It ain't all pizzas and cream

Day 30: Sandwich Generation Day

Exhausted.

Morning at the Please Touch Museum with Tori. Like taking chickens to the beach.

Then bring Tori home off for naps and straight out again, this time to the assisted living facility to clean out mom's old room.

Then visit mom in the new place. Four beds to a room. She has a bed and a dresser, that's all. Oh, and two nearly catatonic roommates. She is in surprisingly good spirits tho. Always the optimist, she sees some good in everything. She chats with the staff, jokes, gives everyone hugs. I brought over her clock, CD-player and CDs, and a few family photos. It's a tough place to make "homey." But I'm gonna try.

Too tired to write more. Am gonna call it quits for today.

Day 29: The Wrestler

If I had any energy at all, I'd tell you about transferring my mom from her assisted living facility to full-on nursing home care. I'd tell you that Tori's daycare was closed today and that we had to bring her along. I'd tell you how I hurriedly stuffed mom's clothes and bath articles into garbage bags. I'd tell you about tense and uncomfortable moments at the nursing home's business office, and a cellphone rodeo between the nursing home's business manager and my attorney's office. I'd tell you the nurses put mom on oxygen, even tho she'd never been on oxygen before. I'd tell you about the lost look in mom's eyes. I'd tell you not to let anyone you love get old. If I had the energy. But I don't.

* * * *

So instead I'll tell you about The Wrestler, the new film staring Mickey Rourke and Marissa Tomei. Say what you want about Rourke's personal life, his slightly dickish interviews, his on-and-off boxing career, his collagen-inflated lips. Say what you want. But in The Wrestler, Rourke is perfect.  His balancing act between between repentance and bravado is worth every minute. And Tomei's performance is equally impressive (and I'm really not a Tomei fan). If you ever watched big-time wrestling in the 8os or listened to metal hairbands, you'll feel vaguely nostalgic. If you ever watched Requiem for a Heavyweight, you'll recognize the tragic art of this film.  Amid the desolate landscapes of North Jersey, you'll find an honest portrayal of big-time wrestling. Just how much of the action is rehearsed. And how much of the pain is pure reality.

If you want laughs, go see Fubby the Mall Cop or whatever that silliness with Kevin James is called. If you want grit and heart, see The Wrestler.

Day 28: untitled poem

Strange that the arrival
of tragic news
leaves so many things
   untouched:

The houseplants do not wilt
the salt shakers do not collapse in grief
the book, left splayed on the chair,
   does not burn.

The unpaid bills
do not fling themselves from their perch
nor the phone hang itself
   in sympathy.

That list of errands,
once so urgent, continues
to shout from its magnet
   upon the fridge.

But all you can hear
is the disbelieving thrum
of blood
   in your ears.

Day 27: ex libris

Since my brain is still tapioca, and likely will be for awhile, I thought I'd post another list. These are in no particular order, for I count them all as essential. That is, each has been my personal all-time favorite at one time or another. Likely also is that each of these books has pulled me single-handed through some horrible time, or is deeply tied in my memory to some fantastically good time.

10. Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson
09. Post Office - Charles Bukowski
08. Hunger - Knut Hamsun
07. Ask the Dust - John Fante
06. Down and Out in Paris and London - George Orwell
05. The Enormous Room - e.e. cummings
04. Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry
03. Tropic of Capricorn - Henry Miller
02. Traveling Mercies - Anne Lamott
01. Notes from Underground - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Honorable mention....
Robinson Jeffers, Raymond Carver, Pam Houston, Kenneth Fearing, Harold Norse, Gerald Locklin, Alan Dugan, Franz Douskey, Jeffrey McDaniel, Kenneth Koch, Frank O'Hara, Al Purdy, Al Masarik, Jack Micheline, and Jack Kerouac.

Day 26: 25 Random Things

"All I know for sure is that his brain matter has been completely liquified."
       -Character Walter Bishop in Fox TV's FRINGE
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Given that the above quote applies to me, I'm going to use my "25 Random Things" post from Facebook as my blog post. Yes, I know exactly how much of a feeb that makes me.

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1. Sometimes I get nostalgic for the present.
2. I've played blues harp on two commercially released CD's.
3. I do not like plastic touching my food.
4. My carbon footprint wears a size 11 shoe.
5. Most of my troubles are of my own making.
6. When I see my daughter's face, it is like seeing the ocean for the first time.
7. I have met more go-go dancers than I have cops.
8. I have designed all my own tattoos.
9. I believe in the separation of Church and Rock.
10. More of my poems have appeared in landfills than in libraries.
11. When boarding a train, I tend to choose a rear-facing seat.
12. For years, I could only do laundry if I were drunk.
13. I don’t watch what I eat. Except for car parts. I won’t eat those.
14. I quit smoking years ago but still consider myself a smoker in exile.
15. I am too old to tolerate anyone else’s bad habits.
16. I collect old clocks and radios.
17. My eyes are gray. Please don’t ask if they’re tinted lenses. They’re not.
18. I believe that a pair of socks = two socks without holes.
19. I never learned calculus, and I’m not sorry.
20. Most treat sex as a toy. For me, sex is like being saved from drowning.
21. I miss my father every day. He died in 1979.
22. Someday I want to have a dog named Groucho.
23. I haven’t had an alcoholic drink in over 13 years.
24. I have never been anyone’s boss. Which is fine with me.
25. When I see medical personnel smoking, I am quietly overjoyed.

Day 25: Too many pugs in the cage

I heard that a few days ago, right-wing loudmouth and Grand Wizard of Misinformation Rush Limbaugh claimed that "racism in this country  is the exclusive province of the left." Of course, there are so many things wrong with this statement, it's hard to know where to begin.  Let's just say that those in Limbaugh's camp address the problems of race in this country about as often blind people discuss sunsets. 

So, if Rush doesn't believe racism exists, or at least that Conservatives are never racist (wow, that's a phrase I never thought I'd type), I'm assuming that the real issue is that Limbaugh feels he can't insult President Obama without being branded a racist.  How unfortunate for him. So what better way to lash out than to call the Liberals racists for praising Obama or for pointing out the historical significance of an African-American President. So absurd it might almost be clever. Almost. Except that few if any are buying it.

But there has been a change in America, other than at the Presidential level. Conservative pundits, it seems, have gone from a stance of heartless yet marginally plausible assertions to rabid invectives that make homeless street lunatics with tinfoil helmets sound like students of Cicero.  And it's not just Limbaugh. Yes, I'm looking at you: Hannity, Malkin, and Coulter. 

You know what happens when you place too mny pugs in a cage? A whirling, yapping, snapping froth of aggression. Biting at air. Growling at shadows.  Yeh, it's like that these days among Conservative pundits. They just don't know what to do with themselves. And as President Obama begins to govern with calm determination, their insane rants are likely to worsen. Tho I can't imagine where they'll go from here.

Day 24: Gone missing

Especially during times of stress, I tend to lose personal articles. Mostly small cheap things. Easily replaceable things. But sometimes really expensive things. I just can't remember where I put them, and often when they do turn up, it's in the oddest of places.  And other things just vanish. Poof. Gone. For good.

So, in hopes of stemming this tide--or at least by documenting it shaming myself into being more careful--I have begun to list every lost item, it's last known location, and whether and where it was ever found.

So I leave you with the list so far...to be updated occasionally (unless the laptop goes missing too).
ITEM                                            LAST SEEN                                    FOUND
1 wool cap (blue)                        New Year’s Day parade                1/24 stroller
1 wool cap (black/brown)        New Year’s Day parade                1/28 under kitchen table
1 can opener (white plastic)     Jan 9, Tori had it                          1/31 under couch
1 pair men’s slippers                 Jan 15, livingroom                        1/22 under bed
1 50mm camera lens                 Unknown                                       still lost

Day 23: Social media, the great baby chase, and feeling old

Took a day to try and relax. Mostly to try and forget about the sheer cliff of bureaucratic shale I'm trying to climb as I transition my mom to skilled-nursing care. So I decided to join Cecily and Tori at a meet-up of the Social Media Club of Philly at the Franklin Institute. Am not sure I ever pushed my bureaucratic nightmare out of mind. But it was fun. The Social Media posse was cool. And the baby really loved it. After all, there was a Narnia exhibit (props from the films mostly). Complete with fake snow. No, really. I would have taken photos but there was a strict "no photos" policy in force. Not sure why.  We're talking about used movie props here. And ones not likely to be reused. But nonetheless.

As for the rest of the Institute, many of the classic exhibits are still in place (who's going to move a 35-ton Baldwin locomotive?), and some have even been pimped a bit (the walk-thru heart received a thorough renovation a few years ago, and is now accompanied by several hands-on displays designed to show visitors how unhealthy and ultimately doomed we all are).

Afterward, some of us convened at a local pub/restaurant, where the baby enjoyed running up and down the steps, screwing with the jukebox, and hiding behind the barstools. Sort of a glimpse of the way my life might have been had I kept drinking. No worries, I stayed with the soda.  But while chasing the baby, a younger guy (not one of our Social Media posse) seated at the bar said, "She's got a lotta energy." I agreed. Then he asked if she was my first grandchild. I jumped in (as I've learned to do) and corrected him. "Daughter," I said. "I was 43 when she was born."  Then something happened that I had not expected.  The guy high-fived me, complete with a righteous, "DUDE!"  Read as: "my god, you managed not only to get it up but to actually impregnate a woman at your age." I felt like Barnaby Jones when the prime suspect calls him "Pops."

I was going to tell the guy that I'm pretty much sterile and that my role in the procreative act was limited to jacking-off to old Yugoslavian porn in a dark room at the reproductive endocrinologist's office.

But, I figured, why be a buzz kill?

Day 22: Up, down, and "oh shit I forgot to blog"

Well the day started off well. I had a phone interview that, in all likelihood, will lead to a new (and much needed) freelance client.

Then out for a short celebratory drive in Ruby.

Then home, where I got a call from a nursing home I'm considering as a place for mom. And that's where the good times ended. And I went back to the business of documentation, verification, data collection, etc.  I have an appointment next week to go over said documents at the home.  Will let you know how it goes. But I gotta say, the bureaucracy is daunting. And these are people in the "helping professions."  It's far worse than trying to buy a house when you have bad credit.  I s'pose it's just a process and they have to be thorough, but they act like it's 1936 and I've got a mattress full of Benjamins. And for the record: no, no I don't. I really never had to go thru so many hoops to prove I was broke. That fact was usually self-evident.

So a good day turned to the suck. But hey, I still have the new client. Which is something I sorely needed.

Ah, 11:51.  Blogged and done.

Day 21: Whatever you do...don't get old.

When I have rowed so far from shore
that the lights of homes on the point
seem no more than a finger of stars
and my oars are committed to the sea

Will I remember my daughter's face
or the taste of apricots? Or will all
be erased by the slate-gray line
where the pages of sea and sky meet?

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Had an appointment to tour a local nursing home today. As these places go, and I've been to a few, it wasn't bad. But as these places go, they're rarely good. The residents seemed to have their needs met, the staff-to-patient ratio was good, and the place seemed clean and well maintained. Mom is a tough cookie and a born optimist. So long as she's got her squeezebox, she's happy.

But there is a sadness to such places that is inescapable. A sadness in the few possessions we retain at the end of our lives. The photos, always the photos. Hand-tinted black-and-white photos, faded to pastel pinks and dusty blues. The occasional war medal. The occasional rosary. Those things we are last to release before the boatman comes for us.