The Bionic Miniature

I'd like to say that I've been busy. I'd really like to say that I've been traveling the globe and have some thrilling adventures to share with you. I'd be elated to tell you about the time spent touring the Italian Riviera on my yacht. But those stories will have to wait (at least until I have a yacht). Instead, I'll have to tell you about how I've been landlocked in Phoenix all summer. Well, actually, there it is. Not much more to tell. I've stayed indoors as much as possible. To occupy my time, I spent approximately 15 hours painting a portrait of Lindsay Wagner of Bionic Woman (a.k.a. Jaime Sommers) and Sleep Number fame. A friend of mine is obsessed with her. He has a Jaime Sommers styling head, which is like the Barbie styling head, except that the Barbie styling head actually looks like Barbie, and the Jaime Sommers styling head looks nothing like Lindsay Wagner. So, for his 50th birthday, rather than treat him to a hypothetical cruise on the Italian Riviera, I painted him this miniature watercolor portrait of his television idol. The entire piece is about 2 x 3 inches and the detail above is approximately the size of a pickle chip. Luckily, the portrait looks more like Lindsay Wagner than the styling head does, and it doesn't even remotely resemble a pickle chip.

Lady Luck

If you've been following my thrilling adventures (you shouldn't be - there must be things on your "To Do" list that have been languishing), you know that a good part of my day is spent playing cards with Mary, my mother-not-really-but-sort-of-in-law, who is living with Alzheimer's disease. It is one of the few activities that amuses her, and she really excels at this game. If I had more of a gambling spirit, I would pack an overnight bag, throw Mary in a car and hustle up to Vegas. She has lady luck in spades. I used to think I had to let Mary win in order to preserve her self-esteem. This, of course, is ridiculous, since Mary can't remember winning or losing. I soon realized that, with no effort on my part, Mary was winning more than she was losing, which started to affect my self-esteem. So I started developing a cut-throat, card shark attitude. I formulated strategies that I thought would ensure my winning. I counted cards and held back ones that would assist her victories. I kept chicken-scratch tallies of games won by each of us (I listed her as "Mean Mary" and myself as "Tearful Todd" since she, it turns out, was more successfully competitive than me). And then, one day, my ego suffered a crushing blow.

We were playing a rousing game, and I looked up from my handful of cards to find that Mary had just one card left to discard, which typically meant she would be out in the next turn or two. But the game continued, and I desperately grabbed cards in an effort to secure this most unlikely win over my fierce opponent. "Not so lucky now, are you Mary?" I muttered to her. She just smiled back, with a pitying look. Finally, I drew a card that depleted my hand. I grabbed the pencil and proudly marked another win under my name.

"That was amazing," I said. "I can't believe I won that hand. You always go out when you have one card left."

"Oh well," she said. "You did it!"
Something wasn't right. She didn't look convinced.

"What card did you have left, Mary? I can't believe you couldn't go out."

"Nothing," she said demurely, pulling her one card towards her chest. "I didn't have anything..."

"Let me see," I said, reaching across the breakfast bar and turning her one remaining card over.

It was a deuce! The wild card. A card she could have put down at any time during the course of the game. Mary had (and this is hard to admit) LET ME WIN. A woman with no memory had surmised that I needed a victory to maintain relevance in this life and had purposely let me win.

"I can't believe it, Mary," I whined. "You let me win?"

She hesitated, a hurt look spreading across her face. "Was that so terrible?" she said, consumed with the suspicion that she had done something wrong.

I looked up, suddenly aware that, in her eyes, I was criticizing her behavior. I went over my potential responses and their ramifications. Finally, and without irony, I responded:

"Yes, Mary. That is terrible."

And we both laughed.


The rules for Mary's Rummy game are provided in a sidebar on this blog.

Buck

I was going through some old photos the other night, and among many frightening reminders of the past (who let us go out in public in some of the clothes we wore?) were some really sweet photos that made me stop and think about the more pleasant moments in the past. More pleasant, at least, than wearing Spandex mini shorts to a restaurant, or thinking that eyebrows the size of Snickers bars were flattering. I came across a photo of my faithful companion of 15 years, Buck. Buck was, I can safely say, one of the most beautiful dalmatians I've ever seen. He was also one of the most intelligent dogs I've ever met (and I've met quite a few). Unfortunately, he was also one of the most annoying creatures ever to grace the planet. He stole food from strangers when they weren't looking. He ruined furniture. He shed so much that nearly a decade after his passing, I'll occasionally find one of his hairs embedded in a piece of memorabilia. He was notorious for his room-clearing farts. Perhaps most annoying was his refusal to shake hands. It's probably just me, but I love a dog that will shake on command. Buck, despite learning other tricks and following complex verbal commands, particularly when food was involved (i.e. "the treat is in the side yard behind the pecan tree resting on the garden gnome's hand") would simply look to the side, embarrassed, when I would ask him to indulge me and give me his paw. Mind you, he never once did it in his fifteen years with me. Not once. It really pissed me off. It became the ultimate anti-trick. Everyone talks to dalmatians, and everyone asks dogs to shake. And he never willingly put his paw in a person's hand. He had a real superiority complex.

Despite all of these less-than-desirable qualities, he was also great company. He took an active co-pilot position in the passenger seat of my car. He never needed to be on a leash, even in a busy city setting (he was very respectful of all traffic laws). He loved infants and old people. He was really fun at a beach or at a pool party. He even smiled when he saw people he knew and liked (which was everyone except for homeless people and a few acquaintances towards which he held a grudge). I will never have another dog. And I will never stop missing Buck.

The Game of Life

Tonight, for the first time ever, I played the game of Life. You begin by choosing a car. Apparently life begins once you get your driver's license. You start out alone. You randomly choose a career. I chose "Teacher" which begins with a starting salary of zero dollars - you have to wait until everyone else has collected a salary, and then you get whatever salary is left over. After a short while, you trade in your teaching position for a real job that pays a bit more. You spin and pretty soon you are married. You choose a partner that is either the same color as you (blue or pink) or the opposite color. Apparently, anyone can get married in this game of Life. You set out on a path that eventually leads to you making some money, having children (even if you don't want them), paying taxes, and buying a house that will either gain or lose value. Life seems like it takes forever, despite the fact that you only have to get through the game board one time. When, exhausted, you reach the end of the game, you choose between two retirement facilities - one in which you gamble your life savings away, and one in which you get to keep what you have but have no option of making any more money. And you win the game of Life, by having the most money. I happened to finish in last place - I had the least amount of money, my house lost value, and I was in a sucky nursing home. But I played happily, and I had a lot of friends around me in the retirement center. And I still had my car. So I considered it a success despite what my bank account said.

Remembering to Care

Take a good look at this photo while it's here. I'm pretty sure Robrt will ask me to take it down as soon as he sees it. He insists on being photographed through gauze or a sheet of linoleum (depending on how much sleep he has gotten) and his reaction to looking like anything more than two black dots (eyes) with a moustache is extreme (as he would say "insert retching sounds here"). But hopefully, the photo will remain up long enough to remind everyone that Robrt will be reading selections from his writings about his mother, his childhood, and his experiences as an Alzheimer's caregiver on Friday, July 2nd, at Willo North Gallery. His readings will give you insight into the childhood of this great big sissy and how he has grown into a man with an endless ability to love and care for the people who raised him. You'll also get to see him in the flesh so please remember to tell him how young he looks in person, or I'll be forced to slather Vaseline over your eyeballs in an effort to soft focus your vision.

Aging Gracefully

I'm relatively certain that blog posts should be light and airy, meant only to entertain and delight the reader, who most likely is eating a grilled cheese sandwich and attempting to not spill Sprite onto the keyboard. Unfortunately, I'm not that blogger. At least not this week. So instead I'm going to wax geriatric for a moment. My father-in-law (I'm going to take the liberty of using "in-law" as I see fit, despite the government's refusal to recognize my relationship in any legal manner) has recently been experiencing some health problems and is being treated in a local hospital. This, in itself, wouldn't be problematic, except that my mother-in-law has alzheimer's and can't be left alone. So I find myself spending some really long days playing cards with and answering the questions of this really lovely woman who gave birth to my spouse (who's spending his days at the hospital and his nights in his childhood bedroom). I haven't slept very much. In fact, the bags under my eyes practically require a support garment (do they make Spanx for eyes?). I've answered the same questions about a thousand times (scintillating questions such as "Where are you from?" "How old is your car?" and "Where's my husband?"). I've played the same card game so many times that I actually have developed a card counting strategy and fancy myself a shark at this hybrid version of rummy that we made up. I've done a lot more dishes and laundry than I ever do at my own home, and I'm thinking of writing a cookbook devoted to interesting meals for the elderly. In short, I'm exhausted, and my next blog post might be weeks away. That said, I wouldn't trade the time I've had with Mary, my mother-in-law, for anything. She's gracious, charming, and funny. The amount of gratitude she shows me with a smile, a laugh, or an earnest plea for an answer that will make sense to her makes this time well-spent. It's strange, because I think I'm pretty lazy and and self-centered most of the time. But it's nice to find out that I'm capable of rising above myself.

A Fond Farewell

Our friend, Heidi Owens, passed away yesterday. I'd like to say all of the usual things that people say in these situations - Heidi was generous, Heidi was compassionate, Heidi cared about animals - but it doesn't quite sum up how truly cool Heidi was. She was definitely all of those things. But she combined it with a personal style that was unmistakable. She was one of those rare people who, if you were pressed to think of someone else who was even remotely like her, you would be at a loss.
We will remember Heidi for many things, but at the top of the list, we will remember Heidi for giving us a cat. Ernie. Robrt met Ernie in a little boutique. Heidi was carrying him around (I think she was just keeping him company), hoping that someone would take a liking to him and bring him home. It's a good thing Robrt was in the store that day, because he's a sucker for male cats and Ernie was right up his alley. Of course, he wasn't Ernie then. He was Charlie. And sometimes "Boy Kitty." But he's Ernie now, and he is one of the most charming creatures ever created. Made even more charming now that he carries with him the memory of our dear, sorely missed, and much-loved friend, Heidi Owens.