder-urchins. I'm finding the rhythm, sort of.  Hell, I might be able to start working a 9 hour day soon.

If I don't have a subarachnoid hemorrhage, that is!!!!

You see, I woke up at about 4am with THE WORST HEADACHE OF MY LIFE. I am a headache-y person, and most of the time just consider them a minor annoyance. This one was so bad that I wanted pain relief immediately, but was in so much pain that I didn't want to get out of bed. I was all shaky and nauseous. I lay there for a long time, hoping I would magically fall back asleep. Finally, I dragged myself downstairs and swallowed 3 ibuprofens. If Josh were here, I probably would have said we should go to the emergency room, 'cause that's what you are supposed to do if you have THE WORST HEADACHE OF YOUR LIFE. (He's on a camping trip this weekend.)

The ibuprofen turned the pain into a normal-sized headache after about half an hour, so I went back to sleep and I've just been taking it easy all day. I even called my doctor a few minutes ago to see what she would say, and the doctor on call (Dr. Gupta, but not Sanjay) said I was probably fine since the pain was better and I didn't have any other symptoms.

So if Dr. Gupta is right and I don't die in my sleep tonight, perhaps I can get back on a more regular posting schedule now that things at school are settling down.

Here's something I could post about soon:

Evangeline and her boyfriend Nate are about to move into an apartment together!! OMG!! This is a good thing because it would get the two of them and all their STUFF (including a new kitten) out of my teeny tiny house. Oh shit, did I say that out loud? No, what I meant was, I love having them both here but I'm sure they'll be happier in their own place.

Also, I should update you on my parents, since I have spent a fair amount of time moaning about them. For the record, they are both okay-ish. No huge changes.

That's all for now, kiddos. Must go cuddle with Pushkin and read in bed. Those of us with brain aneurysms have to take it easy, y'know.

Citizen Teacher, Reporting In.

The lovely thing about starting school the week before Labor Day is that we only have to muddle through 5 days before SHAZAAM! 3 day weekend! Followed by 4 day work week! It's all good.

My class this year is delicious. Realio trulio delicious. It's so hard to teach routines when I am simultaneously having to restrain myself from gobbling their round cheeks and squeezing them to death. They are so easy compared to last year's group, which was the squirreliest little bunch of munchkins EVAH.

At my behest, the children drew pictures of me. Would you like to see them?

 

Jennifer sees me as kindly, but lacking in fingers.

 

Here, I am depicted as kinda cool and athletic looking. Marta gets an A+.

 

Joel has pegged me as wacky and inefficient. Hmmmm.

 

Somika gets high marks for my blonde good looks in this picture, but the talk bubble is perplexing. 

 

Little Amy became engrossed in trying to design a new hairstyle for me.

 

I think Hanna really captured the essence of me. This is definitely going on Facebook as my new profile picture.

My classroom looks quite spare and clean and streamlined. I got rid of a lot of crap that was weighing me down. Perhaps next week I could take pictures of it with...THE NEW CAMERA JOSH BOUGHT FOR ME YESTERDAY!!!  It's our anniversary today, you see, and although we don't normally do presents he surprised me this morning with a slim little Canon Powershot SD780.

It captivates the senses with bold saturated colors and a daringly original design!!! Well, that's what the website says.

Anyway, I can't wait to take it to school on Tuesday. My regular camera is a big hulking Canon Rebel XT and it's quite bulky to carry around

How long have we been married? Why, thank you for asking! Twenty-nine years.

For our 20th anniversary we dug a pond in our backyard. For our 25th anniversary we went to the Grand Canyon. What do you think we should do for our 30th anniversary next year? We want to go on a trip and are leaning towards Costa Rica for an eco-tourist adventure, which would be EVER SO COOL. Can't you just SEE me about to push off on that zipline, clinging to the platform support, begging the guide for mercy and peeing my pants?

But tell me your ideas. Nothing too crazy-expensive. We're humble, simple people, as you will be able to tell from these wedding pictures.

 

Here's a picture of my sweet little 22-year-old self,tricked out in my very demure wedding dress, taken at the Sears Portrait Studio a week or two before the wedding, I think.

 

And here's Josh an hour before the wedding, looking positively teenaged, with his sister Alix and my then-infant nephew Benjamin. (True story: my mother-in-law came up to me right before the ceremony and said, "Listen, are you sure you want to do this? There's still time to back out."

You're probably wondering why I'm not posting a nice wedding picture of the bride and groom together. BECAUSE THERE ISN'T ONE. DON'T GET ME STARTED. Let me just say that if you are not smart enough to hire a REAL wedding photographer instead of your future sister-in-law's ex-boyfriend who later invented a sex-chair, YOU MIGHT NOT BE OLD ENOUGH TO GET MARRIED.

Thank you.

Hey, I have maybe 3 minutes here (prepping for the new school year has kicked my ass thoroughly, as usual). But I wanted to tell you all thank you from the bottom of my heart. Each and every comment on my last post was incredibly thoughtful and helpful. I even got phone calls and special emails from some of you. It truly makes me feel better to know that we are all in the same boat (or will be, or were). We really haven't figured out eldercare in this marvelous, modern society of ours, have we?

I emailed some of you back to thank you for your comments, but I didn't get to everyone only because I have no damn time AUGHH  I MISS SUMMER ALREADY.

Anyway, I'm fine. Just really busy getting my classroom ready for the new school year. If you don't see me around for a couple of weeks, don't worry.

Also? I don't want to get all sentimental here but DAMN I LOVE ALL Y'ALL.

I am efficient I am efficient I am efficient

I spent yesterday with my parents for another medical "situation" and then came home and cried and drank 1.5 glasses of wine (the wine supply was low, and it's a good thing or I might have gone on a bender). I called my siblings and tried to disguise the fact that I was feeling hysterical but I don't think I succeeded.

I have been trying for almost an hour to write about why I was so upset last night. I wanted it to sound funny and light so people would think, "Oh, our Miz S. She manages to stay cheerful even when she's stressed out."  Or maybe, "Goodness! She certainly handles stress well! And she's so efficient!"

But the fact is I am NOT efficient and I DON'T handle stress all that well.

I am consumed with worry and guilt.

What I am worried about:

• We found out the other day my mom has Alzheimer's and we all know there are some hard times ahead.
• My dad has Parkinson's and grows frailer day by day.
• My mom fell on Saturday and suffered injuries, the most serious being a compression fracture in her spine. Falls and fractures at her age (84) usually mark the beginning of a world of pain.
• When they go to medical appointments, they really need one of us there because they can't hear well and they have trouble taking in a lot of information.
• The two geographically-closest siblings (my sister Julie and I) have been able to handle all the medical appointments, grocery shopping, and supplemental cooking this summer, but when school starts next week that's going to get a whole lot harder.
  

Why I feel guilty:

• I'm mad at them. Really, really mad.

How mean is it to be mad at these two sweet old people? And they really are sweet, and so grateful for everything we do for them.

And I know, I KNOW that just a few weeks ago I was all "Oh, it's a privilege to care for my elderly parents" and the thing is, I TRULY BELIEVE THAT.

But goddamn fuckity fuck shitty shit mcfuckster WHY WON'T THEY LISTEN TO US? WE'RE SMART AND WE KNOW THINGS.

Last summer, and my brother and I elected ourselves to go have a Serious Talk with them about moving while they were still relatively healthy, BEFORE there was a health crisis. They were dismissive and annoyed with us. When my father had a mild stroke at Thanksgiving we thought, "Oh! Problem solved! Surely this will light a fire under them!"

Nope. Nada. Nothin'.

A Statement of the Obvious: We need to focus on their overall health and medical issues to make sure they are getting good care, but it's hard to focus on that AND their day-to-day stuff like grocery shopping, meal planning, cooking, and home maintenance/repair.

And I get that it's hard to move. I understand they want to stay in the house where they raised a family and entertained friends, the house where all their pets lived and died, the house AT THE TOP OF A HILL WITH 11 MILLION STEPS TO THE FRONT DOOR. I get it.

And honestly, I'm all over the place. Just a few days ago I told my sister Julie (the Calm Sibling), "Oh, they're so happy there, they should just stay, maybe we can find someone to come in and help them." (Which she reminded me about last night when I called her, semi-hysterically ranting about Mom's spine and saying "THEY HAVE TO MOVE NOWWWWWWW")

My brother (the other Calm Sibling) is driving down today to take Mom to an MRI appointment, repair a window that I accidentally broke yesterday while trying to close a door that was swollen with humidity, and chat with my dad about all this.

My sister Sarah (an Hysterical Sibling, like me) is coming down on Saturday.

Julie will be available and around as usual.

Yes, I know I'm lucky to have siblings close by who are available and willing.

In fact that's just one more thing for me to feel guilty about. How dare I feel so upset when in fact this eldercare situation is much easier than many people's?

That's all.
Bye.