camping with diane

For those of you troubled about the lack of personal time for news anchors, I may be able to begin putting your concerns to rest.

This just in:

Diane Sawyer will, in fact, accompany me on an upcoming camping trip. She said she always regretted not having been outside her own back yard when she was much younger and the only place her parents would pop a tent was over a culvert and c'mon, what kind of adventure is that?

The fiesta weekend location has not yet been determined, but I have reassured her that I won't ask her to cook, nor will I demonstrate fire-starting techniques - unless she wants to learn. She's excited and she's planing to pack yellow shirts.
It's true! We talked while I slept last night.

freud is dead

mmmmeaty, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It's not been a swell week at the McMansion.

Allergies maintain weighty status as, officially, The Plague. With recent cold wet spring weather I have have several days' worth of the throb of what I can only guess is every single vein between my scalp and my skull. ka-BLAM. ka-BLAM.

I noticed a listing on a local real estate site early this week - beautiful old property that had been partially rehabbed in a commercially-zoned location in an idyllic little berb 40 or so minutes outside of Big City Proper. The obsessive thinking began as soon as I saw it: 3500 sq. ft., two story, 150 year old building, not built to be a house. Right up my alley.

I decided that I had to eyeball for myself, so I drove out on a whim, poked around, peeked into windows and felt excited about telling KD about this treasure I'd found. We returned mid-week to see it together. The owner met us there and took us on a walk-through and we talked about the long sordid history of the building and its previous occupants. Small towns are great places to go if you're serious about getting the real dirt on a subject.

After we thanked the owner for his time and for opening up the building for us, we drove to a neighboring village for dinner and a beer at The Grumpy Troll. In the end we've agreed that while the building is beautiful, we wouldn't possibly be able to afford both the mortgage payment (which, honestly, is really quite reasonable) AND the rehab costs (which would be prohibitively expensive because there is nothing noth-ing NOTH-ing but beams, 100 year old insulation and mouse turds in there and we'd have to put stuff like walls, floors and a toilet in it. We'd need appliances too. A stove would be nice.

I'm as disappointed saying no to this place as I've been with the others we've looked at together. They're like children to me, these vacant houses ... they need me. I can take one or two quick glances over a place and I can identify each one's needs and wants as instantaneously as I once was able to do with my son.

The despair I experience over each of these 'give the baby back to it's rightful parents' open house tours is big, consuming, and real. The reality of the situation, however, is that I've been here before. I know the territory. If you were to turn off the light I could still feel my way through, it's that familiar. And I'll surely get past it, just like I have each of those other times. If history is any indicator I'll be feeling less hopeless in about, oh, 48 more hours.

It would have been amazing to have potential studio space, or a darkroom, or a chiropractic office for the missus, yes. But I subscribe to the belief that it'll be alright in the end, so if it isn't alright it isn't the end and I have to believe that I will find that particular house with the trees in the front yard growing tall and strong as they wait for me.

As roller coaster-ey as my emotions have been over disappointing house hunting, I may have overexerted something in one or both hemispheres due to that + the sinus/headache/allergy thing. I feel like I'm melting. I'm starting to feel the sensation of slipping below the radar again. nudge nudge wink wink. When she says that it means 'she's symptomatic'.

KD is (wisely) giving me wide berth; I think I scare her a little when I'm experiencing 'Not Quite Right' days; I'm pretty sure I scare her -nearly to death, is my best guess- when there are several in a row. So tonight I stayed home, alone, to watch a video rental while I'm having my snivelfest. I popped 'Running With Scissors' in and felt an instant wave of peacefulness rush through me once the Seriously Crazy shit began. Yessssss. These are my people.

It didn't occur to me at the time to mark the time stamp of the DVD player when my telephone rang; now I kinda wish I had. Well, whatever time it was, it was the scene when the Natalie and Augusten knock out the kitchen ceiling for a skylight because they hated the kitchen and needed high ceilings.
Which all sorta makes sense.

A woman's voice: Hello, Beth?

Yes?

Is this Beth M?

Yes, this is Beth. Who's calling?

Do you recognize me?

Excuse me?

Can you tell who it is? Guess who it is!

Uhmm, no. No, I can't. Where do I know you from?

I'm a blast from the past, hunh? she laughs.

I am silent. Hampsters leap onto wheels in my head trying to scramble through 20 years' worth of incidentals, trying to put a face to the voice.

...

It's JAAAAANNNNEEE!

Jane?

Yeah! Remember me?

Well Jane, now that you mention it ... no. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've no idea who you are.

It's JANE. JANE! From St. Louis!

I absolutely believe you, Jane, but I don't know who you are. I've never lived in St. Louis.

Remember when you lived on (unintelligible) Street? And I lived down the street with Louis?

She's having what sounds like a lovely walk down memory lane but I for real and for true wasn't there. I don't know what to say.

This is Beth M, right? I've reached Beth M?

Yes, I am Beth M but I thi---
And you're married to Bill?

I had to laugh. No, I am not married to Bill.

You and Bill aren't married?

No, I mean -- I never have been married and I really haven't been married to anyone named Bill.

she pauses.
You're Beth M and you live in Madison? Is that right?

Yes. Yes both parts of that are true but I think you'r--
Well I wonder if there could be two Beth M's?

If only the woman would've stopped shrieking into the telephone for three seconds I would have told her about how yes, there are two of us and why do I know this? I know this because 10 years ago or so I picked up my meds at Walgreens and as I was leaving the store I happened to glance into the bag only to find something that looked nothing at all like the meds I was taking at the time. I returned them to the pharmacist, who apologized to the moon and back for the mix-up. Apparently none of us figured there'd be more than one person with my name. With her name. Er, with our name.

In fact, periodically for years after I would chuckle to myself, imagining the zany fun we all could have had if she'd received my meds.

Oh, well. Say, we're on State Street right now.

Ah, you are? Well. Well, good. I hope you enjoy your visit.

We're hungry and we're looking for a good restaurant for dinner. What can you recommend?

what?! This stranger still has not found her person but she's willing to get dining recommendations from the total stranger that I am to her?

Uh. Hmmm. Well, do you like vegetarian? There are a couple of pretty great Himalayan restaurants on State Street.

Ohhhh, well, no. We really want steak. Are there any good steak places?

Steak places.

Yes, steak places! I really was trying to reach the Beth M. who is married to Bill because she's the only person we know in this area. But we'd like to have steak for dinner.

Uhhh. Okay, well it'll be a bit of a walk up to the capital square but Johnny DelMonico's is up there and is supposed to serve a great steak.

Donny?

No, J-o-h-n-n-y. Delmonico.

Oh, okay. Well that will be fine because we're just over at the Doubletree. It's not too far.

I am momentarily struck both dumb and blind.
I cannot picture where a hotel called Doubletree is, not anywhere within the entire city limits. I'm not really sure why she's telling me any of this. To be honest, I'm still stuck on how she'd trust a stranger she'd essentially crank-called to give her dining recommendations. And I'm puzzled why she doesn't seem the least bit concerned that she hasn't reached her 'good old times' friend from St. Louis?

Any other suggestions?

No, I guess that's it for now. I mean, it's not every day that someone calls me to reach someone else who shares my name, then asks me for recommendations for restaurants that I'm not accustomed to dining at for their steak recommendations which I don't generally order. Yeah, try DelMonico's.

Okay, we'll give that one a try. Thanks!



One of my favorite quotes of the movie came shortly after I pushed the 'play' button to continue it from where I'd paused the show when the phone first rang. This would have been just after Jane and I said goodbye to one anther.

"According to Hope, Freud died of kitty leukemia. According to me, Freud died of being trapped in a laundry basket for four days without food or water."

This is my life.
True story.

hard to choose one

hard to choose one, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Did you ever have to make up your mind
Pick up on one and leave the other behind
It's not often easy and not often kind
Did you ever have to make up your mind

-- Lovin' Spoonful

unamerican

why that's just plain unamerican, son, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Let's just get comfortable while we're here, shall we?
Here, I'll start.

I'll prudently lay this one card on the metaphorical table while we're stopped at this particular red light.

You?

renaissance man

renaissance man, originally uploaded by McBeth.

It takes a certain tenor of toddler to wear whatever the hell he'd like to wear, even if it means it's a skirt and all the grownups around him either swoon or freak OUT because oh gosh, could he be gay? Is he demonstrating effeminate tendencies what with those fag-toy barbies and the swishing swirling skirts?

Here's the deal right from the auntie's mouth, folks: For the record, I BOUGHT him that skirt and he likes it and I like that he likes it. SHUT. THE FARK. UP.

Seriously, right now, just stop.

What does it matter? He's a beautiful imaginative sweet well-mannered kid who calls me 'auntie' in a way that melts me on even my meanest days. People of certain religious convictions and people who have nothing better to worry about can go climb a tree. This boy is the fellow who isn't afraid to have emotions, play with "girl" toys, and play with me as though I was the neatest coolest most magnificent person ever in the history of the universe.

That matters. So leave it alone and let's just love him and all the other little boy children who prefer to dress and redress their barbie dolls to bang up smash ups.

before i call the vet

dwindling supply, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Before I call the vet... I will brush his coat. He's either disinterested or having difficulty cleaning himself and he could use a de-matting.

Before I call the vet... I will sort out where he'll be buried.

Before I call the vet... I will continue giving him IV fluids so he's not too weak to make what I can only imagine will be a long journey.

Before I call the vet... rather than listening to him yowling on the other side of my closed bedroom door I will bring him inside to sleep with me.

Before I call the vet... I will whisper a few more secrets to him, because I know he will keep them safe, as he has with hundreds of others over all these years.

scarlett's hands

I have two weeks' worth of nephew and niece visits to catch up on but it's been a little chaotic at the McMansion and I can only do what I can do. That means I have a backlog. That means I feel some guilt for having let more than is balanced and comfortable for me go. That means it might slightly resemble a constipated digestion tract around these here parts for a bit, but I can promise that it will be neither horribly painful nor will it last long.

So please enjoy my youngest niece's hands while she learns the secrets of untying the knots on her momma's drum. She and I hung out together for a little while when her momma had an appointment (and a not-exactly-small need to get the heck outta dodge for some grownup time). Daddy had to work today too, so Scarlett and I flopped on pillows, played with stuffed animals, made noises like real animals, read books, and played music until The Momma(tm) returned.

Scarlett's parents encourage her to try nearly everything that won't outrightly hurt her. In that 'don't break the baby' category there are only a few no-nos and the few are mostly diet-related. She is life-threateningly and intensely allergic to tree and ground nuts, eggs and dairy so she eats nearly entirely from a whole food diet to avoid the hidden bombs that might be waiting for her in prepared foods.

She's got a somewhat frightening amount of language for an 18 month old. I don't remember my son speaking in sentences at that same age but Scarlett can string together 4-5 words that make grownup sense. She appropriately uses pronouns. She can ask questions. She can save and recall complicated multisyllabic words. Wow. As the parent of a boychild I never bothered getting my knickers in a knot over where he was on that imaginary bell curve; you know, the one that indicates the precise, the accurate and the earlybirds along with the dingbats, the slowpokes, and the late bloomers ... frankly, I had enough to contend with raising him on my own, so I was glad to have him however he developed. And he's done perfectly.

As for my sister, I tease her by telling her she's gotten exactly the child she was meant to have. And that her baby is a freak.

goodness me, what terrible google manners

dam yellow dot, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Confidental to Rhode Island:

You may well be trying to find disparaging compatriots in your googlesearch but I think you'll have to move along 'cuz there's nothing to see here.

Fine, you think Tret Fure sucks. Got it. But consider for a moment that you, yourself, might not be Tret's cuppa tea either.

At least Tret has the decency to keep that information to herself.

noise

Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as if she has laid an asteroid.

-- Mark Twain

the de- and reconstruction of dorothy

She has watched the love of her life introduce himself all those years ago at a dance, all dapper and with that sneaky trouble-making grin on his face. She didn't see it at the time, but that handsome gent nudged his buddy, saying 'I bet you I'll marry that girl'. And he did.

Her eyes have watched over four children, all grown up now, with grandchildren of their own.

I remember her eyes, ever supervisory, ever critical, taking in every detail to ensure that any job she undertook - or those we children were asked to do - was done properly, because that is precisely how a job should be done, period.

Laughing wells of tears pooled in her eyes when her husband recounted funny you-had-to-be-there jokes, like those whose punchlines ended with 'a three-legged dog!'.

Sorrowful, heartbroken tears spilled when the love of her life suddenly died. Spend a lifetime with a person and you'll understand just how long it takes to soften into and with your partner. That kind of time is measured in such a way that it now makes sense to me how two people can regularly dislike one another but how they always always returned to LOVE. I used to have a daydream that Archie Bunker was a not-so-distant relative since both men could be such lovable asses. The times were changing, man.

Dorothy and Les had raised their babies and were now occupied with welcoming their great-grandchildren into the world via the tender cradles of their liver-spotted arms, marveling at how interwoven the generations are.

Then just like that, he was gone. Just like that.

Her gaze began to soften after he was buried. What she saw she couldn't remember, and it became clear soon after her husband's death that her perceptions had already begun their slow process of vacating the premises. That man she pledged her love to had pledged it back: he'd been covering for her. For how long was uncertain, but once he was gone it became all too clear that she would be unable to live on her own.

As long as I could remember from my earliest childhood years she had the most immaculately kept spotless glasses of anyone I'd ever met. I envied her spectacle care; 'How does she do that?', the preteen me used to wonder. I had a feeling something wasn't right several years ago when I started noticing that her glasses began collecting spots and smears. The marked change not being the spots and smears so much as the fact that she didn't care so much about them.

That's when her mind began to fail her.



Her hands were so pretty. So strong! She was constantly vexed throughout the years by her tough dry skin that she continually counteracted by rubbing lotions into, to prevent cracking and chafing. One of my younger sisters has been imbued with the DNA of those lovely graceful hands. I envy her for that.

Her hands led a passel of children through all the years to the toy closet, a magical bedroom closet full of old-fashioned lincoln logs, dress-up dolls, wooden train sets, books.

These hands taught me how to use my very favorite toy in that closet. She demonstrated what 'take care of the ViewMaster' meant and yes, indeedy, it WOULD be taken away if I wasn't doing just that.

These hands played thousands of games of Yahtzee.

These hands have fixed tens of thousands of meals for a variety of family and friends. Yes, by scratch ... she didn't believe there WAS any other way to prepare foods. She folded love into her amazing (and, so far, irreproducible) potato salads. She added a pinch of magic to her canned fruits and veggies. Two generations of babies managed through their drooly teething years gnawing on her dill pickles.

These hands baked pies, prepared the rich percolator coffee every Sunday after church; they helped countless batches of church ladies to make countless batches of lefse before the official day and then served astounding amounts of lutefisk at the annual Norwegian dinner.

These hands sewed her children's clothes from what appeared to be nothing. They created quilts from blanket scraps. They made artistic costumes. These fingers were handy with straight pins and smoothly threaded the sewing machine needle. These hands organized each and every surface of each and every room into just so. These hands held whiffy permanent markers, jotting detailed notes on the boxes as she organized closets into streamlined storage facilities.

Affected as they have been by vascular dementia, these hands now practice few movements: smoothing clothing, scratching an itch, holding onto the handrail as she walks or wheels loops around the care facility she no longer knows to call home.

I watched as her hands led her along the guardrail on the wall towards the patio door. I was there to take her to an audiologist appointment. I didn't expect that she would recognize me, but a throbbing keened in my heart as she repeatedly smoothed my green shirt, asking in a phlegmy rasp, 'take me where I'm supposed to be?'.




Her mind ... I cherish the parts that are gone; I cherish what little is left. The CNAs tell me funny stories of my grandmother's finally-developed sense of humor. She had too much responsibility and too much work to do to afford much time for fun so in a strange way this dementia has freed her, has given her a lightness of being. This staunch German woman slaps people on the ass now, just a pat to offer a kind of naïve howdoyado.

It's hard to tell where that reasoning part of us goes when it leaves. Harder yet to pinpoint the particulars of how memories evaporate into a stare.

I have regrets. I wish she could know how much that silly ViewMaster meant to me. I wish I could show her how I still take care of it now, that it was the one item I wanted to have when her home was sold. I regret that I don't spend more time with her.

I've been wondering if her occasional outbursts and willful upsets are more about what she no longer has access to or, instead, about what little she has left? Maybe both? Maybe neither. I miss the old grandmother I used to know, but it surprises me, this overflowing love I feel for my right-now grandmother, who asks little of me but to take her where she is supposed to be.

edited to add: my older sister and I were talking during my recent road trip to her home and family 2.5 hrs away from me. I told her about the experience I'd had taking Gramma to the ear doc and about finding ways to keep her a meaningful part of our family, which I would guess is a thematic issue for those who have loved ones living with dementia. I can't imagine it has been easy for my father and his siblings to lay down their own personal agendas in favor of doing whatever is best for their mother. They each have lives, we grandchildren are now fully grown and we have families of our own. The guard has changed but nobody seems to have been invited to the ceremony so we all seem to ...muddle through, trying to do a token good thing to allay our feelings of guilt.

My sister looked deeply into my eyes when she asked, "I wonder what Grandpa - if he is still here, watching over us all - thinks. I bet he's so disappointed with all of us." I looked back into her eyes and agreed. It breaks my heart to think I've disappointed him. I don't want to disappoint my grandfather.

nearing the (b)end

oxidized gears, originally uploaded by McBeth.

A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.

-- Stewart Alsop

simon says stop

when the law says 'Stop', it's best to stop, originally uploaded by McBeth.

The laws that keep us safe, these same laws condemn us to boredom.

-- Chuck Palahniuk

home

 

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.

-- Maya Angelou

very nearly answering the call of the flippists

building up to the eyelid flip, originally uploaded by McBeth.

You. Yes, YOU.

Let's clear the air right this very moment, shall we?

If you're one of the persons who has been looking for more (more? how about any) eyelid flipping pictures, you're going to have to be patient with me. You see, lid-flipping is not something one should just launch INTO, no! Instead one must build UP to it!

Ahh! A-ha! Yes.

I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't get into the boogedyboogedy-feeling groove that is necessary for an A+ form eyelid flip.

The outtake shots, which shall never be viewed by anyone -ever- but me, are a little bit freaky ('oh dear, does it really look like that? In real life?!') and a laugh riot.

I am not daunted, never fear.
I shall one day prevail ... I SHALL flip my lids!

my $ .02

Confidential to you, the dear sweet soul in Raleigh, North Carolina:

Yes. The definitive answer to the question you posed in the search bar of your browser is YES, cherry-tying is indeed a rare talent, though it's probably worth mentioning that I believe the fact that one can tie the cherry using only one's tongue is less of a compelling factor than the potential future non-cherry applications.

I spent one of my birthdays figuring out how to do it using the guaranteed Tappy Tibbins system and just look at me now!

I Want To Marry A Clockwork Orange Lighthouse Keeper

these ain't yer gramma's tv commercials, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Lyrics by Eigen Erika


I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And keep him company.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And live by the side of the sea.

I'll polish his lamp by the light of day
So ships at night can find their way.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
Won't that be okay!

We'll take walks along the moonlight bay
Maybe find a treasure too.
I'd love living in a light house,
HOW 'BOUT YOU?

The dream of living in a lighthouse baby, every single day.
The dream of living in a lighthouse,
the white one by the bay.

So if you want to make my dreams come true,
You'll be a lighthouse keeper too.
We could live in a lighthouse
The white one by the bay, hey hey.
Won't that be okay.

Yada tada ta ta ta.

the beverage

hot buttered rum lattes, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.

--Woody Allen

withholding love

leave your dignity at the door, originally uploaded by McBeth.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.

-- C.S. Lewis

humble beauty

two stacks, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.

--Camille Pissarro

fashion choices

freshasa, originally uploaded by McBeth.

Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.

-- Albert Einstein