Whoop, there's reality ...

Back from vacay. Seven glorious days of sandy beaches and 24-hour room service, artistically plated meals delivered by white-gloved waitstaff, and a turn-down-the-bed housekeeping service that lit fragranced candles and deposited dark chocolate squares on my pillow. Heated indoor swimming pools and the Caribbean Sea to refresh and invigorate. Serenity pools, massages on the beach, and a constant parade of cabana boys to bring Mandarin Sours and Dirty Monkeys.

I drank more alcohol from November 25 through December 2 than I have drunk in the last three years. No kidding.

Had more romantic nights with my spouse those seven days than I've had in seven weeks.

Not kidding about that, either. And though I might be oversharing, just let me say that spending one full week in Playa del Paraiso (near Cancun, Mexico) was like being granted a week-long glimpse of Heaven.

There, everything was clean and pure and smelled like limes and ocean breezes.

Now I am home and everything is untidy and dusty and smells like wet dog and burned toast.

Third time is a charm?

For some reason (why?why?why?) the poem I just posted won't post in its entirety. But it's a really good poem and I want to share it.

"No Tool or Rope or Pail"

~ Bob Arnold

It hardly mattered what time of year

We passed by their farmhouse,

They never waved,

This old farm couple

Usually bent over in the vegetable garden

Or walking the muddy dooryard

Between house and red-weathered barn.

They would look up, see who was passing,

Then look back down, ignorant to the event.

We would always wave nonetheless,

Before you dropped me off at work

Further up on the hill,

Toolbox rattling in the backseat,

And then again on the way home

Later in the day, the pale sunlight

High up in their pasture,

Our arms out the window,

Cooling ourselves.

And it was that one midsummer evening

We drove past and caught them sitting

Together on the front porch

At ease, chores done,

The tangle of cats and kittens

Cleaning themselves of fresh spilled milk

On the barn door ramp;

We drove by and they looked up --

The first time I've seen their

Hands free of any work,

No tool or rope or pail --

And they waved.

Fall leaves, coffee, iPod, and poetry ... bliss!

I am home today from subbing. Had a high school French assignment scheduled for today, but canceled last evening because I wanted to get some homekeeping and writing done today. I tell you: this subbing thing is where it's at for me. The flexibility is delightlful. Yesterday I stood in for an elementary resource teacher. Saw several kindergarteners and first graders. They are so cute I just want to hug them and sniff their hair.
But today, well, today is mine. I've got a big beautiful roast in the oven, the dishwasher loaded, a batch of laundry spinning. I've got a stunning view of shrubbery aflame in cranberry and crimson; I've got some Amy Winehouse streaming ("So I brought you downstairs with a Marlboro red ... you probably saw me laughing at all your jokes ... ."). Miss Millie, my gorgeous little cocker, is gnawing on her enormous rawhide. And here I am, at my laptop, a poetry book to my left, a caramel latte to my right.
My God this life is good.

My poem post for today, chosen in homage to my husband's farming backgroud:

"No Tool or Rope or Pail"
~ Bob Arnold

It hardly mattered what time of year
We passed by their farmhouse,
They never waved,
This old farm couple

Small delights ...

Although French poet and essayist Charles Baudelaire was a bit of a man-whore and died of syphilis at the age of 46 (my current year), I am impressed with this quote, circa 18-something: "A multitude of small delights constitutes happiness."
Because I agree with the statement. Because I appreciate its simplicity.
Look: Short of winning PowerBall, I am never going to be fabulously wealthy and have the financial wherewithal to order scads of fresh flowers daily (i.e. Sir Elton John). I am not going to employ a live-in domestic helper (no space for her in the house; no space for her in the banking account), which means all my life I will battle the dusting ritual (detested), the toilet scrubbing routine (ick), the daily vaccuming (moderately soothing). And then consider the countless dishwasher loadings and unloadings, the endless trips to the grocery, the cleaning of the refrigerator, the cooking of the food, the cleaning of the stovetop, the constantCONstantCONSTANT housekeeping involved in living and breathing and eating and bathing.
But I can and will and MUST find happiness in a multitude of small delights: fresh sheets on the bed, a steaming cup of morning coffee, the metronomic heartbeat of ticking clocks in an otherwise silent household.
You know what little experiences bring you happiness: a sharpened pencil (J.B.), breakfast at midnight (B.B.), falling leaves (C.W.), old phones (J.J.S.), Dunkin Donut coffee (K.M.D.), the sound of children laughing (J.M.-H.)
You know, the little things that help us get through the big things.

Rainy Day Cold

Home today. Sick. Cough with cold, as Forrest Gump would say. Also, it's Columbus Day, and school is out for the kids. Hubby is home, too, only he's been tinkering in the garage for the better part of the day.

I've been in the chair, alternately checking FB and reading through the Sunday paper and several periodicals ("St. Anthony Messenger" and "Instructor" ~ two pubs that represent who I am, I suppose: A Catholic and an Educator.)

I've been subbing this year. Nineteen days, I believe. Don't have any pre-arranged dates this week, but I know the phone will ring incessantly starting at 5:30 a.m.

Still not writing. Outlining a tentative piece: "One Hundred Dollars, One Hundred Days" ~

detailing the life of a sub. I had a strong start, but like most things in my life, I start wholeheartedly and then ... stop, suddenly or with dramatic cessation.

Recently I was diagnosed with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Makes sense to me. Explains my starts and stops, my inattention to Things Around Me, my indecisiveness, my inability to sit anywhere without shaking my leg.

It's a start, the knowing. As Oprah says, "Once we know better, we do better."

Yesterday I signed up for Dr. Oz's "Transformation Nation." Goal: Lose 50 pounds by my August birthday.

Done that before, the goal setting. How to finish what I start?

Productive day ...

I finally got my laptop, which should lead to writing. On this blog, on the new nonfiction project I have brewing. Should I find the novel I wrote in 2006 (how does a novel go missing?), this laptop will lead to its edit and completion and solicitation.

I have not been writing.

I have not been writing.

I have not been writing.

I will begin writing. One hour a day is my plan.

Also, I want to write a blog post a day, just to check in. Unless I have more important things to say.

Going gently into that pecan-pumpkin good night ...

My mom is still hanging on.
Here in my dining room, she lies in the hospital bed, sleeping 20 hours of every day, waking to try to toilet herself ("Mom, you have to let me know before you try to use the commode!") or to ask for a piece of pie. Since coming here, she's consumed an entire pecan pie ~ one tiny slice at a time. She's now eaten half a cherry and pumpkin pie.
In thirteen days she's eaten two turkey sandwiches, some French toast, three slices of bacon, and twelve pieces of pie.
I am reminded of what my diabetic grandmother said in the weeks preceding her death: "If I can't have pie, then I don't want to live." She meant those words.
And so history repeats itself. At times I want to withhold the pie, say No, Mom, you need to eat something more nutritious, but then I remember what her hospice nurses have said: "It's about quality, not quantity."
It's no easy feat watching your mother waste away; it's hard to hear her talk nonsense as her cognition fades; it really sucks to have to empty one, two, three ... eighteen ... thirty-six commode buckets.

Death is not pretty here in this house. It smells bad and there's lots of moaning. Yesterday Mom cried, but I cannot remember why. She had a very good reason, but I am so tired from the caregiving that my own cognition is fuzzy. Lack of sleep. Tending to a dying parent is like having a newborn in the house again, only far more depressing.

It is not easy as pie.