American Thighs (21 page)

M
y sister, Judy, and I have recently been lamenting the loss of our late and, we tell ourselves, very great minds. If you are over forty-six and a half years old, you know what we're talking about—at the moment anyway; in just a second, you'll forget what we're talking about.

Not only do we walk purposefully into rooms and forget the purpose for the trip, we even forget the WORDS to describe the purpose. The so-called experts assure us this is nothing to worry about. We don't trust them. We've seen them. They're old, too. They're just trying to convince THEMSELVES there's no problem here.

I'm telling you, it's a problem. Trying to write a book is hard enough if you have a decent vocabulary. The other day, I could NOT think of the word
nostalgia.
Ironic, huh? Also maddening. I called Judy, naturally; she has a most impressive com
mand of the language, in my opinion. Of course, how hard is it to impress me? I can't think of fucking
nostalgia
.

I told her I was trying to think of a word that means remembering something fondly and she couldn't think of it either. We went back and forth, ending up practically hollering at each other in frustration over our mutual failure to come up with the word. She thought I was just being difficult and refusing to use any of the what she thought to be fine words that she offered. They were fine words indeed—they just didn't have any relation to the word
nostalgia.
Judy thought I was being nitpicky and stubborn in my refusal to settle for a different word, meaning nothwithstanding.

When
nostalgia
finally surfaced in my muddy brain, she insisted that she had offered me any number of words that meant the same exact thing and I said no she did not and she said yes she did, too, but then neither one of us could remember any of the words she'd suggested so that was the end of that.

She confessed that she had herself—just the other day—forgotten the word
croissant
and nearly lost her mind over it. Her housekeeper was going to the grocery store for her and Judy was wanting some…some…oh, shit, what are those things? It's hard to act out
croissant
even by the most creative actress for the most astute audience—neither of which was this duo. Judy finally got online and Googled “French pastries” and went down the list until she came to “croissant,” and a great
shout of jubilation could be heard throughout the Garden District of New Orleans.

A discussion ensued about what if we really were completely losing our minds and did I think she was and did she think I was and what would we do if either one of us really was and how could we tell and when would we know it was time to do something about it?

We both promised that whichever one of us was the last one still in possession of a brain cell would somehow kill the one who had lost all of hers. But how would we know when the Time had Come? This is a pretty important distinction and one we felt needed to be clearly defined for future reference.

It was therefore decided that it was okay that she could not remember the word
croissant.
She at least had the presence of mind to use Google to find it and, I might add, the great good sense to be sending someone else to the store to fetch it for her. However, the day she no longer knows what to DO with a croissant will be her last day. Likewise, she will know that if I start watching reality TV, quoting Dr. Phil, riding roller coasters, and seem to have forsaken bacon in favor of anything soy—it's time to Get the Pillow.

That's what—well, I can't tell you who but she's a nurse—says they all say when they've got a particularly cantankerous patient on their wing. They tell the night nurse, “It's time to get the pillow for 322,” meaning “If you don't mind, and you have a
minute, would you please smother that old bitch before I come back in the morning?” Nurses just have a wry sense of humor, don't they? I know a bunch of 'em who work for a place that has the words “continued care” in its title. They say it should actually read, “pretend to care.” Which I find hilarious—as long as I'm not needing tending to, of course.

W
e, The Cutest Boy in the World and I, are making big check marks on each day of our calendar until November 23, 2012—for on THAT day, I will be sixty and therefore qualified to move into the retirement home where my mama lives—The Waterford, or, as we like to think of it, Old Folks' Heaven. You have to be at least sixty to live there, and at that low age, I think you also have to have some sort of infirmity, but I don't think that will be too hard for me to come up with, so we're counting on it.

Kyle, of course, can go only on MY coattails since HE will be only a mere whippersnapperish fifty then, fie on his young ass. Don't you know he will be some kind of popular up in there? I mean, the most wiveled up, decrepit ole boy in the joint can
have all the old women he could ever want in those places, and actually, if they survive that long, they're prolly a pretty good bet, so maybe it's no wonder they are in such hot demand with the ladies. But KYLE, at fifty, will be like anybody else's thirty—I'll have to guard my meds to make sure them old biddies don't try to poison me to get at him.

We have been dying to move in ever since Mama moved there a few years back. For next to nothing a month, she gets three meals a day—restaurant-style, although they will bring it to you in your room if you are feeling particularly slack-assy at a given mealtime—housekeeping, laundry service, all her utilities, including cable, except for her telephone, and they will drive her anywhere she wants or needs to go. They all go to the casinos once a month, Wal-Mart once a week. She has a kitchen, should she develop an inexplicable desire to cook something for herownself—this has not happened so far, but it's nice to have the option, just in case. She can have pets and/or overnight company if she gets a hankering for either. And, of course, there's BINGO. Several times a week, there's bingo. Mostly they play for paper products—toilet paper and paper towels, which I find hilarious—but once a week it's DIME BINGO and they play for cash. It is possible to win as much as four dollars at one of these tension-packed games.

And you better believe they are tension-packed, too. Even for the toilet paper games, you'll see the seasoned pros enter the game-room closet at least two hours before the first num
ber is due to be called—to root through the box of bingo cards and select the “best” ones for themselves. All the cards have markings on the back put there—and understood—by the various hard-core players. Venturing near that closet before bingo time is not unlike wading off into piranha-packed waters with corn dogs strapped to your ankles. These are the women who, only a couple of decades back, could be seen snatching up Cabbage Patch dolls at pre-Christmas sales with woe, woe, woe, and multiple wounds and lacerations to anybody who thought about interfering with their snatching. These women will tear your arm off and club you with it for the right bingo card—they have not exactly mellowed with age.

That would be just SUCH an understatement. I think the myth of sweet old people is kinda like the whole jolly fat people thing—an occasional coincidence but certainly not a given. Testimony: A friend of mine's mother-in-law had recently moved into a similar retirement home and, in an effort to help her win friends and influence people in the home, Good Daughter-in-law volunteered to bring goodies for the home-wide Valentine's party. Unfortunately, one of the residents chose that very day to shoot himself in the head, thereby threatening to dampen the whole celebration, death by self-inflicted gunshot wounds being a widely acknowledged party buzzkill, retirement home or not.

Good D-I-L half-expected to be notified by the staff of the party's cancellation, but to the contrary, the general consensus
was that it was important to go on living, even though one of their members had so recently chosen to stop. So, off to the home she goes with all her cute pink, heart-shaped tasties, and just as she's getting it all set up and the crowd is gathering, here the funeral-home folks come through the lobby, pushing a sheet-covered gurney, followed closely by the assorted recently bereaved who had come to do whatever must be done in these cases.

Without bothering to lower their voices in the slightest, perhaps assuming that the next of kin were all as deaf as they were, they began a lively discussion about the suicidee. “Well, I knew he was depressed but I never thought he'd shoot himself.”

Good D-I-L is trying to climb over furniture to get to them to silence them, at least until after the guy's body is out the door. Not much luck.

“Me neither, I thought he'd take pills.” “Well, I thought he might slash his wrists.” “Naw, I always thought he'd hang himself.” “HANG himself—there's no place to hang yourself in here. What do you mean, hang himself?” “Well, I don't know—from the doorknob maybe?” “DOORKNOB—well, that's just STUPID, you can't HANG yourself from a DOORKNOB—that's how you PULL a TOOTH, you idiot!”

My friend Tammy's mom was also trying out life in a retirement home but she was not taking to it with any particular enthusiasm. The one upside of it, as far as she was concerned, was
that she only had to go down the hall to the card room to play bridge two or three times a week. Regular easy access to bridge that did not require hosting the game in her own quarters was a definite plus in her estimation.

Tammy came by to check on Mom one afternoon. She would frequently time her visits to fall just a few minutes before bridge time because Mom would NOT be late and risk losing her favorite spot at her favorite table to some swifter septuagenarian and thus any whining time was severely curtailed. So when Tammy popped into Mom's room at 2:38
PM
one Wednesday for a few minutes of prebridge chatting, she was dismayed to find Mom sitting in the semidark, in her robe and in an absolutely foul humor.

As much as she hated to utter the words, she really had no choice but to ask, “What's wrong?” and brace herself for the whine-fest she strongly suspected she was in for. “Oh, it's just been a TERRIBLE day—ole Bob Smith tried to slash his wrists right after lunch.” Naturally, Tammy was aghast at this news, and, at the same time, somewhat chagrined at her own selfish thoughts of early escape that she had admittedly indulged in as she approached her mother's room only moments before.

“OMIGOD, that is AWFUL!” Tammy cried. “Is he…did he…how is he?” “Oh, he's gonna be FINE, he barely bled at ALL, and they made such a BIG FUSS over it and hauled him off to the nuthouse—and NOW WE DON'T HAVE A
FOURTH! This is just like him, selfish, selfish, selfish—if he wasn't gonna do any more damage than THAT, he coulda at least waited till after we played bridge. Men, I swear.”

If this is how they react to suicide, successful and otherwise, in their own ranks, it should give you some idea of how little value they will place on your life and assorted limbs when it comes to getting the good bingo cards. Consider yourself forewarned.

So moving in when I am only sixty will have yet another advantage—I haven't seen an old woman over there yet that I don't think I can take, but having a few years' youth on them sure won't hurt. And of course, if they give me much trouble, I can use Kyle—either for distraction or, should the pushing come to shoving, muscle.

I'm quite fond of bingo myself. Well, actually, what I really like is hollering “BINGO!” I may have mentioned that before—I think hollering “BINGO” in a crowded room is a highly underrated joy and there just aren't enough regular opportunities in everyday life to do it. I mean, I suppose one could just haul off and holler it anytime one wanted to, no law against it that I ever heard. I mean, it's not like yelling “FIRE” or “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES” or anything, but really, unless there is competition and some kind—any kind—of prize waiting to be won, well, it just loses something—for me anyhow.

At Christmas, somebody's handbell choir can be counted on to make an appearance at the home. For some reason, hand
bell choirs have always pissed me off in an almost Holden Caulfield “good luck” kind of way. I mean, it's not exactly one of your more marketable skills for an individual. I mean, it's not like SINGING in a choir, where you have to know the whole tune and all the words and you COULD sing those whole songs for anybody, anytime. If you're a handbeller, all you come away with is the knowledge of your particular “ding-dings” at the appointed time in the various songs, which doesn't strike me as the kind of thing that's likely to come in handy at some point down the road.

If one was a singer, one could sing songs to oneself to pass the time if one was, for whatever reason, in solitary confinement, and not drive everybody crazy making some kind of repetitive racket, like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape
with his baseball. You would not want to be anywhere near a handbeller in solitary confinement—you'd go crazy listening to the random dings, not being able to hear the rest of the song and all.

I saw a FABULOUS xylophone player (now, there's an oxymoron for you) in some “scholarship” pageant. Of course, she wasn't REALLY a xylophone player—she was a former HANDBELLER with a xylophone and an audio track instead of a bunch of other handbellers. She had learned to play HER notes, with much flair and enthusiasm, at the appropriate times during the song—the rest of the time, she occupied herself with grinning real big, slinging her big hair around, and cleaving for the judges. The great thing that happened was the tape stopped working
after the first couple of bars—so you could actually TELL that she was playing only about twenty-seven or so notes in the whole song. But did she let a little equipment malfunction stop HER quest for the crown? HA! In a pig's eye—whatever THAT means—she just FOCUSED ALL her concentration on hearing that song in her head. You could tell she was focused because she stopped grinning and rather gripped her tongue between her lips and almost frowned a teeny bit as she clearly counted off the beats in her head, and you could tell she was counting because she was bobbing her head rhythmically—until it was TIME and then she grinned REAL BIG and very elaborately performed her little “deedle-eedle-eet”—then resumed focused counting until the next “deedle-eedle-eet” opportunity came up in the song.

It was a stellar moment in the harum-scarum world of Women's Scholarships.

Okay, here's one concern I have about moving into a retirement home: the overall color scheme and decor in the public areas. What is up with mauve anyway? Who can we hold responsible for the proliferation of this wretched noncolor? It is just EVERY damnwhere, I swear, but it is slathered all over retirement homes. Every surface in the common areas of The Waterford is either mauve or forest green. Are those the official colors of the Greatest Generation or something? If so, then maybe by the time I move in, they will no longer be the major demographic in the home and the color scheme will be changed
to whatever the official Baby Boomer colors are, and I have no idea what those might be but it's got to be an improvement over the mauve/green thing.

While I'm complaining about the flaws in my future residence, in addition to the mind-numbing color scheme, there are also way too many prints of puppies and blond children hanging in the halls, in the parlors, in the library, in the club room. The only place they don't have one is in the entrance vestibule—that's where they have the no firearms allowed sign, which always tickles me for some reason.

But anyway, with the notable exception of the unfortunate decor and the possibility of being subjected to the occasional handbell choir, these retirement homes seem really swell to me. You have all the comforts of home with the service and lack of responsibility of a hotel. What is not to love? You have to go outside to smoke, of course, and that's somewhat inconvenient, although it shouldn't really come up for me personally until I reach the age of eighty if, in fact, I make it that long. If I do somehow manage to live that long, I definitely plan to resume smoking, but perhaps by then they will have decided once again that smoking IS good for you and I'll be encouraged by my physician to smoke at least a pack a day and my Medicare will pay for it.

Truly, the only reason my (asthmatic) mama ever smoked in her life was because her DOCTOR TOLD HER TO—for weight loss. I think it was the first near-death pneumonia experience that planted that little doubt seed in her mind and caused
her to quit—against the best medical advice available at the time.

But surely you've noticed that deadly stuff seems to come and go in cycles? About every five or ten years, everything we enjoy becomes poisonous and sure to cause death at any moment, and then in a few years, seems like they decide, nah, it's actually good for you. I can remember in the eighties there was much ranting, on a national level and by assorted local health professionals to me personally, about the dangers and evils of chocolate. I told them all, to a man, “I am SORRY if chocolate is bad for YOU—but I can ASSURE you, it is VERY, VERY GOOD for ME,” and I just went right on munching away. And it's a good thing I did since NOW they all say you'll die tomorrow if you DON'T eat a pound or so of chocolate as fast as you can.

So, I figure by the time I'm eighty, cigarettes will be back in good graces. Can't happen soon enough for me. I did LOVE to smoke. Hated how it made me feel—and we won't even discuss the stench—but, man, wasn't it fun to DO? November 23, 2032—I'll be the one out in back of The Waterford in the birthday hat—smoking.

Hope for the Nest That Just Won't Empty

As I think about it, I believe it would be positively BRILLIANT to offer this kind of living arrangement for all Parents of What
OUGHT to Be FULLY GROWED Children Who Refuse to Move Out and Become Adults. I mean, if you find yourself currently in possession of a thirty-year-old live-in KID, what WOULDN'T you be willing to PAY to have a “home” to send him/her to—just to get him/her out of your HOUSE? It is an idea whose time has apparently long since come, if my friends and neighbors are any indication of a trend, and I believe they are. One girl I know has a son who's got to be pushing thirty-five who is piled up in his childhood room, looking at porn on the Internet and whining about mealtimes and gas money, having big parties at her house when she goes out of town, and leaving trash, dirty laundry, and empty liquor cabinets wherever he goes. I guess it's too late to beat him, but it sure would be gratifying, I'm thinking. She would, I feel certain, be willing to pay THOUSANDS of dollars every month to move him to a nice place where he could be somebody else's problem.