R.I.P., Mrs. Fossilfuel

Some of you are familiar with the very elderly woman I took care of for awhile last year. While I was traveling last week, a friend emailed me and said she'd heard that Mrs. Fossilfuel had recently died, ten days after her 100th birthday, which was on February 22nd. (There was no funeral service, because she had outlived all her friends and most of her family.)

I wrote quite a few posts about my time with her. The time she finally let me wash her hair.

Getting to spend her 99th birthday with her.

And one of the worst job experiences ever, at least in the category of Fecal Purgatory.

I hope you're floating around free and happy, Mrs. Fossilfuel. I will never forget you. My memories of our time together are fond ones, even though you eventually fired me. And even though you forbade me to throw away your semi-used Poise pads, because "we might want to use them around the house."

Deep Inside the Midwest

Seeing family. And puppies.

Back soon.

Dear Dad

I'm really missing you tonight. It's almost 2 in the morning, your time. Your time. Time doesn't mean much for you anymore. When I come to see you, I could've been away for 5 minutes or 25 years. It doesn't register for you. But you always look at me with your big blue eyes and say "Where you been?"

I still have a very hard time believing that you're in a nursing home. I go over that phrase in my head. Over and over it. "Nursing home." It becomes a non-phrase. A cartoony image of a house with teats hanging off all 4 sides, and all the patients in their wheelchairs are leaning forward, nursing on them to stay alive. These are the little rodeos my mind sets into motion when I try to just hold reality in my hand like a warm rock. Suddenly the rock becomes too warm, hot, scalding, and I throw it hard and run for cover, waiting for the retaliation.

Late last night, as I was bleary-eyed from reading yet another book on Alzheimers, I suddenly wondered: If you were still you, and I had a baffling disease that had wrapped around me like tentacles from an unseen giant of the sea, would you be reading books about it? Would you be turning page after page in books written by those who had watched the tentacles squeeze the life out of their daughters?

Would you sit by my bed and stroke my hair and say the words I say to you? "You can relax and go to sleep. You're right where you're supposed to be. You're safe. And we all love you."

I think you would. I hope you would.

I miss you so much. I miss your silly sense of humor. I miss the way you'd walk up and put your arms around Mom as she washed dishes. I miss seeing you in your denim overalls, getting off your tractor and coming inside the house for the noon meal.

I miss the way you'd stand in front of the bathroom mirror, combing your hair before going out with Mom in the evening, and you'd laugh and say "I'm a good lookin' bastard, aren't I?"

I miss the very basics. I miss seeing you walk.

I think about what it would be like to have you back in your real mind. And how miraculous. Even for one hour. If you suddenly "woke up" and looked at us and said "What was all THAT about?" We would stand like figurines, frozen in shock at the old you landing back inside yourself. Mom would put both hands on her face and then both hands on your face. "Are you really here?" she'd say. "Are you home again?"

And I wouldn't want to, but I would leave the room, and take everyone out with me, except for you and Mom. I would close the door softly, and let you live your whole lives over again in the next 59 minutes.

A Mother's Work is Never Done

I reported 5 new puppies. There are 6. I get to see them pretty soon. I am flying them all home to live with us. Don't tell Scott.

Happy Easter

On Friday, a good friend of mine wrote this:

"They call it Good Friday. Maybe that's because it's shorter than: Darkness fell, the temple curtain was torn in two, the earth shook and the rocks split, graves broke open and the dead walked, and nothing would ever be the same Friday."

This Puppy is Sleepy

And do you know WHY he's sleepy?

Because it takes great exertion for him to display the many facets of his personality:

Cuteness

Extra Cuteness

Extreme Cuteness

Ridiculous, Over-the-Top Cuteness

Enough Cuteness to Make You Wolf Your Guts and Then Jump Over a Fence and Cackle Like a Hyena

So you can see why he's sleepy.

This Is As Domestic As I Get

I chop things.

I went for color.

We ate it.

The end.

Another Use For Powdered Sugar

So my sister emails me this morning and says "I hate you, Candy. It's going to be 90 in Phoenix today and THIS is what we got here this morning. Our high is supposed to be 35!"

And today is the first day of her spring break from teaching.

She thinks I'm stupid enough to believe that it SNOWED in Indiana on the SIXTH day of April. She thinks I won't figure out that she went outside and sugared her lawn just to get me to feel sorry for her.

Sis, I'm onto you. At least next time use flour and you can have a nice gravy yard when it rains.

Found Art

I've had this bill for about ten years. I can't bear to spend it because the modification makes Abe look so much like Ringo Starr.

Seriously, Who Would Wear These?

I'll tell you who:
The same guy who says "Honestly, officer, I was only helping the sheep get over the fence."

Too Good Not to Post

My niece's husband left this in the comments section of an older post. I take great comfort in hearing stories of others who deal with deep, multi-layered stupidity:


"okay, so, as you know, i work at starbucks. i was working the drivethrough when one of those brittany's came through. she was talking on the cell when she pulled up, and continued for approx two full minutes before even acknowledging the fact that i was trying to get her out of the drivethrough. maybe it's drivethru. anyway. she hung up, and had the audacity to say 'sorry, i was on the phone'. wow. she ordered her drinks, and pulled up to the window. when she got up there, she asked me if i knew what a nozzle is. growing up in a similarly small town, actually, mine might be smaller, i know that a nozzle goes on the end of a hose, or on a spigot, to control water flow. she tells me that i am wrong and starts grabbing at her nose saying, 'you know, a nozzle'. with restraint from pulling her through the window, and putting her tongue on the steaming wand of our espresso machine, i said, 'no, that's a muzzle'. she stared at me with that look that only brittany can give you after telling her the meaning of life ('sorry, the mall is closed on sunday' look), and said 'that's why the dnr (department of natural resources, for those that don't know) didn't know what i was talking about.' she proceeds to tell me that she saw a wolf in our downtown decent-sized city, DEAD, ON A COUCH, with blood on its nozzle. hmmmm. okay, after growing up in small town, I know wolves avoid people. dogs in general are smart. wolves, even smarter. so to find one in town, they gotta be REAL hungry. to find one dead on the side of the road, tough to come by. to find one that crawled onto a couch, bit its tongue, and then gave up the ghost. wow.
so we spit in her drink a few times (kidding), and laughed at her. it made my weekend."