The Little Ironies of Life

I think I should write a book and call it The Little Ironies of Life. Because life seems to be made up of little ironies. For instance, I wanted to get something for my sister in Oz (not the prison in the TV show, lol) as a thank you gift, and she loves her coffee and tea, but I know how expensive it is to mail a bag of coffee (I did this once, sent her a coffee gift box sampler) and vowed to never do it again. Spent $25 on the sampler box of coffees, then had to spend $55 on the shipping to get from my house to hers, oy!

I wanted to get her something cute, lightweight, and inexpensive—plus something that said "home" and so I thought, hey how about a little tea caddy holder as a tea bag or spoon rest, and hey—how about if it had thoroughbreds on it? Perfect!  (Yes, I am an Aquarius, and we do tend to get fixated on the strangest things, lol).

So I went online and called around, because surely somewhere locally had a tea bag caddy with horses on it, I mean, this is bluegrass country. After two days of searching, I found it. But you might want to ask where. Because, irony of ironies, I didn't find it here, I found it in—where else—Australia! Yep, the wonderful land of Oz. I have to admit, it's adorable, dishwasher safe, inexpensive, and the owner of the company was happy to ship it directly to my sister.

For once, an irony turns out in my favor. I could get used to this.  ;)

Snafu City Monday

SNAFU Baby!

Situation Normal All Fucked Up.

Monday has become my day to clear and resolve snafu it seems. Whether it's my own or a family members. The latest revolves around my late mum's early Yule and Christmas gifts to the family. I honestly did the best I could, but my sister still hasn't gotten her last gift from my mum. The item mum picked out for her apparently was out of stock and put on back order. This was back in October/November a couple of weeks before she passed away. I asked her what I should do?

She told me that sis and her hubby wouldn't be coming to visit until Thanksgiving at the end of Nov. and surely the item would be in by then. Of course, given the situation and the turn of events, they came in earlier than planned, mum passed away, and then chaos ensued trying to work out all the logistics for all that followed. The last thing I cared about or thought of was my sister's last present from our mother. But after sis flew back home and Thanksgiving passed, then Yule and Christmas, I was like "Where the hell is my sister's present from mum?"

I called and was told it was still on back order but the estimated shipping time would be January 7. Now I get a mailer card from the company saying that the new shipping date is January 27. At this rate, if they keep adding time to the shipping date, she won't get the item until Mother's Day! Argh!

I called the company to complain, and they asked if I'd like to cancel the order. I had to sit here and explained about the circumstances and how important it is that my sister get the item. That it was hand-picked for my sister by our now deceased mother.

The guy in customer service said he understood, but their hands are tied by the distributor and the manufacturer. I said I did understand (barely).

I mean I could have raised two freakin' sheep, had them 'get it on' and had a litter of lambies, shorn them, spun the fleece into wool, and knitted the f'ing thing by now! I mean, geeze.

So now we sit and wait and see if they actually send the damn cardigan or if they send another reply card telling me the shipping date has changed yet again.

Patience is a virtue I may lack. At least in this instance. Guess I better stop blogging and start watching for sheep. Ooh, spotted one! Here little lambiekins. You look like the same shade as that sweater...

Until next time~
Cass

Making 'Lemonade' from the Lemons of Life

Mother's stroke left her weak on the left side. But now they think she also has pneumonia. Last night I sat reading to her from one of her favorite books, Gold Star Wife by L.K. Campbell. Her other favorite author is Karen Marie Moning.

I think being able to escape into a good book can be the very best therapy. :)

So I'm taking a big box of books and promo goodies up to the hospital today for the nursing staff and patients.


Who knows, it might generate future sales for my books and the books of my friends, in addition to helping someone pass the time as they heal. :)


Yeah, I know—I am such an Aquarian. lol.


Love, light, and laughter to all,
Blessings,
Cass

Running On Empty

Those of you who follow me on Facebook probably already know I've been 'running on empty' for a while. My mother, (who always prefers me to refer to her as mum), has been in and out of hospitals and nursing homes for months. She's now back in the hospital again. I want her well and healed this time, before they discharge her.

The thing is, she's weak, frail, and plumb tired—and anybody would be after almost three months of this shit. But at her age (in her 80's), tired and weak—well, it takes on a new meaning.  The problem is once they discharge her from the hospital, the drs. always discharge her to a rehab/nursing home for physical therapy and/or occupational therapy.

So, after vomiting for eight straight days, is it any wonder she doesn't feel like doing any exercise? Hell, she could barely walk before she fell back in August and got sick. And when I say walk, I mean with an assist walker. Her main way to get around used to be her motorized scooter. Yet now she is expected to walk like a 40 year old in good health, lift weights and pulleys and fuck knows what else.

Yes, I know she needs to build her strength, but can't we get her well first? I am so tired of all these places explaining to me that she has to help herself and move. Well, no fucking duh. But it's hard when you are *going both ways*, to put it delicately,  80+ years old, running a low grade temp off and on, and couldn't walk for beans before all this started.

My analogy of never playing the piano, but suddenly after really working with them in therapy, I can—just sailed over their heads I think.

The nursing home/rehab place before this last one complained of the same thing. She wouldn't cooperate and hold her head up. In the meanwhile, she ran a fever and was sick, wouldn't eat her meals, and didn't cooperate in therapy. Hmm...then they finally got a brainstorm and the nursing home dr. finally sent her to the hospital, where her real doctors could see her, and immediately said, "OMG—this woman has an inflamed and diseased gallbladder! We gotta remove it STAT! Why didn't they send her to the hospital sooner?"  Yeah, why the fuck didn't they?

After a week and a half at the hospital, they released her once more to a nursing home/rehab...to get stronger. Instead, she got sicker and weaker and the entire cycle started again, with her sick and *uncooperative* in therapy. They even mentioned it being partially behavioral. Over a week passed this last time before the exact same nursing home dr. (but at a different nursing home) finally figured something else might be wrong and sent her back to the hospital (different hospital too).

I stayed with her in ER for nine hours the other day and come to find out, she was running a low-grade temp and that after a CT scan, her diverticulitis had majorly flared up. OMG.

Today, the hospital nurses are talking to her about discharging her once more to a nursing home/rehab center for additional care—to strengthen her.

Now, I am not dissing the nursing care staff at any of these rehab/home places. I know they do the best they can with limited resources, but damn, this is getting old, ya know.  I want to break the pattern for mum and see her really improve. I can't stand watching this horrible decline.

And I gotta say if I were her, I'd be damn depressed too and not want to lift my head.

Oh—I gotta love the threat they all use on the family. "If she won't participate, we'll have to discharge her."

Okay, discharge her to where? Her home? Hmm, if she gets well, you'll discharge her home, and if she doesn't cooperate you'll discharge her home...see any difference? I say cut her the fuck loose and I'll give her the care she needs. Geezeus.

Of course, the problem there is that I am battling my own numerous health issues and my writing would have to go on a back burner indefinitely.  I'd miss my writing since that is my only real outlet for creativity, and it takes away some of the chronic pain I'm in, putting my mind in a better, healthier place. Hmm... I could share some of that natural pain-reducer (writing) and do what my mum has always wanted—write her memoirs. I bet that would get her mind off her own pain. I doubt it would ever get published, especially in this economy when the only real non-fiction sellers are autobiographies of the rich and famous—neither which can be said of my mum. Infamous possibly. At least in certain circles. :P

Ah well... I'm heading up to the hospital today to check on her. ::fingers crossed:: she is hopefully feeling better.

Until next time...
~ Cass

Mini Vacation With Mum

Sometimes in life, you just get fed up with everything and have to check out and check in somewhere else for a little break. That's what I did a couple of days ago (May 12 & 13). I took mum with me and we went across the river to the casino riverboat and spent a couple of days eating, gambling, napping, gambling, eating, gambling, and sleeping. Or in mum speak aka code, we went bra shopping. lol.

I only wish I'd had a way to take a picture of her at the crap table. (You aren't allow to take pictures inside the casino gaming areas).

She's been feeling so lousy lately, truly feeling her years, and to see her pull herself up from her motorized wheelchair and lean over the table's cushioned edge and throw those dice—omg, you'd think she was closer to 65 than 85. Her face became so animated, so alive and happy, that I knew it was a special mother-daughter moment. Yes, in my family we often build special moments around gambling. lol.

I can attest that some of the happiest moments in my life were with my family at various sporting events or at casinos. Not sure what that says about me, but it is the truth. Anyway, mum did quite well with the dice (she loves craps) and even hit a very nice slot machine jackpot on the way out to dinner. I did okay, but had the misfortune to lose back over half of what I'd won, but feel fortunate to have at least come out a winner.

Be Careful What You Wish For

These past few days have been interesting to say the least. My mum decided she needed new carpeting and tile in her little apartment at the senior complex. After a few months of pestering the management, she got her wish. Personally I wonder how they held out so long. The mumenator is seldom denied. That’s why she is the mumenator after all.

The problem with getting your wish is that sometimes we want things and we don’t always think through all of the repercussions our wishes may bring– to ourselves or to others.

For instance, mum never thought past the fact that all her little old lady friends in the senior building got new carpeting and why didn’t she? Dammit, she wasn’t about to be forgotten or left out!

If she had thought a little further, she’d have realized that meant at some point all her furniture would have to be moved out into the hallway. All her clothes boxes and bagged, all the food in the refrigerator boxed in coolers as well. All her pictures taken off the walls (the manager’s office insisted) and all the phones and the TV disconnected and moved also into the hall.

She didn’t think about that. Or the fact that this would disrupt everyone else on her end of the building, since they would be stuck in their apartments unable to access the hallway until all of mum’s stuff was returned to her apartment. Nor did anyone think about the fact that since all her belongings would be in the hallway overnight, then someone would need to stay with her items so nothing got stolen. Also no one gave a thought to where mum would be sleeping since her bed had to be moved into the same hallway.

As luck would have it, she recalled all of these things the day before the people came to install her new carpet and tile.

Oh, and I think I forgot to mention that the smell of the carpet glue is intense. The noxious stuff hangs in the air for like a week, burning your eyes, stealing your breath and making you dizzy.
I tried to impress on mum how much effort and work would be involved in getting her wish, but my comments were dismissed. ::sigh::

As you might expect, it was nothing short of a fiasco. LOL.

Of course, it’s hard to think through any consequences or possible problems when someone is giving you your wish, even one as simple as new carpeting and tile.

Life's Simple Pleasures

Okay, I tried to keep this to myself but its too good to pass up. I gotta share.

My mum called me the other night and wanted to see if I’d like to sneak off to the boat, as in riverboat gambling. Our code word is brashopping. When Bear hears the words bra shopping, he tunes out. He thinks gambling is stupid and thinks I should spend any extra money I have (my money) on him, not wasting it. And to be honest, I don't want to hear his crap anymore about it, so mum and I developed our own code language to circumvent any snooping ears.

The talk went kinda like this:

“So what did your mom want?” He calls her my mom and not mum since he refuses to bow to her wishes. Mostly though, he calls her Endorra or crazy biddy–just not within her hearing. No love lost there. She gets the reference and calls him Durwood when she is peeved. When she is good and pissed, she refers to him as "The stupid thing my daughter did." LOL.

“Oh, she called to see if I’d take her brashopp–”

“Okay. Just be careful. When are you taking her?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Great. Have fun.”

“Yeah, brashopp–”

And he runs out of the room before I can finish. You see, the delicate male eardrum reacts violently to the word bra when combined with the equally fearsome word–shopping. Add that I'm going bra shopping with my elderly mum and he can't run out of earshot fast enough! lol

So, we manage our escape to the riverboat, with it’s blue-haired gamblers and smoke-filled clanging on that most auspicious of times—seniors day at the casino.

Mum and I have a technique. She likes to warm up her throwing arm by way of dropping about $100 on the one arm bandits soon as she hits the gaming floor. I stand by and watch her wheelchair, so no one steals it. She just knows that someone there will take it from her while she’s sitting on the swivel seat provided by the casino.

Oh, and they will totally disregard the bucket of quarters resting just to the right of the machine and in full view. Or her half open purse stuffed with chips from our last foray across the river.

After she feels sufficiently warmed up, we pass the blackjack and poker, and head straight for the craps tables. Seven come eleven–WooYAW!

There is this guy standing just to mum’s left. He is so hot, I can feel my fingers burning just from the need to touch that fine muscled, tanned and tatooed flesh. Chinese characters run down his bicep. I have to know what it means. Not being the shy sort, I lean over and simply ask. Without looking up from the table, he tells me. Love is Freedom. Ooh, my kinda guy. He believes in love, real love, and he’s buff as hell. Plus he likes craps. Too bad I'm not available. After all, I'm still with Durwood, lol.

I look over at mum. She is actually eyeing him. OMG! My elderly mum nudges me as she says, get this–”nice butt.” I kid you not! I almost choke on my Breathsavers mint.

“Mum!”

“Well, it is. Most men’s butts are so flat you can’t get a good grip. Just like a pancake. Syrup would slide right off!”

OMG! I am now helplessly picturing my mother holding a shaky grip on Mrs. Butterworth’s and pouring it over this guy’s backside! Surely the floor will open up now, take pity on me and swallow me whole. I need clorox to scrub my brain, STAT!

I send a fervent prayer that no one else heard her comment. And then I look up at the hot guy and he is grinning at me.

Seven Out! New shooter coming out.

I realize it’s my turn to be the dice wielder. Mum, being ever so helpful, tells me to have the “guy” blow on them for me for good luck! Odder still, he leans across and does! Oh mercy!

I throw the dice and one of them hits the end of the table and rolls to a stop, five dots facing up. The other riccochets off a stack of chips at the far end of the table, smacks the stick man’s stick, then rolls to the floor.

My second attempt, and “the guy” blows his warm breath across the palm of my hand and the dice. This time the dice land squarely on the table. Shame it wasn’t the craps table I played at, but the one next to it. I see this as a sign I need to quit. But the guy encourages me to try one last time before they give the dice to a new shooter. I manage to keep them on my table. And miracle of miracles, I roll an eleven. Pay the lady!

I’m doing okay, holding my own and building a rhythm. I have a nice little nest egg of chips in front of me by the time I seven out. Mum is the next shooter, and she is amazing. Sevens, elevens, Horns, Points, Big 8, Big 6, Boxcars, Hard 8–you name it, she did it. Wow.

Even Mr. Biceps is impressed. Mum is excited, but also tired. I can tell by the way she’s getting pale and a little unsteady as she leans out from her wheelchair to grip the table.

She finally sevens out and we leave so I can take her out for a late lunch to celebrate. But before we go, the guy with the tats congratulates us and passes me his business card. On it is his work number…and his personal number. And he leans in and says, “Next time you plan to bring your mom to the boat, call me and I can help you.”

I don’t think we have a code word to cover this. Oh boy…

Now I gotta ask, was he flirting with me, or just sincerely trying to be nice, since he saw me struggle to wheel mum around?

I mean, I don’t have to call him, right? But I can still fantasize…oh yeah, I feel a new project coming on… :D