Want some?

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion . . . . I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.”  –Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

I offer up the above quotation to defend my irreverent portrayal of the previous weeks posts. Sometimes, we have to laugh about things to keep from crying about them, but that doesn’t means we don’t understand or respect the gravity of the situation. If the previous statement doesn’t expose my guilty conscious, then nothing will.

With all these forlorn tales about aging, I thought I should offer up a more light-hearted glimpse of life with your soul mate. When Missus Chica was a sophomore in college, she periodically stayed with an aunt to reduce commuting time when she had early classes. Other family members also had a key to the aunt’s house and would periodically show up for a potty break or a snack from the fridge, or a more comfortable place to sit until they got their second wind.

One afternoon Missus Chica was hanging out at the aunt’s house in between classes when her grandparents stopped for a visit. Her grandparents are known affectionately as Big Mama and Big Daddy. Now Big Daddy was a big man and lived up to his name at six foot four and two-hundred and forty pounds. Big Mama, on the other hand, was a scrawny little woman that weighing less than a hundred and five pounds, soaking wet. Though Big Mama lacked the physical presence to justify her name, she made up for it in personality.

Big Mama and Big Daddy had been married for almost sixty years, and they shared characteristics that most soul mates do. They saw to one another’s needs, they read one another’s thoughts and completely adored each other. Missus Chica couldn’t recall either one of them exchanging a cross word in front of the grandchildren. Ever. They typified the well-mannered decorum that most of their generation exemplified. They presented themselves as teetotaler, love thy neighbor, honor thy father and mother, speak ill of no man, kind of people. As you can imagine, the expended lots effort washing Missus Chica’s mouth out with soap….and to no avail at that.

Missus Chica put forth every effort to be a good hostess during their brief visit. She helped her grandfather into the house and found him a comfortable chair. She followed Big Mama into the kitchen to engage in a little small talk and prepare refreshments.

“Big Mama, would you and Big Daddy care for something to drink?”

“Yeah, I believe I would like a diet soda.” Big Mama rolls her eyes. “Let me see what he would like.”

Next she yells in the direction of the living room, “Honey, would you like something to drink.” Then she pauses and mumbles under breath, “he’s going to want whatever I’m having..”

A voice calls out from the living room, “I don’t really want much.” He pauses and then continues, “I’ll just share yours. What are you having?”

Big Mama rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and sighs deeply. Next, she mumbles, “I’m having cat shit. Do you want some of that?”

Parents Just Don’t Understand….

Last Tuesday, Mister Hombre drove Ole One Eye and Mrs. One Eye to their new home at the assisted living facility (ALF). At the suggestion of experienced eldercare specialists, Mister Hombre and Missus Chica have not called or visited them yet. For a lot of people this is simply unimaginable, cold, and neglectful. And for the record, it hasn’t been an easy decision for Mister Hombre and Missus Chica to abide by. Mister Hombre has called every day (usually more than once) to check on the status of the One Eyes, visitors (friends, extended family and congregationalists) have been since they arrived.

They want the One Eyes to have an opportunity to adjust to living in an ALF without suffering the setbacks that communicating with family (in this case family blamed for the incarceration) can cause. There isn’t a handbook that tells you best way to go about acclimating seniors to life-changes like this one, because there is no best way. Seniors are individuals, each one as unique as a snowflake. There are those who accept aging with grace, dignity and acceptance. And then there are the rest of us, fighting, clawing, kicking and screaming every step of the way. The specialists Mister Hombre contacted, recommend family not visit the seniors at the ALF facility for one week to two months. That leaves more than enough latitude for the family to fail miserably. If the seniors are adjusting gradually to the idea of residence, you don’t want to give them an opportunity to explode while the anger is fresh. But you don’t want so much time to pass that they feel as if they have been abandoned.

Regardless of your good intentions and your carefully deliberated decision, they will blame you and hold you accountable for every single wrinkly or nearly-dead who is suffering the same fate that they are. One of Missus Chicca’s friends said the staff at her mother’s ALF, requested the family NOT return or call for a few weeks, because the mother would be sooo nasty during the visit and and gave the staff hell for days afterward. One step forward…half a mile back.

The decision to place the One Eyes in an ALF was not an impulsive decision that was taken lightly. After Ole One Eye’s surgery, it became obvious to the family that Ole One Eye and Mrs. One Eye had been working overtime not quite taking care of each other. If you combined the strengths of both, you would barely have enough attributes to produce one self-sufficient independent human being. The family physician (he’s supervised their health for over forty years and knows them well) recommended that both the One Eyes be placed in assisted living. He expressly requested twenty-four hour supervision for both of them. He strictly opposed them remaining in their home with contract care for two reasons: (1)It is financially impractical and (2) There individual needs are too great for them to adequately care for one another.

Missus Chica and Mister Hombre would definitely prefer that the One Eyes remain in their home on their terms. Unfortunately, that’s no longer an alternative, because their health needs trump their desire for autonomy. But the good news is no one is really happy and no one is having a really good time……so no one has an advantage.

Mattress Shopping v1.5

The mattress swap meet strategy didn’t sell well to Mister Hombre and his brothers (they could have found themselves in possession of an illegitimate mattress, or maybe even worse…). So they decided to go shopping at the local price club instead. You probably know how these places work. For a nominal yearly membership fee, you shop in a warehouse, buy in bulk, and reap financial savings beyond your wildest dreams. Okay that last item is only partially true. If you want to save big, you have to spend bigger.

One of the ways these shopping clubs provide consumer savings is by cutting down on extras. You know, things like dressing rooms, bags, fancy merchandise displays, and service.

Mister Hombre and his youngest brother took Ole One along so he could give his approval and “bless” the mattress purchase. The mattresses were all leaning upright against one another in steel warehouse shelving units…. which is no way to properly test a mattress for adequate support. So the boys wrangled a box spring to the floor, and then a firm mattress for Ole One Eye to test in the middle of the aisle. Surrounded by flat bed carts stacked with sodas, electronics, motor oil, diapers, and computers, Ole One went about the business of sitting, rolling, shifting, jumping upon and finally approving the mattress. But that’s the least interesting part of the shopping trip.

While at the price club, Ole One Eye spoke with an aquaintance. The man inquired about his health and well being, and Ole One Eye replied that he was recovering from surgery and the Missus was still in the hospital. In closing, Ole One Eye requested that the man pray for him. Mister Hombre said it was as if someone had flipped a switch. The man’s voice shifted from an ordinary, conversational, masculine tone to a weepy, tearful wail and as he made a public production of praying and the laying of hands on Ole One Eye in the mattress department of the price club.This was no personal, private prayer either. This was a prayer that rivaled the energy that radiates like heat in the dog days of summer from a tent revival in a cow pasture. This was a performance. The boys were absolutely stunned. It wasn’t until later that they discovered the hand layer was a local minister.

Mister Hombre said the entire time the man prayed, that quadrant of the store was absolutely vacant except for the four of them. You couldn’t have evacuated the aisle any faster if you had yelled “fire” or “anthrax”. Missus Chica noted that had she been present, they would have opened their eyes to find her m.i.a. She would have been hiding between the Yellow Tail and the Corona by the time they realized she was gone.

Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law…

During the scramble to get the stars, moon, comets, and Uranus to properly align so that Ole One Eye and Mrs. One Eye could be catapulted into assisted living, it was concluded that this would be the best time to replace the mattress on their marital bed. Why not replace their mattress? After all, their entire existence, at least as they had known it prior to the second week in January, had been turned completely upside down, so we might as well replace their mattress as a consolation prize since we’ve moved them from their home of fifty plus years. Instead of “My kids moved me out of my house into assisted living and all I got was this crappy t-shirt” it plays more like “My kids moved me out of my house into assisted living and all I got was a firm mattress and sheets manufactured after Eisenhower was in office.” Sounds much better eh?

As luck would have it, full mattresses are becoming a thing of the past. Furniture stores don’t keep many in stock, so if you need one there is a chance you’ll have to wait a few days for a future shipment.

You can always tell which stores want your business, and which stores have enough business. The ones who really really really really want your business immediately start phoning their sister stores to find out who, if anyone, has the coveted item in stock. Mister Hombre and Missus Chica were shopping at such a store. Mister Hombre was doing his best to choose the best firm mattress possible for his folks, while Missus Chica was there offering moral support and eagerly waiting an opportunity to slip into the grocery store for a loaf of Italian, and a conjugal visit to the pastry display.

While a supervisor was attempting to locate the desired mattress, Missus Chica was discussing how long it take to get it if one of the other stores had the holy grail of mattresses in stock.

“We meet once a week to trade stock between stores in the district.”

“Really, So you just drive a truck full of mattresses to an undisclosed location, perform the secret handshake, and swap bedding accessories.”

“It’s not an undisclosed location. It’s actually an empty lot behind the Shoney’s on the interstate in Ashburn.”

“Is that legal? Swapping mattresses in an empty lot. Does it draw the attention of local law enforcement.”

“It’s all legal, we don’t remove the tags.”

I’m Too Sexy….for the Hospital?

The Missus spent the past two days at home with Dirty Girl and me and it has been bliss. Yes, I said two whole days at home, do you know what that means? That means for two entire days she has not set foot in the hospital. And, for two entire days she has not spoken to, or made visual contact with Ole One Eye or Mrs. Ole One Eye. Two whole days completely absent of snoring, belching, complaining, bitching, flatulence and the occasional hallucination. Not too shabby.

There’s nothing quite like thirteen days of extreme duress to make you reconsider your options in life. For example, if by some sort of freak act of nature, Mister Hombre were to suffer an untimely demise by some sort of extraordinary circumstance like slipping on the tile floor in a grocery store and cracking his skull in half on the imported cheese case or if he were assaulted by a toothless mugger wielding a homemade knife constructed from a rusty beer can and the femur of a rabid dog. Then the Missus knows where to go to score a date after she has adequately mourned and completely recovered ( which is highly unlikely) from the utter devastation such a loss would incur.

I know there are those of you out there more experienced in such matters as consolation and companionship screaming at the top of your choir trained lungs saying,”Get thee to a church”. To you, my response is “Are you nucking futs?”. Houses of the Lord are filled with hordes of people unable to come to terms with their permanent status as sinners, preying (or is it praying) on innocent youthful, grieving widows. I would prefer that the Missus connect with someone who has come to terms with his status as sinner and opted to move forward with his life, than a manipulative self-rightious predator (I’m not anti-spiritual enlightenment, just anti-singles mixer).

I’m sure there are also those who in a moment of intoxicated euphoria might recommend scoping out the clubs and bars in a hypothetical situation like the one we are discussing. To you, I feel compelled to respond that the Missus isn’t the twenty-something spring chicken that she was in her former life, and she is no longer function adequately in a hangover lifestyle.

After having spent eight vigilant days at Mrs. One Eye’s bed, she discovered that the local hospital houses a plethora of dating prospects (I mean quantity not necessarily quality). One evening, the Missus was cruised as she walked through the lobby. It was so obvious that Mister Hombre burst into uncontrollable laughter once they stepped in the elevator.

“Did you see that? She was really checking you out.”

“Yup, I noticed.”

“She gave you quite the eye sweep.Must have thought you were really hot. Does it make you feel kinda weird?”

“I feel sort of flattered. Uninterested (she’s not really my type), but strangely desirable”

The following morning Missus Chica and Mister Hombre and an innocuous uncle had circled their wagons around Mrs. One Eye’s bed for the official stare and share conversations that take place. Mrs. One Eye was occasionally awake, but mostly asleep. Conversation was carefully manipulated around a handful of family-approved safe subjects such as the weather, gas mileage, and hearing aids. Anything to avoid making eye contact with the 800 pound gorilla in the bed room.

The dietician came in to discuss Mrs. One Eye’s appetite. He was concerned that there might be a problem since the last three trays of food had hardly been touched (even the most discriminating diners tend to at least play with their food after a twelve hour hunger strike). So, the dietician begins asking Missus Chica all these questions about Mrs. One Eye’s eating habits. Does she have trouble chewing her food? Would she drink a milkshake with her meals? Would she prefer chocolate or vanilla? Does she have a sweet tooth? Would it be better if her food were chopped up? All of the questions save one, Missus Chica had to default to Mister Hombre for the answers. Yet, each time the dietician asked another question, he directed at Missus Chica. Before she knew it he was standing less than a foot away looking deeply into her eyes discussing the benefits of a high protein milkshakes and explaining how taste buds work. Mister Hombre observed with great amusement as she inched away from him and leaned against the wall trying ever so carefully to reclaim her personal space.

After the dietician exited, Mister Hombre noted, “He was so hitting on you.”

“Really? You think?” (hint of sarcasm)

“Oh yeah. You don’t have on your wedding rings.”

“No, but every time he asked a question, I had to defer to you for the answer.”

“He didn’t know you were married. Besides you’re twenty years younger than anyone else in the room.”

“I noticed that you didn’t intervene and claim your territory”

“That’s because I enjoyed watching you squirm.”

Later in the day, Missus Chica went downstairs for a soda only to attract the unwanted attention of a toothless woman with a bottle black dye job and a trucker hat, who kept calling her “Sweetheart”. You just can’t make this kind of crap up. After that happened, she refused to walk through the hallway unescorted, and swore if anything ever happened to Mister Hombre, she would probably just die alone. But if desperation ever kicked in, she could always cruise the hospital for prospective players…of course her prospects would improve significantly if she decided to bat for the other team.