Miz S

Sorrow A Hundredfold.

My father reading to the 7 youngest grandchildren, probably around 1994.

Last Thursday, I stopped by my parents' house after work and hung out for a bit. My brother and my niece were there. My oldest nephew was in and out.  Hilarity abounded.

On Saturday, my sister Julie went to my parents' house and fixed lunch for them. My father ate like a trencherman.

On Sunday (which now seems like a thousand years ago), my sister Sarah and I met there at noon to fix lunch, hang out, and cook an extra meal for dinner that the aide could serve to them later. 

My father didn't come to the table because he felt nauseated. It's not like him to refuse food. 

So we took him to the emergency room. He was admitted to the hospital with a bowel obstruction.

That evening, he was transferred to the ICU because of difficulty breathing. He spiked a fever.

Do you see where this is going?

The doctors asked us, "If it becomes necessary to intubate him, do you want us to?"

Wait. SHIT. What?

We said, "Yes."

Late in the afternoon on Monday the doctors told us that Dad had developed severe sepsis, and the situation was grave. We told them that we did not want intubation, chest compressions, or any extraordinary measures.

A priest came and gave him the last rites. I watched my father make a wavering, loopy sign of the cross. This killed me dead.

They began to try and keep him comfortable with morphine, and after that he was sort of out of it.

On Tuesday morning, the family assembled. When we were all there, the nurse turned off the medications that were maintaining his heartbeat. He died about 3 or 4 minutes later.

It was 48 hours from his first symptom to his dying breath, and for that I am thankful.

But, goddamn.

In Which I Explain Several Times That This Is Not a Piece of Cake.

This picture of my friend Ellen and me has nothing to do with the post. It was taken today on the Billy Goat Trail in Great Falls, and I post it here to prove that I am getting out and doing things and not wallowing in self-pity. Also, it gives me the opportunity to publicly declare my love for Ellen.

Josh and I have been living with my 91 year old father-in-law, Aaron, for 4 months now.

Why?

Because my mother-in-law died, and we thought we could help fill the void or at least make sure that he's eating real food.

Aaron thinks we are living with him to save money. That was basically the only way we could convince him to let us move in.

When people ask how it's going, or say, "Wow, that must be really hard," we always say, "Nah, it's not that hard. We like it. Blah blah blah Positive Sunshine-y Phrases."

Because we don't want to be all, "Yeah, it was really hard to pack up our entire life and put it in storage and move in to someone else's house, which has hideous window treatments and furniture that makes me shudder,  yeah it kind of sucks sometimes and we really really really miss our old life. But we're so selfless and wonderful we did it anyway. Commence with the praise."

We don't want to be Negative Nellies. Plus, it was our choice.

But just between you and me?

It's not exactly a  piece of cake.

It's harder for Josh than for me, I think, maybe because Aaron feels free to be cranky with Josh but will maintain a certain level of decorum with me.

I don't know how to explain the difficult parts of living with a grieving 91-year-old man. I suppose you can figure it out. He's lonely, even when we're here. And he's set in his ways and can't figure out  why, for example, we would have the audacity to leave our mail on the desk in the living room for 2 days at a time. ("That mail could be important! You need to read it to see what it's about! Take it upstairs and do something with it!" Subtext = What the hell is wrong with you people??)

He is fond of saying to us, "I don't understand how you people operate!"  This is usually uttered after he asks Josh what we are having for dinner that night and Josh says, "I don't know. I guess one of us will pick up stuff for a stirfry on the way home."  Which was how we always did things before. Casually. We have learned that we need to post a menu for the week ahead to avoid the "I don't understand how you people operate."

He doesn't have a social life because his friends are all dead.

His world revolved around 1 person, and we are a poor substitute for her.

Josh has to cope with his dad by himself a lot, without my comforting presence, because I am over at my own parents' house checking in on them.

We retreat upstairs at night to watch TV in our own room, partly because we can't stand to watch the news for 2 hours straight (which is what Aaron does), and partly because we need to cocoon together a little bit and try to hold on to the way things were.

We're not sorry that we moved in. It was the right thing to do. And Aaron is sweet most of the time. I love him.

But it's not a piece of a cake. In case anyone thought it was.

Personal blogs are SO 2007.

A Valentine's Day card from a special friend of mine.

10:30am Saturday February 18

If I manage to sit here long enough to write an entry and hit "publish", this will be the 3rd entry for February, which is pathetic, OBV, but is triple my January output.

A few weeks ago on Facebook, a friend of mine posted something she had overheard: "Personal blogs are so 2007."  I hadn't really thought about that before, partly because I have no goddamned time for blogging or blog-reading these days, but there definitely are a plethora of niche-blogs out there.

(I said "plethora", but I really wanted to say, "a metric-fucking-ton". I am trying to swear less. Not sure why.)

For example, every first-grade teacher and her brother appear to have a classroom-related blog, where they cheerily discuss anchor charts and 100th Day of School lessons and ideas for how to communicate with parents. They use the word "cute" a lot. I peruse these blogs from time to time. I'm not gonna lie--sometimes I find it hard not to roll my eyes, what with the "cute" clip art themes, and the cheesy bulletin board ideas (First Grade is 'Beary' Exciting! AUGGHH KILL ME NOW).

Then again, I occasionally get good ideas from these blogs. In fact, just 5 minutes ago when I looked at a couple of them to see if I could find something to make fun of, I ended up downloading some pictures to put in my Ideas file. (Which I can almost guarantee I will never use, because once my ideas are in a file, whether it is a paper file or a computer file, they cease to exist because I can't see them. This is one of my organizational issues, which I wish somebody could solve for me. Pinterest, right?)

I guess where I was going with this whole thing about the niche blogs is that I think from time to time about writing a teacher blog, or even an elder-care blog, since that is what my life revolves around these days. The problem with that is:

a) The swearing and general inappropriateness that would no doubt permeate any teacher or eldercare blog I would write. ("OMG Why are my students' parents are so fucking stupid?"  or, "If my mother does [insert crazy thing] one more time imma have to get Mr. Suffocation Pillow out of the closet!") I'd end up getting fired from my job or reported to some state agency or both.

b) I'd have to  commit to writing more so that I could propel myself to Internet stardom and get one of those damn book deals. Sheeeeeit. Publishers were handing those things out like candy for awhile. Have I missed that window? I'm just not sure I can manage my time well enough to generate the number of posts I would need to pull in an audience.

Back to real life. As far as personal blog vs niche blog, I have to say I am a big fan of the personal blog, in general. I'm nosy. I'm interested. I like reading about people's lives and seeing how things change over time. I guess it's not a surprise that my favorite reading genre is the personal memoir.

My blog will no doubt continue as it has for a long time: a mish-mosh of whatever is going on in my life, but hopefully more often than I have posted for the past year or so. I really want to reconnect with my Internet buddies. I miss all y'all muthafuckas.

I mean, I miss you guys.

Off for a walk now, then over to my parents' house to squire them to church UGH and make dinner for them.

A Tale of Two Daughters.

Emma and Sophie, back in the day.

First things first: I'm not going to call my daughters by their fake internet names anymore.  6 years ago, when I first started blogging, I decided to give them pseudonyms because, I don't know, I just did. I guess I thought some psycho might see a photo of them and develop an unhealthy fixation and stalk them? I mean, they ARE adorable.

But we can move on from that, I think.  Sasha is Sophie and Evangeline is Emmaline (Emma for short). To help you with the transition, I will refer to them by both names for this post. Sophie/Sasha and Emma/Evangeline.

Also, do you know this? Sophie/Sasha and Emma/Evangeline live together. With their boyfriends and 4 cats.

Wait. It's up to 5 cats because Sophie/Sasha took in a stray on a cold January night.

And they all get along together. The humans AND the cats. Weird, huh?

I already told you all that Emma/Evangeline got engaged, remember? Let me just fill you in on a few details that you might enjoy.

Just before Christmas, Emma/Evangeline took her boyfriend Nate out of town to a bed & breakfast on Maryland's Eastern Shore to celebrate the end of another semester of grad school. She brought along a hundred dollar bottle of scotch (for courage I must assume) and a Mad Lib which told the story of their relationship. Embedded in the Mad Lib was a marriage proposal.

HOW FUCKIN' MODERN AND ADORABLE IS THAT??

(Emma/Evangeline is all about being bold and manly, unless it involves asking a store employee where to find the light bulbs or something, in which case she would prefer to wander up and down the aisles humming to herself, and then come out to the car and say, "They don't have any light bulbs.")

After her successful marriage proposal, the little vixen took Nate out to help her pick out an engagement ring. And then, NO ONE TOLD US ANYTHING ABOUT IT. FOR WEEKS.

Those little bastards.

Fast forward to 2 weekends ago:

Paul (Sophie/Sasha's boyfriend) came over to see Josh about a computer problem. I wasn't home. Paul was here for a couple of hours, and right before he left...HE ASKED JOSH FOR PERMISSION TO PROPOSE TO SOPHIE/SASHA!!

HOW FUCKIN' OLD-FASHIONED AND ADORABLE IS THAT??

Josh got all teary and emotional. I wonder if that was awkward for Paul, ha ha.

Paul took Sophie/Sasha out to dinner that night and did the whole nine yards, down on bended knee, with a beautiful ring that belonged to his great-aunt.

We are deliriously happy around here. These are exceptional young men, both of them, and we love them so much.

No weddings until 2013. June for Emma/Evangeline and probably September for Sophie/Sasha.

This is kind of a rushed entry, there is a ton more stuff I would like to tell you. So much going on right now. Sad stuff, but lots and lots of happy stuff too.

Gotta do some work for a class I am taking. STUPID CLASSES FOR TEACHERS JUST MORE SHIT I GOTTA DO AAARRGH

xoxoxoxoxoxox

I finally left that diner.

We got back from Florida, what, 3 weeks ago? God, I am an undependable blogger. But I bet you guys have all been pinning shit on Pinterest and didn't even notice. (WTF, btw? ANOTHER internet trend that I have to keep up with? NOOOOOOOO!)

Here is my Florida report, with special love to my favorite Florida Cracker:

I don't like South Florida. First, the traffic is ridiculous. Second, if you travel 2 blocks inland from the cute beach area it's all just an unattractive sprawl. You could be in any overbuilt, underplanned metropolitan area. Still, we had fun visiting our friend Reggie and staying in his cool, mid-century condo, overlooking the beach.  Life is rough, right?

Sunset on the beach in Ft Lauderdale.

We spent a day at Shark Valley in Everglades National Park. We rented bikes and rode a 15 mile loop, which took forever because I kept gasping appreciatively and stopping to take pictures, most of which sucked, but that won't stop me from putting them up here.

Hanging out, catching some rays.

I am in love with the Everglades. I had no idea it would be so beautiful, so ethereal.  I pictured a dark swamp, not acres upon acres of graceful, swaying grass, with flocks of birds rising up and circling in a blue sky above us.  

But it made me sad to see the Everglades and fall in love with it and to read about the fragility of the environment and the devastating effect of development at its fringes (particularly the  demands for water from South Florida). Its future existence is by no means assured. What an incalculable loss that will be.

And then I got all indignant every time we passed houses with lawns or a golf course. XERISCAPE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE.

I am doing the Everglades and the native Floridians a favor and NOT retiring to Florida to play golf. You're welcome!

It's a little hard to see the baby alligators in the grass with their momma. She was HUGE, by the way. I was unable to get a better shot because I was very busy maintaining a respectful distance.

 

 

 

This was up on a lookout tower thing-y. It doesn't do the scenery justice. My hand is strategically placed on Josh's tshirt to hide the sweaty blotches.

There is other news to tell you about, wonderful news, but I will save that for tomorrow, or a month from now. Whichever.

Checking in.

At the Peter Pan Diner in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Damn, those pancakes were good.

Thank you, everyone, for your kind comments and your good wishes for Evangeline and Nate. It's a good feeling to see them taking that leap of faith into the future together.

The new year started out quietly enough, and I had almost made up my mind to like 2012 when BAM, on January 6th my mother fell on the bathroom floor and broke her pelvis. 2012 is going to have to really work hard to regain my trust and affection.

Mom spent 72 very long and confused hours in the hospital. She expressed her confusion and dissatisfaction loudly, in clear and ringing tones, around the clock. Her poor roommate must have breathed a huge sigh of relief when the discharge order finally came through. Mom is back home now, being uncooperative with the physical therapist and having to be reminded over and over again that she broke her pelvis, ergo,  she cannot go down in the basement to look for the cat or out in the backyard to feed the birds.

Josh and I had scheduled a trip to Florida for the MLK Jr weekend, and we decided to go ahead with it despite Mom's accident. She is being well cared for by my sisters and brother and the aides.

So that's where we are right now. Fort Lauderdale, specifically. In our friend Reggie's very cool and retro apartment overlooking the beach. We are flying home tonight. I have lots of fun pictures from our day at Shark Valley in the Everglades, and I can't wait to show them to you. I am in love with the Everglades. Fort Lauderdale, not so much.

 

Shepherds, why this jubilee?

So much has happened in the 10 days since I put up that dejected little post about how saaaaaaaaad I am.

We got to hang out with our lovely daughters...

...and their awesome boyfriends. (Josh calls this picture, "Bros before Ho! Ho! Ho's!")

We took my parents to Mass on Christmas Eve, then drove them to Baltimore for my sister and brother-in-law's annual Xmas Eve party. I got to see all my siblings and almost all of my nieces and nephews. My mother talked about it for days.

We explored trails in Rock Creek Park, which is a stone's throw from our new abode.

We found a sweet little community garden on one of those walks, and I have applied for a plot. There's a 2 year waiting list so don't expect any gardening miracles this summer.

We went for more walks. I started to feel better.

And last night, all the kids came over for Thai food. Evangeline and Nate announced that they are engaged to be married. Josh and I are REALLY REALLY REALLY EXCITED!!!!!

Happy New Year to us. And to all of you.

And THAT'S why I haven't updated in so long.

I'm not exactly sure how to start blogging again, except to do the obvious and type some words, then hit publish.

You guys still out there? How the hell are you? And how are your elderly parents and your jobs and your kids and stuff? Got your holiday crap up? Wrapped the presents and whatnot?

Me, I'm fine, kind of. Mostly.

Maybe not. Can't tell.

We finally got all our SHIT packed up and have installed renters in our little yellow house. Those fuckers better pay their rent on time or I will KICK THEIR ASSES.

Haha. Kidding. They seem like reasonable enough people.

We have made it through 3 milestones since my mother-in-law died: My father-in-law's birthday, Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah. I can't say it has gotten easier yet.

Especially because I feel an impending sense of doom hovering over us all the time.  Joell was the first to go, but there are 3 more just behind her. And now that I know how it is, I DREAD IT.

Honestly, I had no fucking idea it was so hard to lose a parent. I mean, I know that people are sad when their loved ones die, obv.  But I always secretly envied middle-aged orphans. They have nothing to worry about! Kids are out of college, parents had heart attacks years ago, those fuckers are pursuing hobbies and traveling! What a great deal!

And now I find out that it's horrible and sad when the elderly die.

I'm afraid that means that I'm stupid or immature or self-involved or all of the above. You know, to have this dawning realization that it SUCKS when your parents die.

Here's another thing: I don't mind living here at all, but at the same time, my routine and my surroundings are so different that I feel constantly unsettled. For example, I get up early, like I always have--4:45am--but instead of sitting around and having breakfast and reading blogs and watching the news, I shower and leave the house. At like 5:20am. Because I just can't figure out how to hang around here in the morning. Fortunately, Einstein Bagels opens at 5am. So now I eat a bagel and drink coffee IN MY CAR (less chance of awkward interactions with cheerful strangers), and I pull into the school parking lot at 6:15am.

I don't leave work until 5 or 5:30 because I'm not sure what to do when I get back to the house. And of course there's always plenty to do at work so I can justify it to myself.

Weekends are divided up between my parents and laundry and grocery shopping.

So I'm cranky and exhausted. And getting fat-ish.

Isn't one of you fuckers a psychiatrist or therapist or life coach or something? Please just tell me what to do. Give me a step by step plan.

Seeing it all written down like this makes me feel sad and a little embarrassed. But at least I can hit "publish" now.

My mom. And one of the aides, Eleni, in the background. (FYI, Eleni gave birth six weeks ago to twin boys, 6 pounds apiece. And she's a tiny little bit of a thing.) This picture makes me a little weepy. My poor mom.

Thanks. Thanks a million.

Happy Thanksgiving to all y'all! 

Would you like to see what some of my students are thankful for? Sure you would.

Aw. I'm sure she does cook yummy things. Moms rock!

This little guy is thinking ahead. In a somewhat garbled manner.

See now, this surprises me. The story she told about what Mommy did to her brother's pet turtle when she was drunk was the exact opposite of "fun."  Especially for the poor turtle.

Hell yeah! Me too!

Aren't we all?

*     *     *     *     *

Various crap at my school has caused me to veer from anger to despair to a sort of numbed listlessness over the past 3 months. Some of this crap is stuff that teachers everywhere put up with, while the rest is specific to the administration at my school.

Still, I try to hang on to the fact that I love teaching these little guys.

I wish I could show you all the pictures of my students making pumpkin pie in the classroom. The looks of pure joy on their faces as they measured and mixed and stirred were priceless and made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Kids need to do that stuff at school. 

Ask any decent early childhood educator, and she or he will tell you the same thing:  We need to focus more on what is developmentally appropriate for young children and less on the stupid crap that politicians and administrators and curriculum writers (who haven't been in a classroom for years, I guaran-goddamn-tee you) tell us to do. 

A special thank you to friend/team-mate/work spouse Ellen, for reminding me of this almost every day, and for nudging me when I need it.

T. and C. working on that pie crust.

They LOVED the rotary egg beater.

Crimping the edge of the crust with the end of a measuring spoon was a solemn business.

Buying all the ingredients and hauling cooking supplies/utensils to school and cleaning it all up afterwards was a pain. But it was so worth it.

Fine, I'll just go ahead and say it even though it pains me:  I am thankful for my job.

All in all, it was a good weekend.

Item #1:

Pushkin digs our new living arrangement, especially the radiators.

See the bust? It was made by Josh's grandfather, who was a doctor but also dabbled in the arts.

See all the medals around the neck of the bust? Those were won by Edgar Allen Poo in his many obedience competitions.

See the bag next to the bust? It contains my mother-in-law. In ash form.

I kind of want to put the bag away somewhere, like on a closet shelf, but I don't want to overstep my bounds here. Pop-Pop put the bag there. Maybe that's where he wants her. I don't know. It is in the dining room, very close to where she presided over many a meal so I guess it's fitting.

In any case, Pushkin often sits there.

Item #2:

I think I mentioned that I have been taking una clase en los sábados.  So now I can hablo español like a madre-fucker. Oh, lo siento. Pardon mi lenguaje.

The point is: the class is over since yesterday afternoon. Which means that I can have my Saturdays back and maybe Josh and I can start working on getting our house ready for rental.

It's such a liberating feeling to know that we will be getting rid of a lot of our possessions.

There are a lot of things about my life that I want to change. This is a start.

Item #3:

Today, Josh and I were in the car together, driving down 16th Street on our way home after visiting my parents and doing a few errands. Josh was doing the actual driving. I'm not going to say exactly what happened. But I will tell you this: Josh executed a very smooth move that unfortunately violated a number of traffic laws. There just happened to be a D.C. cop right there in his cruiser, who immediately pulled us over. Josh cursed himself while fumbling for his drivers license. And I was all, "Ooooooh, you're in so much trouble!" 

The police officer said, "Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?"  I leaned over and asked helpfully, "Was it because he was driving like an asshole?" The police officer handed back the driver's license and said, "Sir, I think you're in more trouble with her than with me. You can go."

All in all it was a good weekend.

Whumpf.

My father-in-law's birthday present, 58 years ago.

I knew you guys would be all, "Oh, you're a saint!"

I'm SO NOT A SAINT. Just ask Josh or anyone else who knows me in real life. On my good days I am cheerful and flexible and fun. On my bad days I am high-strung, fussy, and moody. And that was before we moved into my father-in-law's house. On top of my basic very un-saintly personality, mix in the family drama that crops up with unsurprising regularity, and then picture me stomping around in a huff.

Ain't no one handing out any halos or wings around here.

The funny thing is: I'm surprised at how easy it has been, overall, to uproot myself and live in someone else's house. I was afraid I might not be able to do it. One day, when my mother-in-law was still alive, I went back over to my own house to pick up mail or something. I walked around whimpering happily at all the familiar sights, then sat at my kitchen table just bubbling over with joy at being home. That day I worried that I would not be able to step up to the plate and do what needed to be done.

But as I said, it has not been that hard. It turns out that I can be quite happy and comfortable over here. The hard part is getting our own house packed up so that we can rent it out. When the hell are we supposed to do that? We are too tired after a long day at work, I've been taking a 6 hour class on Saturdays (Spanish for Educators, gracias very much), and I go to see my own parents on Sunday.

I guess we are going to have to press other members of the family into service to help us out. So, if you are related to me and you see my phone number pop up on that screen, be forewarned. There is a ton of crap to sort through and boxes to be carried to and fro.

Josh and I have discussed the pros and cons of this plan backwards and forwards many times over. And just to reassure some of you: I don't feel forced into this in the least. Josh and I squabble from time to time, but mostly we are really good at operating as a team. If I really couldn't do this I would say so, and Josh would be okay with that.

But in the end, moving out of our house and in with my father-in-law is the only thing that makes sense. He shouldn't be alone. Not because he can't manage the activities of daily living. He can, sort of. But because his heart has been broken. 

This was brought home to me with a whumpf last night when we returned home from celebrating his 91st birthday over at my sister-in-law's house. (My mother-in-law always made a big deal on his birthday. She told me one time that it was because his family was large and poor and they had never celebrated anyone's birthday and she was horrified by this.)

Pop-Pop had told us that he didn't want us to do his birthday this year, but we didn't feel like we could just ignore it, you know? We may have just made him sadder. I don't know.

I came in the front door just minutes after Josh and Pop-Pop had arrived home (we were in seperate cars) and found Pop-Pop sitting on the stair landing, looking at a book.

It was the book that my mother-in-law (Joell) had given him on October 29, 1953, the first birthday they celebrated together. The book was The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, and it was her favorite book of all time, a book that in some way defined her. (In fact, my niece Maddy read an excerpt from that book at Joell's memorial service). 

Anyway, I walked in the front door and found him sitting there on the stairs. At first I thought he was feeling tired and was resting before the climb up the stairs. Then I saw what he was looking at and, goddamn, I had to dig my nails into my hands to stop myself from bursting into tears right then and there. I said something lame like, "Oh....there's that book that Joell gave you..." and he said, "Yeah. I was just thinking about her. It was a good life."

Josh was equally tearful after witnessing this sad vignette. When we were alone in our bedroom he said to me, "And that's why we're here. Can you imagine him going to bed alone in an empty house?"

The answer to that question is obvious. No. I can't imagine it.  I'm glad we can do this.

I have glossed over The Crazy, but believe me there has been plenty.

We don't live in our little yellow house in the suburbs anymore. We live in da city.  A straight 4-mile shot to the White House. Not that I would ever shoot at the White House! Get off my back, FBI!

Josh, Pushkin, and I have moved here to provide companionship and hot meals to my 91-year-old recently widowed father-in-law. We are here for the duration. A year? 6 months? 5 years? It doesn't matter.

We have moved in and out a couple of times since my mother-in-law was sent home to die in early September. It was an easy and obvious decision when my mother-in-law was dying, but it was harder in the immediate aftermath. My father-in-law wanted some alone time. He used his alone time to get pneumonia and ended up in the hospital half dead.

Pushkin doesn't like moving back and forth. He's all, "PICK A HOUSE AND LIVE THERE, GODDAMMIT."

We were all, "Duuuuuude, you need us to live with you." And he was all, "I don't want to be a bother to you! Also, you eat too much food! And who threw out my gefilte fish?"

I am not lying at all. There was a heated, high-decibel conversation about the gefilte fish, which Josh had thrown out because it was REALLY REALLY OLD.

It's really very funny to hear one's husband and one's father-in-law argue about gefilte fish. That right there made up for all the trouble of marrying into a Jewish family.

Anyway, it's all been decided now. We live here. We need to put all our shit in storage, because there's no room for it here. We will rent our house and try to bank the money we will save. It's a good opportunity to pare down our possessions, and at the same time it will probably extend my father-in-law's life. He will eat better, we'll notice if he looks peaked, and we'll pick him up off the floor if he falls down. It's a win-win situation, right?

I'm not going to lie, it is really hard for me (and Josh) to leave the little house where we have lived for 24 years. But, I think it's going to be okay.

Meanwhile, my own parents have been stable and healthy-ish, so that's good. There have hardly been any crises at all, except for a minor one on the day that Pam The Aide called me to say that Mom had decided to clean out the refrigerator and had thrown out all Pam's food AND stopped up the sink AND created controversy by insisting she would use the toilet plunger to unclog the sink which Pam considered very unsanitary.

When I called my siblings to report this hilarious scenario, each one of them had the exact same reaction: "What the hell? Mom was cleaning out the refrigerator?"

She never did that when she was healthy. Why is she doing it now that she has Alzheimers?

Portraits of the Teacher as a Middle-Aged Woman.

Despite my mournful post the other day, I am okay. Really. There are plenty of bright spots.

Let's take a look at my persona from a first grader's perspective, shall we? Here are some pictures drawn by my first-graders a few weeks ago:

B. indicates her affection for me by placing me in a rainbow setting, but the dark clouds and the raindrops hint at some ambivalence.

This young scholar has placed me in the classroom (note the clock on the wall), and has placed himself on what looks like a small trampoline. He is a rather bouncy fellow, so it makes sense.

I look demented but welcoming in this child's eyes. Also, I love that she gave me brown skin. I feel so accepted!

And here I look jaunty as all get out! I love it when they draw me all jaunty! My other favorite thing about this picture is that it LOOKS like I have imprisoned a child and am laughing and pointing at him. But I think this young artist is merely experimenting with aspect and perspective. The jailbird is sitting at a table, I think, and the bars are the legs of the table.

In this picture I am sloppy drunk and nekkid, but still very cheerful and welcoming. Hmmm.

A diabolical teacher, hatching a cunning plan...

This kid drew me with ROSIE!!!  Also, her rendering of my outfit is spot on, right down to the clunky shoes and the little bag I wear that contains my id, my classroom key, and a couple of other essentials. That's an A+ for little K.D.

Well, there you have it. A selection of this year's teacher portraits. Must run now. After all, it's 5:40am, and it takes me 15 minutes to get to work. If I hurry, I can be there by 6:15am when the doors open. Oh dear God I have a problem I need hellllllp.

At Sea.

Goddamn I am feeling angry and dejected and, UGH, just dazed. Distracted.

It's bedlam in my brain, I tells ya.

Yesterday I became unreasonably angry at 3:25pm, when I had finally made my way back upstairs after dismissal, was finally alone in my classroom, alone for the first time in 7 hours, with hours of work still ahead of me, but at least I was all alone. I sighed, stretched, hiked up my long tunic-y top and pulled my pants up a little bit (someone lost 5 pounds YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, IT WAS ME) and then heard a voice behind me, "Hi, I'm Jack Jerkface, just wanted to give you my business card and see if you wanted to go over your 403B allocations with me."

I made an odd gasp/quiet shriek and then yelled, "JESUS CHRIST YOU SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME!"

He chuckled and apologized.

I was curt and abrupt.

He left.

I wanted to follow him and beat him into a whimpering, bloody pulp for daring to venture into my classroom unannounced.

That was an overreaction, right?

I am also feeling unusually thick-headed. I sat in a meeting at work yesterday and heard myself asking a question that seemed to indicate I had not understood the main point. Yep. I was that person. The one who makes you inwardly sigh when she opens her mouth at a meeting. Fortunately it was a small meeting, mostly containing people who care about me. 

I understand that this can probably all be chalked up to stress. The first 6 weeks of school are always insanely difficult. And when you factor in some of the recent events in my family's life, well, goddamn, what do you expect?

I hesitate to even tell you the other piece of news (which many of you already read on Facebook), but I took Rosie to the vet last week and fed her little pieces of hotdog while the vet gave her the lethal injection. She died happily. Then, I walked outside to a spectacular sunset and cried in my car for the whole ride home.

Swear to God, my next post will not be about death. Unless someone else dies.

Untitled.

I have been avoiding the Internet and all things blog-y for a little while.

Everything has changed around here, and I don't know how long it will be before we feel like ourselves again. My funny, fiesty mother-in-law died on September 7 after a brief and devastating illness.

4 weeks before her death we were still at the beach.  She did everything she always does: played charades, fictionary, and Trivial Pursuit, sat on the beach reading, fussed over Edgar Allen Poo (her dog), and even got into the water for a swim.

She had disturbing symptoms toward the end of our vacation and was admitted to the ICU shortly after our return. After a week in the hospital, she was sent home to hospice care.

We were with her when she died at home. She was not in pain. In fact, it was an amazing and peaceful death.

I would like to tell you more about it, but I can't right now.

Several times a day I think of something I want to tell her, and for a brief flash I forget that she is dead. I experience a small surge of pleasure as I plan our phone conversation. And then reality intrudes and I feel deflated and confused.

My 91 year old father in law is beyond devastated.  A widower now after 57 years of marriage, and he says in a bewildered tone, "I just thought I would have more time with her."

The School Year Has Begun.

The classroom is more or less set up. Which is good, because the students arrived on Monday, and administration frowns on making them sit at tables covered with dozens of plastic bins and assorted junk.

I had wanted to take you through what I did every day during that teacher in-service week. I especially wanted to document the idiotic meetings that teachers everywhere are forced to attend, where it is explained that everything is their fault, and if they would just post these "unifying questions" and "essential understandings" and use the "drill-down" procedure to analyze student data, and stop having "low expectations" blah blah blah, then everything would be fine and our data would be all shiny and special.

Whoops. Didn't mean to bitterly rant like that, but goddamn it's ridiculous.

In any case, documenting the set-up of my classroom turned out to take way more energy than I was capable of mustering over the course of the week. Also, I worried that it would sound as if I was whining about how hard it is to be a teacher. Which, of course, is EXACTLY what I am doing.

Anyway, in case you forgot what my room looked like before:

ARGHH! It's hopeless! I might as well quit!

 
SOB! It's so beautiful! The stupid students will ruin it, I just know they will!

Oh Miz S! You are so organized!

I TOLD you they were going to ruin it!  Yes, that's blood.  And yes, I took a picture.

What's behind the purple curtain in the bookcase? Just stuff I don't want them to get into.

ReallyGoodStuff.Com. Those fuckers should give me a discount, as much money as I spend there.

How adorable are my little lunch bag icons? Courtesy of my friend Julie who finds the best clipart. I printed them out on card stock, laminated them, and hot-glued a magnet on the back.

Where we sit for read-alouds, where we sing songs, where we play games. And where I sternly berate them from time to time. Kidding. A little.

One of the 19 reasons that I love my job. (Despite the whining, which I hope you will forgive.)

Hi.

Not all that well, sometimes.

I'll be back in a few days, I hope. Things are crazy around here. Mostly it's just that I am exhausted at the end of every day (students arrived on Monday). But, also, my mother-in-law has received a grim medical diagnosis. I have not asked her permission to share this, so I will leave it there for the moment. And, I'll try to get my classroom pictures up tonight.

See you later.

Title?

I am cautiously optimistic that by the end of the day tomorrow I might be able to show you a classroom that is almost ready for students. I have spent the past 3 days sorting through 12 years worth of crap. I am determined to ruthlessly weed out the stuff that I never use.

The stuff I have been HOARDING. 

And this is only a very small fraction of the crap in my classroom.

I know I said I wanted to document the process, but I have been having trouble stopping what I am doing to take pictures. I basically emptied the closet, reorganized all the stuff, and filled several trash bags. Items that can be recycled or donated are in my car right now. Many, many items.

 In an attempt to trick other teachers into taking my shit, I set up a "Free Stuff" table outside my classroom. It totally worked! They haven't taken everything, but they've taken a bunch of stuff. Teachers are pathetic, I tells ya. 

In between my attempts to get organized, I have been attending meetings. The best meeting ever was our team meeting yesterday which was only half over when the building began to shake. And rattle. And sway. Somewhat insistently. We stood up and milled around the room saying things like, "Dude, was that an earthquake?" Then we all whipped out our phones and started checking Facebook and Twitter to see what was what. The meeting kind of petered out after that.

I have more to tell you, but I am so very exhausted and achy from carrying and lifting and sorting that I am on my way to bed after swallowing a couple of Advil.

My ass is kicked.

Classroom Set-up Continues Apace.

Although I made it into my classroom 3 days this week, I was only there for a few hours each time. I can't say I got a ton of stuff done, but every little thing I did this week is something I WON'T have to do next week when we go into 10-hours-a-day mode.

Rosie hangs out in the hallway while Loyal Niece Maddy works on the hallway bulletin board.

We hung the curtains. They help to soften our view, which is mostly of the gravel-covered flat roof top of a lower level of the building. Ug-leeeee.

And on Friday...

I did some priming and painting.

I even used a power tool! It looks like I'm just posing and not really doing anything, but appearences are deceiving.  I removed the doors to some shelving that I decided would be better as open shelves filled with student supplies. It's a good thing my friend Julie was there to help me, though. I lack certain foundational power tool skills. 

Jules did the same thing in her classroom. Shhh. Don't tell our principal that we took such liberties with school property. We'll put those doors back on at the end of the year! If we can find the screws!

What will go on this bulletin board? Probably my word wall. In my school district, kids are expected to leave Kindergarten knowing how to read and write 25 basic sight words. In first grade, we need to teach 125 additional words. Those numbers may be different (higher) this year. I haven't checked the curriculum changes that have been handed down from on high.

It was fun having Rosie in the classroom with me. She was a good girl, very chill, but slightly...

...just a little bit...

...distracting.

 Next week: Meetings galore, and more classroom prep.

How to get ready for the first day of first grade.

Summer is over, as far as I'm concerned. I would grieve this sad fact if I were not so busy setting up for the new school year.

Have you civilians ever wondered just what the hell is involved when teachers talk about setting up for the new school year? What is it that we are doing in our classrooms during those "teacher days" the week before the children arrive?  And why are some of us in there the week before the teacher days? I mean, what's the big deal? Don't we do this every year? Why does it take so long?

Well, it takes me so long because I am shockingly inefficient. I'm sure YOU could do it much faster.

I thought it might be fun this year to document the process. Or boring. It will be either fun or boring.

This will be a series of posts, because I want to take you all the way up to the first day of school, which is not for 12 more days. Plus, I have a lot of other things we need to discuss.

So, let's look at what has transpired so far, shall we?

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

This is the week before Teacher Week. Some of us always come in early if we can, while others are still trying to wring out the last golden spasm of summer.

The very first thing I did when I got to school was closet myself in my friend E's room and discuss important, confidential matters. We both have a LOT going on. So, fine, I chit-chatted my first hour away. But after all, I'm not getting paid, so shut the hell up.

 

 I move most of my furniture around by myself, although if someone is handy I will enlist their aid. I have no idea what weakling teachers do, or teachers with back problems.

This first day was kind of soul-crushing, to be honest. I really, really have a problem with cockroaches. I hate the crunch they make when you kill them. I aspire to be like my friend Julie, who was reading a story aloud to a group of 6 year olds during summer school a few weeks ago. When she spied a cockroach out of the corner of her eye, she whipped her hand to the side and killed it with the book she was reading, then continued the story without skipping a beat. I don't think I will ever achieve that level of cool-headed finesse.

Can you find the sign that says No sillybandz at school? Yeah, that's right. The first grade teachers are meeeeeean. Listen, do us a favor and frisk the kids before you send them to school. You have no idea how much trouble those goddamned sillybandz can cause. And for those of you who don't know what sillybandz are, don't worry about it.

I'm kind of impressed with the amount of shit I stuffed in that closet.

Pay attention because I'm schoolin' you here.

I bought that carpet at Lowe's last year because, get this, my old classroom carpet disappeared over the summer. It was yucky and gross, but at least it was something the kids could sit on. I went to the principal, fully expecting her to say that she would find the money to replace it, but she just shrugged and said I would have to go without. Hmmmph. And there went a hundred bucks.

You would think I would put it (and everything else) exactly where I had it last year. Nope. I'm always trying to find the perfect set-up. Every year I tweak it.

 

I can fit 6 kids comfortable at each table. 7, if I have to. They are seldom all at their tables at the same time, because I will usually have a group at my reading/math table. First graders have to work independently at centers for at least a part of every day, because that's the only way a teacher can meet with small groups and differentiate the work to meet the needs of all the students.

That's all I can take on my first soul-crushing day back.

Gotta remember to email the building service manager about those cockroaches.

In our next post:  Favorite Niece Maddy comes in to help,  we put up curtains and cover bulletin boards, and Rosie provides pleasant distraction.

Beached. Beachy. Beachful.

Miz S here, reporting in from the Outer Banks.  The 22nd annual 3-generation Silver-Man family beach vacation is almost over. So far, there has been no police involvement.

It occured to me as I wrote that sentence that my life is awfully goddamned predictable. Some of you have been reading this blog since 2005, which makes this the SEVENTH family beach vacation entry. I generally like to make a few jokes about family fights (oh, there have been some doozies in the past), but I can only make those jokes if we are not actually having any conflicts. As of this writing, the ice is verrrrry thin.

And you know what comes after the beach vacation, right? Angst about the approaching school year, followed by grumbling about the pre-service week, then an entry or two about how fucking overwhelmed I feel, etc. Dudes, I need to change things up. Maybe go  to Clown College or something.

*     *     *     *     *

Rosie and Sasha watching the sunset in Duck, North Carolina a couple of days ago.

My friend Karen (karenth in the comments) sent me a message last night wondering how Rosie is doing. As you probably remember, Rosie was diagnosed with stage 5 lymphoma a couple of months ago.

Rosie being snuggled by favorite niece Maddy at the beach house.

Rosie is being treated with daily doses of prednisone which relieves some of the swelling of the lymph nodes and just generally makes her feel peppy. Average survival time for a canine lymphoma patient on prednisone is 60 days.

Rosie is having the best 60 days ever.

Okay, I'm not sure she enjoyed the taste of sand and salty water that much, but she liked all the attention she was getting. The photo is courtesy of favorite niece Maddy.

She was slated to be left at home with a dog-sitter, but we decided to take her with us to this dog-friendly beach house. Her cousins, Thor and Edgar Allen Poo are here as well.

Which one is the cutest?

Thor thinks Rosie is sex-ay and keeps trying to sniff her butt and play with her. She has haughtily rebuffed his attention, but I suspect she secretly enjoys it. You know how us wimmins are.

How awesome is this picture, taken by my brother-in-law? SUPER AWESOME!

During the day Rosie hangs out in the living room unless the whole group is at the beach, in which case she spends a couple of hours in a crate where she makes mournful noises for a short time, then goes to sleep. If we go for ice cream in the evening, Rosie goes with us. When we play Trivial Pursuit, she is curled up at our feet. Her tail thumps whenever she hears her name. And she slumbers comfortably in our bed with us at night. Her appetite is still good, although her energy is low. All things considered, she is doing beautifully. 

An Embarrassment of Vacation Riches.

A gull hanging out at Lake Coeur d'Alene.

It pains me to tell you this: I have to finish up my Idaho vacation posts while on another vacation at the beach. It's an embarrassment of riches.

Not a thing I can do about it, though, so let's just soldier on, shall we?

Our last big adventure in Idaho was a 30 mile bike ride on the Trail of the Coeur d'Alenes. There is not too much to tell you about this expedition except that the scenery was breathtaking and the ride was easy. The trail is beautifully paved and satisfyingly remote. We rode from Harrison, Idaho to Plummer, Idaho. Most of the trail was flat, except for the 5 mile hill right before you get into Plummer. But the rise in elevation is gradual enough that you don't start noticing the slope until maybe the last 2 miles.

The only thing worth mentioning is maybe the weather which was damp and cold.

Watch me pedalling determinedly along, while announcing that I am "freezing my ass off."

Josh responds predictably.

 

This funny little spotted sandpiper was flustered by our attention. Her nest was likely right there near the water, and she attempted to distract us by skittering back and forth on that log and chirping in alarm. I took 12 pictures but only managed to get 1 that was focused. Here's a piece of advice: Don't buy a new camera right before you go on vacation and then try to learn how to use it while you are on vacation. You're welcome.

We probably could have biked those 30 miles in half the time if I didn't stop and play with my camera every 100 yards or so.

It was a serene and misty lakescape.

The section of the trail that we were on goes through the Coeur d'Alene Indian Reservation, and ends in Plummer, Idaho. The Indians have erected this monument to their veterans of war.

There wasn't a whole lot of other stuff to look at. Silly, east-coast me had expected a sweet little restaurant at the end of the trail, and maybe some cute antique shops. Instead, we found a gritty highway with a meager collection of businesses: a diner, a cigarette market, some gas stations, a casino, and a reservation health clinic. It seemed a little bleak to me, honestly, but hey, I'm sure lots of people love living there.

We ate lunch at the diner and then pedaled our way back to Harrison, Idaho where our car was waiting for us.

The next day we left Idaho and flew east to Maryland.

I had a week to loll around at home, re0rganize, and spend time with my parents. The week after that we had houseguests from Niagara Falls (Aunt Craaaazy!). And then we left for the annual beach vacation with Josh's family.

So now we are all up-to-date, yes? I swear, I will try harder to update this fucker in real time. I am exasperated with my lack of posting.

Love you guys. Thanks for stopping by. Tell me what you have been up to this summer. Can you believe the timer has almost run out on us? Why is summer so fleet of foot?

Idaho Vay Cay Part Four: The Pulaski Trail

Seriously, I can't believe I am still recapping this vacation. If you are just joining us and you want to read about how I peed my pants on the airplane, took sinful pictures in a church, or had to ride a shuttle bus with a bunch of other weaklings, just click on the links.

Can one of you nature-y people tell me what lives in this hole? It was built into the side of the hill, about 5 feet up from the trail. It was very burrow-like, but the twigs and grass around the entrance looked like something a bird would do.

The day that we drove to Wallace, Idaho to hike on the Pulaski Trail was my favorite vacation day. It had everything: Disaster, death, heroes, and some damn good barbecue.

The Pulaski Trail is a two mile interpretive trail in a narrow ravine that leads to an abandoned mine tunnel.  The trail stays close to the prettiest creek I have ever seen, until it climbs steeply up the mountain to a bluff that overlooks the mine tunnel. It's an easy/moderate hike with lots of chances to stop and read the trail signs and catch your breath if you are a weakling.

You can see the trail on the left side of the picture.

Oh, this creek.

We took off our shoes to feel the water. It was FREEZING! Check out our awesomely white legs.

The Pulaski Trail was named for Ed Pulaski, a forest ranger who saved almost all the men in his crew from a fiery death during an infamous forest fire.

Ed Pulaski. Big, tall, strong, good-looking man. Not that I care about stuff like that.

Forest fires that had been burning throughout the dry summer of 1910 turned into raging infernos on August 20 when a hurricane force wind blew in from the west.  Pulaski's crew became trapped in the ravine, surrounded by  fire on all sides.

All along the trail, you can still see charred trunks of trees from the fire that burned 101 years ago.

Pulaski, who knew every inch of the forest, led his 45 man crew and 2 horses through flames and smoke, alongside the creek which boiled and filled with ash, to the shelter of an abandoned mine tunnel. He stayed at the entrance, trying to block the smoke from entering with a wet horse blanket. Some of the men became hysterical and tried to leave, but he threatened to shoot them with his pistol. One man never made it into the tunnel, and 5 died during the night, but all the rest survived.

The entrance to the mine tunnel.

In the Idaho/Montana area, there were 87 fatalaties, and 78 of them were firefighters.

Everywhere that we hiked or biked we saw references to the 1910 fires. It was a calamitous event that not only changed the environment but changed the mission of the recently created Forest Service. Their primary goal became to prevent forest fires at all cost. This had national consequences, even world-wide consequences, according to some historians. (If you are at all interested in this, check out Stephen J. Pyne, who has written a lot of books about forest fires. I'm reading Year of the Fires: The Story of the Great Fires of 1910  right now.)

I realize this is sort of a curiosity niche of mine and that most of you have either dozed off or long since clicked away, but this shit is fascinating to me.

Pulaski was a modest, hard-working man who never claimed any sort of hero status. He was partially blind for the rest of his life from the fire, and his lungs never regained their health. Oh, and he had to pay all his own medical expenses THANKS UNCLE SAM. He lobbied the federal government for a proper sort of memorial to the firefighters who had perished, but I don't think anything was built during his lifetime.

Later, he invented a special tool that is used to this day by wildland forest fighters all over the world. It is called the pulaski. And so, he still makes himself useful.

The pulaski tool!

 After hiking the trail, we ate some awesome bbq in the little town of Wallace, then toured an old silvermine. Don't even get me started on the Sunshine Mine Disaster of 1972!

Lenny. Our tour guide at the Sierra Silver Mine tour.

Fried Chicken For Josh.

Orange Honeysuckle (Lonicera ciliosa) growing on the banks of Placer Creek, near Wallace, Idaho. Did you know there are 180 species of honeysuckle? And that 100 of them occur in China? Lonicera ciliosa is one of about 20 species that are native to North America. Oh, Wikipedia. Thank you for making me seem smarter than I really am.

I notice that the focus on this picture is a little off. I got a new camera for this trip and I am still learning how to use it.

Wait. Are you ungrateful bastards getting bored with the Idaho vay cay posts? Listen, you get what you get. You feel me? I'll kick your ungrateful asses, swear to God.

Kidding. Please don't hurt me. I'm very weak.

I'll finish up the vacation posts over the next few days, mostly because I want a record of what we did for later. You know. When I have The Alzheimer's.

Huge worry of mine, by the way. Grandmother. Mother. Which one of us siblings will win that  lottery?

I'm having a hard time getting started this morning. I need to go see my parents, I need to give Rosie a bath, I need to blah blah blah it's endless. I'm just not feeling the motivation.

Maybe I am in the early stages of Alzheimer's!!!!

Yesterday I was a small duststorm of activity. It was Josh's birthday (55!), and since I hadn't bought him a birthday present I decided to do a bunch of stuff around the house that I had been ignoring AND make him fried chicken for dinner. Over the course of 30 years of marriage, Josh has occasionally hinted that he really likes! fried! chicken!

I have never made fried chicken in my life. Here are my excuses:

1. I'm not from the South, and my mom never made it. It's not in my genes.
2. It never appealed to me because I've only ever had it at KFC and it's gross.
3. Oven fry it! It's just as good! (WRONG.)
4. I thought you needed some sort of specialized equipment to deep-fry chicken.
5. I thought you needed a secret blend of 11 herbs and spices that were known only to the Colonel.

My friend Betsy encouraged me to be brave and FRY BABY FRY.

It turns out, all you need is chicken, oil, buttermilk, flour, salt, pepper, paprika, and a big-ass pot, preferably cast iron. Oh yeah, and a candy thermometer.  I had the pot and most of the ingredients. Everything else was easily obtained.

Holy Mary Mother of God THAT FRIED CHICKEN WAS GOOD.

A little messy, yes. But worth it.

Josh fell upon that fried chicken with extravagant joy. I also made Thai cabbage salad, rolls, and baked beans. True confession: The rolls were Pillsbury. Come on, I'm no domestic goddess.

Oh, and I made brownie pudding for dessert but we were too full to eat it what with all the fried chicken. Have you ever had brownie pudding, served over vanilla ice cream? It's the easiest thing in the world to make and it is crazy good. It's one of Josh's childhood favorites. Just google it and you will find some recipes. It also freezes well. It's in my freezer now for an emergency chocolate situation.

What do I do with the leftover oil, though? Right now it's sitting on my stove in the big-ass cast iron pot. Can I use it again? If so, how many times? Like, if I wanted to fry up a few more batches of chicken can I just keep on using the same oil? Do I pour it down my sink when I'm done? Or do I sneak into my neighbor's backyard and pour it out there?

Gotta go over and check on my parents now and see if Mom has allowed the aide to turn on the a/c. It's only gonna be 100 degrees, and she might not think that's hot enough for air conditioning.

Idaho Vay Cay Part Three: Defeat on the Hiawatha Trail

Part Three. Take heart! We are almost half-way done with the Idaho Vacation Posts. Click on the links if you missed Part One or Part Two.

The Hiawatha Trail! The crown jewel of rail-to-trail mountain bike trails! 15 miles of breathtaking scenery in the Bitterroot Mountains at the Idaho-Montana border. 

You can ride the gently downward sloping 15 miles from the East Portal to the Pearson Trailhead and then take the shuttle back. If you're a PUSSY. Or you can do the roundtrip all on your own. Which of course is what Josh and I would do. Because we're sporty.

Sporty. See?

It's a beautiful trail, really.

The trail is named for the very modern "Hiawatha" trains that rode the Milwaukee Road rails back in the day. I am not a train buff, per se, but I do love the romance and adventure of the railroad heyday.

I found this 1945 image on the Internet. I would love to find an original that was in good shape for framing.

Look carefully. Can you see Josh?

The trail boasts 10 tunnels and 7 high trestles. The longest tunnel, at 1.7 miles, is challenging to ride through on a bike, even with a light. Then again, there was a family ahead of us with a 6-year-old named Autumn on a little pink bike and she had no trouble. These Idaho kids are tough.

See the creek at the bottom? That's where I would have liked to see a bear. Too far away to get me, but still visible.

The highest trestle crossing was 230 feet. I thought I would be scared riding over it, but it felt very solid and safe. Although I did object a little when Josh wanted to stop and lean over the side taking pictures. I was afraid he would drop my camera.

Shuttle? I don't need no stinkin' shuttle.

The last 3 or 4 miles down the trail were very rough and bumpy. By the time we got down to the Pearson trailhead, I was definitely feeling like this was a workout. We rested for a little while and watched the weaklings who were boarding the shuttle bus that would take them back up to the top.

Then we started back up the trail. The hot, bumpy trail. No, wait. The miserably hot, painfully bumpy trail.

Let me state for the record that Josh could easily have ridden all the way back up to the top. But after about 2 miles (on a slightly uphill slant this time), I realized that I was not up for it. If there was no option for a ride back, I suppose I could have sucked it up and kept going, but it would have taken a long-ass time.

It was hot, see. And my head hurt and there was a rock in my shoe and...etc.

So, we rode back over the bumpy part, waited for the next shuttle, and then I pushed some kids and old women out of the way so I could be the first one on the bus. 

I don't remember anything else we did that day because I think I went to sleep at 8pm.

Despite my defeat on the trail, it was a fantastic bike ride and I would do it again in a heartbeat. It was amazing. If you ever get out that way, it is sooooo worth the price of the bike rental.

More tomorrow!

Idaho Vay Cay Part Two: The Hiking and the Drinking and the Churching

Part Two in the excruciatingly detailed account of our Idaho vacation last week. If you missed Part One, click here.

 

The state flower of Idaho --Philadelphus lewisii (Lewis's Mock-orange).  Also known as wild mock orange.  It has a heavenly fragrance.  Idaho officially calls it "Syringa" which is super confusing and annoying because syringa (lilacs are a kind of syringa) is in a whole different family than mock-orange! Mock-orange is in the hydrangea family! Syringa is in the olive (oleaceae) family. God! Get your story straight, Idaho!

Our first full day in Idaho was Sunday, July 10. We were fatigued from the flying and the time change, so we looked for an easy-ish hike close to Coeur d'Alene. We decided on the Mineral Ridge loop, a 3.3 mile trail with a 700 foot rise in elevation. There are 22 little signposts on the trail that go with a guidebook which explains the natural history of the area and helped us learn to identify some of the common plants and trees in the area. We stopped at every damn marker and earnestly read every word in the guidebook, huge dorks that we are.

Dorks!

Nice view of Lake Coeur d'Alene at the top of the ridge.

 

Look! Over there!

After the hike we decided to drive to Old Mission State Park, where the oldest building in Idaho stands. It was a Catholic mission built by Jesuits and members of the Coeur d'Alene Indian tribe in about 1850. We could either take the highway roads, or the "shortcut" over the mountain on the Forest Service roads. Naturally, we opted for the shortcut.

I don't think this picture really shows the depth of these ruts.

We were supposed to stay on this road for 5 miles. Josh thought it was a bad idea (remember that Canadian couple last spring that took a shortcut and ended up lost/dead?), but I INSISTED. I thought it would be a cool adventure. We had a full tank of gas, we had phone signal, we had water. What could go wrong? We stayed on the road for about 3 miles, and it just got worse and worse. Finally, I relented and said maybe we should go back to the main road. Josh is an amazing driver, by the way. Still, I hope the rental car people don't check the underside of that car too carefully.

There I am, weaving and stumbling through the parking lot after a glass or two of beer.

Naturally, we had to stop and eat before touring the Old Mission. The food was mediocre but the draft beer (Mac and Jacks) was fantastic! Usually I don't drink in the middle of the day, but hey, we were on vacation.

In my mildly inebriated state, I forgot to take a picture of the building, so I had to lift this from the Internet. It's so pretty!

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Josh wanted me to take a picture of him in the confessional. I enthusiastically complied. I found the concept of Josh in the confessional so amusing that I giggled helplessly and could barely hold the camera steady.

Giving your wife the finger in church is definitely sinful.

In fact, I found it so amusing that I bullied him into kneeling at the alter for another sacrilegious photo op.  I don't know, maybe I shouldn't have had that 2nd glass of Mac and Jacks?

After all our hiking and driving and touring we were tiiiiiiiiired. But we managed to muster up the energy to dine out that evening and then walk around Coeur d'Alene to get our bearings.

Check back tomorrow for Part 3: The Hiawatha Trail Adventure.

Idaho Vay Cay Part One: The Over-Sharing.

There was no time for blogging in Idaho.  Therefore, I am recapping my vacation for you as a series of posts with excruciating details. Lucky you!

This was the scene late Friday when Josh got home from work. He looked at me with sad eyes.

Oh, you people who know how to pack. What must that be like?

We left on Saturday morning, so technically I had THE ENTIRE week to get my act together. I have no idea what I was doing instead of packing, but there may have been a couple of naps involved. And some lying around with books. Also, visits to see my parents. And rearranging some closets, DUH. (In the Book of Mary it is written that closets must always be rearranged before a vacation.)

On Friday afternoon I sprang into action. Although, "sprang" may not be the exact verb I am looking for.

How about: On Friday afternoon I reluctantly began packing, realized my purse was ALL WRONG for travel, and went to J.C. Penney to get something more fitting. I investigated and rejected every stupid purse in the store before settling on something with which I am only medium-happy.

It's hard to be me. Really, it is.

Earlier in the week, Josh had asked me what time our flight was leaving on Saturday morning. I lazily clicked over to my email, glanced quickly at the itinerary, saw 9:25am, and reported it to Josh, then went back to whatever totally non-essential thing I was doing. Fortunately, I looked at the itinerary again on Friday night.

9:25am was when we would land on the first leg of our trip.

7:00am was our flight out of Baltimore.Which meant we had to be out the door by 5:15am.

<GIANT SADFACE EMOTICON>

Happily for Josh, he was all packed and organized and in bed by 9:30pm.

I hate him so much.

Our flights to Idaho made me realize just how little I understand about North American geography. (Yes, I am a teacher. But first grade, dudes. We don't teach geography.)

Here's what I learned: Idaho is really far away, and it takes a long-ass time to fly there.

The first--and longest--leg of our trip was from Baltimore to Denver. Unfortunately, that was also the only flight that I wasn't able to upgrade to Economy Plus, which gives you 5 extra inches. You wouldn't believe how much of a difference 5 inches makes. (I know, I know. That's what she said.)

Dudes, we were crammed onto that plane like commuters on a Tokyo subway.

Here's where I over-share. Are you ready?

That first flight was 4 hours long, and about 2 hours into it I had to pee. But I hate using airplane bathrooms, and I hate climbing over people to get in and out of my seat. You practically have to grind your ass in their faces! Gross!

I willed myself to hold it. About an hour later, I realized that I couldn't hold it, and that I had better get to the bathroom. Well, in the contortions involved with getting out of my seat and climbing over Josh and the person next to him, I wet my pants like a first grader.

Fortunately, I was wearing very absorbent clothing.

Have I ever told you about my VERY WEAK pelvic floor and the surgery that didn't fix it? (Thanks, pregnancy and childbirth!)

Oh right, I did. On a different over-sharing occasion.

It is very unlikely that I will friend you, United.

Check back tomorrow for Idaho Vay Cay Part 2. xoxo

More Soon!

Placer Creek, Idaho

Thank you all very much for your expressions of sympathy. Some of you are hard-core animal lovers, while others can take 'em or leave 'em, but all of your comments spoke of your warmth and kindness, and I thank you. And those of you who read but don't comment (which is fine! I'm not one of those needy bloggers who tries to guilt her readers into commenting!), I thank you, too.

I'm fine, really. Although, the other day I surreptitiously wept on a hiking trail out here in Idaho after we patted a dog who was passing by with its owner. We're pretty much fawning over every dog we see, which makes us seem SUPAH crazy, but whatevs. The plan is to wait awhile, like a year, after Rosie dies before we get another dog. But honestly, I don't know how long we will be able to wait.

I have lots more to tell you and show you, but it will have to wait until later. It's been raining all morning here in Coeur d'Alene, but now that I am finally set up in a coffee shop with free wi-fi, it looks like the rain has stopped. Which means it's time to rent a kayak and paddle over to Cougar Bay Preserve. Kayaking trumps blogging!

The Story of a Dog.

We put April to sleep earlier this week. Thank you for bearing with me as I sort through old photos. And thanks for all the love that a lot of you already gave me on Facebook and in emails and text messages.

She was a good dog.

 

This is one of the very few "baby" pictures we have of April.  She and Clyde loved to roughhouse together.   

16 years ago, a hungry stray female pup was plucked from the streets of Bethany Beach, Delaware.  Luckily, instead of being dropped off at the local high-kill animal shelter, she was taken to South Arundel Animal Hospital by a woman named Carol, who paid for all her medical care. Carol could not keep the puppy herself, but she found a woman named Stephanie who agreed to foster the puppy until a forever family could be found.

The forever family was my family. Sasha was 9. Evangeline was 8. We answered an ad in the paper and went to visit the pup. She was cute, but we wanted to think about it before committing ourselves. We had pictured a smaller dog, something closer to the size of our westie, Clyde.  The 4 of us got back in the car--the kids were so good, I don't remember them begging or fussing at all--and started to drive away.

Then Josh pulled over and turned to me.

"Let's just go back and get her," he said, with a slightly resigned air, and in the back seat the girls gasped and squealed and clutched at each other.

We named her April, because that was her approximate month of birth.

April, about 8 months old, cuddling with Clyde. We always do dogs in pairs, and Clyde and April were the best-matched pair of dogs we ever had. God, they had fun together.

April's first snow. She is about 7 months old here.

She was a funny, smart little pup. From the very beginning she adored Josh. In fact, she was always extra friendly with all men, which makes me think that some young man was very kind to her in her puppyhood.

Young April with Young Josh. The funny thing about this picture is that I can tell Josh had just been manhandling her and she was annoyed with him. She is giving him the cold shoulder--one of the many expressions in her repertoire.

April was easygoing and calm with the children and their friends. Then again, my daughters knew their way around dogs from the cradle and could always be trusted to treat a dog kindly and not scare it.

She could be quite sensitive at times. One time, Josh threw a can of pennies into the front yard where she was barking. He had read somewhere that this would break a dog of barking. The noise scared her half to death, and for years, yes, YEARS, she refused to go out in the front yard.

Her favorite foods were used tissues and my underwear.

My girls grew up with April. They haven't lived at home for years, of course, and April missed them dreadfully. Whenever they showed up at the house, she fell upon them with passionate joy as if to say, "Finally! The lost members of the pack have found their way home!" She must have thought that Josh and I were dreadfully incompetent pack leaders to let them go missing over and over again like that.

April at Great Falls, MD, age about 1. She was cute, with her shaggy face and her friendly countenance. People used to stop us and ask what kind of dog she was, or tell us that she looked like Benji, or ask if their kids could pat her.  We always said yes. She was very trustworthy with children--always gentle and patient, never crowding the shy ones.

She had really pretty eyes. It looked like she had eyeliner on.

April, age about 13.

Totally trustworthy around all members of the pack, here she is meeting Sasha's kitten, Sammy, for the first time.

...and hanging out with Pushkin, who truly loved April and sought her out as a companion.

Until April was about 14, it was hard to tell that she was a senior dog. She was still bouncy and active and eager to chase squirrels. And even after that, as she lost her hearing and her arthritis began to get worse, she was in great shape until about the last 6 months.

April, about a week ago.

We put her down on Monday, July 4th. Our vet friend came here to the house. We gave her some Xanax first, but I wish we had waited longer for it to kick in. She knew something was up, and she yelped when she felt the needle stick. We patted her head and calmed her, and she went to sleep within seconds.

When an animal is not having an acute health crisis but is just sort of fading away, it's difficult to know when the time is right. We could have waited a little longer, I guess. But when I look at that picture above, I think she was off in a lonely, achy place for much of every day.  I'm glad we did it when we did.

The house seems quiet and empty. I can't even imagine what it will be like after Rosie goes.

What is needed around here is more kayaking.

Bugspray? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Poofy lifevest? Check.  Large, unattractive hat? Check.

The river calls us. Actually, it's my mom who calls us, constantly, with various "emergencies." Best to get out there on the river and leave the cell phone in the car so she can't find me.

We arrived at Violette's Lock on the C&O canal early-ish in the morning on Saturday, to beat the heat. Our route is down the Potomac River a couple of miles, then a quick portage over to the canal, and back up the canal to the parking lot where our car (and dry clothes) are waiting for us. This little trip is an old favorite of ours. We used to do it in our canoe with 2 little girls in the middle.

The river was quiet and soothing. There were no motors out there that morning. We are not always so lucky. You don't realize how much noise there is in your life until you find yourself in a very quiet place. And you don't realize how much you are starting to despise your cell phone until you leave it in your car and feel miraculously free.

 

Hello, large bird that I can't identify with any degree of authority. Heron, I think?

Over on the canal side, now. In a contemplative mood.

Ooh. A turtle. If I were FC I would tell you an amazing turtle fact. Sadly, I don't even know what kind of turtle this is. But I know it can swim!

It was a lovely couple of hours, followed by some drama at my parents' house (more on that in a different post), then dinner with our friends, then lots of talk about when and where to euthanize the dogs, and in what order. Which left me rather raw and tearful.

Today, Sunday, I have had 3 phone calls from my parents, beginning at 7:45am.  (1 from Mom, who hung up on me. 2 from Dad, who "wanted to hear a friendly voice.")

But the GOOD thing is: We are going kayaking again today, with the dinner friends.  

But first, I am going to finish putting away the laundry that has been crushing my spirit for the past 2 days.

Notice that, although I didn't have time to clean my room yesterday before I went kayaking, I did find time to make a little bed for Pushkin with some freshly washed fleece blankets.

What Did Delaware? Idaho! Alaska!

Lots of good guesses on that last post! Pam L. wanted to play 20 questions to get the answer, which would have been really fun. I only wish I had thought of it!

The correct answer is IDAHO! Land of survivalists and potatoes.

We will fly into Spokane, rent a car, and drive to Coeur d'Alene. Many of you probably know that Coeur d'Alene is located right next to a huge lake named, aptly, Lake Coeur d'Alene. It is also very close to a 72-mile rail-to-trail bike path called, um, Trail of the Coeur d'Alenes.  We will kayak and bike to our hearts' content. And if we get tired of those pursuits, we can nip on over to the nearby national park to look for bears. It's called--you probably guessed-- Coeur d'Alene National Forest.

And by God, I will learn to spell "Coeur d'Alene" without pausing and furrowing my brow.

You may wonder how I came to pick Idaho's panhandle as a getaway.  After finding out that airfare to Ireland in the summer would run us at least $1500 per person, round trip, I was all "Fuck you, Europe! USA! USA!" I googled "most scenic bike trails in America" which led me eventually to Idaho. We were able to use some accrued frequent flyer miles for one of the tickets, so that worked out well.

No, we are not bringing our own bikes. We will rent bikes. 

Three things about Idaho:

1. Neither Josh nor I have ever been there before. It's fun to explore a new place together.
2. I don't really want to see a bear. My sister and her husband were attacked by a grizzly bear in Montana's Glacier National Park way back in 1980 or so. They survived with a minimum of injuries. That story is on this blog somewhere. If I have time I will find the link. The main point being, bears are scary DUH.
3. The survivalists fascinate me. In fact, I have been lurking on a survivalist forum called survivalistboards dot com (I'm not linking to them because I'm afraid of attracting their  attention). The tagline for this particular website is "Endure. Adapt. Overcome."  (I think that any number of us could use that tagline to describe a typical day at work. You feel me?) I love the message threads. They range from the dire to the perky.  Here are a couple of my faves:

• 18 Signs The Collapse of Society is Accelerating
• Getting Married -- How To Warm Her Up To Survivalism
• Investing In Copper Bullion? Industrial Metals Will Always Be Of Value!

I don't mean to sound like I'm sneering. Being prepared for all sorts of situations is prudent. I'm just...fascinated. Oh, and I've bookmarked the thread that explains how to manufacture your own insulin. Evangeline will thank me some day.

I'm off to my parents' house right now (Mom just called to say that Pam--the aide--has disappeared and must have decided to take the day off GOD I can't wait until she forgets how to use the phone), then a doctor appointment. Adios.

Why am I SUPER EXCITED?

You guys are really sweet and funny and amazing. I am possibly the worst blogger of all time in terms of consistency, and I can't imagine why anyone bothers to click over here, but damn if you don't all just sort of magically appear and say wonderful things when I show up to moan about my dogs and my parents. 

I enjoyed the jokes after Tuesday's post. 

I liked the fact that FC left a nerdy science joke, and that Leah left knock-knock jokes that don't make any sense because apparently her children made them up. Cathy S. wins the prize for the longest joke. (Not that I'm really handing out prizes, mind you. No prizes. Move along, you greedy people.)

But the joke that makes me snort every time I read it is the one that Miz Robyn left: 

Question: What's brown and sticky?

Answer: A stick.

Yeah, it's dumb, but it's FUNNY.

*     *     *     *     *

At first, I was abashed about what I posted on Wednesday.  I thought for sure that people would be sick of hearing about my parental-care woes. I even swore a sacred oath that I would take a break from eldercare posts. And it turns out that a lot of you are interested in the life and times of the aged and infirm. So screw the sacred oath! It's full steam ahead with droning on and on about my parents, with occasional forays into the pit of despair that contains my dogs -- one with cancer and the other with canine dementia and crippling arthritis.

But first, I will take a break from all that to tell you about something that I am really super excited about. So super excited that I must use the phrase "super excited." (But I will not utter the word "squee" which is the most annoying word ever bandied about by the internet community. I forgive you if you have ever unthinkingly used it.)

Back story: Josh got this idea that he wanted to take me to Ireland for our 30th anniversary, which was last September. He wanted to wander the moors on a starry night with me and sing drinking songs in Irish pubs and make love in a romantic cottage with a thatched roof, etc. (Note: he never brought up any of the aforementioned activities. I just assume that's what he wanted to do.)

And I was all, "I can't go to Ireland! I'm moving my aged parents to assisted living!"  He understood, of course. But he kept bringing it up over the course of the year.  And I would say, "I can't go to Ireland! I'm teaching!"  Or, "I can't go to Ireland! It's expensive!"

I've got nothing against Ireland, by the way.

The next thing that happened is that Josh changed his laptop's background so that every time he opened his computer, a haunting Irish folk-tune would start playing against a panoramic scene of Irish lakes and mountains.

And I was all, "DUDE! You're JEWISH! What's with the Ireland obsession?" But honestly it made me feel a little sad. Like our lives were passing by with no cool trips to Ireland or anywhere else.

Then, one day a couple of months ago, my mom behaved badly towards me. I forget what the trigger was, but she was bad-tempered and disagreeable and just wouldn't stop no matter how I dodged and ducked. I felt like I was 10 years old and was being unfairly punished for something, when in fact I am 53 years old and was very kindly spending time with her and my father and NOT smothering her with a pillow. She should be thankful for that lack of smothering.

By the time I left, I was feeling very sorry for myself and wept the whole way to my car.

And then I thought to myself, "What better way to celebrate my martyrdom than to take a vacation? IN IRELAND!"

So I went home and started planning our Ireland vacation.

And this is where I must stop and tell you that we are not going to Ireland. Do you know how much airfare to Ireland is? Screw that.

We are going somewhere else. There will be biking. There will be kayaking. There COULD be bears, but Josh doesn't want to see them. There are DEFINITELY a lot of crazy-ass white people.  I hope Josh can pass for white.

Where could we be going? Betcha can't guess.

 

We are our own reality show.

My mom in her backyard yesterday, feeding the birds, which she does about 4 times a day. She totters out, carefully puts in approximately 3 tablespoons of birdseed, and totters back in. This is where the next fall will be, mark my words.

I have been alluding to another parental move. Here are the details.  It's all quite ridiculous.

Some of you remember that 11 months ago we moved my parents to an assisted living facility in nearby Washington DC. It took the combined efforts of my siblings, my husband, my own kids, and assorted nieces and nephews to pack up the house where my parents had lived for 40 years, sort through a frightening amount of stuff, and settle them into their new place. My parents must never, ever find out about the dumpster that we rented and placed in the driveway after they were gone.

They never really settled in to assisted living. And this didn't surprise us, not really. My father is shy. My mother is friendly but socially inept and prone to providing inappropriate commentary in a never-ending loop with a voice as clear and carrying as the bells of Notre Dame.

They had no friends there. They made no friends there. My mother can't hear what anyone says, and her dementia is more and more obvious.

They never figured out how to manage the dining room. They didn't understand the seating arrangements. My mother demanded table changes. Service was slow and the wait staff were often rushed and impatient. It was agony to eat down there with my parents and imagine them navigating it on their own most days.

The activities, the lectures, the chair aerobics, the little concerts--they never went. My father wanted very much to see the nightly movies but my mother would tire after 10 minutes of not being able to follow the plot and so they would shuffle back upstairs. And it was no use suggesting that my father stay down and enjoy the movie and my mother go up and read the newspaper, because my parents are inseparable.

We were never able to let their private aides go. My father would forget to use his walker and would fall. Or he would try to manage by himself in the bathroom. They would never think to call the front desk and ask for help. My mother refused to allow the nurses to administer her medication, so the private aide would coax her into taking the right pill at the right time. The private aide drove them to their doctor appointments because my parents couldn't manage to reserve the shared car and driver ahead of time. The one time they used it, my mother was outraged that they had to wait 30 minutes for the car to arrive after the end of the appointment. She couldn't understand the concept of a shared system of transportation.

It turns out my parents need constant supervision.

I am giving you a very abbreviated version of events here, and believe me, we tried everything we could think of to make this work. But in the end, the only affordable solution was to move them back to their old house and negotiate with one of the aides to become a live-in. We have installed a stair-lift for my father. We had the bathroom remodeled so that it is safer.

We moved them back home last week.

Old people should always live in a house at the top of a hill, yes?

My mother already fell and broke a rib. By tripping on my father's walker, as I mentioned in yesterday's post.

Why has my life become so ridiculous? That question is rhetorical and there is no need to address it.

Swear to God, no dog posts and no eldercare posts after this. Instead, I'll borrow someone's baby and become a mommy blogger.

Got Jokes?

The staff at the doggie oncologist clinic LOVED Rosie.  Here is an excerpt from the notes: "Rosie is soooo cute, we love her!!!"   3 exclamation marks. For real.

A week or so ago, I took Rosie to the doggie oncologist for a consultation. We already had the definitive diagnosis (lymphoma, stage V), but I needed to have as much information as possible to be sure that we are making the right decision (not to treat her).

Cancer treatment for pets is not for the purpose of effecting a cure. Instead, the goal is to buy some time while maintaining a good quality of life. The chemo doses are lower and are well-tolerated by most dogs.

But Rosie's lymphoma is in all her lymph nodes, her bone marrow, and her blood stream. We could opt for the full-on, multi-agent, cadillac of canine chemotherapy treatments, but it would only buy her about 8 months. Maybe. And it would cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $6000.

I love how white Sasha is.

Can you put a price on the life of a beloved family pet?

Yup.

I can be surprisingly practical at times.

The treatment we have chosen for Rosie is daily doses of prednisone. It will do nothing for the cancer, but it will stimulate her appetite and her energy and alleviate some of the swelling in the lymph nodes. When we see signs of systemic illness (lethargy, lack of appetite, vomiting) we will know it is time to put her down.

And, just to make this summer EXTRA fun, April is failing fast. At 16 years old, she has arthritis and general craziness. We have thrown everything we can at the arthritis, but she still hobbles around horribly, especially at night. Josh often sleeps downstairs with her to try and settle her down.

My beautiful glow-in-the-dark daughters!

Sasha thinks we should put them both to sleep at the same time. I kind of think she's right. The thought of putting one down and then coming home to see the other one all alone, while knowing that the other one is also on borrowed time, just kills me.

This is depressing, I know, and I'm sorry to lay it on you. Many of you have pets and have been through something like this or will go through it one day. And some of you even have cancer yourself, or are living with a loved one with cancer. In which case this might seem trivial.

But never fear! Tomorrow's post will be hilarious! It is all about how we moved my parents to assisted living last July, and then moved them back to their old house last week! And my mother promptly fell and broke her ribs! BY TRIPPING ON MY FATHER'S WALKER!

That's comedy, Jack. Dark comedy, yes. But comedy nonetheless.

Also, don't stress about leaving a comforting comment. I've been all over Facebook about this, and I think this is my 2nd post here since we found out. So, it's not like you haven't already said something sweet and comforting. Maybe you could tell me a joke, instead.

Es la verdad.

A classroom vignette:

I am sitting at my reading table with a couple of kids that need help with a writing activity. The other kids are all busy and relatively quiet at their tables. I glance up and scan the room several times a minute to make sure that all is well, i.e., Rochelle hasn't sneaked into the cubbies to rifle through others' backpacks, Alex is not decorating inside picture books, Roberto and Wilbur are not playing punch tag, etc.

Wait. I sense a disturbance in the force. Why is Yesenia's head down on the table? I can't see her face. Is she resting, or crying?  Why is Elaina leaning over to look more closely? And why does Rochelle, that little shit, have a nasty, smug expression on her face?

Back story: Yesenia has no social skills and is an easy target. It's not her fault. She has a learning disabilty, including a language processing disorder, and she can be difficult. Rochelle has bullied her all goddamned year long. Rochelle is a queen bee (there are several in my class), smart as a whip, and Yesenia is always on the outs. I have addressed this through gentle conversations with the offenders, strongly worded conversations with the offenders, loss of recess time for the offenders, proactive strategy sessions with the victim, role-playing scenarios with the victim, whole-class role-playing scenarios, parent phone calls, parent conferences, visits to the principal, and trips to the guidance counselor. The problem has ebbed and flowed all year and I am sick of dealing with it.

"Come here, Yesenia," I say.

She stumbles over to my table with her hair in her face and I see that she has been quietly weeping.

"What's wrong, honey?" I ask.

"Rochelle say I'm [mumbles trailing off into sobs]"

"Rochelle said, honey. Not say. Tell me again. I can't understand what you said."

Dammit. I've been working with her on past-tense all goddamned year.

"Rochelle say I'm mumble mumble sob mumble shriek"

I feel my irritation mounting. What did that little brat say to Yesenia? Or is Yesenia confusing time and place again? Is it something that happened a month ago that Yesenia just remembered?

"I can't understand you. Take a deep breath and try to stop crying."

"Rochelle say I'm going down there! SHRIEK! SOB!"

"Going down where?"

What the hell is she talking about? Is Rochelle making fun of the fact that she goes downstairs to see the resource teacher? But lots of kids go out of the room for different things. How would Rochelle even put that together?

"She say I'm going down there! [points down with her finger] Where the debbil is!"

"Rochelle said you are going to HELL?"

I hear a few gasps. The classroom is suddenly very quiet. They live in a very religious community, and every year my first-graders loooooove to talk about God and Jesus and heaven. If they mention hell it is never by name. They call it "down there" and they point cautiously, as if the very gesture might somehow alert the "debbil" to the fact of their existence.

"Rochelle. Come here."

I am using my dangerously quiet, crisp voice.

"Did you say that to Yesenia?"

Rochelle's eyes are big and innocent, but she nods. She won't bother to deny it. Too many witnesses at the table.

"Why would you say something like that?"

She just stares at me and doesn't say anything.

"Go to time-out."

Man, that was close. I almost said, "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

I turn to Yesenia, who is still snuffling and sobbing.

"Yesenia. Look at me. You are not going to hell. I promise. Is Rochelle God? Is Rochelle in charge of who goes to hell? Alright then. You have my permission to tell Rochelle to shut up.  If anyone ever tells you that you are going to hell, ask them if they are God. If they're not, they can't say who's going to hell, okay?"

Despite what you might hear at church or on TV or from your own parents.

*     *     *     *     *

Dudes, I was pissed. It wasn't so much what was said, but to whom it was said. The child who loves the mean girls and craves their attention. The child who doesn't have enough language in English OR Spanish to defend herself.

After school, we all stand in the gymnasium with the walkers and hand them off to parents, siblings, or babysitters. Rochelle's mother arrived, and I asked a team-mate who speaks Spanish to translate an on-the-spot parent conference for me.  

I described the incident to Mom. I mentioned that the bullying has been an on-going issue. Mom said she knew nothing about any of it.

I call bullshit on that, but fine, whatever.

Mom looked down at Rochelle and asked her in Spanish, "Why did you say that?"

And Rochelle looked up at her with big eyes, shrugged, and said simply, "Es la verdad." (It's the truth.)

My friend doing the translating actually gasped when Rochelle said that, and broke out of translating mode to begin chastizing her in Spanish. I explained to the mom that the child in question also comes from a religious home and she understands the implications of going to hell and the poor thing was very upset AND BY THE WAY, WHY IS YOUR KID SUCH A SHIT AND  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TEACHING HER AT HOME?

I didn't really say that last part, but I think it was implied.

The mother said a few things to her daughter, then left. My translator told me that the mother said, "We don't know that. You can't say that to people."

I hope they will talk about it more at home, and I hope the mother really meant what she said.

I fault Rochelle for the meanness and the bullying, not for what she actually said. I understand that she has been taught a very fire-and-brimstone evangelical form of Christianity, and that she is merely parroting what she's heard. Her understanding, filtered through her mean-girl brain, comes down to:

1. Bad people go to hell.
2. Yesenia is dumb. No one likes her. She tattletales on me. She is bad!
3. Yesenia is going to hell.
4. Hey, I think I'll tell her!

And I feel a tiny bit bad, because Rochelle is just a little girl, and I am her first-grade teacher. And it's been hard for me to like her. It's been hard all year long.

Es la verdad.

More weekend stuff. And, bad Rosie news.

I like this picture because Sasha looks like she is about to blow a whistle and make us all start hiking again. And because you can see me anxiously watching while Evangeline tests her blood.

Oh, screw it. I can't finish recreating my Memorial Day Weekend. At this rate it will be the 4th of goddamned July before I get to the wrap-up. Here's the condensed version: The day after our fab bike ride, we drove to Antietam with our girls (and their boys) and went on a 5 mile hike. It was special because, well, mostly because we got to spend hours with our kids. And they invited us. It was THEIR idea. They don't seem to mind us too much, which is mystifying but quite acceptable.

And I like this picture because if you look really carefully at the forest of legs, you can see that Paul is the only one who has any brown in him. The rest of us are so white we glow. Also, notice that I am still hovering over Evangeline and holding her shoulders like she might fall down or something.  No, seriously, she might. Oh, and yes, I always dress in all black when I am hiking in 90 degree weather.

Memorial Day weekend felt like the best weekend ever in my whole entire life. Probably because I just haven't done anything fun in a really long time. It's all been work and headaches and worries and eldercare and schlepping crap from here to here, and...CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!

Fucking A, I'm referencing commercials from the 1980s, much like my parents used to quote Burma Shave ads.

In other news...oh this sucks, really.

Remember awhile ago I took Rosie and April on a walk and made a HILARIOUS video about it (which has not gone viral--you people just disappoint the hell out of me). And I said I was taking her to the vet? And then I made a video of that? And then I was exhausted? Remember?

At first the vet thought she had cancer, but the blood work came back inconclusive and the needle aspiration of her enlarged lymph nodes came back with no evidence of cancer, so my vet decided it was an infection and put her on antibiotics. 

Blah blah blah more boring details, now cut to the chase.

She DOES have cancer. Lymphoma, stage 5. 

I am going to take her to the oncologist for the initial consultation, but I highly doubt we will treat her.

Poor little Rosie. Poor little waggy-tail, scruffy, in-love-with-everyone Rosie.

 

Memorial Day Weekend, Part One.

On Saturday we drove to Cumberland, in beautiful Western Maryland, with our bikes in the back of the van.

An old man loaded our bikes into a train car.

"Careful, you clumsy fool!" I snarled at him.

 I am nostalgic when it comes to trains. Nothing like a good ol' steam engine!

This is NOT a look of pretend interest, Betsy. It is a look of focusing on holding my main chin up so that the camera will not capture my other chins.

The train took us to tiny, beautiful Frostburg.

We ate lunch at the Princess Diner. (Betsy, that definitely IS a look of pretend interest on Josh's face.)

Then rode our bikes 15 miles back down to Cumberland, on the Great Allegheny Passage bike trail. A gentle, downhill grade the whole way. How sweet is that?

Was it beautiful?

Yes, it was.

Was I happy?

Yes.

Happier than I have been in months.          

Miz S: Taking Care of Business

We had houseguests last weekend, which meant I had to clean up the guest room. The guest room is on the main floor of our house which makes it a really convenient place to put things if you don't know where they go.

Apparently we don't know where a lot of shit goes.

I moved it all upstairs to the other empty bedroom (we used to have kids who lived at home, remember?) and arranged it artfully.

Among other things, there was a gigantic jar filled with coins. I transferred the coins to a paper bag, then put the paper bag inside a little basket because I thought the bag might break. Straightaway, I put it in the back of my car. I pictured that I would just zip up to the bank later and put those coins into the coin machine. I was sure it was a LOT of money. I would get it changed into bills, then surprise Josh by taking him out to dinner. I felt efficient. Miz S, taking care of business! Miz S, getting shit done!

That feeling gradually faded during the week. Every morning when I got to work I would notice the basket with the bag of change in the back of my car.  Well, I'll just take care of that at lunchtime, I would say to myself. Then at the end of the day, when I noticed it again: Oh hell. Well, I'll stop by the bank tomorrow, for sure! Two days later: THOSE STUPID COINS ARE STILL IN MY CAR I HATE THEM SO MUCH.

Yesterday (Friday), I stayed at work until 6, scoring BCRs. (Any public school teacher-readers will sigh sympathetically.) And then, hurrah, I remembered to stop at the bank!

I lugged those coins in, poured 'em into the machine, and stood there rubbing my hands together greedily. The $99 total was mildly disappointing. In my mind, I had been driving around all week with a king's ransom in my car.

I took my basket and my bag and my little receipt over to the customer desk area, and filled out a deposit slip for some checks I had in my purse. I found 2 of the checks, but I was certain there was a third. I had seen it just that morning on my dresser at home and had noticed that if I didn't deposit it by June 1st, it would be void. I MUST have put it in my purse. I began rummaging through my purse with increasing energy. I began taking things out of my purse. Things like: toys I had confiscated at school, copies of behavior referrals for students who had gotten in trouble, little love notes from children at school. Magnetic letters for word study, SERIOUSLY? Is my purse my FILING CABINET/SUPPLY CLOSET now?

I reminded myself to love my Inner Child, however incompetent She might be.

And then: a manager at the bank came over and asked me if I needed any help.

Yes. I looked THAT disheveled and bungling, with my basket and my coin bag, and my pile of crap from my purse.

"Oh, ha ha!" I laughed airily. "I know it looks that way, but I'm fine, really. I'll just finish up with this deposit slip and be on my way! You have a good weekend, now!"

Finally, I located the check. But that was much later, when I got home. There it was, still on the dresser.

I'm not sure what the point of this post is, really, except to say that I wish I had a fulltime assistant.

Gotta run. Josh and I are leaving for an adventure! I'll be back in a couple of days. Or months. Whatever.

 

 

 

 

If it's not one thing it's another tra la tra la.

  So much going on! Where to start? Let's work with a bulleted format, shall we?

• My father is rounding out our medical training by developing a brand-new problem. We (my 3 sibs and I) are already somewhat conversant in the language of Parkinson's, aspiration pneumonia, cellulitis, urinary tract infections, head injuries, and hospital psychosis.

• Damn! I almost forgot BEDBUGS.

• This weekend's lesson is Bowel Obstruction!

•  My father was taken to the ER on Thursday because he was nauseous and weak. I drove to the hospital after school, and my sister from Baltimore (Julie) joined me as soon as she could. 

• Any ER is good for people-watching and eavesdropping, but the vignettes are particularly engrossing in a city hospital ER like the one here at George Washington University Hospital. They get a lot of customers straight off the streets.

•  I enjoyed seeing the canine unit on patrol, even in the examining rooms in the back of the ER.  I had to restrain myself from squealing and asking if I could pat the doggie. 

• I adored listening to the man on the other side of the curtain describe his rectal boils and his HIV status. I'm not kidding. I really adored it. Especially when he was saying, " Imma tell you about the bleeding. See, my lady friend and me, we were getting busy. You know, we were getting ready to have a little fun. But then this thing, it just busted out bleeding all over the damn place."

• I found out that I am a very bad driver at 4am, when I have been up for almost 24 hours. I was slapping myself to stay awake. It's a miracle I made it home from the hospital without dying in a fiery car crash. My sister Julie, on the other hand, must be a BEAST, because she had to drive all the way back to Baltimore and she said she was fine.

• Shout out to my work husband, Ellen, who told me not to worry about school, arranged my sub coverage, and pulled together sub plans for Friday. xoxoxox.

• Poor old Dad. He has been subjected to many undignified and painful procedures in the past few days. And yet he remains sweet, polite, and humble. The nurses and the aides adore him, as usual. 

• I am leaving now to go pick him up at the hospital. Talk to y'all later.

All Dogs All The Time

I don't want this to be an All Dogs All The Time blog ('specially for blackbird's sake), but right now it's either that or moan about my job (34 more excruciating days of school) and my parents (wait 'til you hear the new plan). Let's run with the dogs instead. Except we can't exactly run. It will be more of a hobble due to April's arthritis.

Have I mentioned that she is 16 years old? But you saw her on that video, right? She still loves to go on a walk, she still greets us happily. I don't think it's time yet, if you get my drift.

April is being treated with

• daily doses of a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug
• glucosamine
• injections of Adequan

As I mentioned in video #1, she is a little off her feed at times so I am always cooking up some burger or scrambling some eggs to encourage her to eat.

For the last week, her appetite has been horrible. She ate nothing at all for 2 days in a row and we were wringing our hands in despair. NOOOOOOOOO! WE'RE NOT READY FOR THIS!

April refusing warm, freshly-cooked burger.

But Maureen in Alaska (Hi Maureen!) left a helpful hint in the comments that baby food might tempt her appetite. I picked some up yesterday and it was like a miracle drug. I only gave her half of her usual dry food, and then mixed in chicken with gravy and some "chicken sticks" and damn if she didn't eat every single bit of it. With gusto!

Later on, I took her out for a very short leash walk, only 2 blocks so as not to inflame her joints, and I walked as slowly as she wanted to, and waited patiently while she meticulously sniffed every blade of grass on the way. She didn't get overly tired and her legs weren't collapsing when we got back home.

She even took up her usual place in the kitchen when I did the dishes. 

And this morning she ate her full ration of dry food along with the baby food. I am encouraged.

It would be fantastic if she could have a really happy, mostly pain-free summer, and then die unexpectedly in her sleep one night right before we go on vacation.

So, whoever's in charge of that shit, could you please arrange it?

Part 2

Turns out, Rosie DOES have a cold. If you missed the first video you can click here to see it.

I definitely won't be doing a lot of videos from here on out. They take FOREVER to put together. Back to good 0ld-fashioned bare-bottom spankings, I mean, good old-fashioned blogging after this.

 

 

 

There is evidence to suggest that I have too much time on my hands...

...which is strange because I feel SUPER BUSY.  

Anyway, I made a video for you.

 

The Bread of Affliction

I probably should have posted this last week when it was actually, y'know, PASSOVER, but I got distracted. I plan to do an Easter post right before Memorial Day weekend in case you want to plan ahead.

The best part of Passover this year was that I didn't have a nervous breakdown in the middle of it and go on a crying jag like I did last year. That was so awkward.

Here is a video that a bunch of you have already seen on Facebook. The highlights for me are:

1:58 Edgar Allen Poo disrupts the service with his incessant barking.

2:35 Josh is funny.

2:41 to 3:03  Nate (Evangeline's boyfriend) reads in Hebrew. Dudes, Nate is a Christian, but listen to him kick the ass of that Hebrew passage. Also, if you watch carefully you see Evangeline give a little nod of approval both times when he finishes.

3:15 to 3:30 Josh makes funny faces while he eats the moror (horseradish, straight up).

Scroll on down to the bottom to watch the actual video. It might be interesting for those of you sheltered Christians who have never been to a Seder.

In other news, Josh's scooter is still moping about in the driveway. The frame is bent, so it's basically junk now. No word from the insurance company yet, but I'm sure they will generously make everything all better. Right?

A couple of family members/friends have said things like, "Well, he's not going to get ANOTHER ONE, is he? IT'S SO DANGEROUS."

And I'm all, "Meh."

Everything is dangerous. You take sensible precautions and you live your life.

Later on, dudes. I have errands to run, food to cook, a cake to bake.

 

 

 

The Work Week Ended With A Bang!

No, not THAT kind of a bang, silly. The kind of a bang where one gets an e-mail from one's beloved halfway through the day saying that there was a "scooter mishap" on the way to work, but that he is "fine, really."

This is the second time that a DC taxi has tried to take Josh out. I'm not going to call them taxis anymore. I'm going to start calling them "widowmakers."

As in:

I've had too much to drink. I'll take a widowmaker home.

Or:

I'm going downtown, too. You wanna share a widowmaker?

His e-mail to me included a detailed diagram of the mishap scene, as well as photographs of the damage to the taxi--I mean, widowmaker-- (minimal) and the scooter (extensive).  And a photo of himself to prove that he is "fine, really."

My team-mate, J.A., was impressed with Josh's finesse in breaking the news to his wife that he had narrowly escaped grievous injury.

I include some of those images here for your viewing pleasure.

I tweaked this image by adding the stick figure, but the scale is all wrong. Unless Josh is actually a giant.

How lucky that Josh had the foresight to purchase serious protective motorcycle outerwear a long time ago, and that he always wears it. He sustained a few bruises, but no more than he has after a softball game. His wrist is a little swollen.

His work wife insisted that he apply ice to his wrist, and for that I thank her.

Josh is not at all happy, I'll tell you whut. The man loves, loves, LOVES riding his scooter.

The scooter was towed to our driveway for a hefty sum of money and now sits there, maimed and shrouded.

The part that seemed the worst for me, and that I have guilt about, is that he had to walk home from the Metro station this evening wearing his big clompy motorcycle boots.  I was visiting my parents after work, and it just didn't occur to me that I should cancel because he would need a ride home. He seemed so casual and offhand about the whole thing when I talked to him on the phone.

I mean, he could have gotten a widowmaker at the Metro station, but maybe he was still harboring a grudge. I don't know.

TWO posts in THREE days. And another one in my head.

Paper is not my friend. It turns into stacks so easily, and there is always some crap that I simply don't know what to do with.

For example, there is a piece of paper buried on my desk at this very moment that has something to do with a transfer of stocks or funds or some shit that took place in 1995, and I am not even lying. Somehow I got it in my head that it has important ramifications, possibly tax-related, and that I need to figure out where to put it.  But I'm not sure where, so I just pick it up every now and then and look at it and whimper quietly.

But honestly, I've gotten a lot better over the years, and I KIND OF have my shit together these days. 

On Sunday, Evangeline came over to do her taxes. I told her to bring her important papers, including anything from her health insurance company. She has new health insurance and I wanted to be the controlling mother of a diabetic and make sure everything was being covered properly.

She arrived with a plastic bag that had a surprisingly sparse number of documents in it. I quizzed her.

Me:  Are you sure this is everything the insurance company has ever sent you?

Evangeline: Yes. Well, it's all I found.

Me (slightly confused): It's all you found? What do you mean?

Evangeline: I looked in the place where I keep my papers and this is what I found.

Me: Do you have the papers organized into some sort of system? Like with files?

Evangeline: Yes, of course.

Me: Like what kind of files?

Evangeline: These were in the file marked "Crucial Things."

Me (barely stifling giggles): What other files do you have?

Evangeline: I have one marked "Correspondence" and another one marked "Theater Programs."

This made me laugh soooooooo hard.

Honestly, I would think she would have filed the theater programs in the Crucial Things file, but what do I know?

That apple didn't fall from the tree, did it?

She allowed me to be very controlling and set up a filing system for her, which was sweet.

 

Busy, yes, but also floundering about in my usual haphazard way.

From the car window, on the way to work.

Oh how I long for the days when I complained that I was "too busy" to write a blog post.  I don't know what I am, now.  Busy, yes, but also floundering about in my usual haphazard way.

I'm going to make a quilt! I will bake brownies and go introduce myself to that new family around the corner! I will start running again! I will learn Spanish so I will know when the kids in my class are saying bad words! I will have a bountiful vegetable garden this summer, and also an exquisite perennial bed that will be the envy of my neighbors! I will design and build my own henhouse and become a suburban farmer. I will slather moisturizer on my middle-aged legs every single night so the skin will become magically smooth and youthful! IT'S ALL GOING TO BE SO EXTRAORDINARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The reality is dreadfully the opposite, which is always the case with people like me whose enthusiasm is paired with such shocking inefficiency, not too mention the lack of practical skills.

I mean, for chrissake, here it is April 9th and I have done ZIP about our taxes #woe is me.

True, I've been genuinely busy with my parents and my job. But still. Come on.

*     *     *     *     *

I never finished telling you about my referral to the cardiologist HI I'M MIDDLE-AGED.  It was slightly amusing, at least it was to me.  To refresh your memory, my primary-care-physician referred me to a cardiologist because my EKG showed a long somethin' somethin'. QT interval. I prefer to think of it as a "Cutie" interval.

So I snagged an appointment for 4:00pm one day a few weeks ago. A 4:00pm appointment always feels like a big win because then I don't have to take half a day off work, get a sub, etc. But it also means I have to fly out the door at school at 3:30, and my last kid is never gone till 3:20. So, 10 minutes to dash back upstairs, grab my purse, use the restroom, and NOT get entangled in a conversation with a colleague about why Roberto can't read or when we are going to meet about little Amy, etc etc. 

I arrived at the doctor's office on the dot of 4:00, and was taken in to be examined by Dr. S shortly after that.

I expected an old crusty doctor for some reason. Instead I got a damned George Clooney look-alike. Suddenly I became acutely aware that I was  a) slightly sweaty after a long day in first grade, and b) not only had lots of magic marker smears on my hands but had picked at my cuticles and nails until they bled (a very bad habit that has gotten much worse in the last year), and c) I had taken absolutely NO PAINS with my appearance that day, not even a smudge of mascara.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a happily married woman and I understand this was not a date. But still. One has one's pride.  I would expect Josh to feel the same way if he found himself in a paper gown with a doctor who was a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson. 

"Mr. S., as soon as I finish fixing my hair,  you're going to feel me touch you. Now you're going to feel my finger in your rectum."

There's just nothing good about a handsome, young-ish doctor. It forced me to joke nervously and fiddle with my cell phone and say things like, "I'm tweeting this!"

And when he went through the medical history and asked me questions like, "Any rectal bleeding?" I was all immature and "Gross! No!"

In the end, he pronounced me healthy but wants to follow up with an ultrasound.

I'll schedule that appointment for 4:00 again,  but this time I'll take the entire day off and get a makeover. You feel me?

Did I Mention That My Cholesterol is 118?

At the end of my last post, I said that I would post again soon and tell you more about my physical at the doctor's office last Friday.

Why did I tell you that? What the hell else is there to tell except that I stripped naked, got poked and prodded and palpated (breast exam took about 10 seconds HA HA SMALL BOOBS JOKE), and had some blood drawn.

I tried to get the doctor interested in the fact that I am always very tiiiiiiiiiiired, but she wouldn't bite.

I pinched my belly roll and said, "Look! I'm getting fat here! Doesn't that mean I'm at risk for Type-2 Diabetes? HMMMM?"

She said mildly that my BMI was fine, but if I was concerned I could eat less and exercise more. (Right. Like THAT'S gonna work.)

I was ready to write off the entire appointment as a waste of time until she did the EKG and came up with the long QT interval that I mentioned in my last post.

And you guys were totally on point in the comments. It needs to be a vague, unfixable heart condition that won't kill me, but that I can use to get out of doing stuff. Man, if it could be enough to get me early retirement...oh that would be so sweet.

Anyway, I have an appointment at the cardiologist on Tuesday.

Oh, and my blood work is all totally normal. I am the picture of health. (If the picture of health is developing jowls, that is.)

In other news, spring break is an entire month away and I hope I don't slap anyone between now and then.  The first-grade boys are louder than ever and lately have the mistaken impression that the classroom is a playground. But they are nothing compared to some of the first grade girls, who seem to think there is a talent search going on for best  Mean Girl Drama Queen. I spend a good part of the day wearing my Mean Teacher Face.

More later when I have time.  Love you guys. xoxo.

 

Snapshot.

If only I could get Pushkin to wear a pair of glasses. Then I could have a caption like, "Get me the Purina file, would you please, Miz S?"

It was a busy week, no two ways about it. Bedbug abatement ain't for sissies. I am not going to go into very many of the details because I'll be DAMNED if this is going to turn into a bedbug blog. I will simply tell you that my parents are back in their regular apartment after a few days in a temporary dwelling. The initial treatment (heat, then chemicals) will be followed by a visual inspection and then a re-treatment and then another inspection.

God willing, we may never  have to speak of this again.

*     *     *     *     *

On Thursday evening, I got a little glimpse into what it will be like to deal with my mother as her Alzheimer's progresses. My sister and I had left the apartment after Samelia (my favorite aide) arrived. Julie had to drive back to Baltimore and I had to drive to Bethesda to pick up an inflatable mattress for Samelia to sleep on. It was late and I was sure my parents would be sound asleep when I returned at around 9pm.

Instead, I found my mother trying to pull the blankets off the bed so that she could make a bed on the floor for Samelia. Dad and Samelia couldn't make her understand that I was bringing a mattress, and she refused to change into her nightgown and get into bed because she was worried about where Samelia would sleep.

My father was so tired that he was wobbling, but he won't get into bed unless my mom is in bed, too. And my mother simply couldn't let go of this idea that she must create a pallet for Samelia on the floor.

I brought Mom out into the living room and showed her the mattress, pillow, and comforter for Samelia. Mom said, "Oh, perfect!" But by the time she had shuffled back into the bedroom to get changed, she had already forgotten about the mattress and immediately began pulling blankets and pillows off her own bed again. We repeated this scenario 3 more times until she was finally able to let it go.

It was equal parts entertaining, alarming, and sweet.

Mostly entertaining, to be perfectly honest.

Mom's language and vocabulary skills, which were impressive to begin with, are still quite strong. Her terrible short-term memory is the only sign of Alzheimer's that a non-family member might notice. That and her tendency to make every conversation circular.

She is very sweet and funny at times. Not funny on purpose--she has never had what I would call a good sense of humor (unlike my father who is delightfully amusing). But she does make me laugh sometimes. A month or two ago she was trying to explain to me that Pamela (the daytime aide) had taken them to Target to buy something. She couldn't think of the name of the store, and she said, "Oh you know, it was a large, general merchandise, unattractive sort of place."  And that was so like my mother, to find Target unattractive and distasteful, that I laughed and laughed and repeated it for days.

*     *     *     *     *

Next up -- and I swear it will be soonish -- I will tell you all about my physical on Friday and how I am A MESS with a PROLONGED QT INTERVAL (which Dr. Google has been unable to explain to me in easy-to-understand language) and am being referred to a CARDIOLOGIST.

FOR REALZ.

And you better believe I'll be playing that card at every opportunity. Ummm, no, sorry, I can't help out with [insert anything]. I have a HEART CONDITION.

Ummmm. Hi!

We left town...

...and drove to Pennsylvania to spend the weekend with our kids and their boys at the family homestead in Bedford County. It was sorta kinda in honor of my birthday. And because I longed for fresh air.

We played Trivial Pursuit.

There was only ONE THING that Paul didn't know: Zombies eat brains. But he got endless shit for missing that question.

April stood around and just STARED at us a lot.

There was a Gin Tasting Event... 

But Sasha and I did not participate, because eww, gross, GIN. We went for a walk with little Rosie instead.

Sasha investigated a deer blind in the woods, then decided that the ladder was deficient and came back down.

We walked up an old logging trail through the woods and took in the view at the top.

On the way back, the sun was low in the sky. The stream was fresh and gurgly and overflowing its banks with melted snow.

The gin-drinkers inside were in good spirits.

Ha ha.

The next day we left and returned home to:

annoying stuff, like bills and teacher work

sad stuff, like the death of my dear friend E's mother in the end stages of Alzheimers

(E is referred to, jokingly, as my work-husband. 'Cuz I luvz her so much. And she's my hero for lots of different reasons, not the least of which is that she took care of her mother in her parents' home right to the very end)

freak-out stuff, like bedbugs in my parents' assisted living apartment. They have been moved temporarily to a new apartment during the fumigation/heat treatment process. My mother is energized by the activity and agitation.

My siblings and me? Not so much.

Yes, I know it could all be much worse, and I am very very grateful that I have a job, not to mention A WORK-HUSBAND.

Not to mention A REAL HUSBAND who spent the evening transporting bedbug-infested, plastic-encased furniture from one place to another.

But, really.

Bedbugs?

Could we get a break here?

I'll be at home self-medicating with wine and chocolate if you need me.

Always wear sensible shoes in case you have to escape from a bank robber.

I spied this Red-Tailed Hawk as I was driving home yesterday. Not a great picture, but it was getting dark AND I don't have a sweet little 10x zoom like FC does.

My dad is back home, and things are more or less normal. I know I sounded awfully dejected in my last post (because I was awfully dejected), but I'm fine now.

YAY EVERYTHING'S FINE LALALALALALA.

I loved all of your comments, as always. Vicki pointed out that this is how they have probably always operated with each other (Mom being snappish to Dad), and that it bothers me much more than it bothers him. The funny thing is, I had independently arrived at that conclusion while talking on the phone to one of my sisters. It was a revelation of sorts to me.  It's not up to me to defend him. Some of you who know me in real life or who have been reading this blog for a long time know that I have a little teeny tiny problem with wanting to fix things.  And the things I want to fix are usually the kinds of things that I have absolutely no control over.

So from now on I will be perfectly well-balanced, calm, and emotionally stable.

YAY I FIXED MYSELF.

On Saturday, we had a sibling summit here at my house. My brother and both my sisters came over and we sat around eating for awhile. Important decisions cannot be made on empty stomachs. Then I made them watch an awesome video on Youtube. Meanwhile, my sister's dog went upstairs and took a gigantic crap on the floor right outside my bedroom.  Pushkin (my cat) was totally outraged. Next, my other sister left the room for awhile and the rest of us voted unanimously to have Mom and Dad move in with her.

YAY PROBLEM SOLVED.

Kidding. Except about the gigantic crap and the awesome video on Youtube.

Which I present to you now.

Background:  The day my father was admitted to the hospital, I sat around in the ER for awhile flipping through magazines and chatting with my Dad. The television was on, and I idly glanced up at a "LIVE BREAKING NEWS" alert to see a bank robbery/hostage situation unfolding. I was all, "Damn, looky there, wow, that sucks, OH MY GOD THAT'S THE BANK RIGHT NEXT TO MY STARBUCKS AROUND THE CORNER FROM MY SCHOOL!"

(Yes, I have my own Starbucks.)

You guys know how much I love the excitement of a Police Type Situation. This one ended tragically for the bank robber, and I am truly sorry for his family, but, well, he was holding a gun to a woman's head and law enforcement frowns on that.  I am amazed that the police didn't accidentally shoot each other (you'll understand why when you watch the video).  Most of all, I am enthralled by the female hostage, who thinks quickly and wastes no time when she sees her opportunity.

Here you go.  You'll see a red cloud from the dye pack at about 45 secs. Watch carefully for the slipping on the ice at 1 minute, then see that hostage take off like an Olympic sprinter!

Bank Robber Takes Hostage, Slips and Falls on Ice, then Shot and Killed by Police: MyFoxDC.com