What's with the trees?

As parents age, children keep a close eye out for the dreaded loss of memory. Here in Florida, it's just par for the course. We have a lot of elders, and many are missing some brain cells. My MIL, however, has her wits, and all we need to do is keep her from getting knocked down by Christmas trees.

Wednesdays, my SIL, niece, and I have dinner at my MIL's house. I arrived first last Wednesday after my drum lesson, and my MIL and I sat and talked about the week. She started telling me a story about a tree that had toppled. She has a glass-roofed atrium between her den and extra bedroom. It's an odd thing to have, and I sometimes try to imagine what the builder thought when he dreamed up that little gem, but my MIL has plants and a waterfall in the atrium. Occasionally on chilly evenings when she has guests, she opens the sliding glass doors.

As she talked, I pictured a plant out in her atrium. The woman lives in a townhome in an association that takes care of the trees and shrubbery outdoors. The only place I could think of that she'd have a plant as large as a tree was the atrium. I did not get up to go look.

MIL: "I mean, it just toppled right over." She made a clucking noise with her tongue and a hand gesture of cutting a tree at its base. "Right at the end. It fell over. I heard it. It made a loud noise. What would cause it to do that? I have no idea. It's a fake tree. I paid a lot of money for it. It's heavy. I drug out what I could, but I'll need to hire someone to get the rest, I suppose."

When people talk to me, imagines appear in my head. Tell me something, and I immediately picture it, and nine times out of ten, it isn't the same picture as the reality. At this point, I had an image of the atrium, a fake palm tree, and my MIL hauling out palm fronds.

Me: "Why would you hire someone? Can't your grandson do that? Or better yet, your daughter, who is always telling us how much iron she pumps on Wednesday? When Julie gets here, we shall assess the situation. I'm sure if she can't do it, her son can. I would do it, but I'm not supposed to lift things. We'll worry about it later."

Cut to later. We were playing cards and discussing Julie's MIL, who has dementia, and eventually, the topic turned to the toppled tree.

Julie: "Where is it?"

MIL: "In the other room. I just don't understand why it would do that. Just topple over. I can't lift it. I don't think you can either. I'll have to get someone."

Me: "Julie can get it. She just finished telling us she lifted two fifteen-pound weights today at the gym. She's a beast. She can handle a fake tree."

Julie: "I can do it. Where is it?"

Me: "I'm not sure, but I think it's in that little atrium area. Let's go assess it."

I got there first, peering through the sliding glass doors of the atrium. There was no tree. Confused, I turned in a slow circle taking in my MIL's surroundings as my brain tried to figure out where she had a fake plant as big as a tree. Not by the piano. Not in the living room. Not on the porch. By the time I'd circled back to the atrium, Julie was peering out the glass doors.

Julie: "Where is the tree?"

Me: "I don't know. I thought she meant it was in the atrium, but obviously, there isn't a tree."

Julie: "What? Where did she have a tree?"

Me: "I don't know. Listen. I know you were talking about dementia earlier. If your mother comes out here and can't point to a tree, we are going to have to be very concerned."

I was joking. I have no qualms about my MIL and her mental stability. Julie and I snickered. Rolled our eyes. Old people. Ha.

My MIL appeared.

Julie: "Mother. Where is the tree?"

MIL: "What tree?"

Julie and I were struck dumb. I mean, struck into total silence, dumbfounded, and we stared at my MIL with our mouths agape.

Then I lost it. I started laughing so hard I had to bend over and clutch my stomach. Julie, however, with her MIL's condition at the forefront of her brain, panicked.

Julie: "What tree? WHAT TREE? The tree you told us about. WHERE IS IT?"

MIL: "You mean the Christmas tree?"

Julie's horror-stricken face brought me to my knees. I mean, seriously? What was happening just now? One minute ago, we'd just discussed this tree. 

My MIL's brain suddenly caught up to where we were, and then she too started laughing. The two of us cackled like hyenas while Julie stared at both of us until she also decided it was better to just join in.

I had been correct. The fake palm tree had been in the atrium--in a basket placed into a planter the size of a small pony. It sat in the corner, and for reasons unknown, had broken and toppled over. My MIL carried out the broken tree but left the basket inside the planter. 

Julie and I went into the atrium and stared into the basket inside the planter. The fake tree had real dirt in it, and parts of a stump could be seen poking out of that. I thought maybe my MIL was mistaken about the tree being fake. Who puts real dirt for an artificial tree?

It took two of us to get the basket out of the ginormous planter. I used my foot to hold it down, and Julie wiggled it out, resting it on the planter as if it were heavy.

MIL: "You can't carry that."

Julie: "I can. It's fine."

MIL: "Well, I don't want it to drip dirt and water all over my house. We should put tin foil on the bottom. What do you think?"

Me: "I think we're not baking it. How about a plastic bag?"

MIL: "That's good. There are trash bags in the garage."

She and I headed in that direction, and when we turned around to go back into the house with the trash bag, Julie was carrying the basket. I quickly opened the trash bag, worried that her muscles might be over contracting with all that weight. She set the basket inside it.

MIL: "Did you get dirt all over my house?"

Julie: "I didn't."

But Julie went to double-check, and my MIL got a broom to sweep up the dirt that had fallen out during the bagging. Unfortunately, the basket was sitting on top of some of the soil, and since Julie wasn't there to lift it, and since I couldn't lift it, I decided to drag it out of the way. That's when I discovered that 90 percent of the basket contained foam, not real packed dirt. Julie played that off very well.

More giggling ensued when Julie came back and realized she'd been caught. We still don't understand why there was a fake tree in a basket of real dirt inside a planter inside the atrium, but frankly, Julie and I don't care. 

We're just glad to know that dementia thus far has escaped my MIL. 

Trees, however...well, that's what we still have to watch out for.

Under the weather

I was conversing with my brother via FaceTime, and since I lead the more exciting life, I was giving him a rundown on my upcoming day, including getting my carpets cleaned. In the process of explaining how that all came about, I used the phrase, under the weather.

Rusty: "What exactly does that mean? Under the weather?"

Me: "It means I was not feeling well."

Rusty: "What does the weather have to do with sickness? It doesn't make sense. I don't like it. I want a detailed essay on the who, what, why, when, and wheres of how that saying came to be on my desk by tomorrow."

I think the kid forgets I write a blog. 

BAM! Blog entry.

Thanks to the Internet, it didn't take long for me to research the idiom of under the weather. My sources included the sites Know Your Phrase and English Stack Exchange as well as the following sources: "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson (Facts on File, New York, 1997) and "Salty Dog Talk: The Nautical Origins of Everyday Expressions" by Bill Beavis and Richard G. McCloskey (Sheridan House, Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., 1995. First published in Great Britain, 1983).

The general consensus is that the term originated in the 1800s back when the mode of transportation was via ships. Seasickness aboard was prevalent due to a combination of choppy waters, lousy food, other passengers, terrible weather, and in my opinion, a captain with a heavy foot. Upchucking overboard, which makes the most sense to me was apparently, a faux pa. So, passengers and sailors were sent below deck to recover, vomit in peace, and take cover from nasty weather.

The term is really under the weather bow, which is the side upon which all the rotten weather is blowing. Somewhere along with the invention of cars, airplanes, and toilets, the bow got knocked off the end.

First to record under the weather in print has been given to two different publications; author Donald Grant Mitchell in his Reveries of a Bachelor and an article in the Jefferson Daily Evening News, published in 1935.

The term means that one is feeling ill, drunk, or recovering from a hangover. Documented use was also when speaking of the malaise of menstruation, which back in my day was accompanied by a wink, wink.

Brother's Response: "You're a nutter butter."

April Fool's 2019

With Spring comes cleaning. It's like an unwritten rule that we clean our houses and spruce up our yards, and I think next year that I'm going to rebel and do all of this in the Florida winter. 

Since Spring sprung, my husband has walked the perimeter of the house, making mental lists of items and chores he believes should be taken care of in the next couple of months. When the man decides on something, he doesn't hesitate. 

Number one on the list was taking care of the ripped screens over our pool and deck that Hurricane Irma had damaged. Minor considering what the old gal could've done, but the holes were letting in way too much pollen this year in my pool, and thus replacing the screen went on the list.

My husband is the champion of estimates. He loves Angie's List. We have a steady stream of companies traipsing on and off our property leaving official documents stuck inside the front door. Sometimes he remembers to tell me about this and most times he doesn't. We seem to have a communication gap meaning that he doesn't get his point across as well as I would like him to.

We'd already had one company give us an estimate on rescreening the entire porch, and hubby seemed satisfied and mentioned that he would probably go with that company. So, it was a surprise when he called me this morning to give me a heads up to the fact that a screening guy was coming by to look at our screen. I took that to mean he was getting a second estimate.

First, however, to arrive, was a guy I'd scheduled to clean my carpets. I've had the carpets for more than five years and never had it professionally cleaned, and it was one of those cold calls where they offer you a deal, and you end up paying more. Whatever. The carpets needed cleaning. The man was built like a romance cover model, and I had high hopes of watching him work so that I could get some descriptive adjectives for my book. We chatted, he got to work, and I fired up my computer intent on research.

Unfortunately, before the computer was done booting, a truck pulled up to the front of my house. The screen guy. I latched the yapping dog on to his leash and strolled outside to meet them. One tall guy. One short guy. The short guy wore socks and Adidas sandals and drove the beat-up truck with magnets affixed to its side advertising the company. I couldn't make it out. I welcomed them and led them around the side of the house to the screened-in porch. Some thoughts as I did so:

• Two guys for an estimate?
• It sure took them long enough to get out of the car just to view a screened porch.
• Not sure why Tall Guy is bringing in a considerable drink container for the few minutes it will take to measure. 

But I didn't have time for my thoughts because the carpet hottie was alone inside my house, so I asked them if they needed me for anything.

Tall guy: "Which panels are you looking at?"

Me: "What?"

Tall guy: "The panels you want to be replaced?"

Me: "Is that what he told you? To just do the ones with holes?"

Tall guy: "We were told replace 7 to 8 screens."

Uh, okay. That's about how many were ripped via Irma, and I had earlier inquired as to why my husband was not just replacing those instead of the whole porch and silly me, but I thought maybe the guy had listened to me. So, I took them inside the porch and began pointing out holes. I mean, seriously, they needed my help? Okay then. I helped. Point, point, point. The guy counted as I pointed. One, two, three. 

We were up to six. Tall Guy was standing at the side of the deck, and Short Guy was standing at the end of the deck, and I jabbed my finger right where Short Guy was standing.to show him another hole about the size of a pencil eraser. Tall Guy counts seven, nods, and Short Guy removes a razor blade from his pocket and slices a slash across my screen. Before I could even get my mouth open to protest, Tall Guy slashes the screen he is standing in front of.

Me: "WHY DID YOU DO THAT? WHAT ARE YOU DOING??"

I couldn't wrap my head around what was happening, but these guys kept slashing. It was like a scene from a horror film only instead of blood and guts oozing from body parts, I saw critters and leaves and pollen in my pool. What the fuck?

Me: "STOP THAT! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

Tall guy: "Because we're replacing your screens." 

He said it matter-of-factly, and I opened and closed my mouth several times, and then I turned around and walked into the house where I immediately called my husband in hysteria.

Me: "Are these guys doing the job? Replacing the damaged screens?"

Tom: "No, just giving me an estimate."

Me: "WELL, THEY JUST RIPPED THE SCREENS WITH KNIVES!! THEY THINK THEY ARE HERE TO REPLACE THE DAMAGED SCREENS. THEY RIPPED IT. WITH KNIVES." 

I think that's what I said. It may have come out more jumbled together because I was having an anxiety-riddled, hysteria, gasping for breath moment. All with the background noise of the carpet cleaner. 

I took the phone out to the truck, where the two guys were removing tools. That's when I noticed that the magnet signs on the truck had colored tape across the name. I asked for a business card. It did not match the name displayed under the tape. 

Tall Guy took the phone to talk to Tom. It was a heated discussion. It got more heated when Tall Guy accused me of telling them to do the work. Oh, no, you didn't, buddy. I started shouting, reminding him of my earlier screaming when they'd sliced and diced. He ignored me. I looked at Short Guy.

Me: "Dude, you know the truth."

Tall Guy handed me back my phone and got on his phone to call the company. He was pissed! I trudged back into the house, talking to the husband, who insisted I not let these guys leave without repairing our screens. 

What? Like what was he expecting me to do? Grab these two by their ankles and hold on for dear life? What part of they slashed the screen with razor blades did he not hear?

Meanwhile, in the middle of this, my friend called. I hysterically gave her the shortened version, and she offered to drive over to protect me in case they turned their blades on me.

Me: "Nah, it's okay. I have the hottie carpet cleaning guy with big muscles."

Tall guy's conversation with his boss took about half an hour. Tall Guy was quite heated. I snuck around, taking pictures of them through various windows because even though I'm a writer, I suck as a witness in a description of culprits. It might be the hysteria part of me. 

Hottie carpet cleaning guy finished his job and listened to the sordid tale. He shook his head, tsked in the right places, pointed out that these guys were in sandals, and basked in the glow that I considered him a protector. He told me he hated to leave me. I refrained from whining about not getting to use him for research purposes. I sent him on his way and proceeded to wander from window to window, spying on the screen rippers.

Eventually, Tall Guy came to my front door. We engaged in a civil conversation. I told him I didn't blame him. He was doing what his boss told him to do. He had a work order to replace 7 to 8 screens. He appreciated my understanding and proceeded to discuss an estimate. 

It seemed the company Tom had called hired out Tall Guy's company due to a lack of workers. So, really we had two companies involved in this mess, and neither one wanted to fix the problem. Tall Guy wouldn't get paid if he did it, and the other company guy was just off the grid. 

I called Tom.

Tall Guy and Tom talked. They worked out a deal to replace the damaged and now sliced screens for $500. Twelve screens. Tall Guy and Short Guy, whose names I did eventually learn, went off and did the job. It looks great. I think in the end we got the better deal. What ultimately was a $2,000 job only cost us $500 to replace the damaged screens.

It does not, however, factor in the hours lost of my life--due to hysteria and fear, nor does it factor in the loss of my research. But hey, as I always say:

Me: "Thanks for the blog entry."

Update: In the end, the work was shoddy. The two had to return the next day to finish a screen they'd missed. Several weeks later, we had the entire porch re-screened by my breakfast friend. We lost the $500.

Jan

My friend Jim told me recently that he hadn’t known how much getting older sucked. Not the aging and the aches and pains but the loss of those who mean so much. While I’m still twenty years behind him, I understand that sadness. Death was once something far off in the distance, and now it’s closing in. We’re realizing more that it’s inevitable. And it sucks.

I just got the dreaded phone call. The one where you expect one thing and instead get the news that someone you loved is gone. My mother in law called to inform me that her brother’s wife had died. It hit me like a ton of bricks.

Jan was the epitome of life. A ball of zappy energy full of vim and vigor packed into a tiny body that never quit even when she was kicked back, sipping a vodka and tonic. Her joyfulness was contagious and her wit snappy. Visits to their home in Arizona rank in my top five vacations.

We connected with sports. Jan was a huge Los Angeles Dodgers fan, and her dream was to retire from her job and follow the team around the country for a year. She and her husband took us to a Diamondback game when we visited, and she was exactly my favorite kind of sports fan; loud, proud, and unapologetic. While she loved baseball, she could talk football, and she always called me when the Steelers got to the Super Bowl. The last conversation I had with her was after an NFL playoff game. True to Jan, we talked sports, glossed over health issues, and got right to discussing our children and her grandchildren.

She loved children, and she walked the walk when it came to them. She was the kind of grandmother I hope to be. The down on the ground, hands in the mud, dirty clothes grandmother. She listened when children spoke, really listened to what they had to say, and she talked to them as equals, often engaging them in conversations that no other adult would dare to touch. She rarely ever said no to children. If they asked to do something that she couldn’t say yes to for adult reasons, she’d redirect and invent an even better game that would incorporate some of what was initially asked. She always asked first about my girls in any conversation.

Jan hailed from England and had the accent with a distinctive voice I’d know with my eyes closed. She was insightful, and while she didn’t like to speak ill of anyone, she’d share her opinions if she thought it would benefit. She kept her husband on the straight and narrow path while letting him believe he was in charge, and they had a relationship that truly worked. She was caring, kind, funny, and absolutely wonderful. I know she will be missed by her husband, her sons, and her grandchildren, but she will be missed by me too.


Unfortunately, life intervened, and we didn’t see each other for years. I hadn’t spoken to her since that NFL playoff game, but she was always in my mind at various times; while cooking on my electric skillet, mixing cocktails, sitting poolside, and when hearing anything Dodger related. She was a one of a kind gal.

Jim is right. Getting old and losing loved ones sucks. 

A good time to say thank you

I was catching up with my cousin Jaimee's blog and read this entry about a visit to her son's school. Jaimee, if readers remember, had a surprise pregnancy years after tying her tubes and closing up shop after three kids. Those kids were heading toward their teens and were as shocked as their parents. Surprise!

It all worked out better than they expected. Little Nolan has five parents who love, cherish, and boss him around. Recently, Jaimee quit her job where she drove twice a day to another city two hours away with little Nolan in the backseat. The results of this change closer to home meant putting Nolan in a preschool, and her blog post had to do with a special event at Nolan's preschool. A circus. Jaimee took off of work for a couple of hours to attend, and when it was all finished, Nolan thought he was going home. 

He wasn't.

Reading this, my heart broke. Nolan had a meltdown and kept letting his mother know that he loved her as if this would change the outcome. Aww... It made me wish I lived near them so that I could've been there and whisked him home with me. Because as a SAHM, I got to do just that. 

We had special events at school and if my kids wanted to end their day right then and there? They did. We went home. (Okay, full disclosure, my kids would probably argue with that since school importance was drilled into me via my mother, but I'm mainly referring to Nolan's age. Although they also got to leave in their later years if the teacher agreed, although I know they will roll their eyes at that.) And I loved knowing that if they wanted or needed to come home, they could. Without stress for either of us.

I felt Jaimee's anguish. I can remember that very feeling when we were deciding if I would return to my job after my maternity leave. It wasn't an easy decision, especially for me. Nor was it easy after the decision had been made for me to stay home. I loved my job. I had been offered a promotion. I was damn good at what I did. Not only did I save lives, but I also taught children and adults how to swim and how to protect themselves, and I trained and molded other lifeguards. It was hard to walk away. I lost a piece of myself when I did.

But Tom and I decided this was best for our family and I've never regretted it for a minute. I was born to be a SAHM. I genuinely believe that, but in saying it, I have to also give HUGE credit to Tom. Because he's the one who made it possible all these years.  

He sacrificed. He didn't get to sleep later or take a nap. Tom didn't get to attend every school event (although he was at most of them) or every sporting event, and he was the one who shouldered job stress and had fewer hours of cherub smiles. Like Jaimee, who had to walk away from a crying child begging for him to stay, we couldn't have done this without Daddy Tom.

Now that our nest is empty and my husband is at retirement age, I'm sure he envisioned I'd venture out into the workforce. Probably I too envisioned that back when we made the SAHM decision, but neither of us knew the future, and so he still gets up every day and heads off to his job while I putter around the empty house and have time to read other people's blogs. 

Hmm...maybe I should offer myself up as Jaimee's nanny.