tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59461284310467346802024-02-06T18:32:24.073-08:00Sandwiched GenesThe Sandwich Generation, responsible for a many layered pile up.Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-38649914683059024722012-03-27T23:28:00.000-07:002012-03-27T23:28:00.073-07:00Unpronounceable Pokemon Names<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jZHn6LKrgxydPoDmwF2d_EpNM15x0nC4WUcG0k3UfPVXc0Ws_ulOfAnozpZNEU3NARkTPji7R7PqjMWUkybVrLUZfNAZ6QDjKQLv-_GgNu8l1qKDpHnpoFGXtMaHkunB0vhK5a1hpO9M/s1600/pokemon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jZHn6LKrgxydPoDmwF2d_EpNM15x0nC4WUcG0k3UfPVXc0Ws_ulOfAnozpZNEU3NARkTPji7R7PqjMWUkybVrLUZfNAZ6QDjKQLv-_GgNu8l1qKDpHnpoFGXtMaHkunB0vhK5a1hpO9M/s320/pokemon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-26140263116676517592012-03-20T23:01:00.000-07:002012-03-20T23:01:00.890-07:00The Up Side to Alzheimer's<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSw4HETfvha8xqaJTig1citrU_x6r-NQBS9Y3ph5Rpt52L8vgIMAGqlYklAZ7LvRAo4KxnuI8JO7E1oTzUj6C5BkydBVgmAmzBMpq_0-VOZ6HSqppg1hJV5Y0ArQSN3SbfKUh1g4f48Pl/s1600/sniff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSw4HETfvha8xqaJTig1citrU_x6r-NQBS9Y3ph5Rpt52L8vgIMAGqlYklAZ7LvRAo4KxnuI8JO7E1oTzUj6C5BkydBVgmAmzBMpq_0-VOZ6HSqppg1hJV5Y0ArQSN3SbfKUh1g4f48Pl/s320/sniff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-51464589764636495232012-03-08T14:42:00.000-08:002012-03-08T14:42:00.437-08:00Unscrambled for Scrabble<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhrPjCKVFVNdTiifJ2o8c_acTM6wXtnZK2N3ddb6nrHMa7ladPft5XzJl148-2jHpj2DQ8oIIziuFmSk_iIvoLhj79yc3eS0x7L2KJAymDmTMSXlkPsau5Zun98YlJl5G10tVXlMO2X_V/s1600/scrabble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhrPjCKVFVNdTiifJ2o8c_acTM6wXtnZK2N3ddb6nrHMa7ladPft5XzJl148-2jHpj2DQ8oIIziuFmSk_iIvoLhj79yc3eS0x7L2KJAymDmTMSXlkPsau5Zun98YlJl5G10tVXlMO2X_V/s320/scrabble.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-26717419600808213522012-02-27T23:20:00.000-08:002012-02-27T23:20:00.705-08:00We're all heading in the same direction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbevITLikRI8fAkesS_wuI2liioFUZu4iwF1Epit2qaDDTGxyCMlVDGwnuL36EVSJZmniCM6JWZ17osgp-hwNLDAX1SX-24SxBfhyphenhyphen3kWe9CJXsp7PkEEm2C0SOZPm4g4EqNLkpIX9xjrbC/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbevITLikRI8fAkesS_wuI2liioFUZu4iwF1Epit2qaDDTGxyCMlVDGwnuL36EVSJZmniCM6JWZ17osgp-hwNLDAX1SX-24SxBfhyphenhyphen3kWe9CJXsp7PkEEm2C0SOZPm4g4EqNLkpIX9xjrbC/s320/glasses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-10430716346210422722012-02-14T23:33:00.000-08:002012-02-14T23:33:00.614-08:00Speeding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdijLtZu96uHBr1MwWUa8u3_mXT-ItyGJHYD4qfeRVeu-gWem1nYk546Em2bwfc9KNzQ0f8RBMy2ygeTHNeHVpV4d1wOGKct4DgoQ8RMOzECTWIRXqejgktysFrSLTTW6Oj5QU7J8aZnzf/s1600/the+race.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdijLtZu96uHBr1MwWUa8u3_mXT-ItyGJHYD4qfeRVeu-gWem1nYk546Em2bwfc9KNzQ0f8RBMy2ygeTHNeHVpV4d1wOGKct4DgoQ8RMOzECTWIRXqejgktysFrSLTTW6Oj5QU7J8aZnzf/s320/the+race.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-19663916043151584662012-01-27T23:25:00.000-08:002012-01-27T23:25:00.296-08:00Innocent Pastimes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTjEBv6YYHSL0w_PUUXXitNKSOaXBtfk747fHz8WMcT_YPt3RjXsJYtI1txkMyCI81dxmtFheLGdvaps7MOm9hffrvLHiNKaDLvZ_Quf4cT9CTyGVP_vvafJ3kEI9lIEaJ7toI0Du-9F8l/s1600/seasonal+time+shift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTjEBv6YYHSL0w_PUUXXitNKSOaXBtfk747fHz8WMcT_YPt3RjXsJYtI1txkMyCI81dxmtFheLGdvaps7MOm9hffrvLHiNKaDLvZ_Quf4cT9CTyGVP_vvafJ3kEI9lIEaJ7toI0Du-9F8l/s320/seasonal+time+shift.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-33887613896574871742012-01-20T23:18:00.000-08:002012-01-20T23:18:00.551-08:00Cupboard Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Nonna is a woman who knows her own mind.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglX5H9rpL04xSCZXptdt1kza7MlTBM4UskzCNeaqTj2T_bei1S4gL5eB9ErZUCrr-MgG92BYLAWMQf9MKoqyhxysGapBT5mFERJJw0z079X_Fll1yhcUNlbQj7YZcWyhA1nzEUUSAa2C1A/s1600/cupboard+love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglX5H9rpL04xSCZXptdt1kza7MlTBM4UskzCNeaqTj2T_bei1S4gL5eB9ErZUCrr-MgG92BYLAWMQf9MKoqyhxysGapBT5mFERJJw0z079X_Fll1yhcUNlbQj7YZcWyhA1nzEUUSAa2C1A/s320/cupboard+love.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-55959784787798994822012-01-10T23:24:00.000-08:002012-01-10T23:24:00.837-08:00Diabetic Negotiations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbcsQOsh_PLE6e6Wm_k7myeK9GNSRVc4pnaQgGBhw0-2nRpgwOXWk6ao1gPXh5GjFMJQ1HxVKM09PosJMQmJ3SrWvlOsMJu1KBuWujMpSWxA7X_UnuGqTejJB0LJNe9s9w9kXCM__52J-/s1600/portion+control.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbcsQOsh_PLE6e6Wm_k7myeK9GNSRVc4pnaQgGBhw0-2nRpgwOXWk6ao1gPXh5GjFMJQ1HxVKM09PosJMQmJ3SrWvlOsMJu1KBuWujMpSWxA7X_UnuGqTejJB0LJNe9s9w9kXCM__52J-/s320/portion+control.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-55111065772220980592012-01-08T12:47:00.000-08:002012-01-08T12:47:00.758-08:00Big enough to ride<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYysD2grp_zsV7OC6MxBQvXVceQW4WZ27tss2znIGXVoIDwWJNJGvc25STC1Ne2ODHlo8yhBwoaGL24Y7_wKV5Z-WOrm7P5CZzOJqlgditBCVxAY8F54yHT4vKvOHEM0L73sdurPHHj0LA/s1600/thatcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYysD2grp_zsV7OC6MxBQvXVceQW4WZ27tss2znIGXVoIDwWJNJGvc25STC1Ne2ODHlo8yhBwoaGL24Y7_wKV5Z-WOrm7P5CZzOJqlgditBCVxAY8F54yHT4vKvOHEM0L73sdurPHHj0LA/s320/thatcher.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-2015392865341800862012-01-04T09:35:00.000-08:002012-01-04T09:35:17.365-08:00Welcome<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: large;">Who needs a cat flap when you have your own personal concierge?</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWY_Zp6mEyhrdKkuZB8qe0oFUGRyS6qmG0TEk6PdwJOjdZIULQTrl_fu-KYPUgYSdCDYUIUUBDWyIrQe_BV6q_cTUxu3Nq5OZGDAWE1zd2T2sJ2hTJYTweYUyBGAL0ZMghclLj7kE_d3et/s1600/concierge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWY_Zp6mEyhrdKkuZB8qe0oFUGRyS6qmG0TEk6PdwJOjdZIULQTrl_fu-KYPUgYSdCDYUIUUBDWyIrQe_BV6q_cTUxu3Nq5OZGDAWE1zd2T2sJ2hTJYTweYUyBGAL0ZMghclLj7kE_d3et/s320/concierge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-51424614170493257662011-12-30T23:22:00.000-08:002011-12-30T23:22:00.075-08:00Slave Labor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There's a fine line between keeping someone gainfully occupied and exploitation:-<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1Jyy7K0d0FV0uiN_tD1BQe0KgzZ8gbXesGUbWQXdGdI5RevXl7i3LLT4_iRwe02ZTOKJgHl5LVXb9xQctn38lc95NbVO2_-p-wsI-op5saqeMnlDqSKHZ83RZ5LgDp3N3pGqQXYz3EYN/s1600/sc0efb8789.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1Jyy7K0d0FV0uiN_tD1BQe0KgzZ8gbXesGUbWQXdGdI5RevXl7i3LLT4_iRwe02ZTOKJgHl5LVXb9xQctn38lc95NbVO2_-p-wsI-op5saqeMnlDqSKHZ83RZ5LgDp3N3pGqQXYz3EYN/s320/sc0efb8789.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-38204591153094850952011-12-27T14:09:00.000-08:002011-12-27T14:09:55.347-08:00Sleepover Aftermath - where is everybody?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes you don't notice that someone's eyesight might be failing until you bump into the obvious.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPPTZ9a0EHbhX9KHL2LfzdziX5gPimkh0J14neMKL8n5DaDvOJiUlyNxYs-kMmD2kdLyVLkpwBNptRNwkgvRoqjvpIZwmORT3sTQzTHK0I99GJfyfZHWndooFuZr7L3xxN6IDb9AcW-qd/s1600/sc0ef5c116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPPTZ9a0EHbhX9KHL2LfzdziX5gPimkh0J14neMKL8n5DaDvOJiUlyNxYs-kMmD2kdLyVLkpwBNptRNwkgvRoqjvpIZwmORT3sTQzTHK0I99GJfyfZHWndooFuZr7L3xxN6IDb9AcW-qd/s320/sc0ef5c116.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The light was poor, but the body count was unmistakable. </div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-81521459526384556862011-02-13T10:55:00.000-08:002011-02-13T10:55:55.600-08:00Wearing your insides on the outside<style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">In February I finally pick up where I left off and plop onto the sofa for a breather.<span> </span>With needles in hand I dive into the project with my bifocals in position when Nonna appears by my side.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wot you got dere den?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Knitting.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Knitting, knitting, knitting.<span> </span>Always you are with the knitting.<span> </span>I tink you are a tricoteuse.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I refuse to rise to the bait, smile but make no comment; partly because I see the hearing aide is adrift and partly because I’ve not knitted a thing in months.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wot it is dis funny ting?<span> </span>A bag?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A scarf,” I bellow.<span> </span>About all I have time for these days.<span> </span>“It was supposed to be a Christmas present but I didn’t quite get around to it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good—dat way you are ready for next year.<span> </span>Wot color is dat den?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Green, her favorite.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It is an orrible green.<span> </span>Like something dat as gone bad.<span> </span>It’s a funny ting isn’t it,” she says patting the knobbly yarn.<span> </span>“I tink maybe it is like gangrenous intestines.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhzeEFihYmCsYo902gJw-DswqkPdY8PtyJ3o_MtbeTlB5aJTjBvEwx_yKCNgowHF-l26u9Lznd_OGR7oGPj9wul3MlYqGnePszKwL04h0DtxJ3ay25qQT1dVdCzVpowr_EvTTJiZSlE_8/s1600/DSCF1519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhzeEFihYmCsYo902gJw-DswqkPdY8PtyJ3o_MtbeTlB5aJTjBvEwx_yKCNgowHF-l26u9Lznd_OGR7oGPj9wul3MlYqGnePszKwL04h0DtxJ3ay25qQT1dVdCzVpowr_EvTTJiZSlE_8/s320/DSCF1519.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">.............. I'm sure it will catch on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-8444540080972211622010-12-20T18:11:00.000-08:002010-12-20T18:11:58.717-08:00National BoundariesThey both demand attention at the same time. My son needs his Pikmin repaired forthwith and Nonna required her spectacles superglued, posthaste. She has no qualms jumping the queue.<br />
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"You ave to wait your turn," she says shooing him aside, "I need mummy more."<br />
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His mouth drops open, aghast, "But...you said...<i>mummy</i>."<br />
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"So wot? Wot it got to do wiv you den?"<br />
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I interject, dispute resolution and interpreter to the fore--put the fire out before it starts, "It's alright dear. Nonna just forgot for a moment. Maddy and mummy sound pretty much alike," I whisper as the hearing aides are still in the mail.<br />
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But he's not mollified for a moment, "no ... she is saying the English but Nonna is Italian."Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-16128427040898817542010-12-12T09:55:00.000-08:002010-12-12T09:55:56.463-08:00Melting moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqrXzhU6UKNOzXbhsZ-WG0JUJByAmR-SLdoCX9V0z3jyz_Li-LjtmwdFoXYbI9w-Hcmc9y6WrqUZTiwERoaQ0YF3tYpsMAsZVdpK_nVBosvxcjnBq_zrsfn0K1dhBLtV8NCc5GhJXg99r/s1600/sc189b6fa8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqrXzhU6UKNOzXbhsZ-WG0JUJByAmR-SLdoCX9V0z3jyz_Li-LjtmwdFoXYbI9w-Hcmc9y6WrqUZTiwERoaQ0YF3tYpsMAsZVdpK_nVBosvxcjnBq_zrsfn0K1dhBLtV8NCc5GhJXg99r/s320/sc189b6fa8.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">If you continuously search the same six inches of your very large suitcase at intermittent intervals, such behavior can become seriously distressing very quickly.<span> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Emotions run on high octane and it can be difficult to break the cycle.<span> </span>Intervention requires sensitivity, a quality which seems to dissipate under stress.<span> </span>In addition, if English is your second language there is a tendency to revert to the mother tongue and small words become irretrievable.<span> </span>It’s a process of adjustment, a bit like laundry, spray the stains,<span> </span>soak and steep overnight in bleach for a brighter future.<span> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Most of the time we cope well and remain on track, but every once in a while something hits home.<span> </span>The words may be off but the sentiment is sound.<span> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is indescribably sad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know Maddy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hmm?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I used to be so proud of my head.”</div>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-38743554912534334272010-03-07T23:37:00.000-08:002010-03-07T23:37:00.207-08:00Pearls in unexpected placesIt’s the pursuit of the day, looking for keys that aren’t there and are not needed. <br /><br />It begins as a small speck of dust, a mild irritant that scratches away through the minutes that stretch into hours. It’s a familiar tale, which flickers between OCD, perseverance and Alzheimer’s. It does not respond to the usual remedies. Distraction is only a temporary lull in proceedings before she picks up where she left off, back on the hunt for the ever elusive keys. <br /><br />We have many other keys available, which might work as a fob, but it’s a trick that’s unlikely to work, more likely to ignite anger, because she’s nobody’s fool. The keys belong to her home in England where she’s lived most of her adult life, the same keys to the same house, keys that are definitely stored in secure long term memory, not whispering in and out of the short term. <br /><br />There is no respite or relief in sight as distress levels rise, and it’s not just me. I see her pause in the middle of her room deep in thought, furrowed brow and bitten nails. Her frustration is palpable. Power ‘off’ on the television – she means business. I try not to pry to closely, but it all jumps out at me: cat litter, pop-corn, shredded tissues, discarded clothes. It’s just like teenagers, I have to allow some slack, a trade off between independence and privacy, but I’m still tinkering with the balance. <br /><br />It turns the day of rest into a race but the children chortle as they play, loudly. I complete another pointless circuit of ‘helping to find,’ before I step outside for a breather as I’m out of platitudes and placaters. <br /><br />As I flop into a garden chair the air is filled with the noise of leaf blowers, the rhythmical rapping of the green woodpecker, the cawing of pet parrots from up the road and the pneumatic stapler of the house builder three doors down, when I hear the door behind me and the shuffled steps as Nonna arrives by my shoulder to hover. I try to relax my neck and arrange my face before she says it, because I know she surely will.<br /><br />“So Maddy… you’re dah lucky one aren’t you!”<br />I exhale and turn because I really can do think when my head is on straight, “indeed I am.”<br />“Doh!” she puffs with annoyance as she cuffs my arm, “you’re no fun today.”<br />And there she is, right back where she should be, faculties in place, the right place.<br />“How do you mean?”<br />“You know I just do it to annoy you, don’t you?”<br />“Indeed… I certainly do.”Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-32484891101032751172010-02-28T23:30:00.000-08:002010-02-28T23:30:00.305-08:00Who's Next?People don’t talk about Alzheimer’s as a spectrum disorder. <br /><br />I think we should. <br /><br />Like a lot of disorders, there are good days and not so good days, we’re in the middle of one of the latter. Fortunately the children are at school and all other adults are otherwise occupied away from home, so it’s just me and Nonna. <br /><br />She’s having a tough time so I scale down my ‘to do’ list to one single item – produce supper for 8 people. It proves to be a tall order as Nonna is restless, a condition exacerbated by several liters of espresso. It can be difficult to take charge in such situations but I decided to be ruthless at ten in the morning – when the last coffee bean was crushed and consumed, I lied boldly – ‘we’ve run out – no more until I’ve been to the shops.’ After that I’m in the dog-house, although I’m really in the kitchen.<br /><br />I chop in the kitchen, onions, four pounds, in preparation for something or other, as I’ve not had a moment to formulate anything vaguely resembling a recipe. <br /><br />We’re run through the usual list of repeats several times – the inventory of household members, the date, the whereabouts of pets, their names and ages, what I am doing currently, why I am doing it and how I am doing it. We’ve searched for all the usual suspects, glasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, handkerchief, book, remote control, pills – many and various, as well as a whole miscellany of other items too numerous to list. As I dump onion skins in the compost bin on the window sill, I feel a presence close by – you know who. I speed up and brace myself because if my productivity gives out today we’ll all starve. I chop faster as my shoulders rise to my ear lobes. Damn her rheumy eyes – go away and come back in five minutes – but bless her cotton socks. I don’t know how to play this game, a newbie, drowning, but I have to stay afloat, play it by ear, for both of us. <br /><br />I wait for the question and wonder which one it will be? I can more or less guarantee it will be ‘wot about dis den?’ without any other clues. I try to swallow my ire and breathe deeply to find a tiny kernel of energy reserves, otherwise known as patience, but the silence endures. <br /><br />I’m ready. <br /><br />I turn to see her behind me and suddenly I see her – she’s at a distance of about six feet, a polite distance. I recognize that woman. It’s the woman on her best behavior, I’ve seen her many times before, mostly when we have guests or visitors. It’s her, ‘I’m a dear, sweet, innocent, old lady,’ act, the one she uses for strangers. I feel my face tighten and eyes prick. We all do it sometimes, pretend to be something we’re not – she’s had more practice than most, a magnificent master class graduate. She hovers with uncertainty, wearing a courteous half smile, standing demurely with one hand holding the other. It’s an affectation I’m all too familiar with. I try to think of something to say to the woman, something in code that won’t startle her. I smile at her cautiously and she flutters back, “ello.” I put down the knife gently on the board, as we have already said “good morning” approximately 50 times. I try and think of something neutral, “would you like a cup of coffee?”<br />“Ooo thank you. Dat would be nice.” She doesn’t advance or retreat, holds her ground, rallying, as she asks, “do you like coffee?”<br />“I do. I’ll make one for us both shall I?”<br />“Ooo lovely.”<br />Her diction is sharp as she fakes an English accent, copy cat to blend in.<br />As I move ten feet to the right she takes a tentative step forward to ask, “you like it ‘ere?”<br />“Oh yes. I do. Very much. Always sunny in California,” I add with a wave out the window. Her eyes follow as she mutters under her breath, ‘California.’<br />The espresso machine is noisy but I watch her floundering as I drown and I wrack my brain to ease the pain and hunt for the trip switch to get her back on track. Her finger tips dance on the edge of the kitchen counter, “so…I like it ‘ere,…I tink I ‘ave been ‘ere before?” she asks nervously and I see her eyes flick over my face to check, coz she’s sharp and if I give her a minute she’ll click into place.<br />“Yes, it’s a home from home really. After all, you’ve been coming here for twelve years,” I bellow. I see a little shudder rattle through her, nothing to do with the sound level as her eyes widen in disbelief. I need to give her a toe-hold, something not too obvious. While I back pedal, thinking, she’s pro-active, “it’s a lovely ‘ouse dis.”<br />“Yes, it is.”<br />“And big!”<br />“Very big, just right for all eight of us.”<br />If her eyes get any bigger they might just pop out. I skip the toe-hold and opt for the leg-up, “Mike will be home soon,” I lie.<br />“Mike…”<br />“Michael, your son, my husband.”<br />“So…you’re happily…married now…for ‘ow long?”<br />“Fifteen years.”<br />“As long as dat…”<br />“Long enough to have three children, your grandchildren.”<br />“Children…”<br />I point to the photo of her favorite grand-daughter, the one she hates because it makes her look older, a pre-teen instead of sweet innocent. The façade falls away as her face formulates a frown. Bingo! <br />“Ooo I ‘ate’ dat one, it’s an ‘orrible picture.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxbB4z87ogQPu1z4taVzJAi5MJQdypy_45UbxDt6bAX18xmDvE3tZaVZugEjVDDM64tS8YvlYFwXNmv31OdLToDDzIeRLkTz7QXISrMrVgPOQG9PXu_T3ITdCegAIqPFRD1RV4iE6pxfv/s1600-h/DSCF0340.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvxbB4z87ogQPu1z4taVzJAi5MJQdypy_45UbxDt6bAX18xmDvE3tZaVZugEjVDDM64tS8YvlYFwXNmv31OdLToDDzIeRLkTz7QXISrMrVgPOQG9PXu_T3ITdCegAIqPFRD1RV4iE6pxfv/s400/DSCF0340.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443424593887730946" /></a>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-23100110055444890082010-02-21T23:44:00.000-08:002010-02-21T23:44:00.542-08:00A little of what you fancy does you goodWith the children at school and Nonna on nap, I take a calculated risk. It’s probably the ideal, if not only time, to make dash to the post office. With a bit of luck I’ll get there and back, before she has the chance to wander very far, if at all. <br /><br />I leg it. <br /><br />Round trip in 20 minutes, I return to find Nonna sitting on the bottom stair by the front door.<br /><br />“You ave?” she asks.<br />I look around, mining for clues or cats or kittens – give up. There is a worrisome smell of burning plastic.<br />“Have what?” I bellow as her hands hold her hearing aid.<br />“A man?”<br />“Yes. I do. Your son. Mike.”<br />“Not im.”<br />“Then who?”<br />“Another man?”<br />“I don’t have another man, just the one.”<br />“Yes you do.”<br />“Well there’s the boys.”<br />“The boys?”<br />“Your grandsons. Owen and Leo. They’re at school. Until three.”<br />I point at the clock, praying for relief.<br />“Not dem. Di udder one.”<br />“Which other one? Mr. B? My son in law?”<br />“Who?”<br />“Mr. B. He married Tamsin in the summer.”<br />“Who?”<br />“Tamsin. My daughter, your step grand-daughter.”<br />“Never eard of im.”<br /><br />I start to edge backwards, slowly, towards the smell as she follows, still talking, <br /><br />“Dat’s right, he’s in dah kitchen.”<br />“Who’s in the kitchen?”<br />“Dah udder man.”<br /><br />I turn at the entry way to be greeted by a large unfamiliar male, “Hi I’m Paul, I’ve come to measure for the shelves,” he beams. I turn to glare at Nonna, who shrugs ineffectually, “wot I tell you!” I decide to deal with her later, or possibly delegate to her son. She returns to her room, shuffling and making the very annoying cat calling sound. <br /><br />I surrender to the Shelf Guy, adjust my brain and make ready for some earth shattering decisions that will transform my minute galley kitchen into an efficient working space. <br /><br />Paul steps towards the cupboard the size of a walk-in closet, large enough for at least two, adult bodies, because in America everything is bigger, much bigger. Behind him, the washer washes but the drier has stopped. He opens the cupboard door to see piles of miscellaneous stuff, because there are no shelves. It is the most useless cupboard in the whole house. <br /><br /><br />Paul notes down measurements and leafs through glossy, magazine choices. I make my vision blur so I have a pleasant, fuzzy, future without the fear of price.<br /><br />I take a peek at the drier – just my luck - the darned thing has fused, seized and ceased, containing one load of plasticized laundry – I can hear the washing machine laughing at me, and his pal, the spare/second/emergency washing machine, bought by accident, out in the garage, tittering.<br /><br /><br />Nonna appears as Paul and I turn our attention back to the matter in hand,<br /><br />"So...wot you do den?"<br />"Just measuring," I bellow.<br />"Oh you don't need to measure, I'm sure you'll fit."<br />"How do you mean?"<br />"It's just dah right size."<br />"The right size for what?"<br />"For hiding."<br />"Hiding what?"<br />"You and your fancy man," she beams.<br /><br />I look over to Paul to see if this is a common American term, even though I'm fairly sure it's not. Nonna looks at him, waiting for a reaction as his skin turns a deep crimson, "wot dah matter wiv im den?" she giggles to me, "no sense of humor!"Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-82211630124756987452010-02-13T16:14:00.000-08:002010-02-13T16:21:53.099-08:00Crisis management - help!The Crisis Support Team arrive because it is Thursday, but I had forgotten. <br /><br />I show another two people into my home – they’re an investment in the future, for the boys – if and when, we ever experience a crisis, Ben and William will be on hand, or rather, at the end of a designated telephone line, ready to come and help me, wherever I am, with whatever is going wrong. <br /><br />That’s the theory. <br /><br />However, before the theory can be put into practice, they have to form a relationship with the boys, so when the crisis hits, everybody knows everybody else; not just a couple of strangers butting in. <br /><br />Building relationships takes time. One hour, once a week, on a Thursday. Building a relationship with people, some people, some autistic people, can take a lot longer.<br /><br />Reality means I now do what I have to do, while being observed by Ben and William. I suffer performance anxiety. It’s difficult enough doing what I have to do, but in the heat of the spotlight, it’s even worse. What’s worse, is how it highlights my ineptitude. <br /><br />I have a short-hand version for Nonna because I do not want to explain their purpose in front of the boys at 50 decibels – 'Ben and William are from Social Services,' I say, because it’s the nearest translation I can manage. <br /><br />Nonna is always perplexed by their appearance, every week, several times each visit, whilst they’re physically present, as well as volubly critical – “but dey don’t <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> anyting. Why dey are ere den?”<br /><br />It gets worse later, after Ben and William have left, at dinner, discussion time, around the table. <br /><br />Nobody listens to anybody else, as usual. It’s a cacophony of independent conversations and monologues, now that the boys can talk, because speech therapy was a success, up to a point. Until Nonna voices the subject she always voices on a Thursday night, to her son, who’s tired at the end of the working day:<br /><br />“Dey came today.”<br />“Who came today?”<br />“Wot dey call again, Maddy?”<br />“Social Services,” I mutter, because I can see it coming but can’t avert the derailment without appearing like a rude bully of elders - a bad role model to the children. I need to think of something!<br /><br />“Dat’s right. Social Services came to see dah children. But dey didn’t <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> anyting.”<br />“Ah.”<br />“So wot appen next den?”<br />“Nothing.”<br />“Are dey going to take dah children away?”<br /><br />That’s the bit they always hear as they stampede from the room, with shrieks of terror to rival Banshees.<br /><br />Next week I'll interrupt, change the subject, or start singing.Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-5152442418571431762010-01-10T23:13:00.000-08:002010-01-10T23:13:00.172-08:00Fiendishly cunning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeOLS5AjNWLJ-Q6qZAVmglF6qTyL0_42_UtaMy132yNWMmSCB6ich8hnGKm-PRKpkPbJDXW-OL8RrPvMMb_kOCXnjs-yh4Vz9zJDBn5MP0yeyj005FDxV0GLbiCUQnRICUSeD-tMrF6rr/s1600-h/DSCF0081.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeOLS5AjNWLJ-Q6qZAVmglF6qTyL0_42_UtaMy132yNWMmSCB6ich8hnGKm-PRKpkPbJDXW-OL8RrPvMMb_kOCXnjs-yh4Vz9zJDBn5MP0yeyj005FDxV0GLbiCUQnRICUSeD-tMrF6rr/s400/DSCF0081.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424887919944054002" /></a><br /><br /><br />I decide that I can cope no longer – the woman is driving me completely barmy – me and my shadow, Nonna. There is nothing else for it but to find something constructive for her to do with her time – but what? I’m generally against manual labor for elders and in any case the potato peeling debacle was less than successful – potatoes the size of peas – novel but ultimately mush rather than mash.<br /><br />It is as I’m listening to the BBC radio 4 on my ipod as I fold laundry that I hit upon a cunning plan. I hear about Margaret Drabble and her fondness of jigsaw puzzles, just like my own mum. I’ve always been dead against jigsaw puzzles, on principal, could there be anything more wasteful in the time department. Fortunately I’m a woman without principals or convictions - easily swayed by any half persuasive argument – a turn coat. After listening a little further I believe all the handicrafts that one might do of an evening, the knitting, the sewing, the embroidery and so forth, all result in a physical item being created. All too often the crafter gives their work away – whether kindly or otherwise – so it’s still just as much of a waste of time. Why waste physical resources when you can just waste time instead? I’m sure Mother Nature would prefer the latter and jigsaws can be done over and over again by different people.<br /><br />I dash upstairs and dig around the cupboards until I find it – an Escher jigsaw puzzle printed upon card rather than wood, cellophane still in tact so I know that every piece, all 1000 of them, will be there – it is a stunning study in light grey, mid grey and slightly darker grey – fiendish. I’m pretty confident that Nonna will be unable to resist. Margaret Drabble explained the psychologically - we need to complete things, to make order out of chaos – but I have my doubts.<br /><br />My doubts stem from a little known fact, but I’m not sure how good you are at keeping secrets? Nonna is older now, so she chooses not to tidy nor clean, which suits her just fine. However, even when Nonna was younger than she is now, she also choose not to tidy nor clean, because it suited her. Now me, I come from a formidable lineage of compulsive cleaners and tidiers, my mother did it, as did hers, and hers; it’s genetic, something I can’t fight. That said, Nonna’s attitude – <span style="font-style:italic;">‘it’s too boring and there are lots of other things that I’d rather be doing with my time and since we’re on the subject who decided that it was my job anyway, do I have to do all that in addition to the mothering thing?’</span> It’s a compelling argument.<br /><br />So that’s why I’m a little doubtful. If you don’t have the neat and tidy gene do you also skip the ‘must complete compulsion?’ Are the two related? They seem as if they might be.<br /><br />I find the biggest board available in the garage, remove cobwebs, dry and place in the middle of the dining room table while the children are at school. I lie in wait to capture my prey. Nonna appears on cue to hover at my shoulder as I pretend to be deeply absorbed with puzzle pieces.<br />“Wot you got dere den?”<br />“It’s a jigsaw puzzle.”<br />“I can see dat. Wot you do?”<br />“I’m matching the pieces.”<br />“I can see dat. You are always too busy to be sitting down in dah middle of the day.”<br />“Indeed I am, I’ll just go and rinse the rice.” I skip into the kitchen secure in the knowledge that before too long Nonna will be entrapped. “Dis is an orrible ting you ave ere!” she calls as she edges herself into a more comfortable puzzle matching position.<br />“Don’t finish it all at once!” I reply as I whiz to the compost heap, alone. I continue to complete all my many boring household chores for some considerable period of time without any physical interruptions. Communication regarding puzzle progress is easy as I frolic and flit about whilst Nonna remains static, glued to her dining room chair.<br />“I tink maybe some pieces are missing?”<br />“No, no, no, rest assured every single piece is there, definitely.”<br />“You didn’t take one den?”<br />“No, of course not. Why would I take one piece?”<br />“To hide it of course.”<br />“Hide it? Why would I want to hide one piece?”<br />“The last piece.”<br />“No. That would be too cruel.”<br />“Oh good. I just hope I can remember den.”<br />“Remember what?”<br />“Where I hid it.”<br />“!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3uXwFfJSwSo2bXhEBzmdOkeWa2hrzRJaQGjgbRjFqhwkeshQ-gquti2l1i6JboybOp_HYOSuSjdIlhBCJvflbgnwThHjyk0hcRjiDS_stU9scyAnN1LXceie9NAqWBjFmfraUR5myBBQ/s1600-h/DSCF0068.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3uXwFfJSwSo2bXhEBzmdOkeWa2hrzRJaQGjgbRjFqhwkeshQ-gquti2l1i6JboybOp_HYOSuSjdIlhBCJvflbgnwThHjyk0hcRjiDS_stU9scyAnN1LXceie9NAqWBjFmfraUR5myBBQ/s400/DSCF0068.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424887576301788914" /></a>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-49813818906547233202010-01-03T23:54:00.000-08:002010-01-03T23:54:00.082-08:00And Always Keep Ahold of Nurse, For Fear of Finding Something WorseIt’s cookie and pastry day before the holidays - an attempt to get ahead of the permanent food shortage. Not only must we produce enough items for our own consumption but also sufficient for neighborly gifts. In addition, each child must have a turn in the kitchen, one on one with mum. <br /><br />Although we’ve been in the States 15 years, I still have a hard time rolling ‘a rebel without a cause’ in dough – it’s a tall order - but Jimmy Dean is the number one brand of sausagemeat out here, and sausage rolls are a must on the menu. Nonna observes our doings from the safety of the dining room table as she paws over a library book.<br />“Ooo look at dat,” she says turning the page of <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Snakes and Reptiles, the scariest cold-blooded creatures on earth.’</span> “I’ve seen that somewhere today.”<br />“Really!”<br />“Yes, now where was it?”<br />“It must have been something else. It can’t have been a Fer-de-Lance, not here, not in California.”<br />“No, no, I’m sure I saw it.”<br />“Maybe you remember seeing it in the book, perhaps earlier today?”<br />“No, no, no. It’s the first time I see dis book ere.”<br /><br />My youngest son recently decided that he has Ophidiophobia, although whether he has a real fear of snakes or merely warms to all those syllables is still unclear – an affectation or an affection for all things Indiana Jones? Who knows?<br />I step over for a closer look, hands air born and flour covered, “no, look at the map, in the corner, they’re in Central America and Brazil…..Mexico……they don’t live this far north, <span style="font-style:italic;">none</span> in California.” I make sure the last phrase goes over my shoulder, back to the kitchen so my youngest son gets the message, the fact, indisputable, from a text book. He, the chef, is busy squeezing dough through his fists – it squirts through the gaps in his fingers just like a fidget ball but less calming. I nip back to salvage warm pastry, oily from over handling, on the turn, grey and lifeless, a sticky mass. <br />“Now where did I see dat ting?” she continues.<br />“Can’t have seen a snake as it was too cold to go out today – remember?”<br />“No, I tink I saw it somewhere around ere…….in dah house.” <br />“I don’t think so.”<br />“Hmm ere somewhere,” she repeats as her hand circles the air, close by and about to materialize, charmed out of the ether. I am ready for this conversation to cease, but only the cookery is terminal as her grandson keeps a beady eye upon her, just in case. She stands gingerly, fingertips braced against the table for balance as they begin to tap, semaphore over the surface, searching like heat seeking missiles until the inevitable collision.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzcW0Pn1exwoiWmG44Vm4R1wZ3R7IVKF2TCA5jQ8MWjVWBNKZVCIg07842YfRtYfqOh_rmhgQ6rmrYIybOyExXUiPVRLpktwrRUVbzYiCXySUmLLCdicb_fmZquMZ8TA5p9ZMCS_ktlwi/s1600-h/DSCF9792.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzcW0Pn1exwoiWmG44Vm4R1wZ3R7IVKF2TCA5jQ8MWjVWBNKZVCIg07842YfRtYfqOh_rmhgQ6rmrYIybOyExXUiPVRLpktwrRUVbzYiCXySUmLLCdicb_fmZquMZ8TA5p9ZMCS_ktlwi/s400/DSCF9792.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422644674572878338" /></a><br /><br /><br />“See!” she beams. “Ha ha!” she chortles as she lifts the volume in my direction, the evidence in black and white, so I am red all over, “it’s yours isn’t it? Dis is what you are reading!” She doesn’t say ‘stupid girl!’ out loud; she doesn’t need to.Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-57226006279640672002009-12-27T23:13:00.000-08:002009-12-27T23:13:00.483-08:00Cream – who’s got it?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIFJ583UOPCixyB8Z3QJDpW1PpTi00wVmEs3qliEk9arA8fkJb3gJ-Djxs_-gflp4l7QEVSkMCQ8FxBZdA5qwKh992wmEuB1FrpSypEIvMkwMgBnfUueL_SiL31MXqb4mJVIpPhtoCX_J/s1600-h/DSCN4552.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIFJ583UOPCixyB8Z3QJDpW1PpTi00wVmEs3qliEk9arA8fkJb3gJ-Djxs_-gflp4l7QEVSkMCQ8FxBZdA5qwKh992wmEuB1FrpSypEIvMkwMgBnfUueL_SiL31MXqb4mJVIpPhtoCX_J/s400/DSCN4552.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420014162294707858" /></a><br /><br />“You bought a what!”<br />“Not ‘bought,’ ‘adopted,’ – remember, we’re Americans now.”<br />“But why. Why now?”<br />“It’s been on my mind for a while, but this morning – that was the final straw.”<br />“What happened?”<br />“Rascal brought another mouse into the house.”<br />“Again?”<br />“Yes – but I caught it - so hopefully no babies this time.”<br />“Well that’s alright then. So why did you buy another cat?”<br />“Because I didn’t kill the mouse, I let it go in the garden.”<br />“In the garden?”<br />“Actually that’s a lie – I threw it over the fence into the empty lot.”<br />“Like a rickety old wooden fence is a cast iron barrier.”<br />“Quite.”<br />“Why didn’t you kill it?”<br />“You never kill them.”<br />“True.”<br />“And anyway, I wasn’t going to kill it in cold blood in front of an audience.”<br />“Which particular audience?”<br />“All the children and Nonna.”<br />“Ah – I can see why you’d want to avoid being type cast as violent annihilator of innocents.”<br />“Indeed.”<br />“That still doesn’t explain why you bought another cat.”<br />“Well Rascal caught it again and brought it back into the house. This time it escaped - upstairs. Took us all morning to track it down and trap it – mayhem, absolute mayhem. I haven’t managed to get one thing done today.”<br />“And buying another cat is somehow going to increase your efficiency? Did it ever occur to you that now you’ll be chasing double the amount of vermin?”<br />“Hmm. But this new cat is going to eat them.”<br />“You know that for a fact?”<br />“Indubitably. She is a ferocious mouser. It's genetic.”<br />“Rascal will leave - he’ll be jealous.”<br />“It’s a female cat.”<br />“Spade?”<br />“Yup. Smaller than Rascal, company not competition.”<br />“I don’t know how you can have such confidence in such inanity.”<br />“I’m merely quoting your mother.”<br />“Ah. So…….?”<br />“She’s absolutely thrilled – Christmas has come early.”<br />Again.Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-54440423724629679682009-12-20T23:05:00.000-08:002009-12-20T23:05:00.070-08:00Presented on a salver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlhRqvfM9pKWSz-6wmTXdgGtuvTkg_c8ZRRZCJwspM08dC0cVNpt0EPyCxUp7GlWRAvcyEvnUZQHaMxVc4-nyqUwDSqnEiAQTdpMS0k2TG8oE8pYmDB0hi-inTZiYKXNGCwg4x-IoM59x/s1600-h/DSCF9735.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlhRqvfM9pKWSz-6wmTXdgGtuvTkg_c8ZRRZCJwspM08dC0cVNpt0EPyCxUp7GlWRAvcyEvnUZQHaMxVc4-nyqUwDSqnEiAQTdpMS0k2TG8oE8pYmDB0hi-inTZiYKXNGCwg4x-IoM59x/s400/DSCF9735.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417010331046214402" /></a><br /><br />“So Maddy?”<br />“Hmm?”<br />“Wot you do wiz doz tings den?”<br />“Which things?”<br />“Doz tings dere – dat you made.”<br />“Ah the sugar-paste. They’re not finished yet. I’m painting them silver.”<br />“You start a new career?”<br />“I don’t think I could earn my keep making cakes somehow.”<br />“No. De other.”<br />“The other what?”<br />“You know…….” I watch her as her arm flourish as she makes a little twirl, I am none the wiser, “er…..Turkish dancing?”<br />“No!”<br />“Hawaiian?”<br />“No. Dah ladies of dah night.”<br />“!”<br />“Wot you call dem?”<br />“Prostitutes?”<br />“No!”<br />“Good. I think I’m a bit old for that.”<br />“Wot they called when they take their clothes off, dancing around?”<br />“Strippers?”<br />“Yes dats right.”<br />“!”<br />“So dey’re not props then?”<br />“Props?”<br />“I thought they were breast coverings, like coconut shells.”<br />“!”<br />“The handles are a bit cheeky though.”<br />“!”<br />“At least dey’re dah right size.”<br />“!”Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-14769259902913798912009-12-17T09:40:00.000-08:002009-12-17T10:34:17.699-08:00A bid for freedom – sheath your weapons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WwzP3b5zhXJE4QUkzskZSL3qwXrdFuwmBBhAIGcAQK4mhx8vjjpDKw8dIVUlkyqLFG-figHmxw7sqcOAf6tU2cQeO_igaWvn3IfbetQ5X269rwBJ4rBrOPtZ7KtIO6TJ4RiwxaDOt0JK/s1600-h/DSCF9724.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6WwzP3b5zhXJE4QUkzskZSL3qwXrdFuwmBBhAIGcAQK4mhx8vjjpDKw8dIVUlkyqLFG-figHmxw7sqcOAf6tU2cQeO_igaWvn3IfbetQ5X269rwBJ4rBrOPtZ7KtIO6TJ4RiwxaDOt0JK/s400/DSCF9724.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416267853431039650" /></a><br /><br />I take the advice of my brother, in advance of any possible New Year’s resolutions. I request a copy well ahead of the December meeting of the Mystery Book Club. Once a month, early evening, more than doable.<br /><br />People differ so much in their doings but I know my own preferences. By page 247 I know who did what, when and why, but I leave the last chapter, the solution, untouched, so that I’ll be able to relish the moment. It shouldn’t be gobbled in snatched seconds, stolen from my other responsibilities during the day, but savored, like the last chocolate in the box. <br /><br />I have that time slot ear-marked, late morning, where I plan to sit in the front room by the window and wait for the boys to return on the school bus. 20 minutes of uninterrupted silence. Indulgence, once duty is fulfilled, so that the all will be clean and fresh and bright in my mind for the evening meeting. Who needs a lunch break when you can have a book break and brain food?<br /><br />Or at least that’s the plan.<br /><br />I drive home – with a bit of luck Nonna will be up so that we can have the third breakfast sitting. The combined expedition: school drop off, supermarket, post office and library pick-up, was swift. I pause at traffic lights, knee deep in bags of stuff. I review my latest campaign, the one I think I can manage, rather than the one that I know that I can’t.<br /><br />The ‘can’t’ issue is delegated to her son. I’m aware that elderly people often worry about money. I’ve experienced it first hand. My dad has one version, the version where you hand it out to every Tom, Dick and Harry, smile without a care. His signature began to falter on the cheques, so my mum intervened. It was a joint account, no choice. Now he’s limited to cash, small denominations only. But I do exaggerate.<br /><br />Nonna has another version, the kind where everyone is a thief, no-one can be trusted, least of all light fingered daughter’s in law. I claim ignorance – ‘ask your son, not my department.’ I agreed at the time – so clever – so non-confrontational - no travelers cheques. No Greenbacks. He’s in charge of the finances. So what if I’m not a woman of independent means. What would I do with a stash of pounds sterling? Did I mention the exaggeration?<br /><br />I stick to doable things, manageable campaigns, as I know my limits, or at least some of them. I cannot rationally explain why this issue is quite so irritating. All I know is that I’ve had enough. I've devised a counter measure to stop one of the repeats, just one, the second new repeat. This one repeats at approximately 20 minute intervals, just after the money repeat, just before the other repeats. <br /><br />Nonna arrives in the kitchen, cross, clutching her carrier bag to her chest; Christmas presents which she has forgotten about. It is a very heated exchange – necessarily louder than I would wish. Often the children are well within ear-shot. They have known for over a week that Nonna has chocolate for them for Christmas. Whilst we have this conversation, each boy echoes the exchange, word for word, which is presumably why it has become ever more excruciating, not for them, but for me.<br /><br />“Wot about deez tings den Maddy?”<br />“They’re for the children, for Christmas, remember?”<br />“They are for me?”<br />“<span style="font-style:italic;">From</span> you. We bought them for you, because you were worried about the presents, remember?”<br />“But I don’t ave any money?”<br />“I know, we paid at the time. It’s fine. Don’t worry.”<br /><br />But she does worry. <br /><br />She continues to worry. <br /><br />My answers were inadequate the first time around and have continued to fall short of the mark thereafter. I am aware of my failing but unable to climb back out of the mire. Hence, like most cowards, I’ve decided to simply remove the object of obsession. As soon as I get home I shall take the bag elsewhere, for safe keeping, for the next 21 days, because I am selfish and do not want to flail incompetently for the next three weeks. Not a time out or a confiscation, merely moved to a pending file, out of sight and hopefully out of mine. Far from perfect, but ‘good enough’ is all we can manage these days. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYyxEnbpJv3X6CEEZT_jK-9OZSRzossuj8NEtsuWPimVi5Oixcm6BdNZVE-dB5hqKoyoYHJYg-B4MST9uL4PCYxcEjr2uIp_h2XEB1kl2JL-z7ZrPCJHhytPBKhnIoqjNGN2ikx4bNdkw/s1600-h/DSCF9722.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYyxEnbpJv3X6CEEZT_jK-9OZSRzossuj8NEtsuWPimVi5Oixcm6BdNZVE-dB5hqKoyoYHJYg-B4MST9uL4PCYxcEjr2uIp_h2XEB1kl2JL-z7ZrPCJHhytPBKhnIoqjNGN2ikx4bNdkw/s400/DSCF9722.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416267989935832098" /></a><br /><br /> <br /><br />Mercifully we usually shift gears seamlessly into other, older, more familiar repeats:-<br />“Wot about dis one den?” she’ll ask, every time a knife is in sight.<br />“I’ll put the cover on in a minute, don’t worry.”<br />“Ferocious dey are, fiendish weapons!” So animated and expressive with her powerful Italian accent and flourishing hand gestures, each time, every time, because each time is the first time.<br /><br />The boys love it. They think it’s hilarious. All cutlery has been renamed in accordance; not 'pass me the knife please,' but ‘hand me the ferocious,’ the infection is contagious and permeates every mealtime.<br /><br />As I pull into the driveway I notice that the front door is open. I run in to check but nobody is home. Her coat is gone, as is her bag, which is good. There is no note, not that I expected one. I nip over to my neighbor to see if anyone saw her leave:- “sure, while after you left in the car. Did you know you’ve left the door open?” We have a brief exchange, eyes on the look-out for wandering elderly people or would be burglars and I’m off, trolling the streets. I am aware that I am a danger on the road as my attention is directed to pedestrians rather than cars. I have my phone but no-one to call:- ‘dear husband of mine, sorry I mislaid your mother today whilst I wasn’t paying attention, I’m sure she’ll be fine with her deafness, diabetes, heart condition, high blood pressure, one leg an inch shorter than the other, intermittent attention, left over jet lag, in unfamiliar territory, on the wrong side of the road and a penchant for jay walking.’ I have a whole two hours to find her, two hours before my loyalties will be divided by the impending arrival of the school bus.<br /><br />She’s cross and defensive when I find her, just by the main road, heading in the wrong direction. <br /><br />I’m cross and worried, but less worried than I was as I lock her into her seat belt.<br /><br />I press a cup of coffee into her chilly hands as she sits hunched in the family room, diminished.<br /><br /><br />I wait until I am calm and then ask if she can recall our address. She’s almost right but the difference between 10,000 and 1,000 is about 10 blocks – it’s a very long road. I also know that like everyone else, if she were flustered and lost, her recall would also be challenged, assuming she could hear them, assuming they could understand her. It’s assuming too much by a long chalk.<br /><br /><br />She is adamant that there were people, other people, in the house when she left. She is not responsible for leaving anything unlocked - “but I can’t be a prisoner in dah house!” Luckily she’s only half teasing. I can see how elder abuse comes about, no matter how unwittingly; it doesn’t have to be physical restraints, merely the denial of freedom of movement. For her well being? For my well being? Where does one start and the other end?<br /><br />I ask if she has her map or the card or the ‘locator’ in her bag, which is mean because I already know the answer. I step out to answer the phone as she rummages in search of what is not there. <br /><br />I assure her son that all is safe and well, if a bit shaky. We decide to talk, later. Something must be done, but what? My last chapter beckons but the book club will have to wait til next month, as there are some things you can’t sweep under the carpet.<br /><br />I replace the receiver to the cradle as I think. It’s tough to be reliant on other people for transport, especially when you’re used to your independence. Although she’s a voracious reader, she can’t be expected to be stuck in the house, morning, noon and night with a book. I step over to the computer, flip to the library page and reserve two copies. In a month’s time we can go together, to the Mystery book club meeting, leave the hungry hoards to fend for themselves. I return to the family room where Nonna sips coffee and nibbles from a Holiday print candy wrapper from her bag, “nice chocolate dis! Such a nice present. I love Christmas. Thank you.”<br /><br />One down, 2 to go.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF7QUwMX1BfoKlLvq3PDso2gvjjSyfLWwqDX-rG9k6SyjI8AHWty5PdLCEAr87GyHc7GevNhpK8BMEJzHbnUL16GCzUraRWQaCj6raJmaLApMpesue_T3kpo8mTAQ_AFL4fuWYg0XZaO0/s1600-h/DSCF9725.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF7QUwMX1BfoKlLvq3PDso2gvjjSyfLWwqDX-rG9k6SyjI8AHWty5PdLCEAr87GyHc7GevNhpK8BMEJzHbnUL16GCzUraRWQaCj6raJmaLApMpesue_T3kpo8mTAQ_AFL4fuWYg0XZaO0/s400/DSCF9725.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416268203487471330" /></a>Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5946128431046734680.post-3145105767763427392009-12-15T10:31:00.001-08:002009-12-15T10:35:07.354-08:00Choking on the Chalk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWZ00lB78XV2CpdndoHbtuomGaotNU1LyCmrMfhXuQdLwDBYc_GEyotq1R6Wr6cnVYN6bS-0WT2UyNexDWhPJtYKv7DF05U0kUapB6GOzSgjT3yhxAGHSJ7n8WlMRtyR2Ccp9iUKc0cOW/s1600-h/DSCN4547.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWZ00lB78XV2CpdndoHbtuomGaotNU1LyCmrMfhXuQdLwDBYc_GEyotq1R6Wr6cnVYN6bS-0WT2UyNexDWhPJtYKv7DF05U0kUapB6GOzSgjT3yhxAGHSJ7n8WlMRtyR2Ccp9iUKc0cOW/s400/DSCN4547.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415532523703784418" /></a><br /><br />One of the great things about elderly relatives and old people in general, is that eventually they just stop trying. Instead of giving inadequate, age inappropriate, naff presents, they admit defeat and hand over the cash instead. It’s a fabulous eventuality for the youth of the era. The kid doesn’t have to try and thank the elderly relative in a fake manner, tinged with resentment for the dinosaur puzzle or a doe eyed baby doll. Instead, the youngster can demonstrate genuine glee, even if the amount is more suitable for a child in the 1920’s. <br /><br />Cash is cash, no matter how meager. Young people can forgive the miserliness, because old people don’t grasp inflation or the exchange rate or the current value of either. I know, or rather, I remember when that transition crept into my own life, several decades ago. You love them in their decrepitude but really, how hard can it be? Something’s triggered in the expanding brain of the nearly teen; <span style="font-style:italic;">‘ah well, what can you do, chalk it up to experience.’</span> <br /><br />It’s easy to remember amid the noise of the television, washer, drier, dish-washer and radio, simultaneous with my all too good fortune, white goods, wealth and an easy life style; as I pick out the candy wrappers from all the plant pots on the ground floor, because diabetics can cheat and none of my children are that devious, yet. I turn off running water and light switches as I travel in the new daylight. I gather detritus as I roam, lost glasses, dropped hankies, notes, clothes, dust bunnies and pills. How can any of us reasonably keep up? So much has changed in nearly a century.<br /><br />I hear my daughter scream with delight as she comes rushing out of Nonna’s room at this unearthly hour of the morning. Wide eyed she fans out the green backs, a fortune. I watch her father flair with a mixture of irritation and despair, but Nonna’s not bothered, she’s perfectly happy, as anyone would be on Christmas Day. We sit everyone down in front of the pile of birthday presents, wrapped in blue for a girl. Her excitement is uncontainable as she begins - cards first; it’s a rule. <br /><br />Pacing is everything. <br /><br />The third card is from Nonna. As she rips it open; more greenbacks appear, a King’s ransom. I put my body between my daughter and my husband, before his hands can snatch it back, a gesture that no-one would understand, as instincts ignite reaction. He turns away to gouge his eye sockets, but that won’t erase the picture. All his careful plans dashed. All his precautions evaded. There is little hope of avoiding a repeat performance at Christmas, in ten days time.<br /><br />Not now.<br /><br />Don’t make a scene.<br /><br />Deal with it later.<br /><br />They’ll understand, given time, or at least one of them will.Maddyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05828186178060722812noreply@blogger.com4