Saturday, May 17, 2014

I Thought It Was This, But Then This Happened, and Now I Have No Idea

(This cartoon reminds me of how the nice people at my church talks to the jerks in the Disgruntled Group. Time for them to embrace my new attitude of "Shut. Up!" if you ask me.)

Since Mothers Day, I've been trying to grab a spare minute to catch up my blog and tell you about the wonderful happening.

And then I had a really weird Tuesday.

And then Mom called on Wednesday, not happy.

And in the midst of all this, Mrs. Cynicletary revealed herself as a crazy-accurate soothsayer and future-seer, which has colored my whole week.

And tomorrow is the church election; I've switched from Dad dreams to election-focused dreams. (Though I'm not the only one having weird night-time adventures; I've been watching the first season of The West Wing to unwind, and this morning Husband said, "I dreamed that I was in bed with President Bartlett, and man was he a cover hog.")

And I haven't heard anything from the not-editing-job people, which makes me think I didn't get their boring job. Kind of depressing when you can't even attract a boring job! Maybe I dazzled them so much, they knew I'd never be satisfied with their monkey work. Maybe.

In any event, that was the week that was. Care to learn more? Read on!

The Wonderful Happening

I called Mom on Mothers Day and asked, "How did Dad's shower go?" (The home health aide came on Saturday to shower him.) She said, "I'll let him tell you himself." Then I hear Dad: "I was in the shower with another woman! Swathed in rubber!"
  • Me: Was it . . . hot? It sounds wicked hot.
  • Dad: She was 5'1" — from top to bottom and around.
  • Me: Hot.
  • Dad: Yeah.
  • Me: Wait a minute — I need you to back way up, because I'm picturing you sitting in your chair, arms crossed, stomping your feet, yelling, "I don't want to take a shower!"
  • Dad: That's how it was, except I was on the bed.
  • Me: So, I still don't quite get it. You can stand and walk by yourself, right?
  • Dad: Of course I can stand and walk by myself.
  • Me: And you can move your arms?
  • Dad: Yes.
  • Me: So . . . why do you need someone to help you take a shower?
  • Dad: Because I don't need a shower. I haven't done anything! I haven't worked up a sweat!
  • Me: Ah . . . But Dad, you know there's such a thing as old man smell, right?
  • Dad: Hmph.
  • Me: And Mom can't smell you
  • Dad: Hmph.
  • Me: You don't want old man smell, Dad. Maybe the home health aide could just come smell you twice a week.
  • Dad: That would be fine.
The conversation was fast-paced, funny, and energetic. We went from old-man smell to gay football players, concussions, children's sports, why my brothers didn't play football, the free wine I got at Macaroni Grill, and how he and Mom were celebrating Mothers Day. I've been encouraging my mom to nurture herself, and one of her gifts from me was a bottle of Meritage wine and some Ghiradelli dark chocolates, which, according to Good Housekeeping, are a perfect taste pairing, and I instructed her not to put the wine in the wine cupboard but to crack it open and drink it right then.
  • Dad: We're going to have a small glass of your wine before dinner, and then we'll drink it with the lamb steaks we're having.
  • Me: Sounds delicious.
  • Dad: Your mother said we might have a margarita before dinner, and I said no, we don't need to get tanked up on Mothers Day.
  • Me: Uh — what day do you need to get tanked up on?
  • Dad: Well, we're waiting for you to come home.
Laugh, I thought I'd die.

He finally handed the phone to Mom, and I said to her, "Best Mothers Day present ever." I was so happy. He was 96 percent his usual self, just a tiny shade slower, and it was 100 percent awesome.

Happy happy happy!

My Really Weird Tuesday

I had an 11:15 appointment with my dermatologist and tickets for a 7 p.m. book event, and both things were happening in Wellesley, a town that's only about a half-hour drive away, but the road to and from is heavily trafficked during rush hour. Was this not a sign from God that I'm supposed to spend the day in Wellesley? I interpreted it as such — especially since I'd done an 11-hour editing job the day before, and I had nothing else I needed to do that day. So off I went, prepared for a lovely day.

Except that I had a terrible migraine. And my dermatologist tells me that my cuticles, despite my pathetically best efforts not to pick, are still swollen and inflamed. (Though, she says, if this is my very worst habit, and it's perhaps keeping me from another habit, like pulling out my own hair, she gives me full permission to be a cuticle-picker. She was so sweet and loving, it almost made me weep — and I redoubled my determination to quit this terrible habit once and for all.)

(I have only been semi-successful. It's been a tough week.)

I got lost trying to find the Wellesley Library and instead ended up in Framingham, so I decided to have lunch at Ken's (restaurant home of the famous salad dressing line). I have a fondness for this terrible place, because it reminds me so much of my grandparents, even though they never stepped foot in it. The first time I went to Ken's, you could order Oysters Rockefeller, Clams Casino, Baked Alaska! I drank a Manhattan in the dark, wood-paneled dining room and felt purely happy. But they've changed the menu and nothing on it is particularly good; you'd think I would get this through my head.

I was starving and headachey, so I ordered a diet cola, a small cup of cream of spinach soup, a small side Caesar, and a turkey club sandwich, which came with homemade potato chips. While I agree that this is a large-ish lunch, I don't think it's beyond the pale — and certainly no reason for my server, a large-ish women, herself, to raise her eyebrows.
  • Me: I'm very hungry.
  • Her: Well, I guess!

After lunch, I shopped for two of my bestys who have birthdays coming up, and hung out at the library (which is gorgeous), and felt worse and worse as the day wore on. My crappy lunch wasn't sitting well with me, my head hurt, I was weary.

And yet — I was about to meet Molly Wizenberg of the Orangette blog, someone whose writing I adore and with whom I share a dear friend, Miss Laurie A-B of Washington State. I just knew that when I met Molly and shared our connection, we would become bonded bestys right away, and she'd likely invite me out for espresso and sweetys post-reading. It would be the start of a beautiful friendship, for sure, but it would only happen if I were there.

I got to the event early, and the nice bookstore guy sent me to a restaurant down the street. I cannot wait to return to this restaurant, because ohmygoodness yum. And I need to go when I can fully appreciate it, not when I'm headachy and overfull of a crappy Ken's lunch. But I ordered a glass of Prosecco and three "little plates" — roasted garlicky mushrooms, roasted golden beets with Parmesan, and spicy broccolini — and I told my server I'd just have that and dessert, and I clapped my hands when she brought my drink, and she laughed in delight.

And then I proceeded to eat one bite of everything and realized that I was quite sick indeed. No more bites, no dessert, no guarantee that I would not in fact throw up on my new best friend Molly Wizenburg of the Orangette blog.

My sweet server seemed distressed by my distress; she quickly boxed up everything for me and then said, "Don't go," so I waited . . . and she brought me a dessert in a bag. "I knew you wanted this," she said, "and I hated the fact that you wouldn't have it. I guessed 'chocolate tart,' is that okay?"

How completely sweet is that? (I ate the tart the next day, and it was hella good.)

So, okay, things are looking up, and I sailed off to meet my new best friend.

After all this build-up, I think you can probably guess the ending of the story, right? Molly Wizenberg of the Orangette blog is adorable and fun and a great speaker; I enjoyed her presentation thoroughly; she patiently signed 10 million books; I was at the end of a very long line (because I had to thoroughly inspect the roomful of used books for sale) and I'm sure she was exhausted; I chirped, "We share a friend!" and she cried, "Oh, Laurie A-B is so lovely!" . . . and she signed my book and handed it back to me.

And then I drove home, blasting cool air on my fevered face, with exactly the same number of best friends that I started with (which, I suppose, was also true of Molly Wizenburg of the Orangette blog).

I could do a tally of good things/bad things at day's end (did I mention that I cried a little when I couldn't find the library? I also passed my doctor's office and couldn't turn around on Route 9 for several miles, and I cried a little then too, also swore), but I think the word "weird" pretty much sums it up.

Unhappy Mom Wednesday

Mom called, first thing in the morning.
  • Mom: He's completely turned around. He's up all night, he sleeps all day.
  • Me: He's a vampire?
  • Mom: I don't want to scare you, but I think it's happening faster than we thought.
While this does sound alarming, it's also very Mom — she is quick to go to the dark place. But I'll be there in just over a week, thank God, and I'll see for myself.

Mrs. Cynicletary Predicts My Future
  • Me: I haven't had a period since January. I think Tam has brought on the menopause. I think I can get rid of my tampons.
  • Mrs. C: Or, there's a tsunami coming.
I'll leave it at that.

(But this explains the migraine I've had pretty much all week.)

Chore Day!

On today's docket: sort the children's warm/cold weather clothes, eradicate crumbs from my kitchen counters and kill ants, and shop at Trader Joe's. Tonight we're seeing The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged, which will be tons o' fun, and at the moment my head feels okay, which is something to hugely celebrate.

Off I go to do just that.

— Lady C


  1. Aren't you glad you kept the tampons?
    Mrs. Cynicletary

    1. Get thee behind me, witchy woman!

      (Kidding, kidding. You are smart, brilliant, and all-knowing. And wicked cute.)