The Visit

I’m not sure what I expected. I’ve never really seen someone “near death.” By the time I arrive, they’re usually already dead.

We arrived at the assisted living facility late in the afternoon. I question the appropriateness of that term. There was quite a bit of assistance going on, but not so much living.

As we walked down the hallway, my mother leaned over. “There she is,” she whispered. “Where?” I asked, seeing only a shriveled old lady inching away from us in her wheelchair. “Right there, in the wheelchair.” Oh.

We walked around to the front of her wheelchair and leaned over, careful not to surprise her. “Grandma! Hi! How are you?”

She appeared startled for only a moment, then a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. “Law! Where you been? I been watchin’ the hi-way for neely an hour. I jus plum gave up and figured you wasn’t comin’.”

This was a good sign. She was still her same old ornery self, complaining, in a syrupy sweet manner, about everything around her.

Mom started to explain how my flight was delayed because of thunderstorms in DC, so I had to be re-routed through Chicago, and had an extra layover, and arrived to Greensboro three hours late, then we still had a four hour drive to see her. And we came straight from the airport, not even stopping for lunch.

All this went unnoticed by Grandmother.

“Yeah. I waited and waited and waited. Don nobody come to visit me anymore. I jus figured you the same. Not comin’. So I’m goin’ back to my room to get ready for supper.”

Never mind that my parents, as well as my sister, as well as her own sisters, come to visit her several times a week. Nobody comes to visit. Her spirit was the same, though her physical appearance was not. Once a tall, solid woman, she now hunches in a wheelchair, her legs reduced to spindly matchsticks. Her snow white hair frames lifeless skin hanging from sharp cheekbones; bruises in all stages, aubergine, violet, greenish-yellow, regularly appear on her paper-thin skin.

We wheeled her into the common area where mom and I pulled up chairs on either side of her wheelchair and chatted. As other residents entered the area, she introduced us, me, as her oldest granddaughter, mom, as “Jerry’s wife.” The other residents smiled, nodded, or merely continued staring blankly into space.

She talked on and on, rambling about who had sent her cards, which nurses she likes, which she doesn’t, who had lived, who had died, and the mental state and ailments of the other residents. I was pleasantly surprised by her mental state, until she began repeating the same stories over and over. And when we would ask questions, she would pause, surprised, then usually continue with her soliloquy, not answering our inquiries. She definitely could hear us, and understand what we said (I think) because several times she talked about the horrible weather everywhere (referencing the thunderstorms that were the cause of my tardiness) and how that’s a definite sign that the second coming of Christ is near and the earth as we know it will cease to exist. Amen.

She (mis-)quoted a lot of the Bible.

On our second day visiting, when mom was off talking to the head nurse about grandmother’s physical therapy regime, grandma leaned over. “You back with that husband of yours yet?”

It was my turn to look at her astounded. I’ve been divorced for almost 4 years and there has never been any reason for anyone to suspect a reconciliation between my ex- and I.

“No, grandma, Steve and I aren’t together. We’ve been divorced for almost four years.”

“That’s a shame. You know, I always did like him. Such a nice boy. Such a nice, nice boy.”

I thought back to when I first announced my engagement to Steve to that side of the family. I was in South Carolina, visiting grandma and all her sisters. One of my cousins, probably a second or third, great or some other adjective preceding it, said to me, “He a Christian boy?” “Why, yes,” I replied. “He Baptist?” “Well, no.” “What is he then?” “Greek Orthodox.” Everyone looked up, eyebrows arched. My great second, third, forty-fifth cousin boomed, “Greek Orthodox? That ain’t like one of them Catholics is it?” Steve’s status among my relatives has increased considerably since not being a part of our immediate family.

“Well, grandma, I’m sure that I’ll meet another nice boy. Or maybe not. And that’s okay, too. I have a really blessed (thinking I’ll appeal to the Bible quoter), really full life.”

“Mmm. Nevah did have any babies either. Shame, real shame. Even yo baby sista had a baby. But not you. Mmm. I tell you. That’s a shame.”

Again, as painful as this was, I took this as a good sign. She still has enough strength to complain about the status of my life.

“When you movin’ back a North Carolina?”

“Well, grandma, I don’t think I am. California is really my home now. I’ve lived there for almost 11 years. I have a good job, and lots of friends.”

“That’s a shame. A real shame. What out there that ain’t out here?”

At that moment another resident came and sat down near us. Hellos were said then I resumed my conversation with grandma, expecting to be berated about the clothes I was wearing or some other trivial matter.

Instead, she started harping on the resident sitting only feet from us. How much she smokes, how she doesn’t speak proper English, how no one can understand her…

I’m glad I made the visit. She’s physically ridiculously weaker than when I saw her merely a year ago. She requires extensive help for so many of the activities she once performed by herself, getting up in the morning, bathing, getting dressed, eating, going anywhere… That part was difficult to see. But her spirit hasn’t weakened. The way I see it, as long as she has something or someone to complain about, she’ll be around. And we’ll be hearing it.

Waiting…

Shortly after I returned to California after my grandfather’s funeral, my mother called me. I could tell by the tone of her voice something was not quite right.

“Your grandmother is very sick.”

“How sick?”

“Well, if you want to see her before her funeral, you’d probably better look into getting a flight back out here.”

sigh.

That was basically the conversation that took place about a month ago, but instead of my paternal grandmother being sick, it was my maternal grandfather. I booked a flight for the following week; three days before I flew home he died. So instead of visiting with him, I attended his funeral.

After hearing of my grandmother’s somewhat sudden demise, I again booked a flight. Unfortunately, the earliest I could return back to North Carolina was in a couple of weeks. Today, precisely.

Each time my parents have called since I booked my flight, I’ve wondered if I again would be attending a funeral instead of visiting with a sick relative. I leave for the airport in half an hour and still haven’t received that call yet. And, similar to my last trip back home, still haven’t packed.

Fly Away!

In celebration of the 100 year anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ historic flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, British Airways is having a $100 sale. Hurry – flights must be booked by November 6. I’m going to London!

For the Love of Computers…

At a recent computer expo (COMDEX), Bill Gates reportedly compared the computer industry with the auto industry and stated, “If GM had kept up with technology like the computer industry has, we would all be driving $25.00 cars that got 1,000 miles to the gallon.”

In response to Bill’s comments, General Motors issued a press release stating: If GM had developed technology like Microsoft, we would all be driving cars with the following characteristics:

1. For no reason whatsoever, your car would crash twice a day.

2. Every time they repainted the lines in the road, you would have to buy a new car.

3. Occasionally your car would die on the freeway for no reason. You would have to pull over to the side of the road, close all of the windows, shut off the car, restart it, and reopen the windows before you could continue. For some reason you would simply accept this.

4. Occasionally, executing a maneuver such as a left turn would cause your car to shut down and refuse to restart, in which case you would have to reinstall the engine.

5. Macintosh would make a car that was powered by the sun, was reliable, five times as fast and twice as easy to drive – but would run on only five percent of the roads.

6. The oil, water temperature, and alternator warning lights would all be replaced by a single “This Car Has Performed An Illegal Operation” warning light.

7. The airbag system would ask “Are you sure?” before deploying.

8. Occasionally, for no reason whatsoever, your car would lock you out and refuse to let you in until you simultaneously lifted the door handle, turned the key and grabbed hold of the radio antenna.

9. Every time a new car was introduced car buyers would have to learn how to drive all over again because none of the controls would operate in the same manner as the old car.

10.You’d have to press the “Start” button to turn the engine off.

Apartment Life

I met my upstairs neighbor tonight.

Until this point, I imagined him to be a hulking creature, at least eight feet tall, four or five hundred pounds, who constantly hurls small objects, or people, across his apartment, usually at 4 in the morning.

I wasn’t far off in my assessment of him.

He is tall. Not eight feet, but a good 6’4″. And he doesn’t weigh five hundred pounds, but is easily in the upper 200s. A lurking, bald, dressed all in black young man.

Normally I only hear him at 4 am. I’ve deducted that he works some kind of night job which causes him to return home between 4 and 5 am. Or he’s a professional raver. Tonight, however, my ceiling was threatening to cave in at 7 pm. I went upstairs, not so much irritated, but more out of curiosity to see who could possibly make so much noise. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. Still no one. I rang an annoying buzzer.

He opened the door. I smiled. “Hi…”

He immediately started, “You must live downstairs. Um.. Well, see normally I don’t wear my shoes in the house, but tonight we’re getting ready to go out and I have my boots on…”

I looked down. He did indeed have heavy, steel-toed cowboy boots on.

“… and I was telling a story, and I had to stomp on the floor. And I only have hardwood floors. So I guess it was kind of loud…”

I continued smiling, not having said more than the initial hi.

“…and it was part of the story. And was loud. But normally I don’t wear shoes.”

He stopped for a breath. I seized the opportunity.

“I’m not really concerned about noise now. But I do hear you come home every night. Morning. Around 4 or 4:30. If you could make just a slight effort to be quieter, I’d really appreciate it.”

This is saying a lot. I’m the world’s heaviest sleeper. I have to set 3 alarm clocks to rise in the morning. I’ve slept through many phone calls, earthquakes, and other natural disasters.

He continued. “…well, I try to take my shoes off when I come in. I guess sometimes I drop my boots. That must be loud. I’ll try not to. I manage a night club, so I come home late. Normally I wouldn’t have my shoes on, but we’re getting ready to go out. And I was telling a story and I had to stomp. And the guy who lived in your apartment before you, Joe, no, Larry, yeah, he was always complaining about how noisy I was.”

At this I merely raised my eyebrows. You don’t say?

“By the way, I’m Bill. It’s nice to meet you. Really nice to meet you. I’ll try to be quieter.”

Even if he isn’t quieter, the meeting had merit as pure entertainment.

VOTE

Tomorrow is election day. Per tradition, we gathered to discuss the issues. Pros, cons, who supports what, who receives money from whom. Short-term fixes versus long-term solutions.

The issues, as always in San Francisco, are varied. Here’s a rundown of what we’re voting for:

Mayor

Sheriff

D.A.

Prop A – $295 Million School Bond

Prop B – Retirement Benefits – City Employees

Prop C – City Services Auditor

Prop D – Small Business Commission

Prop E – Ethics Charter Amendment

Prop F – Early Retirement for City Employees

Prop G – Rainy Day Fund

Prop H – Police Commission

Prop I – Funding Set Aside For Early Childhood Education

Prop J – Separate Homeless Facilities for Seniors, Youth, and Disabled

Prop K – Transportation Sales Tax Renewal

Prop L – Minimum Wage Increase

Prop M – Aggressive Solicitation Ban

Prop N – Taxi Driver Disability

I encourage everyone to exercise their privilege to vote!

Trick or Treat

We arrived to the address, the spot of the post-Halloween party on Saturday night. It was a neighborhood we normally wouldn’t be walking in, the type that you slyly lock your car doors when you’re driving through.

None of the doors had numbers. We deducted we probably should enter the one on the end, the grey door with graffiti scrawled on it. As we walked closer, the door magically opened. A very large bald-headed man in all black looked us up and down, then nodded towards the stairs, not saying a word. We looked at each other through our veils, gave each other knowing glances, and entered.

The stairs weren’t quite wide enough for our feet. We carefully navigated up the dark planks, careful not to trip on the random upended board. The main room was even darker, smoke unfurling around people’s heads, cigarettes aglow, mirrored by a foggy smoke curling in and out around people’s ankles. Techno music pounded from around the corner. Our sight was impeded not only by the lack of lights, but by the black veils we wore over our faces. We were the Robert Palmer girls, in mourning. It was a bittersweet costume. People looked at us quizzically, not quite sure what we were. “Black widows?” “Brides in mourning?” Once we started playing our air guitars and humming “Addicted to Love” people exclaimed, “Of course. But where’s Robert Palmer?” We merely pointed to the veils and said, “That’s why we’re wearing these…”

We stood still in the main room, hoping our eyes would adjust to the light. People with freakily realistic bullet wounds passed by. Mummies, trailing bloody bandages. Death appeared, his gaunt face hooded, brandishing his scythe. The loft reminded me of the game “Mousetrap.” There were make shift ladders and stairways and loft-like platforms everywhere. Mirrors and graffiti marred the walls. A cauldron, filled with a devilish mixture, beckoned the brave to partake. Lockers, the kind found in high school hallways, lined the walls. Inside were unrecognizable items, possibly edible, at least at one time.

We ascended another stairway. Another dance floor writhed with ghoulish bodies, jerking this way and that. A basketball hoop was mounted on the wall, naked babies strangled in the net. A neon sign announced the “ass scan” nook, what we thought was a joke, but was a functioning niche. Arcade games, the kind from the ’80s, lined one wall. As we walked by, images flashed, briefly, looping over and over. Emily turned to me. “Was that porn on that screen?” Why, yes, I believe it was. Dressmaker dummies, headless and funkily dressed, appeared around every corner, at the top of each makeshift staircase. Peering animals, ridiculously realistic, perched upon the walls.

We struck up a conversation with a fairly normal looking fellow. We commented how the inhabitants had done such a good job of decorating for the party. He looked at us quizzically. “Mmm. Yeah, I guess they did put some cobwebs up. Everything else looks like it normally does….”

As he turned away, Emily and I peered at each other with delighted stares. This was the ultimate Halloween treat – we were in a real haunted house.

No, those pants don’t make you look fat.

I only buy it for the articles.

Honey, size doesn’t matter.

You’re the best I’ve ever had.

I’m doing this for your own good.

The check’s in the mail.

He wore a white turtleneck, white pants, white shoes, and white gloves. Taped to his body were dozens of sayings, all heard, many uttered. He was a walking white lie.

The Best Pick Up Line. Ever.

The pilot announced it was a full flight. I sat in one window seat, my co-worker across the aisle in the other window seat. We were prepared to sleep the flight away, sleep deprived as we were after 4 days in Sin City. A young, hip twenty-something with heavy eye make-up sat in the aisle seat in my co-worker’s row. A couple, just married, twenty years difference, sat next to me. At the very last moment, a strung out, sunglasses wearing, Ipod-listening, trendy dressing twenty-something sat in the middle seat next to my co-worker.

Within ten minutes, the hip twenty-something female and the trendy dressing twenty-something male were making out. Hands rubbing, lips touching, tongues intertwining.

He: What do you do?

She: I’m a massage therapist.

He: Really? That’s cool.

She: You know, you are not too firm, not too soft, you are just right. I’d so like to rub you.

Why I Love Las Vegas

The cling, cling, cling of the slot machines as I exit the plane.

Sitting at a table, screaming, “Face card! Face card! Face card!” then high fiving everyone at the table when that king appears.

Going to bed at 5 am, not tired at all, but knowing I need at least an hour of sleep before the next morning’s meeting.

Splitting sixes. Getting another six. Splitting again. Winning with a 13, 15, and 8 at the blackjack table.

“Loose slots and friendly service.”

People watching.

Coming home.