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Tossed Salad Friday

~~ The action was happening more than I liked, so I decided I’d count the occurrences. OK, that’s once, I thought about 8:00 am. Then, around 10:00 am, it happened again. But what went through my mind was more alarming: Crap, was that twice or three times? How could I lose track after just one incident?

~~ Lady Chatterley has returned to Dementia-ville! After stating unequivocally that I was the reason she’d never return, she showed up again. She’s just as surly as ever towards me, as inattentive as ever towards the dementia patient, and as animated and talkative as ever when on the phone.

~~ The dementia patient isn’t thrilled, either. Even if I was a music writer with a ready arsenal of audio adjectives, I’m fairly certain that I couldn’t do justice to the extended trilling and the frenzied shrieking that greeted Lady Chatterley’s reappearance. The demented screeching is hard to describe when there are no distinct words, but think about the noises you’d make if someone pushed you down a long flight of stairs into a dark cellar and then locked the door. Yes, that’s the exact sound.

~~ I ran into someone I haven’t seen in about a year (the last time we met was before the founding of Dementia-ville). She was happy to see me, but then asked with real concern, “Is everything OK? You look unwell.” I burst out crying before composing myself as quickly as I could. She was relieved as I assured her that I was physically fine, but wondered about the tears. I brought her up to speed, relaying how I have become a shell of my former self (while growing increasingly large, thanks to the lovely escape provided by stress eating). “Oh, shit,” she said. “These stories rarely end well.”

~~ I debated whether to include this next anecdote or not, but decided to go for it. Inasmuch as we have a soon-to-be prez who is as foul as they come, this tale may not shock anyone at all. OK, here it is:  About 10:45 pm, one of my pups asked to go out, so we ran down to the back door. Said door is at the foot of the stairs that leads up to the aide’s room. I hear a distinctive buzz, buzz, buzz but can’t place which appliance would be making such a noise. While awaiting the pup’s return, I discover the vibrational source as I hear the aide’s voice rise in a crescendo that climaxes into, well, a joyful climax. Jeez, Louise, what kind of life do I live?

~~ I was driving to yoga and there wasn’t another car on the busy road about 9:15 am. Just then, the NPR station played a snippet of a song as a bridge between stories. A solo pianist performed the expressive melody, and as I drove on this deserted road with the soundtrack, I got the feeling I was in a movie.
You know the one where the exasperated and anguished heroine flings the expensive vase against the fireplace mantel? The one where she then declares, “I deserve better than this! I’m moving to [Nashville, Hollywood, Greenwich Village, Florence, Paris] and you’ll never see me again!” The tune playing as she drives away is called something like “Unravelling,” and the next scene takes place in a roadside coffee shop or train station (not a yoga studio), but you get the picture. Literally.

~~ I hope you appreciated today’s narrative. I can say with certainty that I don’t enjoy having such an abundance of personal yarns to share.

Have a good weekend!




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