Chronologically Impaired Brother

Today is my brother’s birthday. I called him for a little chat. He has ADHD and has learned many tricks over the years to help him stay organized, because he really has to work at it. This week disaster struck. Apparently his computer didn’t make the switch to Daylight Savings Time on the new schedule. To add insult to injury, his hand-held computer/phone/datebook/everything is keyed to his computer. And of course his entire schedule is in the hand-held device, which is now all wonky and won’t give him a correct date or reminder on anything. My poor brother has spent the better part of the past two days on the phone with tech support trying to straighten out the problem, which apparently has afflicted a lot of people. Meanwhile, he can’t reach his wall clock in the kitchen because he has too many objects piled up on the floor below it. And his alarm clock in the bedroom died. He can’t get his electronic assistant devices to tell him what he’s supposed to be doing this evening, or tomorrow, or what time he has his next work gig. When I told my son about the situation, he commented that his uncle probably didn’t realize that today is his birthday because according to his computer it’s still yesterday. My husband is threatening to send him a Salvador Dali card with the melting clocks. Time is relative.

Hair Cut

It finally happened. I got my hair cut. My hair dresser is back on her feet. I’m having a good week. It started on Sunday when I found the perfect swim suit. It says on the label that it trims off 10 lbs. So that means I can put it on, get on the scale, and subtract 10. I’ve been lighter all week. Then my husband’s stepson’s stepdaughter had a baby on Tuesday, which makes me something like a step step step great grandma. Whatever it is exactly, the upshot is that I’m getting old. But I don’t really care because I lost 10 lbs. with the swim suit. And my hair cut makes me look more human and, dare I say it, younger. I think the hairdresser must have cut off at least a pound of hair. I should be able to get on the scale and subtract 11 lbs. And I should get bonus points for things like passing up the green tea ice cream when we took my husband out to dinner for his birthday last night, drinking water all day instead of anything with calories in it, and today I’m going to clean the house (burns up lots of calories). I think that I’m on a roll. Swim suit, hair cut, no dessert, house cleaning. I’m subtracting, say, 20 lbs. off the scale weight. Good. Wow. I’m in terrific shape.

Memoir Fakes

I have had about enough of these people who write fake memoirs and pass them off as real. It started with that Frey person who wrote the Million Pieces of My Split Personality book and duped Oprah into thinking it was real. He described his descent into substance abuse and street life. One horror story after another so unbelievable that if it hadn’t happened you would say it was contrived. Guess what? It was contrived. Today I read about two other fake memoirs. One was written by a woman who claimed she was a Native American foster child raised in South Central Los Angeles and that she had run drugs for gangs but overcame it all and went to a college in Oregon. Turns out the author is an Anglo (she’s Episcopalian) and was raised in Bakersfield or somewhere by her own parents and has never been to Oregon. She was outed before the book was launched. The other fake memoir was written by a woman who described her childhood in Nazi Germany as a Jewish girl who hid out in the forest and was cared for by wolves. Come on, people! Did some editor actually believe this happened? Was it one of the editors that turned down my fiction because it was contrived? Anyway, turns out the Jewish-wolf-girl author is actually Christian and she spent the war safely and comfortably in Brussels. Would someone tell these memoirists that you have to suffer to sing the Blues? There are no shortcuts. I’m outraged. Here these privileged individuals are passing themselves off as ethnic minorities to make a buck with some reality-show drama memoir. More institutionalized racism. If they want to imagine a story then they need to put it out there as fiction. Then let the editors reject their manuscripts as “contrived” along with the rest of us.

More Hair

The hair situation continues to escalate. Fortunately I got through Monday without a cancellation call from my hairdresser. Go drugs go. Go drugs go. I hope those painkillers and anti-inflammatories are doing the trick. Meanwhile, my hair is filling with cobwebs where it has been brushing the ceiling. And I discovered over the weekend that the only thing worse than shopping for a swimsuit when you’re fat and middle-aged is shopping for a swimsuit when you’re fat, middle-aged, and need a haircut. Can’t someone invent a shrink mirror for the Macy’s dressing rooms that will slenderize your reflection and make your hair relax? Sit, no lie down, no roll over. My hair needs obedience school. A couple of nights ago I came in late from the grocery store. While bringing the bags in with Ron, I noticed a low-flying bat gliding through the fir trees in front of the house. “Look,” I showed Ron, “there’s a bat out here.” He replied, “It must have seen your hair.” Thursday. I just need to make it to Thursday.

Apple Pie or Waffles

Cindy-the-Realtor is bringing a family to see our house on Saturday and she says we’ll love them. This family lives in the Bay Area and they have been looking for country property up here for months. They have two little boys. One is 2 and the other is 6. This sounds painfully familiar. It will be 17 years ago in May that Ron and I received a call from our realtor who wanted us to drive up and look at this property right away before it went on the market. We lived in the Bay Area at the time and had been looking for country property for over 2 years. Ron and I took a day off work and (while our children were in child care for the day) drove up. We walked the house and the property and fell in love at first sight. We made an offer that day. It was a long road that summer before we sold our duplex in town and made the move in August. That’s a whole other story that involves a psychotic realtor, a grossly redundant Christmas tree, a paranoid buyer, two tenants, a dozen Japanese iris bulbs, a quasi-tranquilized cat, and a French-talking pineapple. The family Cindy has found already reminds me of us and I am hit with a wave of nostalgia for all the good years in this house. I remember the day we moved in like it was yesterday and although part of me is comfortable where I am, another part would like to go back and start at the beginning again. But the question of the moment is, do I bake apple pie on Saturday morning or should Ron make waffles? Something incredibly homey and incredibly country to offer to the little boys. I’ve heard it’s things like the smell of apple pie, the spinning wheel on the hearth, the baskets on the wall, the flowers on the table, and the cat in the easy chair that sell a house. A potential buyer needs to imagine coming home to this place. I hope I’ll be able to find another place that feels like coming home somewhere else. And I hope we can do the move this time without assistance from the French-talking pineapple.