Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

An Excerpt from the Yiddish Policeman's Union

I think all they would have to do is put this excerpt on the back cover, and they would just hand Michael Chabon the Pulitzer for fiction. Again.

A man (Hertz) and his son (John Bear Berko) are talking after a long estrangement.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

'"Don't take that tone with me, John Bear," the old man snaps. "I don't care for it."

"Tone?" Berko says, his voiced stacked like a measure of musical score with a half-dozen musical tones, a chamber ensemble of insolence, resentment, sarcasm, provocation, innocence, and surprise. "Tone?"

- Michael Chabon

July Fourth

Two Things I Love About My Country

The Constitution. 

I love the constitution like Barbara Jordan does, and if anyone hasn't heard how much she loves the Constitution, go here and listen up. 

I love it even with its flaws. I love the ACLU. I love the Nazis hiking through Skokie. Oh, I even love the Second Amendment, just on principle. I love the terrorists getting out of Guantanamo and walking about free because if I recall from Social Studies, due process and habeas corpus were good things. Things we had that Mexico didn't have, much to our seventh-grade horror. "What do you mean they can just put you in jail for no reason? Why would anyone ever go to Mexico then?"

I love the fact that the Bill of Rights goes so completely against common sense sometimes, but the Supreme Court is there to go against human nature and hold the line for the law. If it were a man it would be Victor Lazlo in Casablanca. Perfect and impossible, when you really want to wallow in base pleasures with Rick, like a hot evening of torturing war criminals.

Saturn V Liftoffs.

Yes, it's a big phallic symbol and a waste of fossil fuel. However, while I'm immune to the charms of the flag, and military bands don't give me any chills, I will watch any Saturn V liftoff replay just for the moment the high-definition camera in the tower shows the slow crawl of the giant U, followed by the giant S, followed then by the A.

"U- S-A!" I say as it goes past, then I clap a little. And then I hug in my heart whatever marketing person put that camera there and turned the rocket so you could see the big USA climbing past.

Oh, and even better? Other countries might have Constitutions, but they don't have Saturn V rockets with their country's initials painted on them.

The Troubles: Part Two, The Troubles End (still essentially a humor-free post)

Previously seen on The Troubles, Gary works too much and I bitch too much and eventually we hate each other. Gary uses the D word.

After much crying, I got up the next morning and looked up "Lawyers, Divorce" in the Yellow Pages. Then it struck me that I was skipping a step: that marriage counseling step.

First I tried the parish priest, even though we had never set foot in the church. It was useless. (Gary claims he was there. I just quizzed Gary about what he remembers. Nothing.)

Then, I realized that whore McDonnell-Douglas Aeronautics, who had seduced my husband away from me with her cool technical projects, could pay for the counseling with her Employee Assistance Program. The EAP sent us to some ex-priest. We drove separately, I was late, Gary was there, I walked in, and the counselor pointed his finger at me and demanded "HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN YOUR FATHER ABANDONED THE FAMILY?"

That bastard Gary's been talking about me, I thought, but come to find out this man held fast to the Inner Child school of therapy. He informed us that the reason we were having difficulty was because "Little Ellen" and "Little Gary" had been hurt as children and were acting out. "Little Ellen" must have Daddy issues because her husband was eight years older. I don't deny the truth of this, just the parlor-game way he introduced it. This visit did result in a nice moment on the parking lot while we made fun of the therapist. It would seem "Little Gary" struck my Gary as a euphemism for his penis.

The next place I tried was chosen because it was close to my work. I went alone. The therapist had on a vest and asked if I'd like a hug the minute I walked in for my first visit.

"No!" I recoiled in horror.

"Not a hugger? That's okay. What brings you here?"

So I bitched about the situation for an hour. She interrupted me once to ask if I'd considered having an affair.

"How would that help anything?" I was astonished. I could not have had an affair, men were treating me like a leper. A leper with Herpes. Herpes and Aids. I had been flirting with men at work, and I'd been out dancing with my friends, but the one time a man asked to buy me a drink I had placed my wedding-ring hand prominently on top of my purse after I said no. And, frankly, I'm a little pissed only one man asked, the Heartbreak Diet had me down to 120 pounds. And I wore lingerie to work every day, just so I could feel it and think what an idiot my husband was for not having sex with me for the last four months.

After our hour was up, she insisted that Gary come the next time. She moved in for a hug but caught herself in time.

The next appointment wasn't for two weeks. I moved back to Mom's house. At the time, Mom and Dad were on vacation, so Gary assumed I was watching their cat. Cat-sitting. That I had moved in for some intensive cat-monitoring. The cat would at least be there when I came home from work.

After two weeks Mom came home and said, you can stay one more week, after that, get an apartment or move back with Gary. (Mom, when I reminded her of this a few years ago, was horrified by her coldness.)

I moved back with Gary for one reason: The First Annual Tea Party was coming up in about a month. I wasn't nice to him, I can tell you that.

I have no idea why he said he'd come to my new huggy counselor with me. He sat there scowling with his arms crossed (in fact, the only thing Gary recalls is that he was unable to uncross his arms), while the counselor asked us to recap our grievances.

Me: He never comes home.
Him: Why would I? She just yells at me when I'm there.
Me: I wouldn't yell if you came home more.
Him: I've said I'm going to come home more now.
Me: I don't believe you. You've said that before.

"Okay," said the counselor as she hopped out of her chair. "Separate rooms."

And she went in a separate room with Gary, alone. I sat there and wondered if she was suggesting he have an affair. After twenty minutes she came back in to my room.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He says he changed jobs already, and if you give him another month -"

" - Then things will turn a corner and it'll slow down," I sneered. "He's said that for years."

"Well, you have to believe him. You can't be mad at him for things he's done in the past. You have to live in the moment. If he makes you mad, let him know, that instant. Don't say 'fine' and hang up the phone. You have to own your feelings."

Hey, I thought, this is my fault, is that what you're saying? Who is paying you? I thought we were friends. This is about the hugging, isn't it.

The remarkable thing about that session was hearing an objective point of view. She seemed to suggest that Gary had a reason to complain. Gary! The Villain! And I imagine having a stranger say to him, "You've been neglecting your wife. She's pretty pissed," meant a lot more than hearing it from me.

Then she went back to talk to Gary, again, and then came back to me.

"I told him you were going to leave, that you were shopping for apartments. He said you were crazy." (As an aside, I had not yet shown any evidence of true insanity at this time.) "But he didn't say 'good riddance.' so I think you should come back in two weeks."

On the very tense drive home, I was crying, Gary was scowling, and at the stoplight to get on to Highway 94 he burst out and bellowed about how he needed to work. "Don't you get it?" And then he explained himself. Essentially, he was angry at himself for wasting many opportunities in his youth.

It had nothing to do with me.

Up till then, every time he chose work over me, I was insulted and hurt, since I wasn't as interesting or fun as work. Now I saw he was working to make up for being a "bad" son, a college dropout, a time waster.  And if he'd chosen me instead of work all those nights, he would still hate himself as much. I was completely irrelevant to the situation.

Well, I know I should say we fell into each other's arms, but of course no such thing happened. I stopped crying hours later when my first tea party guests arrived. We never made another appointment with the counselor. Gary started to say "I really would rather be at home with you, but I feel I need to finish this project." I started to say, "I am angry that you will not be home," but then I would make other plans. After a few months, we made love again, and I use that term sparingly. I think it was the only time I felt like we were "making love." I did love him much more after that one experience. (Then it was back to nasty, nasty fun-filled sex, but that one time was quite unusual.)

Eventually, after two years, we were back to giggly giddy love again. It hasn't been consistent adoration for the last 15 years, but I can stand the sight of him. And I like Friend #2's comment, we love each other more than pie.

The Troubles: Part One, The Troubles Begin (a humor-free post)

One week ago, on our 23rd anniversary, Gary and I were both looking up at the ceiling, and apropos of nothing, he held my hand and said, "I'm sorry I spent so much time at work when we were first married and having ... troubles."

The Troubles began in 1989. We had been married for four years, the year most troubles begin. The week we got married, Gary got a new job on first shift working as a data operator. It was his first job where he really had a chance to grow, and just a few years later he was manager of the data center.

The issue was that he was no longer on first shift. He was on first, second, and third, and if there'd been a fourth shift, he would have worked that too.

This is the phone call we would have every night:
I would ask, hurt, "Gary? Are you coming home for dinner? It's seven-thirty."
Gary would gush, excited, "Oh, no, I've got this [insert technical jargon here that I did not understand] project. It's really cool!"
"Cool." (sniff) "I guess it must be."
"Yeah, I get to try [more technical incomprehensible yammering] and it's [and more] so I [more tech words that meant he didn't love me or want me] ...and it's so cool!"
"Well. Fine."
"Yeah! And I -"
"Fine. I guess I won't see you tonight then."
"Nope!"
"Fine."
"Okay!"

Then I'd slam down the phone, which strangely sounds just the same on the other end as when you pleasantly hang up the phone.

If I did get a chance to see him, say on the weekend before he went in to work, I took that time to make sure he knew how angry and unhappy I was. I didn't have time to do anything but complain, I had only a small window for communication and there was a problem that needed solving.

This is the phone conversation after a year of that:
"So, Gary, I don't suppose you are actually coming home tonight."
"Oh, don't start. Why can't you be more supportive? This will let up soon, it's just a bad week"
"I've heard that before. I would support you if you worked, even, just ten hours a day."
"Just, just, don't bug me. I have enough pressure here at work."
"You know, if we broke up the only difference would be I'd probably have sex more often."

I wasn't fighting so much with him on the weekends, unless you count that one time I walked over and smacked the glasses off his face. I'm not proud of that. I could not stand the sight of him. Whereas Gary's point of view was that I was crazy. He had traded his programming job for another job that would be better pay, less work, and less programming. I don't think he asked me for my opinion.  He still stayed late, if not later. We weren't talking. Until one night, I broke the silence to tell him how unhappy I was, and he responded that maybe ... we should get a divorce.

(Not much of a cliffhanger, is it? I mean, you know everything works out. Still, I can't put you through another long post like this.)

Bad Day

I had a bad day.

• I made a string of stupid mistakes at work. Not stupid ha-ha, even, just stupid.
• I have poison ivy.
• Gary bellowed at me this morning because while I was doing some solo landscaping I piled some dirt in the middle of a mud puddle we haven't been able to get rid of. So, I put my dirt in Boss Man's hole. (Spend the night in the box.) (It's all movie references all the time here.) Essentially, I made his mud dirty.

And worst, I couldn't snap out of it. I even ate Cold Stone Ice Cream. German Chocolate Cake Ice Cream did no good. So, since the day was shot, I did two hours of paperwork I've been avoiding.

Then, things turned around.

• I taught the dog to claw at Gary's scalp when he wants to be petted. Currently, he claws me, but now he knows that clawing Gary makes me laugh.
• I laughed at myself, because I read the first chapter of The Yiddish Policemen's Union and was amazed that there was a huge Jewish settlement founded in Sitka Alaska in the late 40's. "How have I never heard of this?" I wondered. Usually I avoid the back covers for the same reason I cut off the TiVo before it shows me clips from "Next week's Grey's Anatomy," or whatever. But it makes me wonder, how many novels have I read that were alternative history?
• I found I live in driving distance of Louisville Kentucky/Indiana, where BNL is performing in the middle of next month. We can drive there, I have two nights hotel paid from a pre-sale, and it's a weekend.

Freedom Seven

Dave called today with a TiVo Alert: When We Left Earth is on the Discovery Channel.

We we were kids, we lived in Houston from '60-'68, and we revered the Gemini and Mercury projects. Someone (probably Technical Father, who had a job at NASA in the mid sixties) gave Dave a record album called The Flight Of Freedom Seven, which was simply the audio recording from the first manned suborbital flight.

I'm watching this Discovery series and I keep hearing phrases I remember from that album. Dull stuff, like "A-OK," but my kindergarten days are all coming back.

The documentary is up to John Glenn now, and he just said, "Oh, the view is tremendous." No big deal to you, but I've heard that quote about 500 times.

And, here's some trivia: the puppets on Thunderbirds were each named after one of the original Mercury Seven.

Sigh.  I miss having a real space program.

The Deed Is Done

Our backyard has two gardens by the back patio. They were originally vegetable gardens, eight feet by 2.5 feet. After we slaved over them, and bound them in with wood ties, and mounded up the dirt, we stood back to survey our work, and said, "Damn! We just built graves!" Often we refer to them as the S______ graves.

Since the were first dug, they have gone from vegetable garden, to tomato garden, to miniature rock garden, to cutting garden, to whatever grows garden.

This evening as I was digging a hole for the transplanted Sedum fortified by Dad's cremains, and tilling Mom into the hole, it struck me I was essentially burying Mom and Dad. In a Hole. In the Dirt. In a Grave.

Why this basic flaw in the plan didn't strike me before is beyond me. Now I want to take the remaining third of her and shoot her into space or seed a cloud with her.

Hospice by the Numbers: Part 3

Number you dial to report a claim on Mom's life insurance:
1-800-628-8600.
Yes. 86 again. These people are sick. And you just know they all think they're being so original.

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If you have a sex dream about your Mom, she'll die 35 days later, like in  The Ring. Like The Ring if it starred Bruce Willis. (I know you already figured this out. You've been wanting to say it. I needed to say it first.)

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The 1815 Incident.

Here's the thing - this story is going to be anti-climactic. I'm only posting it to get it off my chest. AND because the guy at the drive-through said, "Shhh. It's a secret," when he handed me the wrong (more expensive) bag of food after giving my plain cheeseburger to someone else. "Great," I thought, "a secret. You know what they do to me." AND I'm writing this out because every time I relate a story of my frustration and suffering you all leave comments like, "HA HA HA" and "So funny." So. Enjoy.

In her last week, Mom had a lot of difficulty talking, and a lot she wanted to say, and she insisted I was the only one who could translate. So she would wake me up to say, "You're smart." Or, "Life is hard." Or, "Tell Wilma to buy stocks." Or, "Be nice to your brother." Or "Tell [insert name here] I love love love [him / her]." Important stuff.

One day she brought me down to her lips so she could whisper, "Important. Sue. One. Eight. One. Five. Help. Help. Help. Help."
"Help with what?"
"David. Sue. Knows ... Planter. One. Eight. One. Five. Help. Plan for David. Sue knows. Help. Help him."
"Okay. I'm writing this down." (I write it down, and I still have the notes.)
"Sue. Help. Sue knows numbers. Sue. Sue knows."" (Mom started crying.)
"Do you want me to call Sue?"
"One. Eight. One. Five."
"That isn't Sue's number." (I started crying.)
"No joke. Not funny." (Mom had taken to saying 'No joke. Not funny,' all the time.)
"Do I look like I'm joking?" I sobbed.

At that point the nurse's assistant pointed out that 1-8-1-5 is Mom's street address. We've always said "Eighteen - fifteen," but whatever.

Armed with this extra clue I called Mom's friend Sue.

"I have no idea what she's talking about," Sue said.

After some analysis we figured that Planter is the spot where the address used to hang, and Plaque is the plaque by the front door where the address is now. And "Dave" is my brother, who was driving in from the Southwest, and "Help" and "Important" must mean that Mom was worried that Dave wouldn't remember the address, and not be able to find the house. Never mind that he grew up at this house since he was eight.

Sue called back to report that she had called Dave on his cell, he was in Tulsa, and yes, he was pretty sure he could find his way home.

I reported this to Mom. She started sobbing. I started sobbing. And if I never hear the words "Ellen, help me, help me," again I will be a happy woman.

Then she pulled it together and said in a rush, "Plaque. Over the door. Mailbox. Garage. Hardware. Sue. Sue knows."
"Okay. I'll call Sue again."

I called Sue and said, "Okay -- 'Plaque. Over the door. Mailbox. Garage. Hardware.' Does that help?"
"No."
(I burst into fresh tears.)
"I'm sorry."

I reported this back to Mom and I am sad to say she did not take it well. No joke. Not funny. And, it would appear that I don't listen. I had to just walk away from it all.

An hour later, Sue called. Angels sang. The sun burst from behind the clouds in glory.

"Ellen, I've got it! I know what she's talking about."
I sighed with relief. "Oh, thank God."
"About three weeks ago she had me go to the hardware store to buy screws because she wanted the brass numbers she took off the house back ON the house, on the garage door. I'm sure she means to have Dave put those numbers on the garage door while he's here."
Long pause. "You are kidding me."
"No! I'm not joking! I am sure that's it." (Not funny! No joke!)
I thought, "No, I meant you are fucking kidding me." But I didn't say that. Instead I calmly said, "Okay. I'll tell her."

I went in and reported grimly to Mom that why yes, Sue would be happy to help David put the house number over the garage door.

"Yessssssss ..." she sighed, and smiled a great big smile.

So, the day after Mom died, Sue showed Dave where the hardware was and Gary and Dave screwed the numbers on the garage door. Or, as I like to put it, the fucking numbers over the fucking garage door.

I Could Snort Them Like That Stones Drummer

While Mom's instructions said specifically that she be cremated AND the funeral home should dispose of the ashes, the funeral home refused and we now have a plastic box of Mom that needs to be disposed of.

I have a few options.

1. Botanical Tribute

Dad's ashes were buried under an azalea.

(An aside: as many of you know, this isn't entirely accurate. After Mom got Dad's cremains, Dad's mom made a fuss that she had this burial plot and Dad should be in the plot next to hers, ashen or not. Mom "lost the fight" and, with a straight face, handed Grandma a box full of Dad. Or, full of half of Dad. The other half of the ashes she buried under the azalea bush. Shh. It's a secret.)

Thankfully I just re-read Mom's blog and found that the Dad azalea died, otherwise I would have dug up the wrong azalea looking for Dad. I'm glad to see Dad's now under an easy-to-transplant sedum:

Since we are selling the house, my plan is to take the dirt/Dad and the sedum and move it to my garden, where I will till Mom's ashes into the soil and transplant the sedum/Dad there.

The down side is that the Mom/Dad Sedum might meet the same fate as the tree honoring my maternal grandmother. It really sucks when you have a dead grandmother and a dead grandmother-honoring tree.

2. Medicine bottle Tribute

Pseudo-Cousin Chrissy told me what they did with her Uncle Ollie's ashes. Ollie was a world traveler and rabble-rouser. He was somehow involved with an organization that protested the Veiled Prophet by crashing the Ball and unveiling the prophet. And that's not the half of his exploits. He was such a character I didn't even know he owned a jazz club called the Holy Barbarian. So, anyone who visits a foreign land gets a medicine bottle full of Ollie. The goal is to scatter Ollie across the globe.

3. Jewelry

A Google Search tells me this:

"Jewelry: Keepsake jewelry has been developed as a way for individuals to keep a small portion of cremated remains close at hand as a tangible source of  comfort. The jewelry may be displayed in a glass dome or worn as a pendant. Keepsake jewelry can be made of brass, pewter, silver, gold plated or 14k gold. It is available in a variety of styles and is yet another way to personalize a loss."

4. Paperweight.

http://www.memoryglass.com/

5. Diamond

http://www.lifegem.com/

6. Mom In My Pants

It seems like I should be able to incrementally sneak her into Shaw's Garden, like the prisoners did with the dirt in the Great Escape.

Yes, I know this is disrespectful. Mom wanted to be thrown in the crematorium dumpster. It's not like I'm considering smuggling her into the iron lung on display at the Science Center.

The Stuff. My God, the Stuff.

Before I begin, know that I sound very materialistic in this post. I can assure you that I am feeling the appropriate guilt and grief over Mom's recent daughter-assisted suicide.  I'm just sick of thinking of it. (Of course, I could stop thinking about it if I stopped listening to music. It's just like breaking up with a boyfriend in high school: ALL the songs are about you and your boyfriend. Well, now they're all about Mom.)

I thought we'd picked through all the good stuff before and during the wake. But no. We forgot about the closets. I thought I'd gone through all the closets with Mom and did a big purge after Dad died. She must have ferreted stuff under her bed and then levered it up to the top of the closet without my knowledge.

I have now packed my house so full of Mom's stuff that Gary needed to mentally empty our bookshelves and buy another set to match, then mentally move the entertainment center downstairs because a new bookshelf means the entertainment center won't fit, and instead imagine he could buy one of those space-saving wall-hugging wide flat-panel televisions. I don't know if I'm more outraged that he's rearranging my furniture or spending my inheritance.

At any rate, check out these valuable prizes:

Dad's U.S. Army semifore flag set. I had no idea we had this. I don't know why Dad even had a semifore flag set. He had a desk job during the last two weeks of the Korean war. And of course, now there's no one to ask.

All my brother's old Mad magazines and my old Get Smart metal lunch box. Soon to be sold on an e-Bay near you.

Valuable art by known artists.
First artist: my Great-Aunt Rosemary. I'd already snagged most of the china plates and vases she painted, only to get a letter from her today that mentions she's a known artist. She had an appraiser look through her things and found she was mentioned in his artist database. Evidently she had painted a plate once that was found in an art collector's collection.

Second artist: my high-school boyfriend Virgil. I found that the "Ellen - ART" box contains not only art by me, but art inspired by me. In high-school I posed (fully clothed) for a silkscreen by Virgil M______. And now Virgil's all esteemed, and I have a tattered silkscreen of me from his early tempera and newsprint phase.

Valuable writing by Mom.
You may wonder why I jumped on Mom's copy of The Bridges of Madison County. "Why, wasn't that a veiled boy-fantasy disguised as a novel?" you ask, "Why would you want that?" Because this is The Annotated Bridges of Madison County. This is the copy with Mom's cutting criticisms on the edge of every page.

Even better, Mom kept a copy of some of the columns she wrote for the Harris Teacher's College paper and the Mizzou Showme magazine. I'd only read a few of them before. The first words I saw when I picked up the newspaper were "I do not like to stand in lines. Right now if Marlon Brando came to Harris especially to play the bongo drums for me I wouldn't even stand in line to see Him."

"Well, that's a blog right there," I thought. A blog from the beyond.

So I'm going to transcribe or scan one column a week and post it on Queen Mum, so her blog will live on. I'll let you know when there's a new post, like this one here.

The Wake: Part the Second

One of my favorite parts of the Wake was when people stepped up and told me things about Mom that everyone knows: she was smart, funny, never complained, and a great writer. And then Mom's friend Martha stepped up with some information that wasn't widely known, the Story of Mom and Dad. (I knew the Story, of course. No surprises at the Wake, even though I kept thinking someone would step up and say, "Did your Mom ever tell you that you're adopted?")

The Story of Mom and Dad

Margie (Mom) dated a guy named Danny in college. Here they are in '58.

If you look closely at this terrible blurry dark image, you will see my Mom (with a very, very enhanced bosom) standing next to a skinny tall guy.

So, Danny and Mom were dating. Until the fateful night when Danny did not escort her to a college Journalism dance. A gorgeous man at the dance spotted Mom, swept her into a dance, whirled her about, and kissed her when the music ended. Danny Who?

The next day when Danny came to pick her up for a date, she said, "Oh, I was just going to go out and buy a hat for MY NEW BOYFRIEND. You can come along if you want."

In six months Mom married the gorgeous man and moved to Houston. In ten years she was separated from the gorgeous man and came back to Saint Louis, while my seven-year old brother and my five-year old self stayed in Houston with Jerry. One of her friends (I believe it was "Aunt" Carleen) said, "You know, whatever happened to that Danny boy you were dating in college?" A few phone calls later, and Mom was on the phone with Danny.

"Hello, Danny?"
"Yes?"
"This is Margie Foster." (pause) "What'cha been doing?"
"Well, I've been sitting here ... by the phone ... waiting for a phone call from a girl named Margie Foster."

They decided to go see a movie, with Aunt Carleen as a chaperone, because Mom was still married. They dropped off Carleen at her apartment and fell into each other's arms.

Then six months later ... they were married.

Look at that smile!

(And look at that little girl! Look at that tan! I think this is the only photo of me with a tan.)

All this explains why Danny is my Dad and Jerry is my Technical Father, because "Hideous Mistake That Resulted in Two Children" is just cumbersome. No. Really, no one ever acted like that.

I do remember having a spat with Dad about something Mom said, and snapping out the classic kid/stepdad remark, "Well I've known her LONGER." He laughed and reminded me that no, actually, I was about ten years behind him.

Once someone heard that Mom married Dad only six months after she separated from Jerry, and said, "So, you married your transitional man?"

"No," Mom said, "Jerry was the transitional man."

So here they are again, at my wedding. Look at that smile!

Martha Stewart (Not) Living: The Wake

Or:
The Wake, Part the First

Sure, other people have funeral directors to plan the gathering to honor the deceased. Since Mom had requested immediate cremation, we needed to find a way for people to gather and remember Mom. I suppose we could have rented space at a funeral home, but Mom has a nice large house and everyone knew how to get there.

Food:
The Sunday before she died, Mom learned she'd be having a visitor the next day. "Poundcake," she mouthed, "Helfer's Pastries." I crossed my fingers and hoped they'd even have poundcake when I made my first visit ever to Helfer's Pastries. It turns out they did, thank GOD, because if they hadn't - think of it - a deathbed food request I couldn't fulfill. They also had eclairs, also known as breakfast. Filled with heaven. And deep butter poundcake, which in their world is gooey butter cake without the gooey.

So of course, later I picked up eclairs and poundcake for the Wake, and Mom's friends had already volunteered to bring dip and cookies and wines and beverages and to make the coffee. (As a note for those of you with living mothers, be sure your Mom cultivates take-charge friends who know their way around your Mom's kitchen. Mom had a group of great friends who would come and make breakfast at Mom's every other week. They showed up and I took a nap.)

Decor:
I knew from Dad's service that photos are essential. I fretted a little about finding frames for all the  photos of Mom, then I remembered Mom always displayed treasures under the glass top of her kitchen table. (Mom topped her table with a tablecloth, then a layer of, say: dried flowers, or flower photos, then a big round circle of glass.) That worked out well. 

Favors:
In the death file she had suggested that after her death she wanted her friends to each go through her house and pick something to remember her by.

The thing that made this hard was that Dave and I  had to strip the house of everything we wanted first. Mom always joked to her friends that there wouldn't be anything in her house that her kids would want, and instead we'd pitch it all into the Giant Death Dumpster you see showing up in the neighbor's driveways after a  death or a one-way visit to the nursing home. I don't know who calls in the Dumpster, but I don't think we'll use their service. Does anyone know? Is it part of what comes with an estate sale?

So even with the big speed purge, there were still a few awkward moments. ("Oh! No! That painting is MINE MINE MINE!" and "You want a television to remember Mom by?") Fortunately, Friends #2 & 3 were there to remind me, "Um ... is that a family quilt on that bed? Are you sure you want that sitting out?"

Reviews:
Mom's friends said it went well. Others said they missed seeing a body and would have preferred it to be in a funeral parlor. Mom's ghost spat on those people.

Hospice by the Numbers: Part 2

10. I am ten pounds lighter than I was 2 weeks ago. Mom whispered in the hospital, "Hospice diet. Write a book."

9 out of 10. The number of impending death signs Mom showed on her last day. The hospice people give you a book that spells out what physical changes you can expect at one month, one month to one week, two to three days, and the final hours. Until the end, this book was frighteningly on the nose. We grew to rely too heavily on that book. Before she died, she had all the signs except  blotchiness. After she died, I'm afraid I flipped her hand over and looked for blotches, as if to say, "she might not be dead ... she isn't blotchy." So, if you ever have anyone in hospice, know that the book isn't that accurate.

7. Mom left us a to-do list in the DEATH file, with 7 instructions. Yes, she had a file labeled DEATH. And if your parents don't have a death file, sit down and make one with them. I haven't had to make a decision all week. All we have left to do on the list is to have her name put on the tombstone her mother bought her.

86. The extension for the St. Louis Post Dispatch obituary phone line is 8600. Eighty-six. Do you think that's on purpose?

1815. No ... Still too soon.

Temptation

Okay. What follows was actually kind of alarming. But it isn't sad. I'm almost done with sad.

(On the topic of being done with sad: today I watched the TiVoed My Name is Earl episodes in which he is in a coma ... and they discussed pulling the plug ... and Gary screamed like a woman at every hospital / death / coma reference. It was pretty entertaining.  Not the episodes, which seemed uneven to me, but Gary's reactions.)

When Mom was at home, every time I administered a gel patch of that Fentanyl drug I wanted to lick the patch. I wanted to rub it all over my body. I wanted to pull off the latex gloves and "accidentally" get it on my fingers.

The hydrocodone didn't appeal to me that much (come on, Vicodin? Don't waste my time), but the oxycodone did. It would seem I turn up my nose at drugs that aren't Schedule I or II, even if I don't know it at the time. The Oxyfast droplets arrived the day she was in a coma, and we didn't even break the seal before she died. I know, because I stared at that bottle most of the day, thinking, "I could break the seal and take some. No, they'd find out. I could break the seal, give Mom some, then take some myself."

I didn't do any of those things, of course. Gary says I was just tempted by the danger, like standing on the edge of a cliff. The liquor in the house held no appeal for me, because I know I'd just be a drunk with a dead mom. (Oh, except I inherited half a bottle of blended Scotch Mom got in '88. Scotch smells too much like Pine-Sol for me, though.) The thing that tempts me most about liquor is the bottles. So pretty! Some of them look like fish, some of them hand grenades, some are blue so you think the Gin inside is blue.

But, the drugs don't have the  packaging. And I don't even KNOW how these drugs would affect me.

I do know I felt a little twinge when the drugs were flushed. (By the way, drug-flushing will end soon since so many drugs are found in the water supply now.)  Being a drunk, no, I can't see that, but I'm having sympathy for painkiller addicts. It's a little surprising, especially since I don't feel any physical pain.

Comfort

Today was to be the Day of Sleep. But I just woke up from a dream in which Mom and my friend Catherine the Red were both in hospice.  Catherine the Red was tooling around town in a convertible with her respirator mask and her hospice nurse, while I couldn't get my mom's respirator mask comfortable. I kept tearing pieces off of it and ended up ripping Mom's skin.

Yeah. What could that mean?

Sigh. Anyway, I can't get over how direct this experience is. (I just typed "how direct the death experience is," but I deleted it, as it seemed too direct.)

Mom was direct. Mom said "I am dying."  Not, I feel like I'm dying, or I could just die. She also said "Help me, Ellen, help me get out." I don't think I helped soon enough.

The hospice staff was direct. One person said, "If they open up the morphine to a full dose, your loved one will not come out of it." Useless information, since Mom wasn't on morphine, but good to know in general.

The hospice staff will answer a direct question directly. I asked, "I know you say the purpose of hospice is to give comfort to the loved one, but really we comfort them to death. Right?"  I expected, "Our purpose is not to hasten death" or some other comforting vague legally sanitized statement. She answered "Yes."

The only good thing I know is that Mom decided to do this. (I was only following orders.) I can't imagine what happens when you have to make the decision for someone else. Then again, I can't imagine making any other decision.

Hospice by the Numbers: Part 1

Number of hours since I've cried: 24

Number of months I thought Mom would live: 6
This was odd. The Wednesday that I took Mom to the ER, even before she called, I randomly thought, "I bet Mom won 't be alive in six months." Then, when I saw that the hospice booklet recommended  hospice for those with a life expectancy of less than six months, I decided that was the timeframe. Of course, Mom wouldn't waste time that way.

Number of friends who came by to celebrate Mom this morning: 4

Number of people on her "People to call after I die" list whom I have never heard of:  7

Number of phone calls I made today to tell people Mom had died: 50

Number of people who unexpectedly replied, "I know, I read about it on your blog":  5
This is an alarmingly high number.

 

This is the bad post

I'm sorry to Sherry and Mom's other friends and relatives who read this on a blog instead of through a phone call tomorrow: Mom slipped into a coma this morning at 5:30, and then died this evening at 7:18.

Her friends Pat and Sue visited her this morning, then of course the hospice nurse had to come and re-evaluate her. We excluded both private nurses while Dave and I waited with her. About 6:30 pm Mom began a downturn. Gary came in around 7:15 and talked with the nurse.  Dave and I said goodbye to Mom, then I called Gary in. "Bye bye Margie," he said, then she made a new strange noise and we watched her pulse stop.

I want to add, I've looked at your comments and emails the last few days. I've also heard of your Porch Presents, Caroline (#4) and Libby (#2). They have all meant a lot to me.   

Of course, I need to consider a few things after I sleep a while: The Anti-Hospice Viewpoint, and Hospice by the Numbers, and Oxygen Deprivation, and my latent drug addiction. But that's later, now sleep.

Epic

Mom update: She is not in as much pain (if at all). This is a huge relief, especially after six days. She is still conscious and able to talk. There have been lots of "I love you" and "You're a good kid." And some "stop patting my hand," but that's Mom.

The morning started with a nice visit from three of Mom's friends: Donna F______, Carolyn H______, and Penny P_______. She was fairly sleepy, but she recognized all of them and smiled.

Then she went to sleep. While she was sleeping, the hospice bath team descended on her, "woke her up," and gave her a bath. I helped them, we rolled Mom back and forth and bathed her and shampooed her and dried her. Quickly. Too quickly, and with too much efficient chatter, probably. At the end of it, she whispered to me, "Don't trust them. Crazy voodoo people. Call the police. They are crazy. Get Archie, he has a gun."

Not funny. She was terrified and shaking, and as she listed all the neighbors who must be warned, Nurse Jane called.

Nurse Jane, nee "That Bitch Nurse at the lung doctor's office," is the nurse at Dr. S________'s office. Dr. S________, Mom's lung specialist, is the one Mom has had the longest relationship with and the the she chose to follow her case till the end. Mom likes Dr. S_________. However, she named the Bitch Nurse.

"I'm sorry," I said, "Mom can't talk now."
"She's always been able to talk to me before," Jane snipped. "If she can't walk to the phone, you can bring the phone to her. Don't you have a mobile phone?"
Fine, I said, call me back on my cell. And she did, and I held the phone up to Mom's ear. Mom replied to Jane's perky, "How have you been feeling?" with, "They are going to kill us. Warn the neighbors! Crazy voodoo people. Archie has a gun."

I put the phone back to my ear. Jane said, "Your mother seems changed."
"I know."
"But just a month ago she was walking!"
"I am fully aware how suddenly Mom has declined." I didn't go easy on the Tone. "I'll call you back later."

Later, I called Jane.

"Jane, Dr. S________ has been following her case. Didn't they tell you?"
"We noticed you wanted to increase her pain medication."
"Yes. She's been in pain. Crying, cursing, we want it to stop. They say there are good days and bad days, and it's just been one bad day after another."
"Well if you cut back on her pain medication," Jane said crisply, "she'd probably have more good days. The pain medicine you're giving her is reducing her lung capacity."
"I see. You want LESS pain medication. Less. Let me run that past the hospice nurse." Bite my ass Jane. I hung up and dialed the hospice nurse in one fluid motion to run this whole "Go with the pain" hospice theory past her.

"I'll take care of it," she said, and explained when she called back that Dr. S_________ and Jane were not aware Mom was in hospice, didn't know much about the case, only that we were electing to ease her pain over saving her lungs. Then, she said, "they" said some "anti-hospice" things. Like, I suppose, "I've tried for twenty years to save this woman's lungs and now you say I should give up hope. She was just walking, just the other day!"

So, since Dr. S________ needs time to get over his denial, Dave and I and my medical Power of Attorney have switched the doctor on the case to our original GP, the doctor who suggested hospice as an option, the doctor who called Monday to see how we were all doing, our Mormon doctor, instead of this one who worships the Golden Lung.

And now since noon, Mom's on a new medicine and has been free of pain, finally. Other medicines and a more frequent dose schedule has her calmer, if sleepier. So, crappy day, but a good result.

Oh, and then Gary said the Lent Bunnies has left some Lindt truffles on our porch while he was out walking the dog.

More of the same...

Mom was in one of three states all day today:
1. Pain
2. Sociable
3. Hallucinatory

1. Mom in pain is not good, and Mom in pain after five days of hospice is five times worse. In the morning we doubled her pain patch, and after more pain in the evening we switched her breakthrough pain pills to something I hope is more effective.

2. Mom's two best friends visited her today, Sue and Sherri. She loves them both so much. She smiled.

3. Mom freaked us out twice today by asking about long-dead relatives. She asked about her mom in the morning. Gary took me out to dinner and I missed it when she again asked David where her mommy was. "She's dead." Dave said. Mom replied that Delores would pray for her, then she asked where Jimmy was. Delores and Jimmy were Mom's siblings. Delores died when Mom was a teenager. David had completely forgotten about Jimmy, who died of scarlet fever before Mom was even born.

And even more of the same: Again Gary found cake and wine on the porch. Has Caroline struck again?

Still Nothing Funny to See Here...

Important Mom update: Mom is still breathing, conscious, and asking for various friends.

Long Mom update: This is so bad, people. We all cried today. I am sure people walking past on the street began crying for no reason.

In the morning, Mom said, "I'm hot. Call the doctor. Ask him if I'm dying."

After a long pause, I choked out, "I don't have to call the doctor, Mom. You are dying."

She slowly rasped, "I've never died before. Tell Wilma it's hot. Call Archie. Archie knows."

(Archie, Mom's neighbor, was declared legally dead once.)

"Ellen, Ellen, help. Help."

"How can I help you, Mom?"

"Where's my pastor?"

"You don't have a pastor." (Long thought.) "Do you want to accept Christ?"

Solidly, "No." Then, "Where's Gary? Call Gary."

I called a baffled Gary and told him to tell Mom he'd take care of me. At this point the nurse assistant was crying.

Then Mom told Dave he was a good guy and she loved him very much, then the nurse came in with dreadlocks and she had me get the boom box and play "You Put a Spell on Me" by Screaming Jay Hawkins. Then she insisted everyone leave the room. Then the drugs took effect and she went to sleep.

But only until that night, when Gary came by and she gathered us all around her. Then she said goodbye to all of us and wouldn't let us put her breathing mask back on. I watched her chest turn blue over about ten minutes. Then Gary kissed me on the cheek and said, "K, hon, I'm heading home now."

"Mom might die."

"She won't die."

I asked every five minutes after that if she wanted her mask back on, and after about fifteen more minutes, she said, "Air," the code for, "Put my mask back on."

Then we all breathed.

And it's just going to get worse tomorrow. I apologize to those of you who have parents in hospice. It is great to have drugs sent in the middle of the night by courier, but the rest of it sucks solidly, except there are nurses and their assistants who cry with you and hug you when you cry.

Oh, and there are friends who drop by your house and leave chocolate cake and wine on the porch for your husband to find. Thanks, Caroline.

In Which Hell Freezes Over

Mom can't talk because she can't fill up her lungs enough to force out noise. (Marcia, I've tried using the diaphragm-pushing technique you've used with your friend, but I'm afraid I'll hurt her.) So, we've had trouble the last few days with understanding what she says. (I'm still not ready to relate The 1815 Incident, though.)

So, this was the conversation we had this evening when the new night nurse's assistant showed up:

Mom gasped something. I tried to translate, but I couldn't get it. The new night nurse's assistant (NNNA) helped me get the respiratory mask off.

"I told ... Rachel ... no pain ... was wrong ... Danny."

Rachel's my pseudo-cousin, and Danny's my Dad, who died in hospice 20 years ago.

She continued breathing out, "Danny ... Danny ... Fuck."

"Frank?" David asked.

"Fuck," Mom gasped distinctly.

"Yeah, I heard 'Frank' too," the NNNA agreed.

"Who is Frank?" David asked.

"Fuck." Mom whispered. "Fuck fuck fuck." Then, "Wash out my mouth."

Of course, "wash out my mouth with soap," was what she meant, but the NNNA happily got the toothbrush and scrubbed and had her spit, while David went on about anyone she might have known named Frank.

"Stop it. Fuck," I said. "Not Frank. Fuck."

NNNA immediately said to Mom, "Oh! Do you want some pain medicine?" And though the medicine wasn't due for six more hours after her last dose, the NNNA suggested we could give her half after three hours, and it'd been one hour, and it would be okay after two or even one and a half hours.

I like her for the way the timeline kept getting shorter and shorter. "Give it now," I said, and she handed me the pills. Then I called the agency and increased her dose.

I know from the experience with Dad that if the increase goes to a full dose of morphine, they won't wake up. Of course, Mom isn't on morphine, and I don't know what a full dose of it would be equal to, but I know the nurse who answered the prescribing hotline didn't sound alarmed by my dose increase request. I also know the medicine they decided to courier out only contained one patch. All I know is I can't have my Mom being in so much pain she says Fuck.

Dave Arrives

Mom Update: Breakthrough pain meds doubled, and if that doesn't work the pain patch medicine might be doubled again. A funny thing happened today, and if it hadn't made me cry solidly for two hours I would tell you about it. Perhaps in a year, just say, "The 1815 Incident," and I'll tell you about it.

So, today, during my daily hysteria moment, my brother arrived. I haven't seen him for ten years. Clearly he's grown in that time: first he is over twice the size he was (I'm almost twice the size), and second he didn't cry. He's a rock. He was distressed he wasn't crying. I was amazed, and I felt a little stupid since I had warned the hospice staff (while sobbing) that HE was the emotional one and would need a lot of their support.

In Which Gary Packs

Mom update: The doctor doubled the pain patch, so Mom has rested comfortably. Tonight when she woke up she placed an order for pastries for the friends who are visiting tomorrow. She is still gasping out pithy jokes. And the nurse tonight, Carol, can read the lips of people in respiratory masks AND her last patient was a polio survivor AND her dad died in hospice AND she's a Catholic / Baptist. I love her. I also sent Mom's eyeglasses in to have the new prescription put in. (Since we found out she didn't need cataract surgery, just a new prescription, she has to look through them at least once.) It took a little while to leave her alone with just the nurse, since Dad died the first time alone with the nurse.

=======================================

So, I emailed Gary a list of things I needed from home, i.e. DRUGS, all my underwear, four or five shirts.

So when he brought in two bags I asked why. He opened the carry-on bag and said, "Your drugs and shirts are in here." Then he gestured to the pilot bag front pocket. "Your underwear is in here," then unzipping the pilot bag, "Your dirty underwear is in here."

Hospice Nurse

Hospice nurse was here 20 minutes and told me to get on a daily dose of wine or anti-depressants for the crying. I told her I was on the Celexa, and she said, "Call your doctor. Increase the dose." When she left she turned to me and said "Drugs. Drugs are good."

This is Drugs. This is Your Mom on Drugs.

About twenty years ago, Mom had open-heart surgery. One day during her recovery, Mom scrawled "RAT POISON" across a notepad.

"Rat poison? Where did you see rat poison?" Dad asked.

Mom scrawled, "Mahatma Gandhi," then "Maybel. PARROT."

Later, when they took Mom OFF the morphine, we discovered Mom had been visited by the Mahatma, who stood in a corner with his hand positioned by his mouth as if he were playing an invisible kazoo. Later, her mother-in-law Maybel "stopped by" with a parrot on her shoulder. This one made some sense, given that her diabetes left her with just the one leg. I don't know what excuse Gandhi had.

So, I was surprised to hear they had started her on even a "tiny dose of morphine." I asked, and as it turned out, it's actually a "tiny dose" of opium.

Strangely, she's still asking for Tylenol. But that's better than "RAT POISON."

My New Power

Over the last few days people have had the nerve to push past my natural reserve and force compassion on me.

I find I have a new power. I can make these compassionate people cry. Hey, they want me to talk while I'm crying? Here's how it feels, suckers.

This has worked on the past three people who ignored me when I waved off their concern. The nutritionist at MoBap, the pulmonary tech at Barnes, and the optician at Barnes. All of them "comforted" me until they were sobbing.  One had been with her dad in the hospital, one had lost her dad to cancer, and one watched her grandfather die of post-polio syndrome.

I feel much better now when people pat my arm and ask if I'm okay - I know we are soon to reverse roles. Still, I love the pulmonary tech, who asked "Do you want some cake?"

Hospice is almost an anagram of Hopesick

Since the doctors haven't found anything else to blame for Mom's decline, they've attributed it to the post-polio syndrome (which they should), and Mom's decided to have home hospice.

So, no more trips to the ER, no more of Mom's never-ending struggle to adapt. Dad was in home hospice as well, and I recall many trips to the grocery to buy him whatever he wanted to eat. My last run was for Jalapeño Bologna; Mom was getting him Tapioca Pudding when he died.

Sad. I don't know how long it will be. I do know Mom even cried today, and Mom never cries. I was physically dragged down the hall by a nurses assistant to sit in the lounge and talk to her boyfriend for a while because she felt I was spending too much time in Mom's room, crying.

ANYway. See? And you made all those encouraging comments. Don't feel bad.

Nothing Funny to See Here

In the morning, I spoke with the doctor and progressed from  silent tears to open sobbing, in front of Mom. I told her to forget everything she saw. Even more sad? I did it when the chaplain was walking past, so Chaplain Stephanie had to stop and offer to pray for me. Mom was still sitting right there, so I couldn't say to her "Fuck OFF already," which is what I wanted to say. I mean, I have my mother-in-law praying. At the altar in her home. Top that. In the midst of this breakdown, Gary called, ignored my teary "Hello?" and screamed at me because we have ants again. Really, really bad move Gary.

In the afternoon, Mom said we should start looking at nursing homes, since wasn't going to get any better. They've started tossing steroids at her just to see if that makes a difference, ala Dr. House. Gary apologized about the Ant Issue.

In the evening, she gave her "goodbyes" to everyone. She told me to thank the nursing staff. She said I was a good daughter and she was very proud of me. She said I should tell Gary he was a good son-in-law. He came by and helped her eat. The Ant Issue is in the past.

Nonetheless, the staff said her stats were fine, so I came home.

The Hospital: Day 3

The Meth Family Whiners have been replaced by a nice, quiet Catholic Lady.

I heard her on the phone. "Oh, my roommate is a young girl. She was hurt in some kind of accident. It's  terrible, really. I feel quite sorry for her."

Okay, I thought, why is New Roommate  lying  to her friends? Like, is this some  Munchhausen's Roommate  by Proxy illness?

Later, I poked my head behind the her curtain and asked to borrow a chair. She said yes, and asked me how old my daughter was. "Ummm...you mean my Mom? She's seventy-one." And then I thought, well, yeah, she can't hear Mom, because she's too short of breath. All she hears is me making fun of Mom.

"What's that? Shoes? Shoes coal? Coal in your shoes? Christmas? Shoes cold? Your shoes are cold. Oh! Your shoulder's cold! Water, Helen, w-a-t-e-r!"

So, yeah. that would suck if I were Mom's mom.

Progress

1. Instead of the usual diagnosis of "We don't know what's wrong with your Mom but it's nothing serious," today the doctor said, "We don't know what's wrong with your Mom and it's serious."

2. Walking about the halls and bravely soldiering on through your tears really impresses the nursing staff. The next time they ask, "Is there anything I can get you?" I'm going to say, "Can I fly in the  helicopter?"

3. Missouri Baptist is being overrun by Catholics. I heard a nurse say to the MethTeeth family, "Oh, you use Lourdes water? I bathe in that." Then one gave testimony to how Saint Andrew has personally watched over her mother.

4. The biggest progress is the MethTeeth family has moved on. Here are some things I wanted to say to Mrs. MethTeeth (who incidentally is a huge 70 year old Jefferson County white woman):

• The reason your daughter isn't visiting you in the hospital is because you say things like, "Just stay at work, don't worry about MY feelings. You'll feel bad when you hear what they are doing to me."
• Going to rehab is a good thing, especially when it's physical rehab, where you are going, instead of Amy Winehouse rehab, where you should go. (She actually said, "They say I gotta go to rehab." But she left off the "No No No.")
• Perhaps the arthritis wouldn't hurt your ankles as much if you weighed 100 pounds less. And maybe you could take a step then without saying "Ooohhh, my ankles."
• And maybe you might stop whining about how much it hurts to walk when you are in a room with someone who can't walk.
• Stop whining about everything.
• When the nurse says, "Have you been feeling constipated?" don't say "No, Why?" as if to suggest, "No, but I will be completely impacted now that you suggest it would be another way to get pity."
• It isn't your husband's fault you are addicted to painkillers, even though he bought in to your bullshit and convinced the nursing staff that he had been administering your pain medicine "incorrectly."
• Seriously, meth, painkillers and methadone? And they send you home with a morphine pill?
• Your son, the one who bought you the carrot cake balls from Provisions that I served at tea? He's gay.
  

Fresh Hell

Mom has a roommate at the hospital. I respect her privacy, so I won't tell you about any addictions she might have. But, the roomie, who I will call MethTeeth, is around sixty.

She and her husband.

Talk baby talk to each other.

All. Day. Long.

Secret of the ER

This is how to get results in an ER: Cry. Just cry solidly through the first hour. Quietly, so as not to upset your mother, but consistently, so they actually ADMIT your MOTHER to the hospital, instead of another one of these episodes.

So, Mom is sharing a room with a meth addict. Other than that, the people at Missouri Baptist kick ER ass. Or, kick bottom, because they are Baptist.

Or does it explode?

My high school was newly integrated the first year I went there. You would think I'd have tales of riots, public demonstrations, protesters, National Guard and such, but no.  In fact, you couldn't that tell my school was integrated. I never saw a single student of color in the halls, much less my classes. I would go to our infrequent assemblies and notice the leftmost quarter of the bleachers was an uninterrupted field of brown. "Oh, yeah, those are the kids from Kinloch," I'd think, "Because of the busing. I forgot."

There are several possibilities why I never saw any of them:

1. I passed them in the halls and they were invisible to my middle-class white eyes.
2. They missed the bus they had to catch early in the morning.
3. They took a different track of classes; I was in the college prep classes and they weren't.

I always thought the reason was #3, but after watching Raisin in the Sun the other night I'm starting to think it was #1.

We studied Raisin in the Sun in college-prep English that first year. (After viewing it on TV, I would like to applaud the curriculum director for his or her behemoth stones.) We discussed it at length, and debated assimilation, and were scandalized that anyone would want to buy out a black family. And then I think I must have gone into the lunchroom and floated past all the tables full of  African-American kids without seeing them.

In a similar example of Ballsy Curriculum, our senior play was South Pacific. I remember the Theater instructor sighing over the casting options: for a play about prejudice, with several juicy roles for people of color, only one kid from Kinloch had tried out.

Then she admitted that given the bus schedule, bussed kids who participated in the musical would have had a twelve-hour school day three times a week. Perhaps they didn't think of that.

(As I type this, the guest on the Colbert Report is this minute saying, "You can't integrate what's invisible." Kind of spooky.)

I've heard that we are to be color-conscious, not color-blind. I'm certainly conscious of how very ethnically diverse my new TeddyJ team is. Every race, creed, sexual orientation is represented. If I'm color-blind, I'm dismissing a part of each one, if I'm color-conscious, start the pool of how many days before I'm fired for some stupid overly-direct remark.

Obsession CD

I'm going to confess something. Then you're going to say, "Oh, yeah, I do that too," and then I'm going to say, "Yeah, well I do that all the time," and you'll be all, "To what degree?" and I'll tell you, and you'll say, "Whoa." Quietly and with fear.

I hit the repeat button on my car CD player when there's a song I like, and I let it repeat until I get to my destination.

("Oh, yeah, I do that too"..."Yeah, well I do that all the time" ... "To what degree?")

I have listened to nothing but I Live With It Every Day, every day, for the last month. Well, every day I had access to my car. It started two weeks before the cruise. 

Sometimes, I would turn off the car, perhaps in the middle of the song, resetting the repeat function, then when I'd get back in I'd hear a few notes of Old Apartment, then jump back.

Going on the cruise and being away from the car CD player didn't break me of the habit. I got back in the car, the song started up, I hit repeat. (Any trauma associated with people sporting sequoias on stage had no ill effects.)

So it's been almost two weeks since the cruise. I have progressed from not only loving this song, but to loving individual consonants in this song. Specifically: "The only thing that they can't take." ("The guilt that spirals in my wake." Sigh.)

I took Mom somewhere in the car today, and I was a big girl and switched out the CD. It made me wonder what qualities certain songs have that get me obsessed. Are there themes? Rhythms? I heard that there's a secret chord? What?

So, I'm going to burn a CD of these songs:

Three songs by Leonard Cohen: Tower Of Song, Take This Waltz, and Closing Time

Closing Time would be followed thematically by Kevin Hearn and Here Come the Chimebell Trains

There would be two Weakerthans songs, Sun In An Empty Room and Civil Twilight. At least, I remember I was once obsessed with Sun In An Empty Room, and I would have heard it again today when I drove home from Mom's, but I couldn't get past Civil Twilight.

For most Barenaked Ladies songs, there's an obvious theme: Running Out Of Ink, This Is Where It Ends, Next Time, War on Drugs - suicidal, much? But then, why Break Your Heart? But that would explain Green Day and St. Jimmy.

There are some lyrically uplifting songs, from Guster - I Hope Tomorrow Is Like Today - and  Ben Folds - Still Fighting It 

There are relationship songs:
Blondie - Hanging On The Telephone
Liz Phair - Polyester Bride
Pelle Carlsberg - I Love You, You Imbecile

And finally, some unclassifiable songs:
Blondie - The Hardest Part
Cat Empire - Sly
Fountains of Wayne - Strapped For Cash

The big question is: what song do I put first? Because I'll be listening to it for a month; I'm not exaggerating.

A Cheer

Gimme a W!

Gary is home sick with the flu. He sent me an e-mail at work today that said, without any irony, that he was optimistic about this clinical trial. He also said something else involving the word "proud" that I can't bring myself to transcribe. Forgive me.

Gimme a T!

I purchased a pre-packaged cup of Ted Drewe's chocolate frozen custard for myself. Gary is sick, so I had no idea he would find this tempting. He swallowed it whole last night, but then re-stocked the freezer with a pint of Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Gimme an F!

I had just this day railed at Gary on Katie's blog about men's inability to do more than balance the new roll on top of the empty roll. I walked into the bathroom this evening and saw a completely untouched roll of toilet paper on the spindle.

I know tomorrow he'll be back to normal, but for tonight I can't think of a bad thing to say about him.

Miners

When I was in 10th grade, my American Studies teacher showed us a movie, The Big Carnival (later renamed Ace In the Hole). It was an old movie (black and white! Kirk Douglas! Ew! Groady!) and Mr. Stevens was enchanted by the way Kirk struck a match with the typewriter carriage. (Oh...just look it up, kids. Carriage Return. Right after Carbon Paper in the Big Book of  Quaintness.)

The reason this movie related to American Studies class was because we were studying media, and specifically, Floyd Collins. On the up side, I still remember clearly Floyd Collins and how he was trapped in a cave-in. On the downside, I'm not sure how much is fiction. Did they decide to dig Floyd out from the top of the mountain down so it would take longer and earn the town more tourist money? Did Floyd have a big speech right before he died? Did the journalist who told his tale look like Kirk Douglas?

I think of that movie whenever there is yet another mining disaster. And - and I want you to know I am ashamed of how disgusting I am - I stay up all night watching what I think of as "The Miner Show." The best episode ever of The Miner Show was the very special Quecreek episode. That was the one that lasted till Geraldo Rivera went out to get dinner, and nine miners were rescued while CNN played the Breaking News logo every five minutes whenever a miner came up, and Jeff Flock took over for Geraldo and I fell in love with him because he was like a big puppy chasing his tail and jumping all over the allegedly sincere journalists. Like Geraldo.

Of course, the Sago Mine episode was not fun. I stayed up expecting to see twelve back-to-back Breaking News logos, but they let me down. Luckily, I stuck with CNN, because while Fox can punch up a crisis with rumors, they called this one all wrong. At least Anderson Cooper didn't quite believe his source and said all twelve miners were "allegedly" saved. I see CNN is rerunning this episode tonight.

This current Utah episode about is running overly long, and now CNN is suggesting the miners are being left to die because one complained about the safety conditions in the very level of the mine they are thought to be in. Jacking up the drama? Pandering to those of us who treat human tragedy as entertainment?

All I can say is there had better be a very happy ending to this episode.

Stupid clients leaking over into other areas.

Stupid evil clients:

Do not observe holidays.
Do not observe weekends.
Do not care that my marriage is sucking at a greater and greater velocity.
Are inarticulate.

Yeah, I said it, my marriage is sucking. Just for me, not for Gary, evidently. It should not be this hard after 22 years. I feel like we've been married two years, and that's a bad, bad thing.

I blame the clients.

Catholic Marriage Discussion Guide

Our Question Today: How Accurate is the Catholic Marriage Discussion Guide at predicting marital discord 22 years later?

If you married a Catholic, you may have been administered this test by the Church.  You were asked a series of questions. Then your answers were evaluated to see if you agreed with each other, and more importantly if you agreed with the Church. If the two of you matched, but disagreed with the Church, you got a 66% or an F. The test was graded by category, and a failing score meant you needed to have a sit-down with the priest and be re-educated.

We flunked with a 67% overall. Here are our scores and a few sample questions from each category.

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We tanked on Religion and Philosophy: 43 %

Q. I worry that my relationship with God and my Church is not all it should be.
A. Gary=Agree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Are we supposed to be complacent? This was a trick question!

Q. We agree on the church whose teachings and moral values will guide us in raising our children.
A. Gary=Agree / Me=Undecided / God=Agree
Gary asked later, "Ellen, don't you know enough to lie on that question?"

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Well, that question tripped me up, but not as much as the section on Children: 53%

I was able to lie for about six questions. Then Satan failed me and every answer was "Unsure."

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We gained back some points with Personal Adjustment: 79%

Q. My future husband/wife has certain mannerisms which annoy me.
A. Gary=Disagree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Seriously, the Church expects me not to be annoyed by the way he chews six sticks of gum at a time and sounds like a cow? Really? It's so gross, God.

Q. My future husband/wife frequently seems to be depressed.
A. Gary=Disagree / Me=Disagree / God=Disagree
HaHAHAHAhhahaha! Just wait a few years, people.

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Clearly the test failed us in not warning us about In-Laws: 71%

Q: There is no interference from family members about our choice of housing and/or furnishings.
A: Gary=Agree / Me=Agree / God=Agree
Oh, we are all so happy in our agreement. This is before the de riguer blue goose in the kitchen and the Mary Englebreit switchplates and the immortal unbreakable cement fire hydrant that is still out in our backyard.

Q: I am uncomfortable when I am around some of my future in-laws.
A: Gary=Disagree / Me=Agree / God=Disagree
Well, I can lie about children, but I don't think God would have let me leave the room alive if I'd said "Disagree."

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Sexuality: 82% - yeah, baby. Our best score. We only got one wrong:

Q: For me sex and love are definitely separate things.
A: Gary=Agree / Me=Disagree / God=Disagree
I think Gary's response in the discussion with the priest that ensued was "Uh...love is a feeling, and sex is an act..you do ... to show that feeling? Is that right?"

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At no point in the process did they ask questions like:

Q: I will be okay if my future husband/wife decides to work 18 hour days.

Q: We have agreed how to budget our time.

Q: We think dogs are just like people, really, and if they poop a baby wipe should be applied to their bottoms.