blaugra

Parental Guidance Suggested

My mom asked me to help with some pre-moving moving activities this weekend. Like, pack up and drive some boxes of bric-a-brac and whatnots to the new place. 

Me:  What time do you want me there on Saturday?

Mom:  No, not Saturday. Your brother is helping on Saturday. Come on Sunday.

Me: *sigh*  Why not Saturday? We can get more done all together.

Mom:  Nope. That's too many people to manage.

Me:  That's two of us - one, two....

Mom: No. Sunday. What time is good for you?

Me:  Anytime.  8:00?  9:00?

Mom:  Oh, that's too early for you on a Sunday morning.  How about 10:30?

Me:  I can do anytime, ma.  How about earlier?

Mom:  OK.  Let's say 10:00.  Between 10:00 and 10:30. 

Fine.  Set alarm for a leisurely wake-up time.

Sunday morning arrives.  The phone rings at 8:45 am. 

D. says, "It's gotta be your mother, asking you to come over earlier." 

Mom:  You can come over whenever you want.  Your father is ready for you. You don't have to wait until 10.

Me:  OK, I'm not quite together, but, I'll get over there when I can...

Mom:  If you stop for coffee, could you bring me some?

Me:  Yes...

In the car at 9:40 am, my phone rings.

Mom:  WHERE ARE YOU?!?!

Me: I'm picking up the coffee now. What?!

News from the dumping ground

I just got a phone call that my parents have achieved final settlement on their house.

Please join me in saying WHEW. 

My dad is celebrating with a glass of Jack. My mom is celebrating by...thinking about more stuff she wants to give me, in order to clean out the old house. I really can't take it anymore.

When the buying people walked through the house, my dad thought the professionals involved weren't doing a great job at closing the deal. So, he said, "I dazzled and baffled them with too much information. I gave them detail overload and talked them into everything. They had no questions or comments."

My response:  "Wow, Dad, I can't picture THAT at ALL."

Him: "Really?"

You make my dreams

It's so weird what oozes out of the foundation of your parents' house when they move after 30 years. All the detritus they've gathered through time, all these things that once had meaning but now are total headscratchers.

These are some of the items that I've either wanted to absorb into my own house or was guilted into carrying out.  Keep in mind that almost each and every one of them was also accompanied by a phone call from mom saying, "I found.... would you come over and look at it, maybe you want it?  And this is just from the past week.  The cleanout has been going on for months.

• Needlepointed pillow with floral design of poppies on it. "It's a NICE pillow. Grandma made it.  She did some NICE work on this...you'd be crazy not to want it..."  fine.  I like poppies.  Poppies...
• Slab of marble that my mom found in her father's garage and had buffed and polished, intending to make it into a table.  Um, yes please!  When am I going to have it made into a table top?  Who knows?!
• Children's books.  "These were yours."  "I thought you already gave me all my kids' books?"  "No, I was hanging on to these..."  "Why?"  "I DON'T KNOW JUST TAKE THEM!"  OK.  "But you can't take these in this pile because they're really good quality illustrated children's books. I just love them.  I don't know what I'm going to do."   "Ma, just take them with you."   "Yeah, I guess."
• Little silver bowl that we think belonged to my great grandmother.  "Do you want this thing?  I think it's silver..."  "Um YES it's silver and yes I'll take it."   The other offerings included random silver-plated pieces, wooden fruit bowls, a pressed-glass cordial set, more demi-tasse spoons that I would ever need, a few dozen Christmas gift boxes, and so much more.  "Sell them, sell them, donate them."  Whenever I'd refuse a hand-me-down I'd get the, "You don't WANT that? It's so cute/useful/nice/old?"  "No Mom, I CAN'T."

• Bright green Tupperware bowl.  "It's a reallly nice bowl"  "then why don't you keep it?"  "BECAUSE WE HAVE TOO MUCH STUFF I CAN'T KEEP EVERYTHING!"  Ok, fine.

• Sheet music.   Holy sheet!

The piano that I played for 15 years is staying attached to the house. I've already experienced the guilt trip through time.

"Remember when we first got it?  In case you didn't, here's the original brochure from 1974!" 

"Remember when a piano was really well made?  Now these are all made in Korea and they're nowhere near as nice."  

"I can't believe you didn't want this piano. I sure hope the new owners play it."    "What do you care, mom?" I asked. "Nobody has played this piano in twenty years."

"Go through the sheet music in the bench, see if you want anything." 

All the memories of my various piano teachers, good and bad, came back.  The nice old lady to whose house I'd run a mile each week after elementary school, the scary lesbian in her dark little living room who insisted I'd be an excellent concert pianist and made me play lots of Mussorgsky, and the weirdo guy who pounded Beethoven into my head and insisted I perform in recitals, which I hated.  Hmm. I wonder why I didn't continue playing the piano.

There were some other gems in the bench, including the requisite "Stairway to Heaven," the classic from what must have been my synthesizer years "Too Shy" by Kajagoogoo, and this treasure:

Actually, a really good song.  I think Oates should have kept his moustache.

Movin' Out

My parents bought a house. They are moving from the home where I grew up.  That house has become my Suburban Horrorshow. 

I listen to each of my parents spill their guts to me about the other, separately.  "Your mother really wants to move."  "Your father is really pushing me to move."  "Your mother insisted we buy a new house."  "Your father needs a low-maintenance property."  They're both doing it for each other.  Is it like Gift of the Magi, though?  No, not really.  More like the blame game.

Along with deciding what to do with the piano, I'm also in on the decisions of what to do with the towels in the poolhouse.  Which towels do I want?  You'd better pick out the towels you want now.  And:

Mom:  What about these gardening books? 

Me:   Ummm.... I don't know.

Mom:  Well, if you don't want them, I'll give them to a friend.  I want you to have first dibs. I don't want you just giving them away, though.

Me:  Then give them to your friend.

Mom:  What?!  Why? They're really nice!

Me:  Yeah, but, I don't need any more gardening books. 

Mom:  *sigh* OK.

Dad:  What's this stack of books doing here?

Mom:  I asked HER if she wanted them, and she said 'no.'

Me:  Hi, I'm standing right here.

Mom: How about the bocce set? 

Don't read this if you are a mom and/or sentimental about motherhood and especially if you are my mother.

I told you not to read this!

I have to bitch about Mother's Day. 

In my mind, now, every day is a day to be nice to mommies.  My mom has had one of the toughest jobs on earth.  I give her gifts spontaneously when I feel like it.  We hang out.  We don't always see eye-to-eye but I think we appreciate each other. 

And I hate - HATE - the Mother's Day pressure and guilt. 

Fully understanding that moms love the gifts from kids and the words of appreciation and being told by tollbooth workers on the highways (because they still don't have EZ Pass) to have a lovely mother's day.  I get that.  But when did Mother's Day become a major holiday?  If I have to choose between spending time with my parents on Easter or Christmas or Mother's Day - it has to be Mother's Day.  And it's really hard when a couple has two senior citizen mothers to please. 

in the raw

for those of you who know me, don't freak, there's nothing major going on here, this is just something I needed to get out and say and ask.

I know people do it every day, but I just can't imagine living without my parents. 

Does life totally change after a parent dies?  I would think that it would.  How could it not?  The very thought of my dad dying causes an ache in my lungs.  Or maybe behind my lungs.  Is that my heart under there? 

The other day, when dad and I saw each other before he went to a doctor's appointment, we grabbed each other's hands and didn't let go.  His hands feel young.  He squeezed mine tightly the way he did when he was in the hospital.  Please don't get awful news from the doctor, I hoped.

Gawd, this is like a Lifetime movie. 

Aargh, I'm so cynical!

So it wasn't awful news - yay!-  but, there is the inevitable, looming closer, in front of my face. 

I prayed.  Yes, I do pray.  Maybe not at an altar or with angelic voices above. 

I didn't pray for a miracle of healing, I didn't pray for absence of pain, because none of that will happen.  Life is messy and painful, that's the way it was meant to be. 

I prayed for grace, humor and strength, for my dad and me and the rest of my family.  Because whatever the future brings anyway, no matter what, those would be gooood things to have in abundance. 

I told God that my dad at some point will be applying for the job of angel and that I wanted to provide a reference for that position, if he needs me to put in a good word.

My dad and I laughed, if he has to go to Cleveland for a consult at some point, at least he could visit the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.  Then dad launched into a lecture about the architecture of the hall of fame and how much there was going on in Cleveland to see and do and the great lakes....  And he said as long as there's some Jack Daniels and laughter along the way, the road of life will still be fun.  Then he changed the subject to me and my lameass cold and wanted to make sure I was eating enough chicken soup.

I'm really not being dismal and depressed.  I actually feel better now.  Sorry if I bummed you out. But if you've dealt with this please shout back.

Mmmmm peanut butter.

This is ridiculous.  Front page news story:

You know you're in Pennsylvania when the curious news of the day is a big hungry groundhog getting his head stuck in a jar of peanut butter.  I guarantee you when I go to the store later that people will be talking about it, so why not me?

You may be tempted to say, "Awwww...poor little guy." 

No.  The peanut butter is Skippy which is the best kind there is, so do not feel sorry for him.  And

CasiNOOOOOOO!

Ooops, I did it again.  I went to the casino (slots parlor) and lost more money.  I offered to take my mom and her gal pal Glenda Delightus to their favorite spot in the Poconos.  One reason was I wanted to spend time with my mom when she was actually happy and she's the most happy when she's at the casino. 

This is the two of them, dressed identically, scurrying across the floor. It was hard for me to keep up because I get so distracted by the noise:

The other reason I wanted to go was I thought that I could easily "win back" the money I lost last time.  But that is not how casinos work and I know that and I burned through my playing money in 90 minutes (you can easily extend your dollars by playing penny slots and by making friends at the machines) and then we met for lunch.

I was glum while eating a gigantic $9 grilled cheese sandwich.  That doesn't usually happen, grilled cheese sandwiches are total happy food, especially with tomatoes and bacon on them.  Mmmmm bacon. 

My mom said, "What's the matter with you?  How much did you lose? Was it more than $100?" 

I slammed my Coke glass on the table.  "More than $100?! Are you HIGH?  Of course it's not more than $100. I would freak out if I lost that much!"

She said, quietly, "That's nothing.  It's common to lose about $150 here. Don't be so hard on yourself."  About losing money, she says, "Don't be so hard on yourself." but it's OK to be hard on myself for having a messy house.  I don't get it.

"What?!  I can't spend that much.  As it is I've spent the same amount of money as a ticket to the opera, and this is entertainment waaaaay at the other end of the scale - even though it's almost as grand."

I mean, look at this. This is part of the entrance tableau as you climb the escalator to "paradise":

This seasonal display is very Fantasia. THE MOVIE not the American Idol winner.  I like the giant butterflies.  This is where I go to calm down after losing money.  After I lose I won't let myself spend money on a drop-in spa treatment.  I deny myself as a form of self-flagellation.

But just like going to the Metropolitan Opera, I dress up and wear something sparkly while I work the floor.  

And it brings out my inner Vegas.

Check out my new freakin' cool boots. 

Mom looked me up and down and said, "Oooh look at those boots - doesn't Elton John wear those?  Or Boy George?"

So apparently I'm dressed like my mom thinks a flamboyant aging gay male entertainer dresses.

I told mom that I know what it takes to earn $150 and there was no way I was going to dump $150 into a bunch of machines and go home with nothing. 

But both she and Glenda Delightus (doesn't that sound like a disease?) don't really keep close track.  They get all kinds of comp play, then they don't remember exactly how much of their own money they play, only what they won, so they don't know what they net.  

Well, this was my big payday.

Play in paradise, my ass.

So I walked around the casino floor A LOT and watched people stimulating our state's economy. 

It was all fun and games until I encountered the lines at the ATM machines.

I was nosy and looked at a screen that a white-trash lookin' broad was staring at.  She had 4 people behind her waiting for her to withdraw her money.  The screen said, "Insufficient Funds" and she was rummaging through her handbag with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.  

Yuck.  I felt sick.

I really do love them and I fully realize that I will become even more like them someday if I'm lucky.

My parents called from Florida to tell me that they had made an unscheduled one-night stop somewhere near Jacksonville.  This wasn't on the detailed hand-written-on-yellow-paper itinerary my dad had given me so they thought I should know where they would be for the next 12 hours.

Well, the actual reason was- the night before, I was worried about them traveling in the ice so I had called the Holiday Inn Express ("They're quite nice!") somewhere down south to see that they got in safely, but they hadn't checked in yet which I thought was unusual since it was 9:00 PM and of course neither of them had their cell phones on.  So I told the front desk guy that I would call back later.  Then, when they checked in the front desk guy (Jonathan) told my parents that a woman had called but didn't leave a message. 

I never learn.  This sent them over the edge. 

When I called back an hour later, Jonathan said, "Oh, yes, they checked in, and....I- I- I- told them someone called, ma'am, but I didn't have a ...message...so...."  OH GREAT.  I'm just imagining the near freak-out that poor Jonathan must have witnessed. 

"Would you like me to connect you to their room?"  Well duh.  Maybe Jonathan's not the brightest bulb in the garden.   "Yes, please. Thank you so much."    "You're welcome, ma'am."  Oh, that southern hospitality always takes me by surprise. I'm getting used to being called "ma'am"- I don't like it, but I can live with it - but saying "you're welcome"-  that's just so...pleasant.

My mom answers the room phone on half a ring with an elevated "HELL-OOOO?"  

"Hi mom, I just -" 

"WHAT'S WRONG?!" 

"Nothing's wrong, I just wanted to..."

"Well you scared us half to death, now your father can't get to sleep, you didn't leave a message, what's going on?"

"I, um, just wanted to make sure you got there OK because of all the ice and related accidents.  That's all."

Mom's voice turns into a soothing grandmotherly drawl, "Oh yes, dearie, the drive was fine, a few accidents but none involving us, okayyyy?"

"That's good.  Here's a question for you.  WHY DON'T YOU KEEP YOUR CELL PHONES ON?!"

Mom's response:  "Well, we had them on in the car for half an hour!"

Half an hour?  Care to tell me when that window is going to be?  Or am I just supposed to guess?   Other people their age have mastered the iPhone so I don't know why a basic cell phone with a charger is posing such a challenge.

"We only turn the phones on when we need them."  Aaaagh, we will be having this fruitless argument about telecommunications forever.

So that's why mom called last night, just in case I needed to get in touch with them because the 30-minute cell-phone-on window had closed.

PLUS she had a funny story that she said was the other reason they wanted to call right away.  The front desk clerk, John, at their hotel in Florida is from a town near our homes in PA.  "He went to West Bupkus High School!  Isn't that funny!"  and then they went to dinner at a place John recommended and "the waiter's name was ALSO JOHN and he was ALSO from Pennsylvania!  He went to NORTH Bupkus high school!  We told John the waiter about John at the hotel and told them they should be friends."

That's my parents, making the world a smaller place.

still running high

Just after the inaugural swearing-in yesterday, I called my parents.  My dad answered.  He was crying.

"I am so overwhelmed with emotion, I can't even talk about it now."  Then he proceeded to talk about it.

Cleared his throat and attempted to pull himself together.  But I didn't quite get a grasp on what he was saying.  It was about the speeches and the momentousness and feeling overcome and I rarely see my dad get choked up.  Wait, this wasn't even choked up.  This was tears flowing.

I don't know too many people who were unmoved by witnessing the event, including me.  Well, the republican I mentioned below was unmoved, even though it's one of those "Where were you when..." moments of your life.  

When your parent cries, it's one of the most unnerving things. I hope he'll tell me why.

For me, it was after Obama's address, the words of Elizabeth Alexander that brought it all together in a quiet moment of electricity.  It was a Walt Whitman moment.

I'm going to rip out the words that I loved, perhaps this is cruel to the writer but I felt it was a little choppy anyway.

"Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

"What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

"In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun."

If you were emotionally high, verklempt, tell me why.