Moo!

    A fellow named Moe Baddourah is running for city council here. His yard signs say, "Moe!" in large red letters on a white background. I absolutely am NOT going to do it, but am infinitely tempted to get a hold of red and white spray paint and turn them into signs saying, "Moo!" instead. Nothing against Mr. Baddourah; I'm sure he's a fine fellow and would be a credit to the council. Just more of my endless fascination with the impractical joke. Or reductio ad absurdum. Or the very, very, very silly. Maybe Chik-Fil-A would underwrite it.

On a horse with no name

    Yesterday, the HVAC guy came around and confirmed that my heat pump wasn't working. Last evening the landlord came around to let me know that he had delivered the check so that the dead heat pump could be replaced. And today the gentlemen are here to replace it. This of course means that I can't leave, but I'm taking advantage of imprisonment to make a pizza-free pizza at lunch time, which I don't usually get to do.
    It was one of my rare smart moves. I thought that the heat pump just needed a recharge. Normally, that would be done as part of the springtime/fall maintenance. The HVAC company doesn't normally start that until March 15. The landlady asked if I would be willing to wait and I said not. As it turned out, this was the right thing to say. The old heat pump is at least 7 years old; hopefully the new one will do at least as well.
    (As to the subject line: The heat wasn't hot.:))

STILL dumber than a brick

    I spent the entire winter freezing under two light cotton blankets with the thermostat set at 67. With my comforter sitting in the portable closet. Last night, I decided I was cold enough and pulled out the comforter. It smelled a lot like it had spent 3 years in a closet, but otherwise is in pretty good shape. Had my first comfortable night in ages. The Monkey liked it, too. So yeah, I'm dumb, but I catch on. Eventually.

Don't cuss over unspilt orange juice

    This morning at breakfast, I was moving the single-serve blender's cup, filled with orange/banana uh, beverage (puree with water added) and nearly tipped it over twice. But I didn't tip it over; nothing bad happened at all. Still, I had to let a cussword out. It's a commentary on long-term stress, I suppose. Then again, it would have felt fairly silly taking a victory lap for not spilling orange juice. Then again again, the way things have been going, I need to celebrate any victory I can find.
    Amityville update: I sprayed hell out of all the windows. Flies are fewer in number and considerably slower moving, but still coming. I also sprayed the floor lamp, fritzing it out. Hell, even I thought it was funny. For the record, three-way compact fluorescent bulbs cost twice as much as the lamps they go into. They do last longer, if you can resist the temptation to spritz them with bug spray. Oops.

Story 'bout a hurricane

    Uh, yeah. Taking somebody to dialysis as a squall line is going by is not on the short list of funnest things in life. I got a terrific parking place and thus was only outside for less than a minute and yet got as soaked as if I'd been in swimming. Dad no doubt was equally wet, though he looked pretty dapper. When it was time to pick him up again, we were boundlessly grateful that the storm had passed over and gone away to trouble someone else's evening.
    Meanwhile, here in Amityville, the fly infestation has not gone away with the exiling of all ripening fruit to the refrigerator. I don't know what's up. One suspects that there must be a dead animal in the vicinity, but I can't see nor smell it. Thinking of getting flying-insect spray and spraying the gaps of all the windows. That's how they got in in the past, though the insulation I stuffed in the cracks cut back on previous invasions. Or maybe I should just GET OUUUUUT!

Objects in mirror are filthier than they appear

    Yesterday, my sideview mirrors were totally fogged up, so I tried to wipe off the driver's side one. Turned out that it was not only fogged up, but also completely filthy. Soooo that move didn't work out quite as well as I expected. I eventually got it cleaned up enough that I could more or less see. I cleaned both of them properly when I got home. As ever, I realize that this isn't earth-shattering news. But the essence of humor is surprise, and I was certainly surprised. Tip: Clean your sideview mirrors every once and a while!:)
    Today will be the first experience of taking Dad to dialysis and picking him up in the rain. I am keenly looking forward to the weather forecast turning out to be wrong. As it nearly always is, these days, the chances are good.

Fruit flies

    Fruitflies are kinda cute. Flies that like fruit, not so much. If anyone out there REALLY loved the original "Amityville Horror" movie (well, maybe not original, but the one that wasn't the remake nor the sequels), especially the flies in the window scene, all you have to do to replicate it is take a pear and put it in the window to ripen. But remember to scrape some of the peel off accidentally first.
    Oh. my. gosh. I'm not sure I've ever seen that many flies. And all of them were gigantic. Maybe they were all pregnant and wanted to lay eggs in my pear. Too bad about that. None of them left here alive. Mind you, I'd love to have let them out unharmed, but flies just aren't that smart. Or maybe I'm not. Very bad day for my Jainist street cred. The pear is ripening quietly in the refrigerator now. At least no disembodied voice told me to "GET OUT!"

Worth a try

    Gail the social worker and I talked with Dad and Margaret yesterday about the whole situation. I made as clear as possible that I didn't think two mobility-impaired visually-impaired 91-year-olds living together was a good idea, and argued passionately that they were taking a huge risk with their lives and that we love them and want them to live as long as possible as well as possible, and that this step is much more likely to shorten their lives. I wouldn't say it went in one ear and out the other, but they're (or anyway he's) still intent on going on. So the paperwork to get him out of Rice Home is under way.
    Not a wasted effort in any case. I think when you know that there are people who care whether you live or die, you're an extra bit more careful with yourself. Anyway, he now most certainly knows.

Revenue enhancement

    I don't know about anywhere else, but around here, police cars are extremely difficult to recognize from the front. They are well-marked on the sides and back, but from the front they look almost like any other car. The lights on the roof are chromed-up in front and slender, so it just looks like the car has a roof rack. It occurs to me that federal aid to municipalities lately might have taken the form of paying for sneaky police cars to make speeding arrests easier. Thus municipalities would get more ticket revenue. Maybe I'm being cynical. Still seems somewhat underhanded no matter who is paying for them or how.
    My dreams last night featured the kitty. For a being who has been a very important part of my life for a long time (six years), she doesn't show up in my dreams often. I was visiting my dad at the (or a) nursing home, and the kitty was with me. She was a big hit and I was thinking that maybe she should have a litter box there. However, since she didn't, I figured I'd better bring her home. I did, but home (in this case, my dad's house, more or less) was mobbed. First, I had to check the gigantic parcel on the porch. Apparently it was a steampunk stereo. (My waking mind would kill or die for a steampunk stereo, by the way.)
    The steampunk stereo had four hurricane lamp chimneys. (Why? Beats me.) I tried picking them up, then realized that I hadn't gotten my key out, and now couldn't. The mob was annoyed with me for the delay. From the last two nights' dreams we conclude that I'm really missing the crowd that isn't surrounding me, but I'm afraid that they're very annoyed with me.

Dorm dreams

    I only stayed in one dorm at Penn. It was not the most prestigious location on campus, being out at the very edge. I mainly remember liking the people, and that the radiator heat was usually MUCH much too hot.
    Last night, I had a dream about it. Sort of. There was some kind of business about trying to do laundry in a toilet. And everybody got pissed at me for clogging it since apparently it was the only toilet in the building.
    Then an insanely beautiful amalgam of two women I know in real life but not too well led me to a room in the dorm that I had never seen before. It was gigantic, magnificently appointed in deep reds, and full to bursting with beds. Anybody who knows me or dreams knows that the insanely beautiful woman disappeared at this point. But I wasn't too disappointed; mainly I was stunned that I had never known that this great room was in the dorm I had lived in for a year and a half. Silly, aren't I?

"I'm not her brother"

    Anne and Malcolm went back to Boston yesterday, but first we all met at Golden Corral for lunch. This wasn't over comfortable for me, since Golden Corral is quite straightforward on their website about the fact that they make no effort to cater to people with food sensitivities. So I just sat there, but it was still fun.
    It's a buffet operation, so there aren't waitresses per se. Instead, nice ladies refill your drinks and take your used plates. Our refill lady asked Anne, "Are these your brothers?" Dad said, "I'M not her brother!" Well, we thought it was funny.

Misunderstanding (straightened out)

    So we were mistaken thinking that my sister had offered to pay for my dad's ride service to and from dialysis. (She was offering to pay for a ride service if he and Margaret wanted to go out occasionally.) However, she was able to persuade him that he did need a ride service, and that he could afford to pay for it, so the result is the same. However, for at least a while I think the job will fall to William and me because...
    He asked Margaret if he could move in with her next weekend, and she accepted. I don't know what the Rice Estate staff will say about that, but I guess we'll see. We'll have to get his dialysis facility changed to somewhere more convenient. Then we'll think about the ride service.

Have a feeling 91 is gonna be a good year

    Today is my father's 91st birthday. As I mentioned yesterday, we had his party last night since dialysis and birthday parties don't mix. It went well, eventually. Unfortunately, the Outback bloomin' onion disagreed with him strongly. It might have been an insufficiently sweet onion, or it might have been undercooked. Either way, he was very, very uncomfortable for much of the visit. However, when his pork chop arrived he brightened up, and felt much better for the balance of the evening.
    We didn't think he would feel up to going to Margaret's for cake, but he surprised us. (As the cakes were in the trunk of my car, it wouldn't have been any problem to go back to Rice Estate instead.) Unfortunately, Malcolm and Anne were in a minor fender-bender on the way from Outback to Margaret's, so there was a long delay. But no one was hurt and there was very little damage (and that to the other car), so all was well that ended well. Dad had a piece from both cakes and liked both, I'm told. (I know I'm an awful person, but I bailed, as a) I can't eat cake; b) I had to feed the cat and c) I had to vacuum. But I did sing him a chorus of "Happy Birthday To You" first.) So a good time, a good celebration, and yay for 91!

That went well

    After all that anxiety, taking Dad to and from dialysis without an ambulance turned out to be easy, almost straightforward. Fortunately Anne and Malcolm, Jr. made it down from Boston (for Dad's birthday Friday) in time for the return trip, so I had a lot of help. The only stumbling block was that, in Dad's words, "they took out too much fluid," so when he stood up his blood pressure was too low. So they gave him a soda and we waited a while longer. Then he was fine.
    The plan had been for Rice Home to bring him a tray to his room, but he felt up to eating in the dining room. So he did, with Malcolm and Anne accompanying him. Since his actual birthday is on another dialysis day, we're observing his birthday tonight, sort of like George Washington. Dinner at Outback, cake at Margaret's. I think this ought to be a lot of fun.

365

    That's it, really. Mind you, I'm not impressed. I know at least one person who has kept a journal faithfully for decades. Then again, a blog isn't a journal and a journal isn't a blog. The stuff that I can't publish here would fill volumes. (If you think I've been indiscreet, try to imagine the stuff I shut up about!) Anyway, there's one year down; here's to many more!
    Meanwhile, sister Anne proves once again that she's a genius by cutting right through the Gordian knot. She simply offered to pay for a ride service to take Dad to dialysis three times a week, and he accepted. And my stress level falls something spectacular.

16 years, or fun with math

    I'm trying but failing to get amused, pleased or excited by the fact that I'm available for Sadie Hawkins Day for the first time in 16 years. Not that I was in a relationship for 16 years; only seven. It's just that there wasn't a leap year in 2000, so I've had a long Sadie-free stretch. Big number anyway.
    I guess it would be a lot easier to get excited about this if there were any sign that anyone living had any interest in catching or even chasing me. Unfortunately, there is no such sign. Today, Valentine's Day, isn't a big ball of joy, either. Nor is the gloomy weather today helping. I'm hanging together as best I can, and focussing on improving Dad's and Margaret's situation the best I can. Hey, at least they can have a nice Valentine's Day. (I hope. This is also the day he's moving to Assisted Living. Crossing all fingers and toes.)

Vitamin D

    Yesterday, circumstances, mostly the cold weather, caused me to take my walk later than usual. So I got much more direct sunlight than I usually do. Possibly for this reason, I cheered up from my walk a lot more than I have in a long time.
    It occurs to me that when people say that Vitamin D depletion is causing wintertime depression, they probably are wrong. Apparently, all the sunshine you need to keep your Vitamin D stores up is the exposure you get driving around a half hour or so per day with your face and hands uncovered. However, your body needs a mechanism to keep you from letting your stores get too low, so you get depressed if you stay out of the sun for too much of the time.
    It wouldn't make sense as an adaptive response if you only got depressed when your Vitamin D levels got low enough to be life-threatening. It makes more sense if the depression were a leading indicator. Or so I say; I stress that I have no training in this area and am largely talking out my ass. That's what blogs are for, isn't it?
    Meanwhile, escapist dreams are reaching a new level. I dreamed last night that some (imaginary) woman had taken my body away and put me into a computer. I find this idea very appealing at the moment. In the dream, however, I was not best pleased. For some reason, I was equally upset to have lost my skeleton and my liver. Very attached to my liver in my sleep, apparently.

Hmmm

    On the one hand, of course, you wish for the best for your loved ones, always pulling for the "happily ever after" ending. On the other, when the loved ones in question are pushing 91 and in questionable health and planning to move in together... you still hope for the best, and that they will have wonderful times together. But if bad things are going to happen, there's an argument that it might be better if they happen during the trial period so that everybody can think things through as clearly as possible.
    Bad things happened. Nothing earth-shattering or health-threatening, but enough that it might give them pause. And pause is probably a good thing. They're tough old folks and determined to win through, and I think they will. But it's probably a silver lining that they have as good an idea what life together will be like. And if they come to the conclusion that the rest of us have, that they would be a lot healthier, happier and safer together in a nursing home, well, that would ease all our nerves quite a lot.

Still waiting for common sense to break out

    I guess what's making me crazy is that there are no good solutions, and there should be. What Dad needs is a skilled nursing facility three nights a week. The other four days, he could almost live by himself, but for his fading eyesight. Given the number of baby boomers heading for nursing homes and the percentage of those who are diabetic, you'd think somebody would be setting up such facilities. One person could get a room three nights a week, and another with a different dialysis schedule could get it three other nights a week. They wouldn't have to use the same bed; you could trundle a bed for each in and out. Seems like merest common sense to me. (Then again, it seemed like common sense to me to put a dialysis facility in each nursing home, but apparently I was mistaken. Still don't quite understand what the problem with that idea would be.)
    Meanwhile, Dad is at Margaret's for the weekend again. His energy levels were very low as of the time I picked up and delivered him. Hopefully he's feeling better by now. I tried to shorten his walk by pulling into Margaret's driveway, but unfortunately, the way it's terraced he wound up walking around farther than he would have if I hadn't bothered. I try so hard to be nice and helpful, and all I ever do is screw up worse. He wanted to sit down when he got in and almost sat down on nothing but air. We got him to a chair eventually, but this is another indicator that his sight is not what it should be. I hope the rest of the weekend goes better. I may just bring them takeout rather than try to go to lunch.

I think I liked the nightmares better

    Last night I woke about 3 and never really got back to sleep. Dad is being moved to Assisted Living next Tuesday, and I feel strongly that it's going to be a fiasco. I also will be driving him to and from dialysis three times a week. He's completely wiped out after dialysis. Heretofore, he's been riding an ambulance each way, which I always hated, but now appreciate. The probability is that he's going to have to walk a long distance to get back to his room in Assisted Living, which he isn't going to be up to. He also has to go to meals in a dining area, which he won't be up to, either. And the only thing that gets his blood pressure back up after dialysis is eating.
    All of this is a recipe for disaster. None of this is any preparation or simulation for living with Margaret. I think I've made another mistake, this one of titanic proportions. I have to figure out how to fix it between now and Tuesday. Or at least buy a wheelchair.

Seeker

    I can't decide whether J.K. Rowling named the position of Seeker in Quidditch for symbolic reasons or just to dexcribe what the player does in the imaginary game. Or perhaps whether she made up the game and the position just to be able to make Harry a Seeker. Or if it's all just a coincidence.
    (For non Harry Potter people, if there are any of those left, Quidditch is a wizard's sport played in the air on broomsticks. Like soccer except that there are magical balls called bludgers that try to get the players off their brooms. And one tiny winged ball that hides; the Seeker's job is to try to find and catch it, which scores scores many points (150), usually winning the game.)
    So "Seeker" is a reasonable description for the position, but "Hunter" would probably convey it better. Of course, I could look it up, but what would be the fun of that?

Magnetic key locker

    Last night, I strolled right out the door without my keys. Unfortunately, I strolled slowly enough to lock the door on my way out. No problem, I thought, I have a magnetic key locker hidden on the premises. I went to extricate it, and... Let me tell you, those things aren't as easy to open as they were back in the day when they were smaller and made of metal. I couldn't make any headway at all. I was picturing myself locked out forever. Then I remembered that there was a smart phone in my pocket and I started feeling better. Eventually I got it open and got back in to get my keys. Even though it wasn't a signal success, I guess I'll still keep using it. Under the doormat, the only other workable hiding place, seems a little too obvious.
    Brain continues functioning sub-optimally (obviously). When I'm awake, I can barely think. When I'm asleep, whoa. Last night, the more regular kind of nightmare came back. This time, I was at my dad's house, and he was in the yard with a roto-tiller. Since I don't know what a roto-tiller does or look like, my brain contented itself with giving me just a view of his legs and telling me that it was him and a roto-tiller. Then a lawn mower with no handle rolled by. Gosh, I wonder whom I might be stressing about? Other dreams were also only remembered in snatches, but were more pleasant. I woke up on a beach at dawn, peeved that there were other people there, even in the distance. And I was at the opera, where hiphop was being performed. I was mad about the artists who had been selected. In general, I was mad last night. All the key locker's fault, no doubt.

Now... non-nightmare nightmares

    The subconscious fascinates me, and the only one I have to work with is my own. As a little kid I had a scary dream involving a gorilla, and in the dream my brother Frank told me not to be scared, that it was just a dream. Last night, my subconscious tried a new wrinkle. Horrifying stuff happened and I just shrugged and carried on. First I fell asleep reading Harry Potter. Since I was still holding the book (and my place), my hands were up and exposed. Thus they were freezing. This might have something to do with the fact that I dreamed about sliding down a snow-covered mountainside in what was more or less a gigantic shoebox. In real life, I would find this a little nerve-wracking. In the dream, I just went with the flow. If anything, I thought it was mondo cool.
    Later (with warmer hands), I dreamed that I was driving and everywhere I went, people just rammed into my car (with theirs) at high speed. And every time, I just got out and helped them out, including asking if they needed me to take anything they wouldn't want the police to see. (Hey, it was a dream. I assure you I wouldn't do anything like this in real life.) On the whole, it was very neat. The worst stuff kept happening, and I just wasn't bothered. THESE are nightmares I can live with.

Good weekend

    Saturday morning, I picked up Dad at the nursing home to take him to Margaret's for the weekend. I picked them up at noon or so for lunch with brother William at Lizard's Thicket. Then Margaret wanted Dad to have a haircut with her stylist (around the corner from where I live) so I gave them a ride there and back, too.
    Sunday, I was standing by, but they didn't need me. They went to Captain D's (fast food seafood) for a late lunch, then by the cemetery (also in my neighborhood) to see Margaret's son-in-law's grave. To be honest, I had no idea what to do with my first actual weekend in seven or eight months. But I really did need to be standing by.
    I picked up Dad about 5 and took him back in time for both supper and the Super Bowl at the nursing home. By all signs and portents, they had a wonderful weekend together. Dad used his walker and had no problem except for the continuing thing with shortness of breath and limited stamina. I think that's just connected to dialysis.
    A good weekend? A great weekend? I don't know, but I did skip all the way from the nursing home back to the car, which I don't remember ever doing before.

I hate conflict

    Yet I seem to have run into a lot, lately. I guess the goal is to improve my conflict resolution skills, which are already pretty good. However, there just seems to be no way to get a couple of nonagenarians to admit that they really can't live independently, and that attempting to try is going to cause infinite stress to all their children. One hopes they enjoy their weekend, but also realize this might be harder than they think.
    Coincidentally, I also hate conflict in fiction. This may be why the Great American Novel hasn't sprung from me yet. Or maybe it's the whole not having any talent thing, I don't know.:)

Doors

    Long long ago, I took a Junior Year Abroad at the University of Kent at Canterbury. (That was the name back then, though they've since dropped the "at Canterbury." It's still there as far as I know, however.) It was set up as a group of colleges, each with its own building, each consisting of classrooms, dormitories and common rooms. The ones I stayed in also had dining halls, though I don't think all of them did. In other words, being a very new university, they were playing at being Oxbridge. I don't think they got very near their mark, but the setup worked pretty well on its own terms.
    UKC was where I had what the network TV of the time would have called my "very special episode." The college I was living in at the time made you pass through a lot of portals, mainly double doors, to get anywhere. The girl I was going to see lived in the same college, but at the other end. So I had to cross the dining hall to get to her. And I remember all those double doors seeming to have some otherworldly significance. It was like (to be a lot more earthly) the opening credits for "Get Smart!" or "Mystery Science Theater 3000."
    Every door or set of doors I passed through seemed like its own decision, or the underlining of a decision. Today I got my dad out of the nursing home for his first weekend pass. There were only two doors we had to go through, but I got much the same sense, even just on the drive to come pick him up. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

Peace in our time

    The care plan meeting went well. Dad eventually agreed to go to Assisted Living for at least a few weeks. And he finally accepted that he wouldn't be driving himself to and from dialysis, that NObody can do this. And we made some progress in getting him to accept that it might be better if he give up driving entirely. I did have to throw Margaret under the bus a bit, by saying that she was the one who said that he shouldn't drive. But she smoothed that over by saying it wasn't a question of his skills but that he can't turn his neck. And she told me later when I tried to apologize to her that that was all right. It WAS the only way to shock him out of the idea of driving.
    He does get to go stay with Margaret all weekend, or anyway all Saturday and Sunday. They are perfectly happy with the idea that I can sign him out every non-dialysis day, so Margaret doesn't necessarily have to come visit any more. I'll start driving him to dialysis and back, too, once he gets to Assisted Living. So it'll be a heavier burden on me for a little while, but I can use some distraction about now.
    There is a solid health reason for him staying, apart from learning how to do dialysis without an ambulance. He's concerned about his shortness of breath, and wants to know if it could have anything to do with any of the medications he's taking. The head of nursing made a note to have the staff doctor see him about it. Hopefully, he can allay Dad's fears.
    So a good day. Yay!

Not the LEAST bit stressed out

    So today is the meeting to determine Dad's exit strategy. He really believes he'll be going to stay with Margaret for the weekend for the first time this weekend. I think this is extremely unlikely. On the other hand, we can sign him out for any number of hours either Saturday or Sunday (or both). So this weekend shouldn't be any big issue.
    And there's no big issue between us and the Rice Home. Everybody wants Dad to go home, be with Margaret and be well. The only big issue is that Dad thinks he can restart his life as it was before. And he could. To be more specific, the big issue is why he would want to. He didn't do such a great job with it for a number of years. His movements ground to a halt and his driving was scary and getting scarier. So somehow, we have to persuade him to take it easy on the driving, and not sweat a slow transition to life outside the nursing home.
    It occurs to me that Margaret no longer needs to come visit Dad. Instead I could just check him out on every non-dialysis day and bring him to her house for the afternoon. Which would also get me out of their hair. I love this plan!

Kitty ventriloquist

    Sometimes, the kitty wants to get between the sheets with me, as against lying on top of the bedspread on my legs like she normally does. Possibly because I'm lying on my side at this point with a pillow against my ear (which might mess up directional hearing) or possibly because I have a sleep mask on, I can never quite figure out where her voice is coming from, and generally reach towards the wrong place trying to pet her head. Fortunately, I haven't put any eyes out or done any other kind of damage. And I realize it isn't anything earth-shattering. I just think it's neat.