Rants from the Chair: On Flatulence

I’m sick to death of this election cycle. 

I’m sick to death of agonizing crises of the “really old person” variety.

I’m sick to death of worldwide insanity and economic mayhem.

So to lighten things up a little bit…

I want to talk about farts.

After all, farts have a huge presence in the lives of absolutely all human beings.  No one is immune.

Farts are wildly hilarious, they feel good, and they are devastatingly embarrassing.

My personal experience with farts, as far back as I can recall, started oh-so-long ago when I was a very young child. 

The scene is an average middle-class, 1950’s American living room.  There is a father sitting in a huge green leather chair, with his long legs stretched out across a matching green leather ottoman.  There is a mother sitting on a red couch she hates but tolerates because it was a surprise gift from the father.  And there are two kids seated on the floor; a little girl and her older brother.  There are watching Walt Disney on a black-and-white Philco, which means it’s a Sunday night.

Somewhere around halfway through the program, the father says, “Whoop!  Here it comes!”  Whereupon he ceremoniously lifts his right buttock and blasts the room with an extended and enormous explosion.  Whereupon the mother crosses her arms and says, “God Damn It Frank!”  Whereupon the two children fall into complete hysterics.  Whereupon the father wears a relieved and self-satisfied grin.

Throughout one’s life there are many millions of farts.  But I bet you’ll agree there are some that really stand out in memory.

I recall one when I was an early teen living in Japan, where I befriended a classmate, we’ll call her Pam, who was the daughter of our Episcopal priest.  I also had a crush on her older brother, whom we will call Rocky, who was a tough and exciting bad-boy, as many sons of priests can be, and who also had taught me how to French kiss.  Pam invited me over to spend the night one weekend, where we would be having a big family dinner with Father “Remington,” his wife “Mabel,” and of course Rocky.  The only detail I recall of that gathering, was when we were all visiting in the living room, and the Japanese maid appeared to announced dinner was ready, at which point we all stood in momentary silence, and to my sudden shock I passed what I call the loud, bubbly kind of fart, and in the immediate aftermath, everyone was so stunned they all just stared at me with astonished bewilderment.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  Only a formal sit-down dinner awaited me, where nobody had a clue what to say.

Fast forward a couple of years and I’m in the Philippines, a high school student in love with a boy named “Bill.”  He asked me to see a movie at the on-base theater (I think it was “The Days of Wine and Roses,” which ended up being depressing as hell, by the way), and said his mother wanted to meet me first.  We lived within walking distance of each other, so he came to get me, and we went back to his place.  His mother stood waiting on the wide, wraparound porch, waving at us across the lawn, which had a walkway to the porch steps, and on this walkway was a random garden hose zigzagging along the path.  We had to lift our feet slightly so as not to step on it, and to my horror, with each step I took came a fart, one right after the other, in rapid succession, the last one emitting just as we reach Bill’s mother, who stood on that top porch step and glared down at me in the silence that followed. 

How did Bill and I do after that?  Who remembers?  But like I said, the movie was depressing as hell, which I guess was a good thing because it made us forget about my earlier, multisyllabic display of flatulence.

My mother, ever the “southern lady of the old school,” has always insisted she just “does not pass gas…ever.”  But my daughter, who calls my mother “Doer,” busted her one day, which I learned when she called me expressly to tell me, “Doer farted, Mom!  I swear to God, I caught her in the act just now!”  I could hear my mother yelling in the background, “I DID NOT DO THAT!  SHE’S LYING!”

And speaking of my daughter?  Oh my God. 

She inherited “the gift” from my father, I’m convinced.

She’s blatant about it, and quite frankly, she’s totally unabashed.

When she was a teenager, I can remember a number of times when I would stomp up the stairs to tell her and her friends to pipe down please, and upon opening her bedroom door, someone would announce with an eye-roll, “Farrah farted again, Jill! GAG!”  And there Farrah would sit, with that look of relieved self-satisfaction I used to see on my father’s face every day of my life.

So as you can see, I was heavily indoctrinated into this gassy lifestyle from day one…so much so, I recall telling a boyfriend one time, “Dude, we’ve been together for freaking six months now, and I’ve NEVER heard you fart!  Not once!  And I’ll not believe you really love me until you do!”

Of course his response was to fart every five minutes for the rest of our seven-year relationship.

Sigh.

Re-rants from the Chair: You Think You Know Somebody

[Author’s Note:  Here’s a piece I posted back in December 2010, before I started sharing my blog on Facebook.  I think it’s fun, and definitely worth re-ranting about!  Hope you enjoy.]

At the end of 1995 things were going well, and the year had been positive.  August had me happily divorced, again; September had my daughter leaving my nest empty; and October had me beginning a new relationship.

This “new” man, we’ll call him Jeffrey, was someone I had known for twenty years.  We met when my boyfriend-at-the-time Marcus and I moved to a Southern California beach town in 1974.  Through a dear, longtime girlfriend of mine, Marcus and I met and hung out with a fun and boisterous group of fire fighters and their women. 

So I became great friends with Jeffrey, who was also in a relationship at the time.  He was tall, black-haired, cute and very funny.  We all spent countless hours playing Backgammon, drinking shots, smoking pot, going out to dinners, movies, taking quick ski trips, and lazing on the beach. 

Fast forward twenty years later, I am living in Gainesville, Florida, and I receive a surprising phone call from Jeffrey.  He tells me he’s been divorced twice, has no kids, doesn’t fight fires anymore, is working on his Ph.D. in psychology and has moved to Jacksonville to be near his family.

“Remember all those long, serious talks we used to have?” he asked.  “And how much we used to laugh? Will you have dinner with me? I’ll be in Gainesville next week.”

Thus began a couple of really exciting months of dating, getting to know each other again, meeting each other’s families, trips back and forth between Gainesville and Jacksonville.  And sex.  Really good sex.  I honestly thought I had died and gone to heaven. 

Except for one nagging little thing:  Jeffrey kept telling me he “had a little secret.”  But when pressed, he would say, “You’ll know soon enough, my love!”  By December this was beginning to gnaw on my last nerve. 

On New Year’s Eve we were having this fancy late dinner out with his parents and siblings, when he whispered in my ear about his “secret.” I said, “For the love of God, Jeffrey, will you please tell me what it is?”  “Later,” he replied.

We finished a fine meal, toasted in the year 1996, and as we drove home to Jeffrey’s house we talked of being horny for each other and of cracking open another bottle of champagne.

“Lemme slip into something more comfortable while you pick out the music,” he said, breathing heavily between deep kisses as he body-pressed me against the beveled glass of his front door.  “Champagne’s in the fridge,” he whispered, nibbling lightly on my right earlobe.

Feeling weak-kneed and dizzy, I lovingly scanned the titles in his tall, teak CD rack next to a set of giant speakers.  He had the Allman Brothers’ Live at the Fillmore.  He had Steeley Dan, the Temptations, and even Tower of Power.  I adored Tower of Power.  He had Tyrone Davis!  Otis Redding!  Gabor Szabo!  The Average White Band!

I decided I wanted to hear “Stormy Monday” and after opening a bottle of champagne and pouring two glasses, I sat cross-legged on the floor about two inches from the speakers. 

I looked at my watch.  One-forty-five a.m.  What was taking him so long?  I put on some Sergio Mendez.  Perfect! Nothing like a little swing and sway in the background for hot, sweet passion on the living room floor!  I turned the music down low, lit the vanilla candle on the coffee table, and I waited.

“Jill,” he said suddenly from somewhere behind me.  I felt excited by the smooth alto of his voice calling my name.  I turned to face him.  He stood in the doorway.  Light from the bedroom behind him outlined his form, making it difficult to see.  He moved toward me, and then stopped under the track-lighting in the hall.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” I whispered.

There he posed, his tall, hairy bulk adorned in matching, sea-foam green camisole and slip, trimmed with delicate antique-white lace.  An enormous boner protruded proudly from under the fine silk.

I focused on the stubbly squareness of his jaw for what seemed like forever.

Finally I said, “Your chest hairs are poking out through the lace.”

He opened his arms to me, but I sat riveted to my spot, not daring to move.

“Come to me sweetness,” he said hoarsely.  “I need you now.”

“What is this, a joke?” I asked hopefully.  “Your version of Milton Berle doing his best drag bit?  Because quite frankly, Jeffrey, your timing is lousy.”

Then I started laughing like a maniac, and as a result I watched as his smile slowly vanished, his erection grew limp.

“Aha!” I exclaimed.  “So that’s why you have Victoria’s Secret catalogues on the coffee table!”

The smile reappeared.  “Wanna see my wardrobe?  I have gorgeous nightgowns and sweet Baby Doll see-throughs in all colors!”

I swear to God.  He was literally beaming he was so proud.

“So…what are you, gay?  Bisexual?”

“No!” he shouted. 

“What does your shrink say about this, Jeffrey?”

“She tells me if I want a healthy relationship with a woman, I have to give up my passion!”

“And….?”

“I told my shrink if a woman can’t take it, then I don’t want her!”

I tried.  Really I did.  But the transvestite act was such a profound turn-off for me; I just couldn’t deal.

So that was it.

I told him I preferred my men in Jockey Life Slim Guys, boxers or briefs, and that was the end of that.

You think you know somebody.

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Four

There have been a few complaints from my readers, all of whom of course I adore, because they actually care about what I write, which I feel is a gift from God. 

But they want me to get to the “one-legged lover” part.  Right now.

I ask, however, for their indulgence, because my gut tells me the back story is pretty important.

So anyway, moving right along…

After my twenty-six-hour restorative hibernation, my new best friends and I stayed joined at the hip for like the next five days.  I think they were on some kind of spring break from classes.  It was, after all, in late March.  Although I’m sure I enjoyed all of them, the two who remain steadfast in my memory are Lang, and the seventeen-year-old darling “Sarah” whose American diplomat parents scooted her out of the nest really early to attend the Sorbonne, all on her own.  She was so young and sweet, that both Lang and I kind of watched out for her.

How did we spend all those days together?  Frolicking around Paris and surrounding areas like the children we were, gleeful and excited and immensely happy. 

I recall a time spent in the Meat Packing District, meandering in and around hanging cow carcasses inside a freezing warehouse;

I recall darting through Place Pigalle near Montmartre, the official Parisian Red Light District, giggling at the real life whores, the sex shops and peep-show store fronts. 

I recall Montparnasse, where we imagined the ghosts of brilliant artists-past who gathered there;

I recall Lang insisting we attend the Friday twilight service at Notre Dame, where a choir sang

A Capella, and how the acoustics of that ancient cathedral affected their voices in such a way you thought you’d gone straight to Heaven and heard the angels sing;

But most of all, I remember the day we all got on a bus and headed out to the Palace at Versailles.  We spent the entire day there.  We danced through the gardens, not yet in full bloom, and we wandered through the enormously vast rooms and halls of the palace, content to be without a formal guide because Lang knew everything about the place.

Except when we hopped in with a group of American tourists just for fun, just for a minute, just in time to hear the guide speak with authority on the fact that King Louis XVI required all his women to abstain from bathing for one month before he would have sex with them.  Seriously, I am not making this up.  I may be wrong on which King Louis this pertains to, but it’s true, nonetheless. The older ladies on the tour gasped, hands over mouths in horror!  We were completely grossed out and laughed our asses off about it for days.

Finally, I decided it was time for Sarah and me to have a “girls’ night out.”  We’d been hanging with the “boys” almost constantly, and when Sarah complained of wanting a real date, I told her the “boys” were clearly cramping her style.  Who was going to hit on her with four guys getting in the way? 

While Sarah was mature beyond her years, she was still so young.  But I was confident that since I was a “much older” twenty-two, I could protect her from evil.  Lang and the guys felt differently though, worried we wouldn’t be safe without them, two girls running around Paris and all.  Especially at night.  But we both assured them we’d be totally fine.

So we hugged them goodbye on Saturday night and ran off, just the two of us, to see what the night would hold.

We started out doing things right by picking an upscale outdoor bar/café on the Champs Elysees where we could actually see the Arc de Triomphe from our table on the sidewalk.

We started out doing things right by sipping our drinks slowly, and savoring the very fact of where we were, like in the middle of a postcard or something.

We started out doing things right by just enjoying each others’ company, telling stories and making each other laugh.

And then I had to go and fuck it all up.

Because when we were suddenly approached by two amazingly gorgeous, tall and swarthy young men asking in heavily accented English if they could join us…

…I, with all my vast wisdom and maturity, said yes.

Stay Tuned for Part Five

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part Three

I won’t get into listing the thousand things I saw and did that second day in Paris.  Mostly because I just don’t remember shit anymore, it seems.  If only I could find that elusive journal. 

Here are a few of the things I’ve managed to retain, just in case you really want to know:

I learned that Notre Dame sits on a tiny island in the middle of the Seine, called Île Saint-Louis. 

I learned that the French eat very bizarre things, like brains, pancreas and blood sausage, and are known to drink wine with every meal, including breakfast!

I learned how cozy it felt to walk those ancient streets, winding and narrow, with dwellings and shops very close to the traffic, the sidewalks no wider than like a foot or so.

I spent hours among the many little Les Bouquinestes (book stalls) lining both banks of the Seine.  And yes, I had to look up that spelling.  You bet. 

I wandered spellbound through the Louvre in such awestruck wonder; my jaw was practically dragging across the polished marble floors.

And yes, I do remember the Mona Lisa.

I also remember that language was a real barrier.  I was picking up a few words here and there, but the French were often not eager to pander to my need for the use of English.  I got the feeling that as an American, I wasn’t well liked.  This was probably due to the many groupings of loud, stupid, rude and demanding American tourists who had preceded me, the likes of which I had witnessed myself in great embarrassment.     

Finally, fatigued and aching, twilight found me at that same outdoor café I had been to the day before.  Only this time, I sat at a tiny table inside, and while drinking my café au lait, I must have put my head down on the table for just a quick rest, because the next thing I knew, I was awakened by laughter coming from the next table over.

“She’s drooling!” a man shouted.

“Passed out drunk?” said a young girl.

I jerked up straight in my chair and this group of people, all laughing and staring, exploded into applause.

I ended up joining them that night, after finally convincing them I wasn’t drunk, just really tired.  There were four guys, all from other countries, and one lone American girl, who I learned was just seventeen years old.  They were students at the Sorbonne, and spoke fluently in English. 

“Lang,” who was from China and spoke fluent English, folded me into their group with such gusto, that two hours later, they walked me to my “upscale” hotel, helped me gather my things, got me checked out, and in no time I was checked in at a decidedly “un” upscale place, but one where Lang worked part-time as a manager, and where the rest of them had rooms.

Quaint and shoddy, I thought my new home was fantastic.  Even the part where you had to share a bathroom down the hall.

Because these five young people felt so right to me. 

Because they felt safe.

And although these five young people would become my soul mates for the rest of my days in Paris, it turns out that even they could not, as no one ever could, protect me from myself.

I then fell fully clothed on top of old and tattered bed covers and slept for the next twenty-six hours.

Stay Tuned for Part Four

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Part One

[Author’s Note:  If you haven’t read the Foreword on this series, posted on 3/20/12, you may want to do so before reading Part One.]

Let me begin by saying I am extremely pissed off, as I have been for like, two years because that’s how long I’ve been looking for my journal, and have failed to find it.  I’m speaking of the journal I kept on my first two weeks in Paris, back in March of 1970.  The reason I’m telling you this, is that I have forgotten lots of details, like the names of places where I stayed or where I went shopping or ate, and the names of the people I met, street names and other such things.  I’ve still retained the obvious:  the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, the Palace at Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and other such things.

What’s important, though, is that I remember living the story.

And also, it occurred to me that I should tell it now, while I still have any memory left at all.

I don’t want to brag or anything, but I flew first class on a Pan Am Stretch DC-8.  First Class, I tell you!  And that was back in the days of linen napkins and crystal stemware!  Why?  Because there was space available for an upgrade.  The round trip air fare from SFO to LAX and then thirteen hours nonstop to Paris cost me $68.15.  I don’t have any trouble remembering that.

I didn’t sleep for the first three days I was there, unless you count a couple of hours of fitful dozing in the arms of a total stranger who was gorgeous and spoke only French.

At 6:30 a.m. Paris time I checked in at a tiny, upscale hotel across from La Seine, in a tiny, upscale district which shall remain nameless.  Too excited to even breathe, I hadn’t slept at all on the flight over.  I threw my bags into my tiny cute room and went out to tear up and streets, which I did all day long.  The feel of the air, the vibe, the sights, the sounds, the smells and the people all quite frankly just blew away my senses.  I topped off the late afternoon with about four café au lait and a crust less cucumber sandwich at a busy outdoor café, where I watched people, rested my throbbing feet, and anticipated how amazing my first night in Paris was going to be.

And so it was.

Because after returning to my room, writing some post cards and showering, I put on my newly purchased and very trendy hip-hugging, thick-belted mini-skirt, my knee-high boots, my scoop-necked leotard top, and literally burst out of that hotel, on a mission to hit a hot nightclub, find the hottest French boy in the room, dance my ass off with him for hours, and then take him back to my hotel and have my way with him.

And so I did.

Stay Tuned for Part Two

Stories from the Chair: My One-legged Lover in Paris – Foreword

I swear to God, we think we know everything when we’re in our twenties.  And believe me, I was no exception.  In fact, I had to be omnipotent and arrogant with a much bigger splash than most idiots who graduate from their teens.

One illustration of all that folly was the fact that I chose to do most of my foreign travel by myself. 

This is not to diminish the value of a healthy independent streak, which I developed as a thirteen-year-old in Japan while living off-base in the rice paddies.  Fearless and confident in my total ignorance, I used to wander off on foot alone many times to explore, and sometimes I hopped the train to Fukuoka, a gorgeous and splashy big city not too far away.  I did this mostly, though, not as much out of bold curiosity, but more to escape the tiny house where there were two constantly fighting, heavily drinking parents.

The good thing about traveling alone is you’re forced to be really spontaneous and resourceful in about a million ways.  Plus, you’re more gregarious and open to new people and things, because when you travel in groups or pairs, you can be easily inhibited and sheltered by the confines of the familiar security you feel with your friends.

But bad things can happen when you choose to go solo.

For instance, every time I visited a foreign country, I caught the raging shits and the projectile pukes.  Who knew that innocent looking salad I ate in an “upscale” restaurant in Mexico City would give me a virulent amoeba that lived on and on, and grounded me for more than a month.  And that time in Tahiti, when I had to spend a full twenty-four hours in bed suffering from some unknown bacteria ingested while eating stuff I couldn’t even identify.  Being alone at times like that is pretty awful, given there’s nobody to hold your head with a cool clean washcloth, or offer moral support.

But then there was Paris…

where I met fantastic young people from all over the globe;

where I saw things never before seen;

where I did things never before done;

where I fell in love;

where I discovered this great newly emerging English artist named Elton John;

where I, once again, spent two days exclusively with a toilet, a bathtub and a sink;

and…

where I was so fucking stupid I almost got myself murdered.

Stay Tuned for Part One

Rants from the Chair: On Perspective

I have a really hard time being around large groups of very old people.  This makes visits with my mother sometimes a little difficult.  In the large lobby area of her “old folk’s apartment home,” are gaggles of these entities in various pursuits:  slumped asleep in chairs; stooped over walkers while drooling in cups; creeping around in motorized wheelchairs while clutching at stuffed animals; staring in stunned silence. 

My mother doesn’t fit into any of these categories yet, thank God, but by the time I reach her apartment on the second floor, I’m pretty freaked out and ready to flee the confines of the addlebrained and the decrepit.

Except for those few saints among us, I think many of us feel the same way.  I ask myself how in the hell can anyone possibly find happiness and joy at this end-stage of life?  I always say, “Just somebody fucking shoot me, okay?”

But sometimes I’m forced to re-think things, because there are instances when I just get stuff totally wrong.  A recent conversation I had with one of my amazing girlfriends caused me to do just that:

“I have a friend who is young,” she told me.  “In her early 40’s.  And she asked me how I could possibly be content to be approaching 60 without a man, and not dating anyone.”

“Figures,” I said.  “When you’re in your forties, you’re at your horniest.”

“I know!” she agreed.  “Here we are, happy as clams to be on our own, independent, not dating and being okay with that!”

“And no longer completely motivated by horniness!” I shouted.  “Who would have ever thought that would happen?”

“And not only that,” she continued, “but remember when we were in our twenties, and thought life was over at 40??”

“Yes!” I said.  “And boy were we wrong on that one!  Even our fifties were pretty awesome!”

“You got that right, girlfriend!” we said almost in unison while high-fiving each other.

“But what about when we’re in our 90’s?” I asked her.  “And that’s entirely possible because people are freaking living so much longer these days.  I don’t want to go there, I tell you!”

My incredibly intelligent and interesting girlfriend then said, “We’ll feel differently about it then.”

Well D-U-H!  Hello! 

Hearing that concept articulated out loud was like getting slapped upside the head, with somebody saying, “Are you not paying attention, Jill?”

I feel so much better now.  It’s still hard to imagine being very old as a joyous thing, but at least now I don’t dread it quite so much.

I may have to reconsider that vow I made to increase my cigarette intake.

Now that’s perspective.

Rants from the Chair: On Moving in with Mother – Episode Two: Opened Windows and Closed Doors

There have been times when I’ve called my octogenarian mother by her first name, ‘Troy.’  I usually do it when I’m sent to the outermost edge of sanity because of something she’s said or done.

When I lived with her, this was a common occurrence.  I had just moved in with Mom in February of 2005, and now it was March.  We were still trying to work out the “kinks” in our new relationship as “roommates.”

Springtime in my town is gorgeous.  It’s a time when you can actually turn off your central air system and throw open the windows to sweet-smelling, humidity-free air, the sound of thousands of chirping birds, and a dazzling view of azaleas and dogwood trees in full bloom.

But my mother did not like opened windows.

It took me a few tries to realize what a lost cause this would be.  I would run through the house, opening every window I could find, whereupon Troy would run around smack behind me, closing them back up again.  The hardest part was the accompanying temperature war.  I lost that battle too.  So while it was gorgeous and 75 degrees outside, by damn that thermostat setting was going to stay at 85 degrees.

The screened-in porch was always a fine place to be, but lacking in quiet and privacy.  So I took to my room whenever I could.  With the door closed, the central air vent blocked off and my newly installed ceiling fan turned up high, plus a window ever-so-slightly cracked open (“I swear to God, Mom, it’s only open a sliver!”), I could actually find some comfort, believe it or not.

On one such morning, I grabbed with glee just a few hours to read in my room.  I was on a Dean Koontz jag at the time, knocking back one right after the other for about a year straight.  Anyway, there was a “thump-thump” on my bedroom door.

Troy:    (talking through the closed-door) The plumber is here to fix the problem in the disposal.

Me:      (talking from my bed through the closed-door) Good going, Mom.

Troy     Why is your door closed?

Me:      Because I am reading.

Troy:    Oh.

About ten minutes later:  knock-knock-knock, jiggle-jiggle-jiggle

Troy:    Jill, why is this door locked?

Me:      (getting up and opening the door) Because I’m reading.

Troy:    But what if I can’t get in, or you can’t get out?

Me:     Troy, please, can I just read for a couple hours without interruption?

Troy:    (walking away) I just don’t like this door locked, Jill!

While thinking this can’t possibly be really happening, I closed the door, locked it, got back into bed, and re-read the same page yet one more time, when…

Troy:    (talking again through the closed-door) Jilly, are you all right?

Finally on the verge of exploding, I threw my book at the foot of the bed, got up, stomped across the room, and forcefully unlocked and opened the door, when…

Troy:    (fists on hips) You don’t like me. You’re being odd.

Thus began the first of my many attempts to explain to her that me closing my door does not mean I don’t love her, it just means that I need to feel like I’m being by myself for a little while. 

But my mother did not like closed doors.

And so she just never quite got it.

Rants from the Chair: On Being a Potty-mouthed Grandmother

In the olden days, after a dinner party, the women gathered in the kitchen to clean up the mess, while the men retreated into “The Drawing Room” to smoke cigars, drink expensive brandy, discuss important matters of the day, swear, tell dirty jokes and scratch their nuts.

I was always the one who wanted to join the men.  I don’t have any nuts to scratch, but I can drink, swap stories and swear with the best of them.

Enter:  The Grandchildren.

My poor, long-suffering daughter, Farrah, has taken to slapping her hand over my mouth on more than one occasion, I’m afraid, while in the company of children.  But truly there are times when I just can’t help myself.  My personal favorite, of course, is the one that starts with an “F.”  It’s such an all-purpose, emphatic and satisfying punctuation mark. 

But there are times when it just doesn’t fit. 

Like the time recently, during dinner with my family and others (minus the babies), Farrah took a phone call at the table, and then got up, left us, and went into the kitchen to continue the conversation with her caller.  I was appalled. “For God’s sake, honey, call her back!” I shouted.  “So-and-so is in crisis, Mom!” she protested.  “Well damn it,” I said, “the crisis will still be there in half-an-hour!  I did not fucking raise you like that, young lady!”

Only when everyone cracked up did I realize how really bizarre that sounded.

Anyway, point of the story:  I’ve spoken often of my first-born grandboy, Griffin, who is about to be seven.  Well, it seems I got myself into a bit of trouble with his father (Farrah’s ex), who is by-the-way not my favorite person in the world, as I am surely not his.

It happened one afternoon while I was taking care of  my Griffin.  We were playing with his seven million pieces of Star Wars Lego thingies.  He kept making up games, and changing the rules to suit his needs.  Having experienced this with him a thousand times, I was starting to get a little irritated. 

“If you don’t stop cheating, honey,” I told him, “I won’t play games with you anymore, and then you’ll be in deep ka ka!”

Fast forward to about a week later, while again spending time with my boy:

“Daddy says I can’t eat the Oreos for two whole more days, YaYa.”

“Why is that, sweetie?”

“’cause I’m being punished.”

“For what?” I asked, pulling him close to me for a consoling hug.

Farrah walked into the room just as he stepped back, folded his arms and looked at me with an accusatory frown.

“I’m in trouble ‘cause I said ‘ka ka’ and Daddy got mad and he said that was just like saying, ‘SHIT!’”

I looked at my daughter.  She looked at me.  And we simultaneously tightened our lips, turning red in an effort to stifle our laughter.

“Griffin,” we both said in mock-protest.  “You’re not allowed to say ‘shit!’”

And then I, ever the defiant one, said, “What the…?  It’s like saying ‘poop!’  If you’re allowed to say ‘poop,’ you should be allowed to say ‘ka ka!’”

Who in God’s Name knew that ‘ka ka’ was a bad word?

I’m going to have to start wearing a muzzle.

Rants from the Chair: On Moving in with Mother – Episode One: The Dishwasher Issue

Back in February of 2005, I did what I had always said I would do:  take care of my mother when she reached her befuddled dotage.

At that time, she had just had a horrible experience in the hospital, where they pumped her full of morphine after a small procedure, which rendered her temporarily psychotic.  Staff had not warned me of the effects of morphine on octogenarian.  Her behavior freaked me out to the point where I figured it was time to move in with her.  Also, I figured we would both benefit by my paying her rent instead of paying my current landlord.  She’d get some financial assistance, and I would pay less per month than what I was used to paying.

Sounds like a win-win, doesn’t it?

Think again.

What first comes to mind is what I call “The Dishwasher Issue,” which really doesn’t cover all of what the thing entails.  I think it actually was born out of her monitoring my intake of food.

Imagine being in your mid-fifties, and suddenly you find your mother questioning what you’ve eaten that day, and more importantly, what time you ate whatever you’ve eaten that day.  This kind of thing can shock the hell out of you, especially given that you’ve been an adult on your own since age nineteen.

One Sunday I was awakened from a nap at 4:00 p.m. by my mother, who stood over me beside my bed and said, “Dinner’s ready.”

Scene 1

Me:      (still asleep) Gmmftph?

Mom:    I made tongue.  And macaroni and cheese.

Me:      (now semi awake) I’m not hungry yet, Mom.  It’s too early.  I’ll eat later.

Mom:    You haven’t eaten anything all day.

Me:        (now sitting up) I ate a tuna sandwich before my nap, Mom.  You sat   there and watched me do it.

Mom:    You did?

Me:      You’re monitoring my eating schedule again, Mother. 

Mom:    Well I need to get dinner out-of-the-way, so it’s ready now.

Me:      I told you not to feel like you have to cook for me all the time, just because I live here, Mom.

Mom:    (irritated) Dinner is getting cold.

I ended up eating with her at 4:00, which was not only regrettable because her cooking skills had profoundly deteriorated, but because apparently she’d been in such a hurry “to get it over with,” she hadn’t cooked the food long enough, so this grotesque, half-raw cow’s tongue, in it’s entirety with throat guts attached, bled all over the plate and sullied the mac and cheese.  I couldn’t eat any of it.  Besides, I totally hate tongue.

After shoving the shit around my plate for half an hour, I volunteered to clean up the kitchen.

Mom:    Run the dishwasher tonight, Jill.

Me:      But Mom, there are only three pieces in their right now.  And I’ll only have a few pieces to add to that.  I’ll wait until it’s full.

Mom:    No!  I want it run tonight!

She went to bed early, as usual, and God help me I didn’t run the dishwasher.

Scene 2 – The Next Morning

Mom:    I saw the note you left me by the dishwasher last night, Jill.

Me:      Good.  I’ll run the thing when it’s full.  I’m trying to save some energy here, Mom.  You keep the heat jacked up to 85, for God’s sake.  You are GRU’s best freaking friend.

She stomped away mad as hell. 

Scene 3 – That Evening

My mother went to bed at 7:00 p.m., only to arise unexpectedly at around 9:30 p.m.

Me:      (watching television) Hey Mom.  What are you doing out of bed?

Mom:    (standing ramrod straight with fists on hips) I want to know if you’ve eaten your dinner yet.

Me:      (seriously pissed off) Yes, I have, Mother, but just why is it any of your concern whether or not I’ve eaten dinner?

Mom:    BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO RUN THE GODDAMN DISHWASHER!!!

So I ran the goddamn dishwasher.

* * * * *

I have a file three inches thick of notes on conversations and altercations during my almost five years of living with my dear mother.  I’ll introduce them here and there, whenever the mood strikes.

But for now, it’s about celebrating.

Because she turns 91 next Monday.

Happy Birthday, Mom.