What if?

We’ve all been asked a question in various situations, call them “conversation starters” or possibly a genuine attempt by someone who is anxious to know you, to learn about what makes you tick! Frankly, there’s never just one question as each one answered opens the door to many others!

The very basic “interrogations” start with asking about the work that you do, if you like your job and was it something you wanted to do when you grew up. My response is usually a semi-hard “pass” which generates more questioning as the inevitable “why” barges into the conversation. Let’s face it, I doubt many of us still out in the workplace are planted in an ideal situation, for most, it’s a matter of survival, on many levels. Of course, this is all followed up by someone asking about retirement plans, if so, when and how you feel about it. At times, it’s difficult to help another understand the motivation to continue working and replying with any type of satisfactory response can be exhausting.

So, I politely smile and change the subject.

The banter then stumbles along, moving along to health issues, if there are any and how do you cope with them. Of course, before any response can be given in this exchange, one must hear about all the other individual is going through, has experienced or hopes they never will. It seems that no matter what illness or affliction one might share, the subject of death rolls in and questions about believing in an after-life, having regrets, last wishes and wanting to be remembered come flying at you.

Once again, I smile and hurriedly change the subject.

The conversational inquisition continues and questions about any important people in your life are asked, a somewhat lighter exchange where there’s a sharing of happiest moments, sad moments, regrets, funny stories and people who have greatly influenced you. Talk about lessons learned and proud moments, all combined into memories you would like to hold on to forever plus questions about how you wish to be remembered. What is most intriguing, and often asked, is if you could talk to a younger version of yourself, what would you say? This is reason to pause and think about all any of us wish could have been different and better, the mending of unresolved issues, fewer sad goodbyes, more kindness, understanding, and patience. With each day that we walk this earth, that “What if” thought tends to cross our minds in so much that we imagine and remember.

With that, I just smile, walk off and imagine talking to my thirteen-year old self. She understands me.

From the Writer’s Workshop: What question have people recently being constantly asking you?

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Line of conversation

Short, sweet and a little in-between; a few conversations overheard while waiting in an endless line at the post office….

#1 – Bedraggled-looking woman in need of a good hair washing…
“I’m so tired of being sick and having kids home because of snow; all they keep asking me is …what are we doing today, Mommy?…..this week they’re gonna watch me lie on the couch and throw up!”

I silently wept for her children…


#2 – Less unkempt-looking woman, very much in need of an eyebrow and lip waxing….
“I’m amazed at how fast my husband beats it out the f*&king; door when these damn kids are home from school.  I swear I’m making a voodoo doll of the sunuvabitch and will stick pins up his ass.”

Obviously, these women knew each other and I could understand why that husband took off from home like a bat out of hell…..

#1 – Bedraggled-woman again…
“These kids shoulda never been off last week; dumbass schools could have just had a two hour delay.”

#2 – Less unkempt-woman again (goes off in another topic direction)…
“Did you hear Brenda’s babysitter got knocked-up?”

#1 – Bedraggled….
“Again?

I perked up; at this point, the conversation was getting very interesting until…

#3 – Large woman wearing purple coat, red leggings, dark brown UGGS that need condemning, stuffs some type of food item in mouth while talking and just butts in..
“Kim, going to Zumba later?”

It was difficult to stifle my evil side, screaming out from within, that only a miracle, not Zumba, could help….

                                                                     
In the meantime, the man in front of me persistently struggles with an even more persistent wedgie while he complains to the man in front of him that “they need to close this f*&kin;’ post office or at least tell these women working here to stop yakking and move faster!”

My observation is that people waiting in line, at least here in Dogpatch, drop the F-bomb a lot…

 

Then…woman with dreadlocks, standing two spots in front of of Wedgie-man, looks back and asks if her place in line could be held.  Wedgie-man kindly acquiesces to her request while giving his jeans one more yank in all the wrong places.

The three women behind me proceed to drop F-bombs as Dreadlock-lady runs past them, out to her car, muttering nasty comments too low for my delicate ears to hear.  My evil side kicks in again wanting to ask  these women if they eat with those mouths.  Obviously, one does as she’s still sucking down the now indistinguishable food item clutched in her hand. 

 Suddenly, out of nowhere, the postal gods send another clerk to the counter and the line moves rapidly.  Dreadlock-lady fails to return promptly so everyone moves forward as if she never existed and does their postal-business.  I finally make my exit.             

Elapsed waiting time: 32 minutes/18 seconds. 

 

On my way by the three sources of interesting conversation, I notice that woman #3 had dropped the wrapper from her eating binge onto the post office floor. 

 

I asked myself….why do I live here?


Today, the US Postal Service announced that it’s planning on closing at least 2000 thousand post offices as well as reviewing the possible shut-down of another 16,000 nationwide.

 

Wedgie-man should be happy.

 

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #54: Gone Fishin’

The theme this week is “Gone Fishin’” – write a story with an absent-minded character. The name doesn’t exactly fit, but that’s always what’s written on the sign hanging in the empty brain area in cartoon characters’ heads, often following a scene where the “mental bureaucracy” closes up for the day and all the parts of the brain put on their hats and go home.
So that’s your prompt: write a story with a character whose brain-office isn’t fully staffed, so to speak. No lights on in the attic. Twenty-six cards short of a full deck, a few ticks slower than a minute, you get the idea. They don’t have to be outright stupid, just a bit absent-minded, but your character is your business.
Since I’m presently lacking the brain-matter to create a decent response to this prompt, I dug into my archives and decided to share an older post.  Think about the conversations overheard while we stand on line.  Some are downright outrageous with comments from people containing a 1 watt bulb level of mental capacity.
Here, for your reading pleasure is a mix of abject absent-mindedness, brain-matter leakage and downright ignorance,  from a cast of cartoon characters, gathered around the same fishin’ hole, my local post office.
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Conversations with a (familiar) stranger…..

I’m going to date myself here….big time!  Who remembers a movie called “The Three Faces of Eve”?

Thought so.

Way back in 1957, Joanne Woodward played the starring role in this fascinating story about a real-life woman who suffered from Multiple-Personality Disorder caused by a traumatic childhood event.

You can Google it.

What does this have to do with the basis of my Blog which is about my mother’s affliction with Alzheimer’s disease?  Well, (and I’m reaching here) the whole “multiple personality” issue is something I experienced as a caregiver.  Some days, it was hilarious, and others…downright maddening as my mother went through interesting phases of identity.

A few brief recollections of Mother Didn’t Know Best. 

                  ( Dialogue key (Moi=Blue    Mother=Red)

Daily conversations almost always went like this and, yes, mom had a potty mouth.  What can I say.

“morning mom, it’s time to get up and get ready for day care”

“who the hell are you?”

“I’m your daughter”

“well… shit”

“don’t you remember me, mom?”

 “no, I don’t, I’m sorry.   I have to urinate, hurry UP”

 “mom, you have diapers on, you’ll be fine.  I’m going to get your clothes ready for today”

 “no I WON’T, dammit.  where’s my keys?”

“what do you need keys for?”

 “I have to go home now”

“how about we just get you into the bathroom?”

“for what?”

 And, one morning, Mom was waiting in the Breakfast Nook when I came down the hall.

“hi mom….where did you get that coffee?”

“what coffee?”

“uh…the cup in front of you?”

“oh, that man down the hall gave it to me”

“man down the hall?”

“yes….him” <pointing a finger>

Just then, my husband came into the kitchen and fessed-up to giving her coffee when he found her sitting there.
From that point forward, he came to be known only as…”the man down the hall”.

 

Evenings brought many interesting performances from my mother’s room, usually starting around 11 p.m. and continuing until about 4 a.m.  Keep in mind that my mother wore a Posey restraint in bed, to keep her from falling out and getting out the front door which she did at regular intervals When she was on stage, I was right outside her door, yawning, listening, holding a cup of coffee and gritting my teeth.

“sonofabitch, I can’t untie this!  help…..help….help!”

“that’s just great, no one is home”

“oh hi….can you get me scissors from that desk over there?”

“none?  SHIT!  help……help………HELP!”

Allow me to step into this conversation to state that there was no one in her room except for whoever was visible only to her.

 One more late night performance:

“Dr. Stein, can you please come to Pat Strollo’s room?”

“hellooooooooo…..Dr. Stein?”

“nurse, what’s the matter with you, can’t you hear me, dammit?  Get me Dr. Stein!”

“Dr. Stein, I want to go home!”

“nurse, I have to urinate”

“Shit, where the hell is everybody, I have to get to work!”

“Dr. Stein, I’m going to report you!”

 

Jumping in here again to state, first,  that my mother’s maiden name was Strollo;  her married name, Smith, ceased to exist as Alzheimer’s marched through her brain. Mom was in the Twilight Zone going back about 60 years or more that night and, I have no idea where Dr. Stein came from, or the nurse.  With no offense to anyone of the Jewish faith who might read this, my mother never had a physician who wasn’t a Christian.  I still cannot figure that one out.

Shortly before my Mom died, she was sitting on the couch and when I walked over she exclaimed, “There she is, there’s my daughter!” I quickly went and sat down next to her.  For a brief time, there was recognition and somewhat sane conversation as my mother asked me what was wrong with her and why she couldn’t remember; she was suddenly aware and her mind focused on the present.  In a moment of sheer stupidity, on my part, I told her to wait and I would run and make us both coffee so we could sit and talk some more.

Cookies and coffee in hand, I excitedly returned to sit with her;  as I did, she looked up and said, “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, but I forgot your name.”


She was gone; back into the deepest shadows of her memories and I was back on the outside, still trying to get in.

Two weeks later, she passed away, still not remembering my name.

 

 

 

 

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