Where is the @%$&*#$ Beach Report?

I'm not quite sure when I was last at the beach.

As my mom's savings erode,  I've been considering our options. It seems like getting a housemate is the easiest option. Of course, I want a quiet, non-smoking, non-drug using, mostly absent, without furniture housemate who is a very nice, very kind person. The universe sent me someone like that when I needed a housemate a few years back, so I don't know if I'm entitled to another one.

With all of my kids and grandkids here over the 4th of July, there were 11 of us here, but keeping space open for those 2 or 3 times a  year gatherings is a luxury. I need to be practical--and so instead of going to the beach I did a massive clean out of my garage so that I can upgrade half of that space to an almost proper grown-up guest room. I've also cleaned out and painted my laundry room which is right next to the garage so that the garage guests can actually find the sink in there for face washing and tooth brushing. I can now hang lingerie to dry in there somewhat discreetly and it's no longer a complete obstacle course to travel from the kitchen through the laundry room to the garage.

I also painted my front door blue while I was at it.

So that's one of the things I've been doing instead of walking on the beach. And hauling crap to Goodwill. And hauling crap to the household toxic waste drop-off (which does not take everything-- so WTF am I supposed to do with half empty cans of butane and solidified silver polish and medical needles? People have this shit. It's not like it's spent uranium fuel rods. Give me a place to take it dear sultans of city and county waste.)

But before you get all aw hell no, this woman should be walking on the beach, I'll also say that I'm spending a very nice portion of my day communicating with a friend who has become more than a friend. We'd be walking on the beach together except he lives in the Midwest and it's hard to do that from there. It's hard to do lots of things when he's there and I'm here, but there's Skype and email and the phone, and while I have no fresh photos of the beach to share with you, I am well and happy. My mom is doing okay. I'm still going to yoga and T'ai Chi Chih, and dancing. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm better than fine and good. Hope you are too.

Amen.

How to Grieve: part 2

1) Say good-bye to your visiting friend.

Well, no, I did not actually paddle her back to Phoenix.

2) Get ready for SIX new house guests.

Confession: I did nothing to get this room ready. Paula did it before she left.

If I were a guest, I'd probably want this room.

Garage turned into kids'  dormitory--slightly less charming if you could see all the crap that is not in the frame.

3) Finish hanging stuff that I "inherited" from Dan.

"It does not have anything to do with anything," the inscription says. I probably said something like, "Everything has everything to do with everything," the moment I first saw this hanging in his place. No matter.

This is where the gong his daughter found in his garage is now hanging. I love it.

4) Eat up all the strawberries to make room for gallon after gallon of milk needed to keep 4 children from coming down with rickets. Or whatever it is that requires children to drink so much milk.

5) Ponder grieving and friendship and bow down to every kindness. Um...almost. I am still bewildered at the friend who left a sympathy card and a cracked and worn bobble-head Santa Claus on my door-step in the wee hours of the morning without letting me know that she'd driven up from L.A. (She does not read this blog.) As we memoirists like to say, you can't make this shit up. Current theory: She confused two boxes and meant to give me booze. 

6) Relish the thought of a full house. 

Report from Pillville: Upside Down and Empty

Normally the clouds pile like pillows over the mountains with a dome of blue overhead. Not today. The sky was a bowl of cotton banded by an edge of blue.

Here in Pillville the daughter was the mother and the mother was the daughter. Everything out of whack and ugly. Back to the doctor for follow up on the  cellulitis lump which once again is MRSA. Antibiotics and anti-nausea. I am anti-everything.

I'm in charge of the clean dishes and the clean laundry, I pleaded and then screamed a half-dozen times today as I sprayed my kitchen counters with Clorox. I took away the towels and replaced them with anti-environmental rolls of paper towels.

All the house guests have gone away, and if I had a hazmat suit, I'd wear it. I am anti-skin, anti-mucus, anti-pus, anti-refrigerator door handle.

The house is empty. So is the bottle of champagne. So is the spot where my mother's magnifying mirror stood. But the sunset was bursting.

In which I circle round and round chasing my tail

Yesterday I bought a bathrobe for which I stood in line for 30 minutes at Macy's. Big sale. Today I took it back so they could remove the security tag. "I'm back," I said to no one in particular when the security system began whooping as I walked in the door.

I went to Vons twice today. Pre-Thanksgiving shopping. Then to pick up one of my mom's prescriptions. This evening she tells me she's out of gin.

Took my car to the car wash. Guess what? It rained.

Got the postcard excusing me from jury duty because I take care of my mom....and she got her summons.

And still no answer from the Someone regarding the conditions of our mediation that have not been fulfilled.

With all of the family fun coming up, I decided to splurge on another kayak. REI is filled to the brim with parkas. Kayaks are out of season. There are car-top carriers where the kayaks used to be.

Ah, well, C and her husband are arriving this evening. I have champagne. I have pumpkins that will be turned into pies, and while they await their fate, they give the kitchen a nice orange glow. I have a pot of soup on. I have everything. I do.

House Guests

There's someone sleeping in my garage.

J arrived on Momday evening--in from Minnesota for a conference. I put her up in fine style, at first. Bedroom with a view of the water. The guest bathroom all to herself. On Thursday, the seafaring folks (daughter C and her husband) blew in from the icy blasts of  Lake Michigan. With only one towel bar in the bathroom that they would now share with J, they set to installing a couple of two-pronged towel hooks. This project was preceeded by an exposé of my neurotic belief that bath towels should not touch one another. My craziness was proclaimed, and C volunteered her towel to co-habitate on a hook with her husband's towel--which I admit, does not seem to be a breach of hygiene.

On Saturday daughter M arrived with her partner (M from her not-so-far-away grad school campus, and S flown in from Minnesota.) It was necessary then to explain our house "sexile" policy which clearly states that those with partners get the private accomodations while singletons are offered the couch or air mattresses in any corner they can find. I should have mentioned that the man who loves me also arrived on Saturday--leaving J clearly in the position of the person to be sexiled.

But I was kind of ready for some high-style sexiled accomodations. The new fancy (relative term) full-height rollaway air bed was unfurled in the garage complete with a hideous million-year-old folding table covered by a tablecloth and bedecked with, not one, but two, battery camping lanterns. As a final welcoming touch, a throw rug (okay, it's more of a doormat) was laid out bedside.

Somewhere in the wee hours of Saturday M's sweetheart discovered she had picked up some food posioning in her travels. The segregation of towels suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea. Antibacterial wipes and Clorox clean-up also took up residence in the guest bath.

The day after tomorrow my friend S will arrive, and we will begin the prep for our Thanksgiving feasting. As I write this paragraph, J has now begun her journey back to the land of ice and snow, so S will enjoy the garage-partment. I believe I invited another friend to sleep over Thanksgiving night. He, too, was once nicely ensconced in a bedroom here while housesitting, but on this visit he will have an air mattress in the living room or dining room. Full disclosure on this arrangement must include that my mother, whose bedroom is downstairs, yells/roars like a bear (not talks--oh no--what she does is not talking) in her sleep. The grandchildren opted for wedging themselves into the upstairs hallway when they were here rather than endure the nightmare inducing bedlam.

So, yes, come to Margaritaville for a visit, dear friends and family. Stay over. But if you come this weekend, I suggest you bring a rope ladder and a very cozy sleeping bag. These things would provide warmth and a private entrance/exit to my balcony where there is a couch.

Or if you arrive in your boat boat, perhaps you could sleep there. Though it's quite possible that you could be awakened by a hungry heron.

Or wait until the crowd departs. No doubt, my mother and I will be lonely when this crew of turkey eaters leaves. Yes, come. I will offer you your own towel hook. I will walk with you on the sand.
I will feed you lemon bars.

 And I swear to god, there will be vermouth. There will always be vermouth.

It was a busy day in Margaritaville. Roberto the painter and his crew arrived early with pistolas and paintbrushes to caulk and paint the new moldings that went in after the floors. Night stands for one of the bedrooms were delivered.

I began a wall of old family photos in the alcove next to my mom's room, and I talked for a while with my brother's girlfriend about the doctors my mom will need--cardiologist, pulmonary specialist, neurologist, etc., and whether or not there's a smaller version of her oxygen machine that can make the move with her from Maryland to California. I called the utility companies, and the phone company, and made plans to cancel my old homeowner's policy, and my internet, and changed my address. There was more unpacking, and my kitchen island is heaped with things that go here and there and who knows where.

The swallows are still nesting above my patio doors, flying in an out, tending and rebuilding, and I feel they are kindred spirits as I feather my new nest. Come September when their nesting season is over, and they are no longer protected by law, I will encourage them to go elsewhere by having the old nests washed down, and a "bird slide" installed. It seems that it's impossible to have just one or two nests, and the bird poop is currently raining down a little too liberally.

The reality of this move is raining down, too--that I'll be more than an hour away from the man who loves me. That I'll be the point person for my mom without any family nearby to serve as back up. That my traveling days are done. But every time I step outside here and smell the ocean air, it feels like what I've been waiting for--that this spot is a destination.

I'm picturing a patio full of friends. Walks on the beach. Kayaking. The blender will be working overtime. People will be too tired to drive back to L.A. The extra bedrooms will be full, and we'll have to break out the air mattresses.

I'm ready. I've got toothbrushes and  razors. Sunscreen and aloe vera. Q-tips, cough drops, and Dramamine. Tequila. Coffee. Open arms.