The Midlife Gals; Necessary Insanity  

Take two single, eccentric, cocktail-guzzling, 50-something socialite-wannabe sisters from Texas. Move them back home with their addled, octogenarian mom. Toss in a healthy dose of haughty Austin “ladies who lunch” who wouldn’t be caught dead with these “ladies who liquid lunch.” Sprinkle on a few (very few) pot-bellied good-old-boy suitors. Add one big-butted, beehive-haired, leopard-print-wearing caregiver who doesn’t give a #$%! what happens to anyone. And what have you got? Necessary Insanity, of course – the comedy hour of menopausal proportions! Join Kelly “KK” Jackson (the control-freak one) and Sally “SalGal” Jackson (the in-denial one) as they bring you all the news that’s unfit to print from their tension-filled abode – namely, how not to take the gas pipe while grappling with day-to-day-to-day-to-day realities of parenting an elderly parent. To break up the tension, the gals also review movies they haven't seen, dish about current events, and visit with an embarrassing array of local whack-jobs. So don’t miss “The Midlife Gals.” Because insanity is a terrible thing to waste.

Take two single, eccentric, cocktail-guzzling, 50-something socialite-wannabe sisters from Texas. Move them back home with their addled, octogenarian mom. Toss in a healthy dose of haughty Austin “ladies who lunch” who wouldn’t be caught dead with these “ladies who liquid lunch.” Sprinkle on a few (very few) pot-bellied good-old-boy suitors. Add one big-butted, beehive-haired, leopard-print-wearing caregiver who doesn’t give a #$%! what happens to anyone. And what have you got? Necessary Insanity, of course – the comedy hour of menopausal proportions! Join Kelly “KK” Jackson (the control-freak one) and Sally “SalGal” Jackson (the in-denial one) as they bring you all the news that’s unfit to print from their tension-filled abode – namely, how not to take the gas pipe while grappling with day-to-day-to-day-to-day realities of parenting an elderly parent. To break up the tension, the gals also review movies they haven't seen, dish about current events, and visit with an embarrassing array of local whack-jobs. So don’t miss “The Midlife Gals.” Because insanity is a terrible thing to waste.

When it’s MY time to ‘receive’ the care, I hope I find someone HALF as accommodating as SalGal and I have been to the Ancient One.  For my future caregiver, I do NOT expect the following:

You do NOT have to clip my toenails.

Don’t worry about my cuticles either, just make me an appointment at a spa.

I will put lotion on my body without your help, thankyouverymuch.

You will not have to EVER SEE ME NEKKID.

And, you don’t have to worry whether I will put my teeth in every day.  I swear on The Ancient One’s grave.

If I can’t hear you, I promise NOT to continually look at you and say, “Huh?”

When I start my stream of consciousness rambling, you may COMPLETELY ignore me.  It won’t make any sense to you anyway.

I WILL get a hearing aid or promise to keep the television volume no higher than 18.

And, I will clean my own secret garden.

Oh, and I promise not to ever get a hammer toe.  It’s just gross.

Whew!  I feel younger already.  This baby boomer caregiving for the elderly is not for those with little patience.  You have to have a stockpile of patience, because sure enough, they whittle away at it one friggin shovel at a time.  And, I think they do it on purpose. Your own insanity is not an option, well it IS an option, but then you’d have to deal with all the nut jobs at the sanitarium...so which is worse...I say the devil you DO know!

Except when the devil says things to you like, “I wish I’d never had children so I could have devoted more time to your father.”  OUCH!!!!!!!!  My friend tried NOT to kill her mother after that remark, and where in the hell does one file something like that other than with a THERAPIST!

Speaking of therapy...don’t ever go to group therapy if you’re a caregiver because, again, sure enough, there will be a hand raised by some worn-out-looking woman whose story of being abused AS a caregiver (not BY one) is SOOOOOO much worse than yours that you feel like you must crawl over broken glass just to exit the building.  There should be levels of group therapy for caregivers:

GROUP ONE - Those whose mothers are fine but who call every day saying things like, “Well, since you never call me, I thought I’d better call you.  I’m sorry I’m such a bother.”

GROUP TWO - Ancient Ones who bombard you with these lines, “Just wait until you’re my age...you’ll know just how hard it is to be old.”  These old farts will say anything to piss you off...like, “I’m sorry I’m such a bother.  I might as well be dead already as much as anyone cares.”

GROUP THREE - Here’s how these passive-aggressive Ancient Ones apologize, “ I am so sorry that you misunderstood what I said.  It was not my intention that you would misread that statement.”

.............and the groups go all the way up to GROUP TEN - These caregivers are going STRAIGHT to Heaven upon their own demises because they clean up liquid poo all down the hallway as their Ancient Ones waited too long ifyouknowwhatImean.

ALL Hospice workers get a pass DIRECTLY to be seateth at the right hand of GOD.  They came here from some other planet rather than actually being born...or when they were born, they winked at the nurse as if to say, “I will wipe the spittle from your lips on the day that you die.  You’ll need to look presentable to both your living family and the ones who’ve gone before you.  I’d like to do THAT kind of work every day.

If you’re a caregiver, just make sure you have a prescription for Xanax, a blog, a video camera and a sister who makes you guffaw about every hour and a half. 

KK

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I want a caregiver who wants to get drunk with me and watch reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show and Twilight Zone.  He will be a cute young gay guy who wants to do blue and purple streaks in my hair and wheel me in my wheel chair to see ‘Saw 23.’ 

I actually do cut the Ancient One’s toenails and it is like trying to trim the talons on a gargoyle.  She had to order industrial strength toenail cutters from an old folks’ catalogue but even they were not strong enough to trim that one-eighth inch thick growth of protein that warps like a piece of cardboard left out in the rain.  That’s okay.  I brought in the rose bush clippers from the garden and she only bled twice.

The fact that The Ancient One won’t put her teeth in really pisses me off.  I have asked her nicely but her only response is, “Well, thit, zay arnt comfadablle and zats doomad.”  I promise my caregiver that I will always put in my teeth and brush my hair so that I don‘t have to try to keep my mouth closed when I’m trying to talk or laugh and thereby look like a dam troll doll that accidentally got put in the dishwasher.

I hope to still be acting even when I’m really old.  I’ll probably be even funnier and KK and I will be able to get away with murder.  People will think we are these two cute, little, old ladies as we rampage through the Italian countryside stomping grapes, killing the pigs in the pineapple fields for the luaus at our house on Maui, and grabbing the young, firm asses of the pool boys at both before-mentioned locations.  There are other things we will still be doing but KK has barred me from mentioning them for fear that the cops will arrest us for expanding our minds with pharmaceutical influences.

Hopefully those who take care of us will have a good time and not mind knowing all the words to the theme song for ‘Rawhide’.

Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ - though the streams are swollen,

Keep them dogies rollin’…RAWHIDE!!!!!

SalGal

Grocery Shopping

How midlife grocery shopping differs:

The first thing I do is look for a parking space in the shade as close to the front door as is humanly possible. I have a handicap tag which I borrow from my ancient mother and I try very hard not to abuse it, but if it’s raining, it’s every handicapped for him/herself. I’m not above feigning a slight limp on my way in either, just in case I run into someone in a grocery scooter who is legally entitled to park in these spaces.

Next up is getting all germs and bacteria off the shopping cart handle before I touch it with bare hands. God knows how many small children have wiped their drooling, snotty, little noses and then asked Mommy if they could push the cart. And, I’m always appalled whenever I see an even smaller tot with its little bottom sitting in the front section of the cart which is so obviously constructed for womens’ purses. I would never ever ever put any fresh produce, for example, in that section of the cart for fear of cross contamination from those little, diapered human butts.

No more endless chit chat when confronted by someone I either know or knew and haven’t seen in years. These people always seem to turn up at the grocery store when I do. I have no idea why. It’s manspeak for me, “Hi, Genie, great to see you, planning a party, gotta run. Ciao.” They usually haven’t spit out their own salutation before I’ve rounded the corner from aisle 4 to 5. No time, not interested, looking for important items.

And, speaking of important items, they have changed over the years. I now seek flavored “dried plums” which is groceryspeak for prunes. When once I purchased items to keep my body looking good, I now seek those that serve the purposes of daily functioning only, and fiber is key. I am intimately familiar with the frozen food section. Cooking is for the young. I still shop in the makeup section of the store, but only for eyebrow pencil because my eyebrows went bald several years ago. I buy both wine and catfood in gallon containers. In addition to toothpaste, I throw a box of denture cleaner in the basket. I have to find room in the basket for these groceries because the middle aged always buy at least one potted plant on our way in or out of the store.

Muzac in grocery stores hasn’t changed since the Eagles had their first hit song which pleases me as I do the middle-aged-white-woman-boogie through the produce section. I have to contain myself from singing at the top of my lungs. My embarrassment at doing this went the way of my embarrassment over buying baby wipes to go along with the 8-pack mega rolls of toilet tissue.

Then we come to the check-out counter. I no longer reach for the National Enquirer, but eagerly scan through the Reader’s Digest Abridged Edition as I await my turn. I hand the clerk the sixteen coupons I have cut out of the Sunday paper. If I had a million dollars, I would still cut out coupons. It’s free money. I can’t help myself. I watch the items being purchased by the eighteen-year-old, tanned, tight-skinned young boy in front of me as they slowly roll along the conveyor belt and giggle under my breath at his stupidity and bad habits. I do also furtively glance at whoever is waiting their turn behind me, because I know they are judging my choices and giggling for entirely different reasons.

The only exercise I get on grocery days is schlepping my groceries from the cart out to my car myself so that I don’t have to do the superficial bagger chat with the nice young man or woman who would otherwise help me to my car, “Nice weather finally, isn’t it, Ms. Midlife?” “Why, yes it is.” (No, it’s not. It’s hot as hell.), “Oh, nice car, ma’am.” “Thanks.” (It ought to be. I earned it), “There you go, have a nice day.” “And the same to you.” (Right, whatever.).

If any of you middle aged have ever had just one of these experiences, please raise your hand. I thought so.

KK