March 21, 2010

Sunday's Fun Day

Did your dad ever announce "Sunday's Fun Day?" Every dang Sunday? And Sunday meant we played games as a family.  My parents had this thing for games. All right, who am I to say it's a bad thing for parents to play games with their kids? It's a wonderful thing. We (my sibs and I) didn't sit around on our bony little butts watching TV or playing video games. And on Sundays we weren't left to our own devices either. Our parents stepped in and spent quality time with us. I admire them for it. Except for they had no idea what the good games were.

We had dopey games like Sorry and Skunk circa 1947. I coveted games with moving parts, unlike the old-fashioned ones we had which consisted of nothing more than dice or cards and a colored peg you would claim as "my guy." Why couldn't we have games with a Pop-O-Matic? And you know what game I wanted most of all? That's right, Mystery Date.

Of course as a kid I didn't know my parents were dirt poor and couldn't afford to buy new games. Besides, I'm sure Dad wouldn't be too interested to see if his mystery boy would be a dream or a dud.

But Saturday morning cartoon commercials would mock my poor family's games most of all with none other than Mouse Trap. How cool was that? Fortunately we had a cousin who's parents were really rich frivolous and he actually had the Mouse Trap game.  Whenever we visited we would forego the actual game part of Mouse Trap and just put together the whole trap thing with the kicking boot, the guy in the bathtub, and the marble going down the rickety steps.  What fun! 

One year for Christmas my dream came true. No, it wasn't a game with a moving part. It was even better. It was a doll that walked! Baby First Step. I remember that Christmas like it was yesterday. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

It didn't matter that she walked around like a little crippled child in leg braces and had no sense of direction. It required batteries and had moving parts!

Mechanical games and toys were the ultimate when I was growing up. I'm really glad Boyfriend and I never had kids though. I wouldn't have any idea how to even approach the mechanical toys of today. Technology is where it's at, and I'm so not on board with all that. If I had kids I'd totally make Sunday Fun Day, but my kids would run and hide the minute I pulled out the old-fashioned deck of cards for a game of Go Fish.

March 20, 2010

Two Neils And A Skip

I'm just sitting around this Saturday night, Boyfriend asleep in the chair next to me.  There's nothing good on TV and I just can't bring myself to do anything productive.  I guess that means it's a good time to donk around on the computer.

I helped Neil Diamond out with some lyrics this evening, via Twitter.  Well, he asked.  We'll see if he takes my suggestions or not.

And speaking of musical stars, what's with Neil Young?  Ugh.  It's a guy thing, I think.  I've got him on IFC right now and not only am I ready to stick hot pokers in my ears, it doesn't even look like he's enjoying his supposed passion for music.  Looks like a crabby old man.  I don't know, maybe I'm just too stupid to get it.

And speaking of old crabby people I found out I'm being followed on Twitter by HeadGeezer - Helping Seniors Make, Save, and Invest Money.  That's one thing I hate about social media - the "outreach" programs.  It's like financial evangelicals.  They're out to save me from my sinful monitary ways.  Instead of knocking on my door with their white shirts and black ties they're following me on Twitter with their colorful, goofy cartoon guy.  And who the hell are they calling a senior?!

I just realized the guys I mentioned tonight were named Neil, except for the HeadGeezer guy, whose name is Skip.  I'm totally not kidding.  Skip the HeadGeezer. 

OK, Neil Young was supposed to be off the TV ten minutes ago and his whiney ass singing is still burning a hole through my brain.  Perhaps it's a sign from God that it's time for bed.

March 19, 2010

What's The Phenomenon Where You Can't Get A Song Out Of Your Head? - I Don't Care, Just Make It Stop!

I've been reminiscing lately - reminiscing about things from my childhood.  What got me to reminiscing is this stupid, stupid song that has been running through my head for three days now. 

Green green it's green they say
On the far side of the hill
Green green I'm goin' away
To where the grass is greener still

I can't give credit to the lyricist because I have no idea who wrote those words.  I do know that song, along with other like Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, Blowin' In The Wind, and If I Had A Hammer were sung by The Johnny Mann Singers.  My parents had more than one of these folksy records and as kids we couldn't get enough of them.  Trouble is, it's all come back to haunt me.  If you have no idea what I'm talking about, rent the movie A Mighty Wind.  The most accurate portrayal of the folk singers and their reunion is pretty funny, and also sad at the same time.  Sad as in I can't believe people seriously listened to this stuff. 

So get your peppy on and clap along to the old folk tunes.  I'm serious.  If I can't get this ridiculous song out of my head I can at least put another one into yours.  Here's a clip from A Mighty Wind:

More nostalgia to come.  What were your favorite board games as a kid?

March 17, 2010

A Sincere Apology, Sort of

All right, we've already established I'm going to hell for all the naughty things I said during The Passion of Faux Ma.  Isn't that enough?  No.  Penelope went and made me feel bad for talking about a dead lady's  cooter.  So now I must apologize.

I couldn't help it.  I was overcome with emotions I never though existed and this is my blog - my place to express - my outlet.  For all of you who were offended, I'm here to officially say I'm sorry.

The grossest part of that whole post was the icky cooter brooch at the end.  I can't believe I did that.  I also can't believe people spend their time constructing things like that.  Unlike some hairy beast lumberjack nuns I know (yes, I really know some) I really don't think I'm all that special because I have a vagina.  Every woman since the beginning of time has had one.  I don't even care that it's the gateway to life, it's an ugly piece of anatomy and we should keep it covered at all costs.

Oh, don't be all up in arms about my not worshipping my body and praising the fact that I'm a woman.  I have a perfectly fine body image.  I just don't get why we as woman are supposed to be all excited over our girly bits.  I mean, if men went around making jewelry that looked like their weenskies we'd think they were insane.  There are some things on the human body that are just icky-looking.  Cooters and weenskies are at the top of the list.

So okay, I'll apologize for speaking so glibly during the passing of a human life.  I should have left more time between the death and my post just out of respect.  But I will not apologize getting shivers when being forced to see not just any cooter, but Faux Ma's cooter.  It was just wrong and bad.  I will also not apologize for worshipping a higher power, God if you will, instead of some stupid part of my body. 

I will not embrace the cooter.

March 15, 2010


All right kids, I now know what it feels like to lose a Faux Ma.  I have to admit I feel bad for Boyfriend.  After all, no one likes to have a dead mom. 

I really, morbidly so, wanted to be in the room when Faux Ma passed to the other side.  I've never seen a person die before.  Unfortunately I was in the kitchen when it happens.  Figures.  No, I wasn't stuffing my face.  In fact it was even kind of hard to sip on my Diet Dr. Pepper while in the sick house.  I was with Boyfriend and the nurse ladies talking about how soon it would be before she dies.  Five minutes into the conversation Faux Pa came running toddling out of the bedroom and uttered his usual words, "you better come."  That's when one of the nurse ladies said, "she's gone." 

Yeah, I was a little disappointed to miss the moment of truth.  I hoped to see a glimmer of "the light" in her face.  That's assuming she was going toward "the light" and not the firey pits of hell.  One never knows for sure, except in my case where I just assume I'll visit the firey pits of hell for all the nasties I pull on this blog.

I guess someone up there figured it was enough for me to see all I did while Faux Ma was dying.  The caregivers did a hell of a job keeping her nice and dignified while cancer ate away her body.  It bothered me when she wanted her feet "untied."  That meant she wanted her feet outside the blanket and sheet.  Faux Ma had the biggest feet I've ever seen on a woman, really long and narrow.  And her big toes curled up, like cartoon hillbilly toes. 

It was disgusting.  And there they were, hanging out for all of us to see.  Of course it didn't bother anyone as much as it did me, hater of all things feet. 

Little did I know cartoon hillbilly feet would be preferable to what came one day when Faux Ma was just a tad agitated.  The caregiver was straightening out the sheets and taking the pillow out from between her thin little legs.  And then I saw it.  The cooter.  AAAGGGHHH!  Yep, I got a free shot of Faux Pa's wife's cooter.  And he saw me see it.  He was all embarrassed and hated that I saw the precious jewel of his pleasure.  So I was torn between feeling utter horror for seeing Faux Ma's naughty bits and gut-busting hysterics over Faux Pa's fidgeting over my glimpse.

It's ironic how life bites you in the ass.  This was just one more point in favor of my theory that everything that brings you shame in life will reveal itself fully in your death and dying.  Faux Ma was reserved and would never even think of telling a sex joke.  She was all about appearances.  She cared way too much what people thought of her and her family.  If she realized her little veejayjay was out for all to see her mortification would have taken her life well before the cancer did.

It will be a long time before the mental image of that from which Boyfriend passed at birth leaves me.  And longer still the annoyed look Faux Pa shot me, as if I had violated his wife's modesty on purpose.  Perhaps on Mother's Day I'll get a little remembrance for Faux Pa...

March 09, 2010

Death Watch, 2010

Boyfriend and I have been sitting close to Faux Ma during her final days. It’s actually been a fascinating journey except for one thing…Faux Pa.

OK, I know people deal with death differently. Everyone grieves uniquely. And the grieving process can begin before a death, as in this case with Faux Ma. She was diagnosed with cancer in 2006. She was in remission after a big series of chemotherapy. Then right before Thanksgiving of 2009 it was discovered the cancer had returned.

Faux Ma has been taking care of doing everything for Faux Pa for at least the last decade. He has been showing definite signs of dementia for quite a while. Nothing has ever been done about this dementia; in fact, Faux Ma did her darnedest for years to cover up his mental decline. By the time she had reached the point where she couldn’t take care of do everything for Faux Pa and Boyfriend and I were spending more time around him during the Death Watch, we discovered things were much worse than we suspected.

But life is full of surprises and Faux Pa’s mental incapacity is just one of those surprises. We’re rolling with it, fully aware that the minute Faux Ma floats into the great beyond Faux Pa will be coerced into the car and taken to the nearest neurologist so we can work with an actual diagnosis.

Until that time he’s dealing with the death of his wife. I have to keep reminding myself he is incapacitated. He is impaired. He is totally, completely, utterly getting on my last nerve.

I am fully aware that I’m going straight to hell because of all the thoughts I’ve been having, picking on an 85-year-old man with the mental capacity of a 7-year-old. Don’t lecture me about having compassion or getting bad karma. I can’t help it. And I’m pretty sure the reason he bugs me so much is because I’m deathly afraid he is what Boyfriend will someday become. ARGH!

For one thing, Faux Pa thinks it must be completely silent in the death house. Silent and dark with no moving air. He believes we are to sit around Faux Ma and simply watch silently as she dies. So when Boyfriend or I try to encourage Faux Ma to express herself, what she’s feeling and seeing (and she’s seeing a lot more around the house than any of us, let me tell you), or if we give words of encouragement that it’s okay for her to let go Faux Pa gets all agitated and annoyed. The poor woman is trying to articulate something, and instead of having the patience to let her just get it out, Faux Pa interrupts and says over and over and over again, just relax and rest. Not only does he not want any of us to make noise, he doesn’t want to hear his wife’s last words. Know why? Because they will be her last words. I’m pretty sure he thinks if she isn’t talking or being talked to she will live forever.

So he just sits there at her side, devoted as he is. Faux Ma must have been awfully devoted too because Faux Pa doesn’t cease to reward her loyalty with the ultimate gesture of validation…petting. Yes, he pets his wife. With his fingertips. Constantly. It’s like he wants to comfort her but is afraid to touch her. It’s like he’s been married to her for over fifty years but has never been intimate with her. (Never mind Boyfriend’s existence.)

There is no way I can convey within the confines of a blog post the bizarreness of this couple’s history. Bizarre to me, at least. The lack of communication. The power struggles. The resentment. The dependency. What do I expect? Do I think Faux Pa should pull a Ryan O’Neal in Love Story and just hop into bed with the dying Faux Ma?  That would most likely drive me to poke forks in my eyes.

I can’t articulate my frustration with this man. I guess that makes me just as incapacitated as he is.