Monday, February 28, 2011

I slept quite well upstairs in mom’s room last night.  She and daddy haven’t slept in the same room for a while now because of his snoring. Yet, now that I think of it, she could turn off her hearing aids and spoon nicely with him.  I think I’ll mention that.

Mom has four drawers full of paired and balled socks.  I‘d guess the drawers are one foot wide by one and a half feet deep, five inches high.  I needed to borrow a pair this morning and that is when I discovered the drawer of blue socks, the drawer of green socks, the assorted colors drawer and then the bottom Holiday sock drawer.  I have 12 pairs of socks.  I know this because I just packed them.  I am making sense of the sock inequity by concluding that the number of pairs of socks one has just may equal the number of gray hairs on one’s head.

I discovered a gallon size, zip lock bag half filled with small potatoes.  Where?  On top of the fridge.  So what?  They were oozing brown liquid.

The high school aged son of neighbors is coming over to help me move some furniture and a car door.  I have a good sized bedroom downstairs (which I now refer to as Bob’s auto part store) with a King size bed, my brother’s oversized club chair and ottoman, some wooden thing mom said came out of the camper, five end tables and six cross- stitched cat pictures on the walls - left over from when it was my sister’s room some 15 years ago.  I called her to see if she wanted them.  No, she said, but she’d tell me how to sneak guys in if I wanted.  I’m keeping the bed, chair and ottoman and maybe two end tables.  Guys I don’t want.  And I have plenty of socks.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

I slept in my fur coat last night, truly hoping for the ghost of Mark Twain (or anyone really) to appear.  My imagination had me trying to decide that if a ghost did appear, would I freak or could I maintain my cool and try to communicate with it?  I blame my thoughts for giving me the chills and instead of lighting the fireplace in my circa 1871 canopied bedroom or turning up the thermostat, I thought it rather alluring to toss my coat onto the bed and snuggle underneath.  And perhaps it wasn’t my thoughts at all but the wine I enjoyed all evening as the special kitchen dining guest at The Garth Mansion.  www.garthmansion.com

Co-wner, chef, streaming video star, kitchen store retailer, ordained minister, gardener, cookbook author, mother, wife, consummate hostess, and for me a potentially wonderful friend, Julie is a go-getter.  She can intellectually converse on most subjects, is lively and vivacious and I think she’s the bomb.  Her retired Air Force Colonel husband, John, ain’t too shabby either.

As I aimed myself toward the dining room for dinner Saturday night, Julie snagged me and invited me into the kitchen placing me on a bar stool opposite the stainless steel, kitchen, work surface from her. She introduced her handsome guest chef, her two kitchen helpers, and pointed out the computer perched on an inverted bucket on the counter corner nearest me which was streaming her live kitchen video to the world!  How cool is that?  Viewers were posting comments and questions so the kitchen conversations went back and forth from all of us in the kitchen, to Julie replying to viewer’s questions.  To me, this was very cool.  I watched dinner being prepared, sipped wine that kept coming, got special tastes, learned a few tips and tricks……I am a foodie and this experience will not long be forgotten. I felt like an insider.  Special. Cool. I was giddy. Dinner was fab.  I’m buying Julie’s cookbook.  If I can’t find a job in Omaha, I’m going to work for Julie and John.

Today mom called me somewhere on West 36 toward St. Joe, MO. “You were supposed to check in, why didn’t you call??”

 

Good grief.  What am I in for?  My mother does not call me.  She rarely called over the 24 years I have been gone.  She hardly ever calls my NJ based sister.  If she calls, something’s wrong or my brother is dead because he is typically the target for all phone calls since he lives in town.  She even calls him at work.  He rarely takes her calls.

I’m excited when I see the Welcome to Omaha sign, Rosenblatt Stadium, the Henry Doorly zoo.  I am depressed when I notice it is 34 degrees, the sky is gray, my windshield is stippled gray, all the other cars are gray, the remaining snow is gray. I AM WEARING GRAY.

Welcome to our home where the women are strong, the men good looking and the children are above average, states the mat which hides the front door key.  I am here.  I run in to pee and as I quickly take in the state of the house going back out to my car, I notice the Xmas decorations are still out and dad has a bottle of Rioja with my name all over it.  Car unpacked, I take my suitcase downstairs to check out my room.  There is a car door on my bed.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Remember the Munster’s house?  I am staying there tonight, in Hannibal, Mo, complete with the ghost of Samuel  Clemmons.  Dinner and séance start at 7pm so I am making this post now to not be late!!

The movers finally showed up yesterday and six hours later pulled away.  I don’t get it.  I was professionally packed.  I do not have a lot of stuff. Yet in 63-degree Atlanta sunshine I got a premium base tan, sitting outside for six hours, waiting for them to put all my stuff into the truck.  ??

The phone rang as I was pulling aluminum foil out of the recycle bin to use as a sun reflector for my face.  It was mom calling from the road.  They’d just left the house on their way to Florida. Mom wears hearing aids.  I hear her best with my phone arm outstretched, not on speaker. I’m not sure if her yelling is compensation for hearing aids or if she thinks the cell phone is kin to the tin can with string phones.  

“The key is under the matt closest to the door, I turned the thermostat down, introduce yourself to the neighbors, you’ll need to put clean sheets on your bed downstairs,  there’s plenty of food in the fridge, call your brother and call me when you get home.”   Ok mom.  “I told your father to clean up the basement for you (where my room is) and of course he says he didn’t hear me.  I have no idea what shape you will find  it in, he has car parts strewn all over the place, the carpet is ruined, there is a motor on the pool table so don’t invite your friends over.” Ok mom.   I say have a safe trip, I love you, I hang up.  My ears are ringing.

My dad, who is driving them to Florida from Nebraska, can’t see…very well.  It worries me.  I didn’t worry about his driving back  when  he was insouciant to his nickname “Manhatten Bob.” Yet I worry now because if his Macular Degeneration.  To see and read now, he tilts his head in an awkward position, scooches  his glasses so that the nose bridge is to the left of his nose and he wears the headlamp I bought him for Xmas for added light.  I am clueless as to how this translates into safe driving.

My dad is a resourceful guy.  Last summer he built a three-car garage in the backyard.  This is in addition to the regular two-car garage that came with the house and the “underneath the garage” garage that I also believe came with the house.  My dad is an antique and classic car afficianado and juggles many, many projects at one time.  Since he is having difficulties seeing, he has brought many of his projects to the house so, just in case he can no longer drive, he will still have his projects close at hand.  Last time I was home Dad showed me his newest projects: the remnants of a wooden ski boat with cow poop in the hull and a rusty, yet intact, little motorcycle of some sort. I like to think I got dad’s glass half full attitude and get up and go.  Cheers to Manhatten Bob!

With movers on their way by 3:00pm, I still made it to Nashvegas in time to drink lots of wine with my BFF.  She needed it.  She is part of the sandwich generation.  She is caring for aging in-laws and teenagers.  She says she is dain bramaged.  Since I don’t have kids, does caring for only my folks mean that I’ll just have a minor stroke?  Good Grief.  

Maybe during the seance, Mr. Clemmons will give me some sage advice.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Packers came and went – 20+ more boxes than anticipated.  Cha-ching.  Movers to come today between 7am and 8am.  It is now 8am, I am not a morning person and I am stirring my coffee with a pen because of course my spoons are packed.  Looks like I’ll be eating baby carrots instead of yogurt for breakfast.

Mom and dad leave for Florida today.  When we were little and going on vacation, mom would write our packing list on a 3 x 5 card so my brother and I would pack everything we would need.  They will be gone a month so I can imagine she’s using two sides of her card.  Dad doesn’t get a card.  Dad will be in charge of the dogs.

Duke and Daisy are six-year-old, hilarious, miniature Schnauzers.  Not well trained and love to run away.  Now, if you can, picture a slow moving, 74-year-old man who doesn’t see well, trying to corral two very spoiled, rambunctious dogs and attach them to a double leash all the while my slow moving, heavy breathing mom is packing the car with the front door wide open simultaneously yelling at dad to not let the dogs get out.  If I painted this image well, you will feel a bit chaotic and have a headache.

It is now 8:17am.  I haven’t been up this early since I packed my own bag with a 3 x 5 card.  The movers are not here.

I’m trying to decide what to do with the stuff in my fridge and freezer.  I did manage to set aside a cooler but of course it is too small for all my stuff.  I suppose pack the freezer items in the cooler and let the fridge items fend for themselves in a Trader Joe’s paper bag.  The first leg of my trip is only four hours to Nashville to stay overnight with my BF….where I plan to leave all this stuff anyway….she can decide to keep or toss.

My mom on the other hand did not consider her fridge before she left.  I know this because she never considers what is in her fridge.  If she needs an item, she buys it and shoves it in the fridge with the other three, partially used, same items.  Looking in the fridge at my mom’s house is scary.  Heck, looking on the top of her fridge is scary.  When I was home at Xmas, I cleaned out the fridge for her like always and got interested in what was on top of it.  Phone books (old people do not Google), dog treats, dad treats, old medicine, dust bunnies, a hair brush and sprouting potatoes way in back.  I took a photo of the potatoes and emailed it to my sister.

It is now 8:36am.  The movers are not here.  I’m going to eat a carrot breakfast.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Home Depot, please create a spackle with an egg shell finish.  Today I took down everything hanging on my walls and, as a good renter, spackled all the holes.  In just the right amount of light (any), the spackled areas look dull compared to the painted surfaces and scream to my landlord, “now you really have to repaint!”

Did I mention my parents will be in Florida for the month of March?  Talked with mom today and she was very apologetic, “the key is under the mat, your room is not ready and don’t flush the main bath toilet.  Call your brother about that WiFi thing you need, it’s here and I think you need to type in a code somewhere but I’m not sure, your father just got a new computer and ‘it’s not working’ so your brother is going to fix it, just call him.  And DON’T THROW ANYTHING AWAY!”

1. A.      My brother needs a break
2. B.       My parents will not be home for a month – KEGGER!!

My mom was initially happy I wanted to throw crap away.  “Mom,” I said, “when I move in I will be your bitch.  I’ll cook, do laundry and get rid of 40+ years accumulation of stuff.” 

She was thrilled and went on to comment that she didn’t want to know what stuff, requested I  not ask her questions about the stuff, and to please not show her the stuff.  She trusts my judgment.  Just please do it.

Damn son of lady at beauty shop! He moved in with his mom a couple of months ago and while his mom was away, he threw away all her stuff.  Overhearing this at her weekly beauty shop appointment, mom decided she had better be more involved with her stuff. *sigh*  Son of lady at beauty shop will not be invited to my kegger.

Packers are coming tomorrow between 8 and 9am.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

I am a woman “of a certain age” and that is about all I am certain of. 

I have been married more than once, had a child not once and one time (12.5 years) experienced life with my “heart” dog.  The latter is the only experience I can be sure was a good thing.

I am the prodigal daughter about to make my 18^th move, back home to Omaha after 24 years, to keep an eye on my folks.

Since I severed myself from my job a couple of months ago, I have weekend travelled and locally met up with friends to say farewell, share hugs, shed tears and gain 15 pounds. I will detox and diet when I get to Omaha.  My high school friends are NOT going to see a full figured woman “of a certain age,” they will see a svelte, sexy Babe In Total Control of Herself.

The packers come on Thursday.  I purged, packed and unpacked eight months ago after I gave the house to my ex and moved into the cutest ever 1960’s ranch.  I refuse to pack again. Ever. 

Movers come Friday.  I am equipped with the new, 25-hour CD Volume One of Mark Twain’s Autobiography to make my 16+ hour car trip to Omaha. Link to Book  If I recall correctly, Mark spent his early years travelling west with his brother.  So, this particular Volume may offer similarities with which to compare myself travelling west to move in with my mother.  I plan to spend Saturday night in Hannibal, MO, for added inspiration.