Report from the Love Shack

Hahahaha. Just kidding.

I went to a wedding today though. The bride and groom kissed like crazy.

That looked like fun.

And in other news:

My mom got accepted into hospice care this morning.

Hold your horses.

All it means right now is that there's better pain management--and I'm happy beyond measure about that. I had a glass of champagne (all by myself) when the nurse left. The champagne was already in the fridge, opened and re-corked. Because friends.

And it made a big difference in my mom's day, taking those pills in four hours instead of six.

The big thing--and this is huge. I can call a nurse any hour of the day or night. The nurse will come to the house if I say we need her. Amazing. I keep looking at that piece of paper on my fridge, thinking, oh my god, there is a number I can call and someone will be right over.

That's what people do when you live near family members, right? I was away at college when my dad died very suddenly of a heart attack. It was evening. February. The roads were probably icy and it was mostly likely colder than hell. People came over. Yes, I have friends, excellent and generous and gracious friends, but I find it harder to impose on friends, especially in the middle of the night. Shortly after my divorce when I was living alone, I took a bunch of pain pills and bandaged my eye and went to sleep after my dog poked her toenail in it. I knew I had a scratched cornea. In the morning I drove myself to the eye doctor while holding a towel over half my face.

And here's the really amazing part--my mom can still go visit relatives in Maryland (which means I can take a trip with a friend) and be on hospice there. And then come back and be on hospice here. Well, the arrangements aren't totally solid yet, but it's in the works.

Originally, the word hospice meant simply an inn for travelers, I think.

And we're all just traveling through.

Sleep well.

Ventura Highway in the Pouring Rain

The title of this post is a song lyric I imagined into existence. The lyric is really "Ventura Highway in the Sunshine" (from  the band, America, 1972) which makes a lot more sense. It is, however, raining here in southern California as I write this. My research does support my recollection that there was another 1972 song called "It Never Rains in Southern California." We are obsessed here with rain in this very dry place besieged with wildfires and besotted with swimming pools, golf courses, and non-native greenery. So it's raining, and there will be mudslides in the area that recently burned. If I were to turn on the TV which I won't, there would no doubt be a newscaster in front of a graphic titled Storm Watch or Storm of the Century. It's all hype as many things are here--except of course for the poor people whose houses will fill up with mud.

The batten down the hatches oh my god it's raining mentality is a southern California phenomenon that used to bemuse me when I first moved here. I was doing theatre then and a rainy night always meant no-shows and the not as cozy as it sounds experience of having more people on stage than in the audience. But I've lived here far longer than anywhere else and now I feel that way too. I'm sitting on my couch watching the rain hit the water and waiting for my mom to wake up. I'm still in my pajamas and I'm thinking, wow these are nice pajamas and I just might not get out of them today, because, you know, it's raining. And of course I can't really go anywhere anyway since I don't have a caregiver lined up for my mom yet.

And now she's up. Question for the day. Will I be at the orthopedist's office this afternoon....or drinking champagne in my pajamas with friends.

********

This just in. Orthopedist.

And a fine Christmas it was!

the daughters

Thanksgiving is our holiday.
Christmas is when the daughters go off to be with the families of their significant others.

This year was different. With  C's husband off doing his four-week shift of work out on a boat, and M's girlfriend with her family on the east coast alone, both daughters were here. Old friends had their adult children home for the holidays too, so I made dinner. I was waaay to busy to take pictures, so you'll have to believe me when I tell you the lemon bars were better than ever and that the flourless chocolate cake with the powdered sugar snowflake stenciled on top was divine. I made a green salad with mini heirloom tomatoes that looked like Christmas lights and  roasted veggies that were white and red and green with a little orange thrown in for good measure (cauliflower, red peppers, brussels sprouts, and carrots.) I made salmon in vermouth with dill and I grilled a marinated tri-tip that I wish had been more tender--but people ate it. My friend Ellen brought her  famous wine jello. There was pink champagne and ginger ale and lots of coffee, and I stayed up talking until 1:30 a.m.

I meant to take a picture of all the dirty glasses this morning, but I washed them instead.

I meant to tell everyone how happy I was that they were here--and I think I did that, but if I'd said it fifty times it still wouldn't have been enough to express how much I love these people I got to spend Christmas with.

And the day after tomorrow the son and his family will arrive, so the love will multiply.

the mothers

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.

Austerity Budget: Margaritaville Style

I went for the vodka first. Both bottles had been in the freezer for a year. One purchased by me for a New Year's Eve punch, the other left by some house guest or another. Vodka and orange juice garnished with a twist of lemon and a slice of blood orange. Pretty.

The bourbon was next. There were two bottles of that, too. How do these things appear in my pantry? I haven't a clue. I used some of it to marinate prunes--like the French do with Armagnac. The rest I designated for manhattans. That went on for a night or two, but it seemed wasteful to dilute such good bourbon with bitters and sugar. The prunes were quite tasty when I previewed them, so I decided to save the bourbon.

My attention then went to a half used bottle of tequila--not really enough to save for a pitcher of margaritas. Sitting next to it in the far back corner was a nearly full bottle of cassis. I'm sure I was thinking of kir royales when I bought the cassis, but champagne is not something I'm likely to have on hand. I tried orange juice as the mixer, but it looked like mud with the cassis. On to cranberry juice which looked much better. Good-bye tequila. Um...hello, cassis...your're still here? My you're tall. I'm not sure what I'll do with the rest of that bottle. Has anyone marinated anything in cassis? Suggestions for cheap champagne that doesn't end in a headache?

Yesterday I bought four bottles of very inexpensive red wine. The tasting will begin Friday evening. I'm determined to find a cheap wine that I adore.

Austerity in Margaritaville is more like a party than austerity.

You're invited. But don't bring any bourbon or cassis.

Oh Come, Oh Come, More Hours of Daylight

Christmas Supper

blush Champagne

smoked salmon

brie

havarti

olives 

sourdough

cookies

And a sunset walk to the store with the man who loves me to procure them.

These delicious things bring light, too.

My mom and my camera could not quite find their moment, but the photo seems apt anyway.

Report from Pillville: the vascular surgeon, the pulmonologist, the cardiologist, the endodontist

Chill. It's pretty much good news.

 I might have busted out a bottle of champagne tonight after the crown fell off of my mom's tooth that has the root canal in progress. No pain is always a reason for celebration, right? I did call the dentist (the regular dentist and not the endodontist) and explain to him that we'd just finished dinner --which meant that I'd polished off two glasses of wine and  could not drive the 20 miles to the endodontist--even if he would see us. No worries, the regular dentist said. She's not in pain because the nerve on the root canal tooth is out of commission so, call us at 8:00 a.m. and we'll work her in tomorrow and cement the crown back on.

Earlier today we had a post-carotid artery, post-echocardiogram follow-up with the cardiologist. Yes, there's a slight amount of plaque in the carotid. Yes, there's a bit of leakage in two heart valves. Blood pressure and heart rate are fab. All over condition is summed up as stable. Hooray for not smoking.

At some point this week (geez, is it only Wednesday?) we also had a follow-up with the vascular surgeon. He's happy with the outcome of the procedure my mom had on Nov. 1. Her feet and legs look better and feel better. She's walking better. The ultrasound shows increased circulation.  Hooray for not smoking.

I have no fucking idea when, exactly, but sometime very recently we also went to the pulmonologist--who, himself, is 80 years old. A charming man. The office is housed in a quirky cottage with office staff so nice that I feel like I should show up with donuts or a fruit basket or a tray of Starbucks peppermint mochas with extra whipped cream. Her lungs sound fine. Better even. Hooray for not smoking.

Cardiologist and pulmonologist follow-ups are in four months. We don't see the vascular surgeon until June. Holy shit. I'm going to have to start writing again. I mean like really writing and sending work out because now I'm actually going to have time to read those rejection letters. I've decided that henceforth all of my mom's appointments are going to be scheduled for Mondays and Wednesdays. Preferably these will also be the days when teeth fall out, and hearing aids get lost, and we run out of gin. Because I'm going to try to remember how to write--and I'll need Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays to figure that shit out.

photo credit: Sam Kunz

Moving On

The movers arrived shortly before 9:00. By 4:45 all of the furniture was unwrapped and set in place. My garage is a heap of confusion. The kitchen is a mess. There may be a lamp shade missing.

I'm exhausted.
But Piper, my 18-yr-old cat, seems to have barely noticed that she's been plucked from one location and deposited in another. At my old place she hung out under the sink in the powder room. Here, she's already looking comfy under the sink in the laundry room.

My first dinner in the new place:

It just might be breakfast tomorrow, too.