an afternoon with the cuzzes

"Sometimes Grandpa can be fun," I tell the pouting five-year-old on the couch. I am off to a cookie exchange in my mother's home town and this young princess would rather have me stay with her. "Have him roll you on his exercise ball." For some reason this is their activity of choice, jeesh.

Rats, it's Christmas and that means parties with people making small talk and asking dumb questions. I pick and choose what I attend because there is not enough of my entertaining self to go around and some of you will just have to suffer the absence of me.

Sitting in the back of my aunt Celine's car I consider unwrapping one of the hard candies on the floor, I'm hungry. The invitation promised food and I am picturing spinach quiche, fresh fruit salad, raspberry scones and champagne punch. I can wait.

My 93 year-old aunt Leona, all 4'3" of her is sitting next to me. She is wearing black leggings and knee-high boots. She is also sporting a white turtle-neck sweater with black leather vest and a Harley-Davidson cap. Her tiny fingernails are painted black with white stripes, a skunk manicure. She hangs out at several Harley bars and the propreiters always keep beer mugs on ice for her.

We are at my aunt Rita's country home spilling over with Santas and snowmen decorations and I am hearing a story about Dagwood's Pub, the town's waterhole and the ladies are talking about Dagwood, the owner. "Is that his real name?" I ask. Oh no, they shake their heads, but he is such a dagwood, they say. Huh? And then Rita is telling me about a pub crawl they have at four other neighborhood bars and everyone gets a playing card at each place. The fifth card is supplied at Dagwood's and the best poker hand wins. And what's the prize, I ask. Oh usually cash, or guns, they all nod their heads.

I was deemed unworthy to wear a Christmas headband.

Alas, there is no champagne punch. Instead everyone's drinking coffee, pot after pot. Since I do not I am offered milk. Who drinks milk at a party? I am finally handed a warm glass of Diet Rite. "I never chill my pop," says Rita, "it makes me cold when I drink it."

I kissed my spinach quiche a sad good-by when I saw the giant margarine tubs filled with grapes on the tables and Rita had made cinnamon rolls. Two of her daughters made muffins and the youngest brought a crock pot of bacon. "Thanks for the bacon, " I tell her. I made three trips to that crock, I needed protein. "And I like your shirt." It pictured the manger scene with a balloon above saying, "It's a girl!"

I love my mother's sisters. They are honest and warm, generous and hard-working. Debbie processed 500 pounds of tomatoes this fall and I always feel lazy next to these women. Aunt Helen, all of 96, snaps at me when I admire her red coat. "You can't have it!" she yells. After a minute of thought she changes her tune, "if you buy me a new one I'll give it to you."

.
 

at work

I'm sitting in the Alzheimer's day room, a little space created at the end of a long hallway, far from the scrutiny of the casual visitor, someone who might react stongly to an elderly person animatedly talking to her shoes.  There are no blaring TVs here, no hip hop belching from radios, noise is deadly to the demented. Who needs this senseless cacophony, my favorite new word.

I am talking to Evelyn, a small intense woman obsessed with her body fluids and she tells me her eyes are weeping.  I hand her a napkin and offer a drink of cranberry juice but she says no, I don't want to pee in the bed, well who does.

 

And then there's Adrienne, a long lean horsey woman and her body never looks comfortable in her too small wheelchair. She lived in a high rise in New York with her impeccably dressed husband. They were missionaries in Japan and occasionally she will lapse into that Asian language but more frequently she stares past me into a corner of the ceiling and shrieks. She shakes all over and her eyes lock on this space and I am reminded of the movie The Grudge. The film depicts an elderly woman who cannot speak and she keeps seeing this ghoul hunched in a ceiling corner and no one else can see it. I look upward with a little shiver and move her and myself to the other side of the room.

 

 

Freida comes bustling in, she's the kindest woman I have ever known and she spends all her time in this little room administering to her children, adults who look in the mirror and ask, who is that old woman? Freida is large and sweaty and carries two paper plates and plops one down in front of me. It is a small yellow square with a circle of grease spreading beneath it and for some reason that fascinates me. It has orange and pink specks, the pink I believe is meat. I don't want to eat it but I want to be polite to Freida because I really like her. After I have consumed half Freida says, "Helen brought this last week and I think it's okay to eat."

"I'm feeling seepage from my anus," Evelyn announces and I smile and pat her hand and thank god I don't have to check that one out.



 

thankful

I am thankful my father continues to complain heatedly and often about the leaves in the gutters, the creeping charley in his lawn,  the last restaurant meal he ate.  A complaining German is a healthy German.

I am thankful my two sons are in love.

I am thankful my extrovert husband has finally stopped telling people at parties, "Dawn had a similar experience.  Dawn, would you like to tell us?" And he only grumbles a little when I write about him on this blog.

I am thankful my bedroom window faces east. I hang crystals in that window and wake to rainbow hues.

I am thankful for my daughter and her logic and clear headedness. She should be president.

I am thankful for my family full of hermits who understand our get-togethers need not be frequent.

I am grateful for my mother's handwritten instructions on my stuffing recipe card.

I am grateful for my few good friends who don't mind much when I don't call them back right away.

I am grateful for the ancient oak tree outside my window.  I know Native Americans camped beneath its boughs.

I am thankful for my swimming routine. It keeps me sane and allows me to be less impatient with other human beings.

And my grandchildren. Lord, they're all I need. Let the rest of the world withdraw, I am content.


 

39 in a 25 zone

I hear the husband one level down in our townhouse talking to the phone. "Here," he says, "I'll let you talk to her."

Probably the worst thing he could utter. Usually he doesn't do this. Usually he will tell them I am unavailable, take a message and I don't have to get involved. He knows I hate phones and the people who use them. He knows this but he's still mad at me from the night before.

It started out innocently as do all marital squabbles.  I was sitting next to the five-year-old granddaughter in the back of my 2003 Chevy Impala because we were going to play Barbies while Grandpa drove us to the pizza place. Next thing I know blinding red and blue lights are pulsating through the rear window and the big guy is frantically digging through the glove compartment for the insurance card. The flashlight is shining directly on his face as Officer Jill explains she clocked him doing 39 in a 25 zone. I am trying to calm the child down, she is convinced this police person is going to shoot Grandpa, the woman does sound fierce and her gun is so big.

Back on the road Dave is hanging his head and moaning, "all my fault, all my fault, I wasn't paying attention," and after the twenty-fifth recital of this information I say this. "Yes, you seem to have a problem paying attention which is how the motor oil ended up in my radiator instead of the anti-freeze last week."  Well, you would think I just okayed the terrorist bombing of every preschool in our city, the tirade that came from his lips. I, of course, had to keep up with the pace and soon the child is laughing and yelling, "stop saying those dirty words, Grandma!" "Well, he's an asshole," I say.

I am always amazed when my kids allow me to watch their kids unsupervised.  There have been a few episodes over the years, not many but enough to make my children wary. It's probably best I not be allowed around anyone of youth or impressionability when I'm angry or driving, often the same situation. "Pick a lane, you you person you!" is so ineffective.

So this is how I find myself talking on the phone to Velma, the ancient secretary of our local hiking club. Two years ago I went on one of their hikes to please my father and now she calls me every few months to encourage me to rejoin the fold, come to our chili dinner, the potluck at the park, the duck dinner at the Chinese place.
 I probably just need to be nicer to my husband but that sounds like so much work.

two hours

Abbie is in my inbox again and surprise, she wants me to work her weekend, four whole days so she can attend a wedding that suddenly sprung up. Abbie gets invited to a lot of weddings "suddenly" and she always needs four days off.  What kind of weddings are you attending, Indian perhaps? Don't they have three days of feasting and ceremonies with henna tattooing and lamb sacrifices? I can barely get through two hours of an American wedding reception and I'm looking longingly at the door almost panting with my desire to depart.

My own family is filled with misfits and we get together three holidays a year, my one sociable brother might throw in an extra picnic, drat, otherwise we stay at home and do social media like all the other nice introverts. We maintain this Spartan schedule just so we can tell people at work that yes, we had somewhere to go on Thanksgiving, somebody cooked us a turkey and we brought orange jello. My husband's family rents gymnasiums for holidays as they have grown huge and out-of-control.  I would think with their numbers being so large and daunting this would be a signal to them to cut back, have smaller more intimate gatherings but no one listens to me. I'm not even sure they like me, eh.

My husband knows two hours is my limit.

 Fifteen minutes to scope out the place and find where to put the gift card and where the john is, look for a table on the outskirts near an exit, somewhere with inadequate lighting.  Thirty minutes playing with the mints and cashews, folding and refolding the napkin, people find us, we beg off  joining them at their tables, husband complies, he knows.
 Twenty minutes standing in the buffet line, my back towards the tables of guests, taking a particular interest in the green bean casserole and how the salad dressings are lined up, look at those butter squares, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the fat chick to stop spooning gravy on everything, I need to sit down, I'm on display.
Fifteen minutes eating, mouth full, don't need to speak.
Thank god, someone has a microphone, all heads swivel towards the front, there are toasts, a  DJ's attempts at jokes, garters and drunken groomsmen, fifty minutes pass, I'm sitting in the dark, occasionally applauding, I can do this.

I'm sweating, time to go. But he needs to say good-by to people, why? If you're not there, they'll know you're gone. I'll be out in the car and the night air hits me like an old friend.

stalkers and pervs

I am standing in line at the Legion hall and the smell of burned hash browns surrounds me. We are buying tickets for yet another veterans' breakfast and up ahead I see my cousin and the man she had an affair with during her rocky marriage. This woman has a college degree and yet she allows herself to be seen in public with a guy who sports a mullet. That particular side of my family is full of shady types and they all married stalkers and pervs. Thank god my mother's side boasted honest farmers and gas station owners or I would never have achieved any kind of social acceptability.

I have nothing to do but stand and stare as they have run out of sausages and nobody's budging until they get some. This is Iowa and we take our pig meat seriously. There's an open bar and $3.00 bloody marys, garsh I wish I liked tomato juice but I get myself a can of diet Coke, the next best thing to booze. There is an enormous man on the bar stool and there's something about him that spells familiar. And then I see them. Zebra-colored snakeskin boots peeking out from his jeans. Can it be Terry?, the guy I lived with before I met the present husband.

Terry was from North Dakota just yards from the Canadian border where it is so cold the men never turn off the ignition in their trucks. Was he a cowboy, yes he was and no citizen in my county would ever be caught in those ugly striped boots.

He lived with me for several years and then I kicked him out, what a jerk but we still dated because I was 43 and convinced no other man would look at me. And then there's that popular theory that desperate women hold onto that starts out, "He'll change, I'll just give it more time." When he stopped showing up for major holidays I thought this calls for some investigation and sure enough, I saw him pushing a shopping cart at our local Sam's and nudging up against a younger woman.

And here they are sloshing down alcohol at nine in the morning and part of me, a very large part wants to go up to him and say, "Terry? Terry, is that you? I didn't recognize you. You got so fat! Oh, and is this your wife? Is she the one you were cheating with when you were dating me?" And I have actually played this conversation in my head many times over the years and I might just make it a reality some day. Why not, the schmuck has it coming. I just can't figure out how to finish the conversation, I need a real zinger to wrap it up.

Curses, this place is teeming with ill-reputed louses. I was never one of those people who remained friends with my exes. I cross the street when I see them coming. After all, they know too many of my secrets.

I'm calling the husband to remind him not to call me as I will be in a meeting. I want my phone on because there is an ill grandson laying on my couch and I need to be available.

I'm not a good listener. I believe this is in part because I find most conversation trivial and uninteresting. I abhor small talk and I always get right to the point when I'm on the phone. I really don't need to know how you are nor do I need to divulge similar information about myself to you.

I also distract easily. My attention level rivals that of a three-old and this makes classroom situations a chore. I always sit in the front so I can focus better by observing the speaker's neck fat or shoes. Sr. Bonita, the administrator of my place of employment, will do the honors. She doesn't like me and I do not like her. She administrates like a bad high school principal and oh wait! She was a bad high school principal in her younger days. I've seen her take down some of her finest employees, make them look cheap and unprinicpaled and always in front of other workers. She has a love of negativity and can sniff it out in any situation and person and display it for all to see.

The topic of the lecture is stewardship and I would rather hear a speech on creamed corn. It's just another ploy for the frugal Franciscans to remind us not to waste their money. We can't even throw a snippet of paper away. It needs to be reused like the empty candy boxes that become drawer dividers or CDs that can be art projects. I am watching a tiny drop of spittle form on Sister's lower lip when my phone rings. Her eyes lock on mine like a crocodile discovering a bunny that has hopped too close. I fear I may wet my pants and I jump up and mumble "sick grandchild at home."

A couple of years ago I was asked to write our annual Christmas play and it swelled my head and I produced a 97-page script later scaled down to 14 per my boss's request. It was full of talking candy canes and dancing elves and I admit, it was heavy on the secular stuff but truly that is the spirt of Christmas, don't lie to yourselves. Other plays in years past dwelled heavily on manger scenes and angels we have heard on high so I let the bell choir sing "Silent Night," the only song they knew unless you count the chorus from "I'm Just Wild About Harry." Sister Bonita always sent the play author a hand-written thank you note and I saw her leave my performance after only ten minutes and I never got a note.

And oh, it's the husband on the phone, the guy who never checks his voice mail, just the call history. "Did you call? What do you want?"
Your head on a platter.