Yesterday it was 74 degrees outside, a delightfully balmy, need-sunscreen kind of day.
Today -- the high has been 31 and the snow "fall" is horizontal.
I have not been feeling well for days now and I can assure you that it hasn't helped that flowers and trees are budding prettily, only to be crushed under drifts of snow, They are now rethinking the bloom to torture me with at a later date.
I have always considered my voice to sound mannish. I normally like to pretend it's more Demi Moore than Wilford Brimley, but this week I know I'm channeling Abe Vigoda. Not pretty.
A friend wants to call and chat today. Chat. With Abe Vigoda. And he's stubborn, not "listening" when I e-mail him that chatting today is a mistake, as it would inspire visions of transvestites on Lesbian Night. (That just came to me, I don't believe it to be a real entity, so no inquiry e-mails as to where this show may be seen, please.)
I don't like the phone anyway, though it's far better than texting, a much different and more vigorously argued topic than I care to handle today. But speaking into a receiver while trying to keep breathing shallow so as to dissuade coughing fits is not a seemly thing to do today.
Long story short: I feel like crap. Please let me wallow in my self pity.
More soon.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
re-Start a Heart...
I've been telling you a tad about Adventures with Alzheimer's, with a grave nod at its solemnity, and a teeny wink at the humorous side of a terrible affliction. Teeny, Really more of an eye spasm than a wink.
Today, early this morning, I was concerned about Auntie. She was pale, not completely coherent, addled. Truly addled, as in she couldn't keep a thought in her head for mere seconds. Her eyes were blank and lifeless even as she shuffled around using muscle memory to make her morning pot of coffee.
My grandfather called us, offering to take us to breakfast, and true to form, Auntie's ears perked at the sound of free food on a warm plate that she doesn't have to clean. We go to Panera bread and Grandpa and I chat while the aunt peruses the newspaper. I don't notice any abnormalities in her behavior at all. Everything is copacetic again. Yay.
Okay. Return to the casa and we're off to Sam's. We are out of Ritz crackers, the only cracker the discerning palette must have when drinking Wild Turkey 101.
Auntie goes to the blood pressure taker thingie at the back of the store, near the pharmacy. Again, this is muscle memory, as we had been taking her pressure seemingly every five minutes to see if/when medications could be balanced out to give us the quintessential octogenarian blood flow.
The test ends. 95 over 82.
I blinked. I looked in Auntie's eyes. They were glazed again. I immediately and quietly suggested we try that again. She sits ever so peacefully waiting for the new reading while I glance over to the floral department to see if the newest shipment includes calla lillies for the graveside. (I'm kidding! sheesh...I can hear your boos from here.)
97 over 84.
She must have detected a slight tremor of panic in my voice after the first test because, hey, look at that, it's risen! Darn near perfect again...if she were a hummingbird, maybe.
Yada yada yada, get her in the van without passing out, in the van, out to QDoba for the soup she loves, back to the house, break out the plastic microwave plates from the 1980's when microwaves were brand new and completely free to shed their radiation upon opening the door, and ring the doc.
He's a busy dude but the triage nurse will give him the infomration and he'll call back, "just prop her in a corner and splash her with water once in a while to insure she's conscious." (Okay, maybe I loosely paraphrased the nurse.)
Her soup is ready, and it's served up with the appropriate utensils and paper sack of tortilla chips provided by the restaurant To Go Girl. (I'm pretty sure that's an official title.)
Okay. I'm biting into my delicious Naked Burrito with Pork, every bit as delicious and dirty as it sounds, while she loads up her spoon and shovels in the first taste.
Remember that up until this moment she's been comatose, my own personal walking Stepford Aunt, doing everything I tell her without question or sideways glance. Not even a peep. Ah, golden silence.
But once she swallows her first drizzle of soup, with her neck still bent in that awkward leaning-in angle that we use when we eat soup, her eyes pop into our planet, alert and wide and shocked to be awake.
Gigantic drops of liquid immediately form on every one of the four coal black hairs over her lip, and her face instantaneously flushes a shiny cardinal red.
I find myself staring at her, waiting for her first words, as though she were an alien newborn child on the verge of earthly communication.
Her mouth ajar, steam wisps out, and sliding out on the downdraft of tomato fumes, I hear the whispered syllable, "Hot..."
"Are you okay?" I query, a bit freaked out but fascinated at the new events.
"Spicy," she mouths, as she stands. She streaks to the kitchen, an unprecedented action since, again, she's older than dirt and supposedly slightly infirm. She's coughing and sputtering and ahem-ing up a storm while she fills a highball with ice and tap water. The water is nearly gone in the three now-short steps it takes her to return to the table and sit.
She stares at the soup as if it was a volcano into which she was to be tossed.
She grabs a fistful of tortilla chips, crushing them with her spoon until they are minute and submerged. She takes a breath and goes in for the second bite. On and on like this, bite after bite, she hums and coughs and chokes down the soup! She puts an ice cube into the liquid, shoves more chips under the lava and keeps on eating, like a good scout, until she just can't take another bite.
Then comes the flatulence.
"Excuse me a minute," she says as she toots across the floor. Like an old balloon with a leaky spout she makes her way into the bathroom for minutes on end.
When she returns to the table, I have no words.
"I think I'll save the rest for later," she tells me, tucking the plastic bowl into the fridge. I'm thinking it's a terrible idea to keep eating something that does that to a person, but only moments later she is reciting verbatim things I had said to her ten hours before, she's generating new and original ideas, she's telling jokes, she's reliving anecdotes from her childhood, and she has regained the ability to play dominoes. These are all things unheard of only moments before The Soup Incident.
The cure for Alzheimer's: whatever the hell is in QDoba's spice packet. Try it. You'll see...
Today, early this morning, I was concerned about Auntie. She was pale, not completely coherent, addled. Truly addled, as in she couldn't keep a thought in her head for mere seconds. Her eyes were blank and lifeless even as she shuffled around using muscle memory to make her morning pot of coffee.
My grandfather called us, offering to take us to breakfast, and true to form, Auntie's ears perked at the sound of free food on a warm plate that she doesn't have to clean. We go to Panera bread and Grandpa and I chat while the aunt peruses the newspaper. I don't notice any abnormalities in her behavior at all. Everything is copacetic again. Yay.
Okay. Return to the casa and we're off to Sam's. We are out of Ritz crackers, the only cracker the discerning palette must have when drinking Wild Turkey 101.
Auntie goes to the blood pressure taker thingie at the back of the store, near the pharmacy. Again, this is muscle memory, as we had been taking her pressure seemingly every five minutes to see if/when medications could be balanced out to give us the quintessential octogenarian blood flow.
The test ends. 95 over 82.
I blinked. I looked in Auntie's eyes. They were glazed again. I immediately and quietly suggested we try that again. She sits ever so peacefully waiting for the new reading while I glance over to the floral department to see if the newest shipment includes calla lillies for the graveside. (I'm kidding! sheesh...I can hear your boos from here.)
97 over 84.
She must have detected a slight tremor of panic in my voice after the first test because, hey, look at that, it's risen! Darn near perfect again...if she were a hummingbird, maybe.
Yada yada yada, get her in the van without passing out, in the van, out to QDoba for the soup she loves, back to the house, break out the plastic microwave plates from the 1980's when microwaves were brand new and completely free to shed their radiation upon opening the door, and ring the doc.
He's a busy dude but the triage nurse will give him the infomration and he'll call back, "just prop her in a corner and splash her with water once in a while to insure she's conscious." (Okay, maybe I loosely paraphrased the nurse.)
Her soup is ready, and it's served up with the appropriate utensils and paper sack of tortilla chips provided by the restaurant To Go Girl. (I'm pretty sure that's an official title.)
Okay. I'm biting into my delicious Naked Burrito with Pork, every bit as delicious and dirty as it sounds, while she loads up her spoon and shovels in the first taste.
Remember that up until this moment she's been comatose, my own personal walking Stepford Aunt, doing everything I tell her without question or sideways glance. Not even a peep. Ah, golden silence.
But once she swallows her first drizzle of soup, with her neck still bent in that awkward leaning-in angle that we use when we eat soup, her eyes pop into our planet, alert and wide and shocked to be awake.
Gigantic drops of liquid immediately form on every one of the four coal black hairs over her lip, and her face instantaneously flushes a shiny cardinal red.
I find myself staring at her, waiting for her first words, as though she were an alien newborn child on the verge of earthly communication.
Her mouth ajar, steam wisps out, and sliding out on the downdraft of tomato fumes, I hear the whispered syllable, "Hot..."
"Are you okay?" I query, a bit freaked out but fascinated at the new events.
"Spicy," she mouths, as she stands. She streaks to the kitchen, an unprecedented action since, again, she's older than dirt and supposedly slightly infirm. She's coughing and sputtering and ahem-ing up a storm while she fills a highball with ice and tap water. The water is nearly gone in the three now-short steps it takes her to return to the table and sit.
She stares at the soup as if it was a volcano into which she was to be tossed.
She grabs a fistful of tortilla chips, crushing them with her spoon until they are minute and submerged. She takes a breath and goes in for the second bite. On and on like this, bite after bite, she hums and coughs and chokes down the soup! She puts an ice cube into the liquid, shoves more chips under the lava and keeps on eating, like a good scout, until she just can't take another bite.
Then comes the flatulence.
"Excuse me a minute," she says as she toots across the floor. Like an old balloon with a leaky spout she makes her way into the bathroom for minutes on end.
When she returns to the table, I have no words.
"I think I'll save the rest for later," she tells me, tucking the plastic bowl into the fridge. I'm thinking it's a terrible idea to keep eating something that does that to a person, but only moments later she is reciting verbatim things I had said to her ten hours before, she's generating new and original ideas, she's telling jokes, she's reliving anecdotes from her childhood, and she has regained the ability to play dominoes. These are all things unheard of only moments before The Soup Incident.
The cure for Alzheimer's: whatever the hell is in QDoba's spice packet. Try it. You'll see...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Life Can Be Made Better With Ice Cream
I know it's widely believed that ice cream heals all wounds. I'm just clarifying that that is indeed the truth. I forgot all of my woes today while watching my son eat a double dip ice cream cone, orange on the bottom, red on the top. Translation: orange sherbet and strawberry ice cream in a waffle cone from Braum's. Yum.
He eats out of a cone, with a spoon, and midway, he chomps the pointy bottom off the cone and smooshes the remnants of ice cream down into the bottom to get a good drip going. He watches the drip, occasionally catching some with his spoon, until he gets bored and finally eats the cone.
It's a process.
And I'm a voyeur. With napkins. Lots of napkins.
I highly recommend it.
He eats out of a cone, with a spoon, and midway, he chomps the pointy bottom off the cone and smooshes the remnants of ice cream down into the bottom to get a good drip going. He watches the drip, occasionally catching some with his spoon, until he gets bored and finally eats the cone.
It's a process.
And I'm a voyeur. With napkins. Lots of napkins.
I highly recommend it.
Monday, January 18, 2010
It Was a Dark and Freaky Night...and yes, I did it to myself
I've been staying with a great-aunt who needs constant compaionship because senility has set its hooks, forcing twenty-four/seven supervision and the purchase of enormous clock faces.
That is another story.
My tale involves ghosts and the home's central heating system.
This house is haunted.
No one believes me, I know that, but still, it's true. I don't sleep well in her home because of the random noises that attack my central nervous system and make me as uneasy as if I were schizophrenic.
I've heard doors shutting mysteriously at three in the morning, and upon stealthy inspection of the living room, of course I was armed with a bottle of Keri lotion (thought patterns are illogical when ghost hunting), I found no warm bodies straying into the kitchen for midnight treats.
I feel like I am being watched when I am lying in bed facing the window, so I have begun sleeping facing the door.
More recently the noises were so freaky that I've started leaving the television on all night, muted, but the thing is so old it has an ominous hum all its own. But it also has no remote -- it's a push button television, imagine that! -- so I put up with the hum.
I've heard that when ghosts are present the air turns cooler in that area. Imagine when I woke the other morning and saw my breath! I was terrified to open my eyes as I was sure I would be ringed in ghosts like the poor dentist in "Ghost Town" (cute movie, by the way, shameless plug) and it turned out the the aunt had stumbled into the hallway and after having a normal routine of keeping her home at a balmy 82, I kid you not, she decided to turn off the heater on this particuls night in order to save a few pennies. It was twenty-eight degrees outside and the thermostat read 65 when I finally sprinted to the controls to dispel my ghosts.
BUT! And here's the crux of my tale...the other night I heard a BELL! A RINGING bell! Like a CHIMING, RINGING bell! Three tones in a row! At six a.m. Thus I was UP and AWAKE at six a.m! Not even the octogenarian aunt was awake.
Plus! Plus! I've started watching an A&E show called "Paranormal State." So now I sleep after the scary show, with the television humming, extra blankets stuffed at the foot of the bed should the old lady get stingy again, and a night light. And I'm not even ashamed of it!
Sad.
That is another story.
My tale involves ghosts and the home's central heating system.
This house is haunted.
No one believes me, I know that, but still, it's true. I don't sleep well in her home because of the random noises that attack my central nervous system and make me as uneasy as if I were schizophrenic.
I've heard doors shutting mysteriously at three in the morning, and upon stealthy inspection of the living room, of course I was armed with a bottle of Keri lotion (thought patterns are illogical when ghost hunting), I found no warm bodies straying into the kitchen for midnight treats.
I feel like I am being watched when I am lying in bed facing the window, so I have begun sleeping facing the door.
More recently the noises were so freaky that I've started leaving the television on all night, muted, but the thing is so old it has an ominous hum all its own. But it also has no remote -- it's a push button television, imagine that! -- so I put up with the hum.
I've heard that when ghosts are present the air turns cooler in that area. Imagine when I woke the other morning and saw my breath! I was terrified to open my eyes as I was sure I would be ringed in ghosts like the poor dentist in "Ghost Town" (cute movie, by the way, shameless plug) and it turned out the the aunt had stumbled into the hallway and after having a normal routine of keeping her home at a balmy 82, I kid you not, she decided to turn off the heater on this particuls night in order to save a few pennies. It was twenty-eight degrees outside and the thermostat read 65 when I finally sprinted to the controls to dispel my ghosts.
BUT! And here's the crux of my tale...the other night I heard a BELL! A RINGING bell! Like a CHIMING, RINGING bell! Three tones in a row! At six a.m. Thus I was UP and AWAKE at six a.m! Not even the octogenarian aunt was awake.
Plus! Plus! I've started watching an A&E show called "Paranormal State." So now I sleep after the scary show, with the television humming, extra blankets stuffed at the foot of the bed should the old lady get stingy again, and a night light. And I'm not even ashamed of it!
Sad.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Snow Ice Cream...Yum!
Since the blizzard of Christmas Eve 2009 has passed and we've survived, I'm focusing on the positives. The negatives include not seeing relatives, having to ignore tradition, and forego watching the kids run and play and scream their fool heads off until they collapse from exhaustion around noon.
The positives: we have snow, and milk, and vanilla and sugar.
Mix 'em together and you get ice cream!
The problem is the proportions of each ingredient. There is no science or true recipe.
I go with this:
One big bowl of snow
Enough milk until the mixture is creamy
Enough vanilla 'til it's a brownish color
Enough sugar 'til it tastes good
There! The perfect recipe for a fast delicious and quickly melting treat for a blistery, blustery day.
Enjoy.
The positives: we have snow, and milk, and vanilla and sugar.
Mix 'em together and you get ice cream!
The problem is the proportions of each ingredient. There is no science or true recipe.
I go with this:
One big bowl of snow
Enough milk until the mixture is creamy
Enough vanilla 'til it's a brownish color
Enough sugar 'til it tastes good
There! The perfect recipe for a fast delicious and quickly melting treat for a blistery, blustery day.
Enjoy.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
New Idea for Textophiles (it's a word, I made it up; I made it a word)
My dilemma continues: how to get hubby away from his new addiction of TEXTING.
Dear Lord in Heaven, it feels like my husband is a thirteen year old boy with Nintendo DS spasms that carry over into the texting world. He's lightning quick on the dang thing, I'll give him that. Way too many adventure games over the course of his life.
So -- I've been thinking of an invention to battle the texting thing I am living with.
What if:
Instead of typing, the machine worked with your voice, so that you could speak into it.
And whomever you are chatting with could respond right away. Sure, T9 is helpful sometimes, but how often have you tried to write "me" and ended up with "if?" Changes the whole context of your message. This way, you have no wasted seconds on tapping out messages. (Texting is a bit like Morse code, huh? I hadn't thought of that...)
And with a voice system, inflection and sarcasm could be heard, so there is no miscommunicating, which results in 18 more texts to clear up the confusion.
And instead of LOL, you could actually hear the other person actually laugh! Out loud!
OMG!
Wait a second...
*blink blink*
I think that might be the telephone.
Sweet! I just invented the telephone!!!
Dear Lord in Heaven, it feels like my husband is a thirteen year old boy with Nintendo DS spasms that carry over into the texting world. He's lightning quick on the dang thing, I'll give him that. Way too many adventure games over the course of his life.
So -- I've been thinking of an invention to battle the texting thing I am living with.
What if:
Instead of typing, the machine worked with your voice, so that you could speak into it.
And whomever you are chatting with could respond right away. Sure, T9 is helpful sometimes, but how often have you tried to write "me" and ended up with "if?" Changes the whole context of your message. This way, you have no wasted seconds on tapping out messages. (Texting is a bit like Morse code, huh? I hadn't thought of that...)
And with a voice system, inflection and sarcasm could be heard, so there is no miscommunicating, which results in 18 more texts to clear up the confusion.
And instead of LOL, you could actually hear the other person actually laugh! Out loud!
OMG!
Wait a second...
*blink blink*
I think that might be the telephone.
Sweet! I just invented the telephone!!!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I Believe I'm a Relic
I think I am the only person on the planet who misses the hand written word.
Could this be true?
I know that technology has accelerated at the speed of light, and I'm doing my best to keep up, I assure you, but here's my concern: I've complained of it before, but does anyone miss personal conversations, the kind with complex sentences and correct grammar? Are we really so short on time that we don't type whole syllables, whole words, but use acrynoyms in everyday speech just to get through a conversation that much more quickly?
If I hear someone so O-M-G in that slow, drawn-out cutesy style one more time, I might actually scream. They don't even realize that they're being "so 1980's" with the whole Valley-girl attitude that they are laughable. And LOL has become a verb phrase? Reallly??
I know that after my grandmothers died I found letters they had written me when I was younger. I feel like I have actual evidence of their existence because I have inked verbage from them. It's priceless. Even the way that they penned their letters evokes images and memories from my childhood. The memories aren't even all happy, pretty ones, but still they are redolent of experiences from my youth, things that I had completely forgotten.
I may sound maudlin, morose maybe.
Perhaps I really am a relic and I should retire to my rocking chair on the front porch and let the world ease on by.
Oh...wait...since when have I had a front porch to sit on, one that was bigger than the exact dimensions of a "welcome" mat so that I could have an actual chair upon which to perch?
Oh, yeah, when I was young. It just really didn't seem like I was that old until I got a text message telling me so. lol (please note the sarcasm, it's difficult to read what with the electronic typing and everything...)
Could this be true?
I know that technology has accelerated at the speed of light, and I'm doing my best to keep up, I assure you, but here's my concern: I've complained of it before, but does anyone miss personal conversations, the kind with complex sentences and correct grammar? Are we really so short on time that we don't type whole syllables, whole words, but use acrynoyms in everyday speech just to get through a conversation that much more quickly?
If I hear someone so O-M-G in that slow, drawn-out cutesy style one more time, I might actually scream. They don't even realize that they're being "so 1980's" with the whole Valley-girl attitude that they are laughable. And LOL has become a verb phrase? Reallly??
I know that after my grandmothers died I found letters they had written me when I was younger. I feel like I have actual evidence of their existence because I have inked verbage from them. It's priceless. Even the way that they penned their letters evokes images and memories from my childhood. The memories aren't even all happy, pretty ones, but still they are redolent of experiences from my youth, things that I had completely forgotten.
I may sound maudlin, morose maybe.
Perhaps I really am a relic and I should retire to my rocking chair on the front porch and let the world ease on by.
Oh...wait...since when have I had a front porch to sit on, one that was bigger than the exact dimensions of a "welcome" mat so that I could have an actual chair upon which to perch?
Oh, yeah, when I was young. It just really didn't seem like I was that old until I got a text message telling me so. lol (please note the sarcasm, it's difficult to read what with the electronic typing and everything...)
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