Report from Pillville: Possums, Pills, Psilocybin, and Other Fine Things

I'm feeling incredibly accomplished.

I have three weeks worth of pills in pillboxes for my mom. I've been doing her pill sorting for several months now, and it only recently occurred to me that I could purchase additional pillboxes instead of refilling one box every week.

And because my mom eats about a quarter cup of jam on her toast every morning, I now have at least a dozen empty jam jars which means that I can pour out a couple weeks worth of martinis instead of doing that every few days.

So the drug and alcohol situation around here is awesome.

If I could just get my hands on some psilocybin, I think my world could quite possibly be transformed. I come so close sometimes to sensing the depth of my situation here as a caregiver. I know in my heart that it's an honor, a privilege, a true act of love, but it's so hard to hold onto that  minute by minute. Sometimes I feel it. A look in her eyes as she looks at me. That thread that pulls tight with something she says. And then it snaps, so frayed that I can't catch hold of it.

There's a possum hidin' in there.

Last night we had a long talk about possums. I wikipediaed the hell out of the subject at the dinner table. She's so curious about the possums in the pot. Just recently she's given up hunting down the booze and now I feel like I have to do possum patrol.

When my girls were little I got them a hamster. We got the furry little beast and the cage and the supplies upstairs to their room. "Do not pick her up or touch her," I said as I dashed downstairs to get some thing or another needed for the project of installing the hamster. You know what comes next. A scream, of course. By the time I ran up the steps, there was a trail of blood from the bedroom to the bathroom. I wonder how many caregivers have gotten the instruction not to let their patient try feeding the possum jam and toast. I'll try not to laugh when I say it to one of our near-palindromic duo (Amy and Mea are their names) arrives. And dear god of small furry things, watch over my mother. And the possum. Because when she's not talking about feeding it, she's considering that maybe it should be drowned in "the river."

Other accomplishments include a recovered chair seat so that it matches the decor. One way to know for sure that I've been body snatched is that I'll stop caring if things match. And I have houseplants. And M sent roses to my mom and to me for Valentine's Day yesterday.

Awesomeness, right? I really hope the next post is not about possums.

Wishes and Coincidences

Like a lot of writers, I have a stash of journals. I've been combing through them lately. Revising stories, tearing out the stuff that stinks and the stuff I'm done with, trying to find some way of organizing all these notes that I jotted down before I hit upon those little notebooks of index cards that work so much better for me. In this effort, I stumbled upon my "divorce notebook." I have no idea what the central purpose of this book was. Some sense out of the chaos, I guess. I kept notes from interviewing attorneys, general questions. Financial stuff, therapy notes. There was this:

Okay. A short list. I might have been able to keep that in my head. But maybe not. I was fucking insane then.

And there was this:

Perhaps I was planning to send the Someone a bill for my moving boxes. I dunno.

And in my effort to visualize what I wanted my new place to look like, I clipped and pasted pictures from magazine and catalogues. 

Pretty, huh?

Okay. I moved. I got some new stuff. That was 2007. Flash forward. Forget that divorce notebook ever existed. Decide aged mother is moving in with me. Move again (it's 2012 now). And flash forward again to 2013. Get more new stuff to furnish extra bedrooms. Months later, find notebook. Walk down hall to guest room. See this.

I love a good coincidence. Who doesn't? But just to add a little weird frosting to the coincidence cake, I didn't choose the guest room bedding in the photo above. Daughter C did. 

I'm floored.....

The floors are in. Moldings yet to come.

The paint color on the accent wall is called "Beach Hut." The other walls are a pale yellow. The picture does not quite capture it.  The window shades have dragon flies on them.

The window shades in here are a tweedy brown. You can see the water from this room, which makes the blue kind of breathtaking.

This is my room. The accent wall, at the head of the bed, is "Bountiful Orange."The other walls are "Pearl." The quilt for my bed is pearl and blue. Opposites on the color wheel are exciting, but I think the room will still be restful because the orange won't be seen while one is lying in bed.

And here we have my favorite nostalgic childhood collection installed in the kitchen. I'm going to have to prop them on little platforms or something. They look like they're sinking. Custer's in enough trouble as it is. It would be good if it looked like his horse had legs.
And the Lone Ranger and Tonto look like they're riding through quicksand.

My dad bought me these horses and riders one at a time starting in about 1956 or so. They've lived with me in 8 different houses. This is their first time displayed in the kitchen. I suppose most people would put pretty plates up there or tea cups or tea pots or something kitchen-y. Or maybe because I live near the beach, giant seashells or sailboats would be an option.

Surprise! I've got cowboys and Indians and soldiers instead.