The chronic malcontent goes through the car wash

A good day is when I get everything done on my list. A great day is when I get everything done plus one. Despite 97°F heat today, I got two extra tasks done today besides the items on my list, so that makes today one for the archives. Okay, I don't keep data on my task completion rates (unlike some people I know); still, accomplishing tasks on the to-do list gives me a lot of smug satisfaction. Like, take that, World! Jump back, Entropy! I got this handled.

I experienced only one moment when I thought I may have performed one too many tasks. That was while I was taking my car for its annual car wash. That was one of my two bonus achievements today. It seemed serendipitous. I just happened to drive home on a different route, which goes by the car wash. I happened to notice there was no line at the car wash. I happened to have a coupon for a free wash. I happened to be able to locate the coupon. Really, it seemed like the universe was lining everything up for me. I thought about how nice it would be to show my mother that I had finally washed my car.

I pulled up to the kiosk. The idle girl plucked my coupon from my fingers, looked at it skeptically, and issued me a receipt. I pulled my car into the track. The feral man grabbed the ticket from under the wiper, mouthed “neutral,” and off we went. We, meaning my car, with me inside.

On the plus side, I had remembered to detach my radio antenna and roll up my windows. However, it quickly got warm inside the car. I thought about the unhappy intersection between flesh creatures and hot cars. Dogs and babies, for example. Middle-aged flabby women. I reassured myself that the car wash was not in direct sun. It would be highly unlikely that anything bad would happen. It couldn't be any worse than riding the Pirates of the Caribbean. I pictured myself overcome by heat and humidity and made sure my car door was unlocked, just in case the guy at the end of the line had to yank me out and resuscitate me.

Sitting too long inside a car inside a swampy car wash in 97°F heat could have produced a less-than-optimal outcome in the form of me red-faced and unconscious from heat exhaustion. Fortunately the ride was only three minutes long, and I had a bottle of water to suck on when the humidity started to rise. I admired the soapy bubbles, and before I had time to start to pant, we emerged into the hot air blower unscathed. I watched little beads of water rush away from the windshield. My wipers jumped energetically but remained attached. The guy at the end gave my side mirrors a cursory swipe, probably realizing only the top layer of dirt had been removed and that it would take a lot more than a three-minute car wash to restore the shine to this old Ford Focus.

The car died as I was looking for a driveway to get back on the street. Or maybe I just killed the engine by letting the clutch out too fast. I spent a long thirty seconds trying to start the car again. Eventually the universe lined up the ignition, the starter, the battery, and the engine, and off we went. I followed a slow bus up the hill, pausing patiently when the bus stopped to drop off and pick up passengers, annoying the hell out of drivers behind me who thought I should have gone around. No, I'm all about respect for buses. Further, I know that drivers coming down the hill are notoriously rambunctious.

I parked my car in the dusty gravel lot by the Love Shack and paused to admire the sheen of a poorly washed car. I replaced my antenna and noticed dust was already settling on the hood and roof. Oh well. No worries, at least, not for another year. I think I still have one more coupon.

It was refreshingly cooler inside the apartment, but I knew it wouldn't last long. We don't have air conditioning here at the Love Shack. We have a ceiling fan. The big front window has three layers of protection against the western sun in the form of crinkled Mylar shades, a wide vinyl roll-up shade that occasionally rolls up by itself, and cotton drapes (well, actually they are Home Depot cotton paint dropcloths but nobody cares). The three layers are enough to block about half the sun's rays from penetrating the main room. The air gets progressively hotter as the afternoon sun moves toward evening, and the ceiling fan does an excellent job of stirring it up so the heat infiltrates all corners.

Soon I'll go out again to drive over to the retirement place and take the old ladies out for their after-dinner cigarette. We'll complain about the heat and the food, then go back inside and relax into the coolness. Jane will shuffle off to her room. Mom and I will watch Fixer Upper or Flip or Flop for ten minutes. Then I will go back out into the blazing evening sun and drive home. Summer in Portland. These are my halcyon days. It doesn't get much better than this.

Just another day in the end of a life

I pay attention to current events. Today the world avidly watches the Thai boys' rescue and the World Cup soccer matches. I don't care much about soccer (don't tell my English cousins), but I am rooting for those boys to survive their harrowing ordeal in the flooded caves. Last week I told my mother about their predicament and then wished I hadn't. Then I realized, odds are, she won't remember the story. Sure enough, when I told her today that four boys had been rescued safely, she looked at me blankly and I had to describe their plight all over again. Lesson learned: No current events for Mom.

Sometimes she surprises me, though. When I visit every evening, she's almost always got some HGTV program on her TV. She rarely sees the news. Still, last week Mom told her smoking buddy Jane about the effects of the Trump administration's "zero tolerance policy" on little Latino kids; she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. It's funny to see two tiny old ladies get righteously angry over politics while sucking on cigarettes. Did I discuss politics with her? I can't remember. Any day now, I fear I will be moving in next door to my mother. Assisted living, here I come.

Last night the smell of poop met me halfway down the hall. Uh-oh. I entered her room but didn't see her. The stench was overpowering. I immediately switched to mouth-breathing mode, something I've learned to do when cleaning the cat box.

“Are you okay?” I called out.

“I think so,” she replied. I came around the corner that separates the living area from the sleeping /kitchen /bathroom area and found her sitting on her office chair trying to get her feet into the legs of her jeans.

“Was there a problem?”

“Well...”

I quickly figured out that she'd had an episode of diarrhea. She had managed to change her pull-ups before I got there (maybe there is a god), and now she was just about done putting herself back together. (I assume she'd figured out how to put on a clean pair of... oh, boy. Not going there.)

“But what do I do with...?” she said, pointing to the trash basket in the bathroom, where the offending undergarment was giving off major fumes.

I gritted my teeth and dove to the rescue.

“They keep more plastic bags in the bottom of the trash can,” I said. I yanked the plastic bag over the dirty pull-up and tied it closed. I lifted out the roll of plastic trash bags to show her. “See? More bags.” She looked impressed. I thought, why bother, she won't remember this. Sigh.

I fixed up the trash can with a new bag and shoved the bag with the diaper down into it, hoping for the best. It's so weird to wear disposable underwear. I guess I did once. Well, hmmm. I think maybe they were washable cloth diapers back then. When did Pampers get invented? Not that my parents could have afforded disposable diapers on a cop's salary. My poor young mother, washing cloth diapers for four kids. The word payback wafted through my mind. I slid a window open to air the place out.

Mom was a bit worn out after the excitement of changing her jeans, but she was ready to go outside for a smoke. Nicotine rules. We were soon on our way down the hall to pick up Jane. By the time we got back to Mom's room, the smell was gone and we'd both forgotten it ever happened.

The chronic malcontent plans a birthday party

My mother and her smoking buddy (I forget what name I've given her before ... today, let's call her Jane) are typically desperate to get outside after dinner for a cigarette. I am their ticket outdoors to the smoking area. They are always glad to see me. Last Wednesday was no exception, and it happened to be Jane's birthday. A month ago, she had casually mentioned that her birthday was June 27, and then she said “Oh, I don't want anything for my birthday” in a coy way that made me think I would be pretty safe if I brought her a little gift and some chocolate cake and ice cream. So I prepared my bag of goodies and headed over to the retirement place.

I arrived as usual about 6:15. Every evening by 6:20, my mother is done with dinner and complaining that she's full (she doesn't know when to stop eating). After a trip to the bathroom, she's ready to head outside. She stuffs her cigarette case in her jacket pocket, puts her over-sized sunglasses on her head, and grabs her old-style front-wheel walker, we call it her “buggy.” On the special day, I carried an extra bag containing a little gift bag, two containers of gluten-free chocolate cake, and a small container of cashew milk chocolate ice cream (my mother is gluten-free, non-dairy to stave off bouts of diarrhea).

Jane lives in a one-room apartment just around the corner from the front door. My mother rapped on Jane's door: shave and a haircut, six bits. If it takes Jane less than ten seconds to open the door, I know she's been hovering with her cigarette wallet, waiting for Mom's knock. Tonight she bolted into the hall, wallet clutched to her chest, and led the way to the front door. At this point, she usually makes a disparaging remark about her appearance. I happen to like her style: I think her pin curls, mismatched track suit, and sloppy slippers are charming. Her standards are apparently higher than mine. She tossed out a couple phrases, and I reassured her she looked marvelous. This time she didn't argue: She was eager to get outside.

The evening was pleasant enough, partly sunny, but I'd heard rain was on the way. The wind was starting to kick up a bit in advance of the rainy edge of a low pressure front spinning at the Idaho-Oregon-Nevada border.

The smoking area consists of three plastic chairs, two of which sit side-by-side under a black iron structure that used to hold a lawn swing. It has two built-in side tables. Nearby is a square table that the aides sometimes sit on to take their smoke breaks. I pulled the table over and used it as my staging area.

First, I pulled out the little gift bag and handed it to Jane with a flourish. It was pink with paisleys. The tissue paper was red and white stripes, like a candy cane. I know, clash. It's what I had. I don't keep wrapping paper anymore. Inside the bag was one container of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies, Jane's favorite. The gift was the presentation: I'd given her cookies before, but never in a cute little gift bag with clashing tissue paper. She made appreciative noises.

I had a plan, and so far, so good. Instead of trying to cut cake and dish it up on the patio table, I had pre-cut the cake at home and put it into two plastic containers that previously held Gelato (yum, moment of weakness... well, two moments of weakness). The containers were the perfect size for tiny pieces of chocolate cake, with lids to keep it all secure. I even covered up the Gelato label with some festive neon red bond paper. Again, it's what I had.

“How about some cake and ice cream?” I said, reaching for my bag of goodies. The wind at that moment knocked the bag out of my hands onto the asphalt. I grabbed it up and rummaged for the plastic forks and containers of cake.

I opened up the lids so Mom and Jane could see the little morsels of chocolate cake.

“I'm so full,” said Mom.

Suddenly, the wind whipped the plastic forks and napkins out of the bag. Two white forks skittered away on the pavement. The napkins sailed off across the parking lot. I gave the old ladies the cake containers and dashed after the napkins. I rescued the forks and wiped them off (I know, yuck... three words: six-second rule, so there).

Slightly winded, I returned to the table with the napkins, well, paper towels, really... I don't buy paper napkins anymore. Not to be outdone by a little breeze, I jabbed a tiny yellow birthday cake candle into the chocolate icing rosette on top of Jane's cake. I used Mom's Bic lighter to light the candle, singing my thumb slightly in the process. I'm not experienced with lighters. I handed the container to Jane. The candle fell over and extinguished itself on the side of the container. She looked a bit overwhelmed.

“Ready for some ice cream?” I asked gaily.

Both ladies were valiantly holding their containers of chocolate cake and trying to light their cigarettes in the shelter of their elbows to ward off the wind. I could see that cigarettes were going to win out over cake. I gave up on the ice cream and suggested they put their cake containers on the side tables. After a few tries, both ladies were puffing on their cigarettes.

“Now, let's sing to Jane,” I directed. I began to sing the Happy Birthday song to Jane in my usual off-key voice while my mother harmonized in a gravelly tenor. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear”—my mother looked at me blankly, and I loudly filled in “—Jane! Happy birthday to you!” Jane beamed. Mom looked relieved.

We spent a few blissful moments hunkered against the rising wind, and then I heard my mother utter the words I have come to dread: “Uh, oh.”

“Do we need to go?” I asked, thinking dang it, couldn't her bowels have waited five more minutes?

Mom handed me her still lit, half-smoked cigarette. She might as well have been handing me a live grenade. I stubbed it out, wondering to myself, what is smoker protocol? Do we keep half-smoked cigarettes or is that tres gauche? Meanwhile, Mom was up and moving. I quickly backed my chair out of the way. Jane hurriedly stubbed out her smoke and stood up, somehow managing to hang onto her gift bag, chocolate cake container, and her wallet. I grab up my bag and stuff the ice cream and Mom's cake inside.

Meanwhile, Mom was beelining for the front door, head down, moving fast. We hustled along in her wake. I poked the doorbell. (The front door is locked at 5 pm.) We waited for the Med Aide to buzz the door open. I wondered if Mom was successfully holding it. You know, it. Finally, the door swung open, nearly bashing me in the hip. Mom plowed through. Jane and I exchanged a wave. “Happy birthday!” I cried and followed my mother down the hall to her room.

After even half a cigarette my mother's brain is short on oxygen and functioning at less than optimal. In her room, she parked her walker and headed into the bathroom. I sat on the couch to watch Flip or Flop with one ear open. When I heard my mother say, “Oh boy,” I knew that was my cue to step in and offer my services. I didn't want to, but ... it's my mother.

Breathing through my mouth, I helped her navigate the sequence that stymies her when her brain has flown south: first, the shoes come off, then the pants. Then off comes the stinky adult diaper (apparently, they are called pull-ups, not diapers). “Roll it up, put it in the trash can,” I said. (Lucky for me, she can follow directions, she just can't initiate them.) I held out the container of baby wipes. “Now wipe it down,” I said,  motioning vaguely to the offending area. She got busy and managed to do something. I wasn't quite willing to inspect the damage, but I'm pretty sure it was better than it was.

I handed her a fresh pair of pull-ups. She stared at them. I bent down and helped her guide her feet into them. I helped her stand up. She yanked them awkwardly up to her waist and beyond, like a two-year-old navigating unfamiliar clothing. “Now your pants,” I said. She sat back down on the toilet and we collaborated to get her pants back on. I put her slip-on Merrells in front of her feet. She slid her toes in and stood up.

“Flush,” I said, and she flushed, watching whatever was in the toilet disappear. She closed the lid. “Wash hands,” I said, waving her toward the sink. She washed her hands.

“How do you feel?”

“Much better,” she said.

“Let's watch the end of Flip or Flop,” I suggested. We sat side by side on the couch.

A few minutes later, she patted me on the knee and said, “Thank you, daughter.”