Sunny Day

...I need to laugh, and when the sun is out/ I've got something I can laugh about....

The weather has improved, and with it, Mother's mood.

Not to mention mine.

By 'improved' naturally I mean 'changed to something I prefer' because weather isn't intrinsically either good or bad, just preferred or non-preferred. Tornado chasers, for example, probably wouldn't care for these nice warm days of full-on sunshine and Fahrenheit temperatures in the 60s and 70s. I still don't know what that is in Celsius, which, because I am That Old, I sometimes still refer to as centigrade.

My shift is due to start at 9:30, which is impossible today, but I arrive at 10:10 without too much stress. The back door is locked, but she's been up. Dog dishes are on the floor, with food, which suggests Second Breakfast. She doesn't remember whether she's fed them or not, and doesn't remember either to mark or check the chalkboard that tracks that very thing. The chalkboard is for us, the caregivers, to tell each other, or to use to remind Mommala that the dogs have eaten already, thank you very much. The other day, I pointed it out, and she said, well, I'll just give them a little bit, then.

Because it's not about the dogs, and whether they need nutrition or not, it's about Jackie Junior (have I told you that story? Remind me to tell you that story. Mother can still tell that story with a remarkable degree of clarity) and her needs.

Give them each a cookie instead. That's what they're for, right?

"What? I'm just going to- -"

No, give them biscuits. See, they're in the bear.

She gives me a look of extreme annoyance, but fetches the clear bear-shaped container that once held animal-shaped cookies for humans to eat, and now holds 'bone' shaped biscuits for canines to eat. She gives a cookie to each, but is irritated by my over-ruling her wishes, as usual.

The OTHER other day, she picked up dishes from the floor, headed toward the dog-food bin, turned to me and asked, "Have I done this already?" I wanted to applaud.

You have. Look, it's marked on the chalkboard.

"I see. Monday, 4:30, dinner."

I can tell it's Second Breakfast because there's food left in both dishes. Dogs eat all of First Breakfast, usually. A grapefruit knife is on the counter, and beside the toaster, the egg carton, a package of English muffins and the butter dish. I guess I know what she wants for her Second Breakfast, the first being her half of grapefruit, the rind of which rests in a bowl on the dining room table.

I bustle her upstairs, cheerfully telling her I'm going to toss her filthy ass into the shower, but I'll lay out clothes for her first. I make the bed hastily, so that she'll get into the shower instead of back into bed. I tell her so. She sits down on the made-up bed, flings her body backwards and pretends to snore.

You're ridiculous, you know that?

She pops up and bursts into laughter.

All right, go on with you, get your filthy self into the shower and don't come out again 'til you're clean. I don't want to see you EVER AGAIN until you're clean.

"I don't want to see YOU ever again until I'm clean, either."

Better shut your eyes, then, coz here I am. 

She laughs again and goes into the bathroom. I lay out some linen gaucho pants and a tee shirt, with bra and panties. When she puts out her own clothes, it's panties, socks, a bra, socks, tee shirt, socks, a sweater, socks... she just gets a little stuck. Today she doesn't need any socks, it's that warm. I tell her so, though I expect when I see her, she'll be wearing socks anyhow.

I hear the shower start and scurry out with the dogs. I've surreptitiously been teaching Panda his new name, Yogi. Why she would call a redheaded Golden Retriever Panda is still a mystery to me, but when I introduce him, I tell people he's obviously a Red Panda, which, by the way, isn't exactly a bear.  We go an extra half-block or so, hurrying to time our (my) arrival to coincide with Junior's exit from the shower. I call to her, to see if I should start cooking eggs.

You dressed yet?

"I'm clean!"

That sounds like No to me.

"I'll yump into my clothes in one minute and be right down."

I start the eggs.

After breakfast and pills ("rattlers," since every time she sees her meds and vitamins she says some variation 'I'm going to rattle with all these pills') we take the dogs out. There are men in front of the house milling around a plumbing truck so we cross to the other side of the street.

Shall we go around Church Circle, the way we used to do?

"We could do that."

As we round the far edge of the circle, we spot some children milling around outside the church with their parents.

Would you like to pet the dogs?

When children look interested, I ask, because the children won't ask, and the parents won't intrude. Not often, anyway. We cross and make the dogs sit down. The children pet the dogs by turns and are pleased. The dogs are pleased. Mother is pleased. We say goodbye and head homeward with nary a fuss.

Mother sits outside with the dogs, comes in again, sits outside again, comes in, while I work on baseballku. When I've finished, I ask if she's ready for some lunch. She is. I make a tuna melt for her which I cut into four triangles. She is more likely to finish a sandwich cut into four pieces than one cut in only two pieces. I imagine there's some psychology to that, but I don't know the specifics of it, only that it works.

After lunch, she goes outside with the dogs, back inside, back outside, inside again, back outside. My cold or whatever it is isn't gone even now, so one time she comes in as I'm blowing my nose.

"Who let a moose loose in my house?"

It'was me. I'm very moos-ical.

"And a-moos-ing!"

Moost we continue with the punning around?

"Of course we moost!"

We've been punning for as long as I can remember, and longer, by Mother's accounts. It's encouraging that she retains this, as well as her sense of humor. I've always loved her sense of humor.

Shall we head out now?

"Do you need your lunch?"

I've packed lunch for the ballpark, stowed it in Mother's fridge. As a reminder, I put a Post-It on the window of the back door, because my lunch will do me more good if it's with me at the ballpark rather than in Mother's refrigerator. She reads me the note.

"Cybele, do you have your lunch?"

Good call, thank you. Yes, now I have my lunch. 

"For the ballpark?"

Yes, while I'm working at the ballpark. I'm all set now. Are you ready to go?

"What are we doing?"

Going to the bank and then getting some frozen custard if their machine is working and a donut if it isn't. 

"Sounds like a plan!" She fetches her purse.

She doesn't need her purse, of course. But when she doesn't have it, she frets about it, and I grow weary of reminding her that she left it home. Plus it gives her something to do in the car. She plays with the visor mirror, fishes around for a lipstick, finds a tissue, blows her nose, fiddles with the mirror, finds her hairbrush, brushes her hair, puts back the brush, finds lipstick, applies lipstick, puts the lipstick away, finds a tissue, blows her nose, fiddles with the mirror, fishes for her brush, finds a lipstick, puts on lipstick, puts lipstick away...

...all the way to the bank. While we're at the window. All the way to Paradise Donuts.

Would you close the mirror, please? I'll forget, then when I go to work, I'll park the car and leave it like that, and when I come back, the battery will be dead.

(Actually, I think the car has safety features that prevent that, but it's a thing that certainly used to be true, even if it isn't anymore, and she won't know the difference.)

"Wouldn't want that!" She closes the mirror, after checking her lipstick.

Inside, the counter guy explains that their frozen custard is too thick for the machine, so they just scoop it now.

"Vanilla or chocolate?" he asks.

I turn to Mother. How about it, Mother, would you like vanilla?

"Hah! As if!"

Silly question.

Beatles; Good Day Sunshine