Morning at the beach. The Gulf is a dark aqua and flat as a mirror. There are two fishermen on the shore: a boy of about 8 and a Great Blue Heron. The boy catches a fish, the heron inches closer. The boy is excited and doesn’t notice the stealthily moving heron. One of them is going to eat the fish, but which one is still up in the air. The boy is jumping up and down, calling for his parents to see this wonderful fish. The two cabana boys, 19 and worldly wise, wander over. “You’ve caught a shark,” they tell him. The hopping about gets a little more frantic. The heron proceeds with caution, and moves back a couple of feet. The cabana boys offer to take the baby shark off the hook. The heron accepts that this will not be his breakfast, and moves down the beach. The shark goes back in the water, and swims away. The cabana boys continue to place the lounges and rake the sand. The little boy goes inside. The Gulf is flat and calm.
I’m late to the party, but my excuse is that I’ve been in Sarasota, lolling about on the beach with RJ, The Sistergirlfriendgirl and her squeeze, our childhood friend the May Queen, the RLA and his childhood friend HippieBob and his wife and Star. Well, despite the excess of alcohol and good times, I need to mention the passing of George Carlin, one of the greats of comedy. I’m not jumping on the 7 Words or the Stuff routine, though. My favorite of George’s raps was this: the differences between baseball and football.
Yesterday I won a skirmish in the battle for public civility: there was a young man on the MetroMover, examining his face in the mirror back of his i-pod. He checked his immaculate goatee, and then (quel horror!) began picking at his zits. Or something. So I whipped out my camera and started to take a picture. He noticed, shot me a look of loathing, and stopped. He put his i-pod in his pocket. After about 30 seconds (some people have shorter attention spans than others) he pulled it out again, and again started to pick at his face, using the pod as a mirror. I refocused. He moved out of my line of vision. I moved to put him back in. Again with the stink eye and again he pocketed his i-pod. And then, the doors opened and he got off the tram, prevented by me and my camera from picking his face in public. I feel very virtuous, even if I would have liked to have posted an equal opportunity bad public behavior picture.
What do you make of this? Last night, I was dreaming about Tony Bourdain. We were at my parent’s home and I was cooking dinner for him. He told me that he didn’t care for the pan I was using, he thought it was the wrong size. I proceeded to show him that it was easy to change the pan by clicking on the description and changing the set up for the pan. It would change on the fly, without needing to be washed or losing the food already in the pan. Sort of like changing a page set up in the preferences menu in PageMaker or InDesign. Now where the menu and clickable box were, I cannot say.
Am I spending too much time on the computer? Too much time thinking about Tony Bourdain?
I have this memory. I am very, very small. My mother is holding me in her arms. We are sitting under the arbor at the back of the house on the St. Lucie River, behind the kitchen. There are yellow flowers blooming on the vine, maybe they are alamandas. She is singing to me. She is singing “You Are My Sunshine.”
Wednesday, I took her to a dermatologist to see if we can heal this mysterious rash she’s had for 8 months or so. The previous dermatologist gave her creams and ointments and they have done nothing. She continues to scratch. The rash is spreading. I have to go with her because I am her healthcare surrogate, and if the doctor needs to biopsy anything, or inject her with anything or do anything at all other than look at her, I will need to sign the permission.
Her aide wheels her in. My mother is dressed in her favorite color: purple. I tell her she looks pretty today. The aide smiles at me. My mother is unaware of where she is, I think. I put my knitting in her hands, so she can feel it. You taught me to knit, I remind her. The other patient in the waiting room smiles at me. My mother is unaware of the knitting. The nurse calls us in.
We have to put a gown on my mother, and her aide calls her name, and tells her that we’ll be changing her. After 45 seconds, my mother says “What?” But, delayed reaction or not, she’s responded to her name. We take off her shirt and camisole. She covers herself, aware of her own nudity. We slip the paper gown on her, and she grabs my finger, and holds it tight. I cry silently. The aide pretends not to notice.
The dermatologist gives us four prescriptions and asks us to return in 10 days.
My mother begins to chatter. Numbers. My father’s name. The aide returns her to the home. I take myself to the knitting store, and then home. I manage not to buy a pack of cigarettes.