Shower Stalled

November 15, 2013

Mom would have celebrated her 78^th birthday, had she lived past 59. She got gyped, robbed, rug swept out from under her feet. Stolen from her family like baby seals in the Antarctic.

A pork chop sizzles in the oven next to a No Name Steak, oiled baking potato, piece of seasoned tilapia, two drumsticks and a small butternut squash. Laundry is in the dryer in the community wash room on the first floor of the building and tube socks soak in the bathroom sink. Tonight is bath night, even more perilous from the first time since the suction cup handle has dropped onto the shower stall and left us to wobble, off-balance, over the rim of the double glass doors. Evidently handicap rails cannot be installed since the foundation behind the walls do not support them. In the renovations of the 17 floors, ten units per level, they did not manage to squeeze-in the proper funding for safety in the bathrooms. Unbelievable. I tend to see at least two elderly people in the elevators each time I drop down or stagger up for mail pick-up, laundry, recycling drop-off or coming and going from the place. Crazy.

Somehow we manage to slice-off five minutes from the last shower and my client groans in pleasure as she sinks into her lift chair for a rest as I slather lotion as I massage her purple-tinged legs, pull on tube socks and wrap them with ace bandages. Her arms and back are sucking the humidity out of the apartment and still remain dry and scaly. Luckily she reminded me to cover her hairdo so we didn’t soak down her curls in the shower. Something to be thankful for.

Saran-Wrapped

November 14, 2013

Wrestled with the plastic wrap for insulating my fifteen windows today. Took a heck of a lot of patience, time, warming up the same cup of coffee no less than nine times, and some swearing to get it all installed, intact and wrinkle-free. The dog and cat scooted out of the room a few times when things got heated and I couldn’t find the roll of tape to secure the far left edge of the window trim in the livingroom. The most challenging part, aside from unfolding endless yards of plastic that tends to only adhere to itself well, is peeling off the edge of the paper liner on the double-sided tape. I requested the Ace Hardware clerk show up at my house today to assist me with this project but he guffawed “Not likely!”

Noticed window panes missing, huge gaps in the seams (that I expertly caulked with foam,) and air blowing in from the accordion vents on the window AC unit. I have yet to overcome the disturbing windows sans curtains since they no longer fit properly with the plastic film. Rubberbanded a sheet to the loose rod holders for the time being. I’d solve world peace too, if I had the time, energy and a bit of Vodka.

Discouraged that I have finished the “Orange is the New Black” first season and I have no new show-turned-addiction to watch tonight. I’ve eaten the remainder of the Halloween candy, the starbursts I discovered in my jacket pocket and sucked on a spoonful to honey to ward off evil spirits. Might as well go to bed.

New Wheels

November 13, 2013

What could be better than sharing pumpkin banana pancakes, hash browns, eggs and coffee with my daughter for lunch and then argue over the addition on the ticket? We hashed out Thanksgiving and Christmas plans, sorted roommate issues, delved into possibly living together, come January, reminisced, bragged about how smart our cats are (mine is much more brilliant,) and hugged the long goodbye, after searching out plastic window treatments for our respective homes. She is off to class and me to work.

I posted my car on Craiglist and plan on purchasing a slightly used one as soon as possible. It is a good time to part with my 4WD, prior to the snow, black ice and frigid temps and get a station wagon that feels more comforting. My SUV can climb trees, though I have never had the privilege of experimenting with that remarkable feature. Though it came in handy when moving from one household to the next, selecting goods from the roadside to add to my collection in the duplex or provide for my offspring and her greedy roommates (I don’t mean that in a bad way.) They cheer (more often than not) as I show up with another incredible find and make room for it in their now crowded four-plex. Wonder how that happened?

Sold the two GM van seats taking up my precious space in the sun porch. Slowly getting rid of all of the prior tenants goods they abandoned, when scampering off in the dead of night. The endless stack of books, DVD’s and VHS tapes of Hmong romance series went to the Neighborhood Centers who serve that culture. The youthful mothers were delighted and snatched up the young love stories like kids after Snickers on Halloween. A pile of unwanted kitchen items await repurposing as soon as I get around to it. We need storage space for the little one’s furnishings when she goes abroad in the New Year.

The garage door opener isn’t functioning properly so I need a handyperson to work on that as well as assist with uninstalling the air conditioner that sits on the window ledge, sucking hot air out the side slits. I can imagine the dollar bills zooming out with the warm breeze. Oh, and I was stopped last night by a guy who rolled down his dingy car window to inform me that my driver’s side taillight is not alight. Drat. Anybody? Anybody?

The KitKat Snatcher

November 12, 2013

DeJohn appeared tonight, knocking so softly on the front door, I nearly missed him. Caught sight of the back of him, racing down the sidewalk away from the house, going nowhere fast. He slammed in the door when I shouted for him, zipped into the kitchen with his shoes on, grabbing miniature KitKat bars from the bowl on the shelves before I could turn the corner. Upset that he doesn’t have manners enough to ask permission, most likely mom doesn’t set a good example for him, I let it go until the next visit, and heat water to make him some tea drizzled with honey to warm him up. “What is that?” he muttered, standing in front of the microwave oven. “It’s a microwave. We use it to heat up or cook food.” His interest wasn’t held for too long. He inhaled three or four chocolate bars, with Tyrus following in circles, around the pint-sized kitchen, hoping DeJohn will drop bits. I felt compelled to harness the nine year old anxiety by calling his mom but the doorbell rang before I could leave a voicemail to tell her DeJohn showed-up here. “Everyone is sick at the house so I am late, sorry” she exhales as the outer glass door opened. I assured her I am ok with DeJohn being here but am worried about the nights I am not home and he isn’t picked-up at the bus stop. I could lay out a sleeping bag for him and make sure the motion-detector light is on in the sun porch, when I leave in the early afternoons, but no one will be here to calm him, feed him and phone mom.

Concern for the bikers, out, with or without lights, in the center of the streets, in the chill of the 20 something night. Thinking about the homeless, huddled in the corners of the bridges, under cardboard boxes and hovered among the abandoned homes. I am so acutely aware of the car in the garage, radiator bubbling in the background, food in the cupboard, the remaining KitKat, a satisfied stomach and contented cat in my lap.

My First Job

My First Job isn't nearly as interesting as Deepak's insightful night as a residence intern but mine, as a babysitter, presented its own set of problems to a scrawny ten year old who needed to pay for her own clothes and school supplies. I recall dealing with Danny, a spoiled, bright, forever on-the-brink-of-tantrum boy, who fought back whenever he felt out of control. Any “No” or even the slightest variation of “No” caused him to throw himself on the ground, bite, kick and scream, or at times, race into his room, slam the door, hide under the bed, fall asleep and make me look like a complete idiot when the parents came home and he was still sequestered in his lair. I’d sit, after droning in front of the tv for hours, reading my books, and finally, hiding behind curtains, at the front window, hoping and praying the folks would come home. I would play a game of “The Next Car That Comes ‘Round the Corner is Theirs” until I was nearly dropping off into REM sleep. I ate to stay awake, anything that contained more than 100% of the caloric limit of sugar per day was game. Though, at Danny’s house, the mother was obviously a perpetual dieter because all of the items in the cabinets, cupboards and frig were injected with artificial sweeteners whose packaging might have tasted better than the contents. I must have been paid well enough, at that particular household, since I accepted more gigs, and being in charge of Devilish Danny. I know you are jealous, Deepak Chopra, MD!

Play Time

November 9, 2013

A small audience hugged burnt red plastic formed seats in the Simley Theatre at Hamline to watch Our Country’s Good by Timberlake Wertenbaker. “Set in 1788, Our Country’s Good focuses on the first European inhabitants of a pen colony in Australia who stage an unlike production of a popular British comedy. Although historically accurate, Our Country’s Good speaks to contemporary issues, interrogating hierarchies power, the politics of sexual subjungation, and the idea that theatre can serve as a source for personal and communal transformation.”

As I slouched in the chair, I considered the actors, college students, loaded-down with classes, hitting the books at the library, writing term papers, juggling research stints, work study, additional jobs, riding mass transit, making some time for friends and social events with other Pipers. I am in awe of their commitment, learning lines for several characters each and tackling British and Aboriginal accents. We need to support the arts, the campus activities and our incredibly talented offspring.  

Bathed in Compassion

November 8, 2013

I have not given anyone a bath since my daughter was a wee one. Tonight, I started sponging down an 88 ¾ woman, as part of my caregiving service. I cannot say I am completely comfortable with the idea but, given she shared with me her trepidation in being utterly exposed to other people, I had to give up my baggage. Darn it all, so challenging to come to grips with my own stuff while admitting it is not ALL about me and how I am feeling.

While swabbing, adjusting the temperature of the water eight million times until it is baby-bathwater-perfect, soaping, dabbing versus scrubbing, rinsing, dampening my jeans, saturating the bathroom floor and murmuring comforting words, I feel accepting and calm. Deep red abrasions need special cream application, and a light back massage helps the washing process fall into a rhythm I didn’t expect. I agreed to avoid getting her new do wet, which was a feat in and of itself.

Suction cups placed within reach of an extended arm, a formed plastic seat with arm rests comes in handy over the commode for a place to park and rest for a moment, a walker cumbersomely accepts full-weight in the stand-up shower, shower head on a hose, and I marvel at the gyrations of positioning this aging woman has had to accept for a “simple” bath. When I get to be 88 ¾, don’t let me forget just how important feeling squeaky clean can be.

Sitting in her recliner, dressed in jammies, a robe and jacket over the top, well-oiled legs wrapped tight in an ace bandage and slippers on her feet, she did look like a contented child, a smile wrapped like a jack ‘o lantern, on her pretty face.