Throw ’er into Reverse

Dad, who had been yammering about getting into the nursing home received information from the local VA Hospital on doing just that. Whoa Nebby. At least he has made the decision that he wants to stay in the house, and I am reassuring him that the VA only wants to take a look at him to get a baseline record of his health issues.

I am all for his staying in the house until he really can't get around without his walker or needs 24 hour care which isn't the case at the moment. When he dies, it will end a generation of older relatives and their stories of the times of the Depression, of trolley cars, and ghosts. It will be sad.

Today I made a sort of mulligatawny with leftover chicken and curry, it was one of the soups in my cookbook back in Chicago. Funny how smells bring around memories. My gosh, I was thin and determined to make marriage work, foregoing college studies to become a Good Wife. Damn near killed me. Thank goodness for the Polish Russian German Scotch Welsh genetics that keep one pissed off enough to not let that sort of thing get you down.

I think there's French in there also, which explains the penchant for lovely soaps; nothing like a good scrub and lather, then dress and out the door to see what the populace is up to today. Soap fascinated me when I was little, each had a particular odor, but nothing fragrant was allowed. Bars of Dial, Lifebuoy, Palmolive, Lava, Ivory, or FelsNaptha would appear at the tub in addition to the dose of Oxydol or Spic and Span that Mom put in the water with me.

It was as close to smelling fresh as I got, for as readers remember, Dad didn't allow fancy soaps or lotions in the house. Pine fresh me. My revenge as a teenager was to get a job at the cosmetics counter in a department store, where I found White Shoulders, Chanel No. 22, and Ambush in soap form. Not to mention how to apply a heavy troweling of Helena Rubenstein. I was a rebel in green eyeshadow and a layer of Toujours Moi. It was a ricochet brought on by those years of floor cleaner baths, a cannonade of spritz and powder accented with zings of eyeliner. I was Mom's supplier as well, and the sullen looks from Dad I learned to ignore. Nothing like legs that can walk you out of a house.

I miss those days of goop, and must rely somewhat on good taste tethered by the stretchiness of my eyelids and saggy cheeks. A crime, I say. But also a blessing, for people look at me these days, not at the line of green extending from the under corner of my eye to my earlobe. But those of you in the know can point at Joey Arias and say that glamour doesn't disappear but increases with wisdom. My theory is that Joey would love to dive into a bowl of Mama's spaghetti and say the hell with the corset, but she is the one to work hard for what she wants.

It's getting nigh on to nine o'clock and time for cocoa. The soup has cooled enough to be put into the fridge, and Martian has had his shot of insulin. Night winding down, Wednesday passing into Thursday. Sleep well and dream of pots of color to paint your pretty faces.