Let us praise him.

I know it's been a long time since I've posted. I'm a horrible blogger.

Meanwhile, I've been looking into refinancing my place. Interest rates are low. Why not try? I tell this to my mother.

Mom: Well, thank God your car is paid off.

Me: Thank God? He didn't have anything to do with it.

Mom: What are you talking about?

Me: You just said I should thank God. God didn't make the extra car payments.

Mom: Don't get nasty!

Verbatim.

I thought I'd just share the email my mother sent this morning. Bear in mind, there was no "hello," and I haven't talked to her since yesterday.

my mom is very sick. swollem glads, sore throat, coughing, just generally lousy. you know, the older you get and you get sick like that it could mean the end of your life. that is what happened with grandma bklyn. she caught an upper resp. infection, and could not get better.

Good morning to you, too, Mom.

So what.

A few months ago, my mother asked for my opinion. (It doesn't even matter what the topic was, so don't trouble yourself with curiosity.) She actually listened to me, and even followed my advice. But then, last night, she reversed her decision. This is fine with me - it's her prerogative. This is how she explained it:

I know you are going to say I'm wrong, but you know what? So what.

That's one viewpoint.

Mom: I'm going to say something and I know you're going to disagree and I know it's going to start an argument.

Me: Then don't.

Mom: Don't what?

Me: Don't say it.

Mom: Why? I'm allowed to have an opinion.

Me: Of course, but I'm just saying, if it's going to start a fight, why bother?

Mom: Everything I say to you is always wrong.

And Now, a Moment of Reverence.

My honorary godfather died last week, and was buried earlier this afternoon. Of course, my mother came to the funeral. Going into public with her is always a terrifying prospect, and she rarely disappoints in terms of humiliation. Today was no exception. The rabbi got out of his car and walked into the small group of people standing in front of me, my mother and my father.

Mom: "Holy God, the rabbi got so damn old."

That sounds like an extensive list.

Nana: Do you still use your cooker (crock pot)?

Me: No, not really.

Nana: Oh, because you don't eat meat anymore.

Me: Right. There's not a lot I can think of to put in there most of the time.

Nana: All right. So now I know there's another thing you don't do.

Technology kills.

I believe this is a very loose paraphrase, but you - my ever-understanding reader - will understand.

My mother: I don't like putting personal information into forms on the internet. That's how they broke into the Pentagon.

So many things, so many things. Which shall I choose? Having just hung up the phone with my sister, I now have more fodder than I originally planned.

Nana is going blind. This has been a progressive thing for a long time, and it's horrible. It seems as though it's ramping up quite a bit. It also seems a good argument to have someone at least stay with her all day.

The answer, usually, is that her sister spends most of her time with her.

Understand, appreciated reader, that Nana's sister is also about 80 and is smaller than Nana. So if Nana takes a tumble, it's not as though Gloria's going to be right there to catch her before landing. I believe Gloria still drives, which would be a horrible thing, because the last time I was in the car with her she confidently turned the wrong way down a one-way street and nearly killed all of us and several unsuspecting people in a Volkswagen. The idea of 80 year old Gloria - who is probably shrinking due to age and was never really tall enough to see over the steering wheel of the car resembling Queen Mary which she's been driving since I learned to properly apply eyeliner - commandeering a car is bone-chilling.

Well, Gloria fell. As 80 year olds are wont to do. So we've now got Nana getting shuffled over to Gloria to "help." I'm sure the company is nice for both of them and I'm just as sure that the reality is a little scarier for everyone involved. And those uninvolved, because I'm pretty sure Nana's still using the kitchen appliances, even those requiring fire. (Maybe it's an electric stove. I don't know.)

The real question is, why don't they just move in together? If they're going to be with each other everyday, why bother shuttling around? It's not about independence. These are the women who, standing in front of the fish counter, had an epiphany that the butcher probably noticed that they're always there together. To ensure his total understanding of the situation, they announced, "We're not lesbians. We're sisters." And now let the butcher try to erase that memory from his brain.

Would you like to know their reason for not wanting to move in together? First please understand that they live in identical condos. They bought them probably on the same day in 1979 or something. And, for the most part, their furniture is arranged in an identical manner. They also both have the same smell. (The condos, not the women. Although, maybe.) It's a two bedroom, or a one-bedroom with a "den."

The reason they don't want to move in together is that neither of them want the smaller room.

Ah, selflessness.

Mom: I want to get her (name redacted) something more substantial.

Me: It's unnecessary, don't worry about it.

Mom: No, I want it to mean something.

Me: Well, I think a gift certificate to the movies would be nice.

Mom: That is a good idea. Which movie theater?

Me: It doesn't matter.

Mom: But which does she go to?

Me: AMC, most of the time.

Mom: Forget it, I'm not schlepping all the way over there to get a damn gift certificate.

That gift didn't do anything for me.

I anticipate fodder for this blog will come at a machine gun pace in the next few weeks. Here's why: for my parents' birthdays (which fall 3 days apart from one another) I bought them a Roku. I'm sure, dear reader, you don't need an explanation as to why. I mean, it's a good gift. But my parents left it in the box for about four months. This wasn't so surprising, since they acted as though they'd unwrapped a water bug when I first gave it to them.

Eventually, after it was hooked up and functional, my father entered a fugue-like state and wouldn't move from the recliner because he couldn't stop watching Laurel and Hardy via Netflix. Then he latched onto documentaries on prisons (don't get me started). Then he found documentaries on Orthodox Jews. I don't know what he's focused on now, but it's like cutting an electrical umbilical cord to get him out of the recliner and away from the television.

So I spoke with my mother this morning about her Chanukah gift. I told her it wasn't extravagant. She said, "I don't expect anything big, Rebekah, you already got us the Roku this year, and in the past you've given me wonderful things." This would have been not only a sufficient but also beautiful and appropriate response. Not surprisingly, she didn't stop there.

"I mean, the Roku doesn't do anything for me, really. I never use it. It was a nice thought, though."

You must have been gifted.

My mother and her mother don't get along. That's a generous description of the relationship, really. I don't have an enormous amount to say in this post, because their conversation was brief.

"Ah-choo." (My mother sneezed.)

"What?" (My grandmother is hard of hearing. She's hard of everything, really. Especially of human compassion.)

"Nothing. I sneezed."

"You said something."

"No. I sneezed."

"You're a liar. You were lying when you came out of the womb."

I doubt you're getting a check.

Yesterday, my mother's car broke down. Naturally, this meant my mother broke down as well. Once she stopped berating my father (who was at fault for the breakdown by virtue of having been behind the steering wheel when it happened) she decided AAA would pick up the car and bring it to the dealer.

I was waiting for my parents while this all unfolded. I had no idea what was happening, of course, until she called me in total hysterics (and I mean total) on her pay-as-you-go cell phone which was crafted in 1998 by elves. Her screaming into the phone was punctuated by shouting abuse at my father, who was audibly grunting and cursing in the background.

While on the phone, I'm sitting in a Chinese restaurant dipping noodles into a bowl of duck sauce, contemplating the vegetables. Of course I have to then pick my parents up. My father leans into the window before my mother reaches the car and asks me if I have any connections who can get Thorazine. I drive them to the Chinese restaurant where she proceeds to use her antediluvian cell phone to contact Toyota. I have no idea what happened prior to the moment at which she hollered, "I can't hear a ()&$@!*& thing!" Then she hurled herself into a chair.

"What happened?" (Guess who asked that.)

"I can't hear a damn thing. And then this moron at Toyota wants my name? What does she need my name for? Is she cutting me a damn check?"

I need a new broom.

My father's uncle married my mother's aunt. It's not as incestuous as it sounds. The point is, they've almost always known each other, and - perhaps most integral to this tale - their families always knew each other.

My mother's mother had three sisters.

My dad's mother had two brothers.

One of my mother's mother's sisters married one of my father's mother's brothers. And thus, a dynasty was born. A dynasty of crazy.

It was over a year ago that my father locked himself out of the house one morning. He was on the porch, in his underwear, smoking a cigarette. The sun hadn't yet come up and he was going to get his pants out of the dryer. (At this point, I feel like I know too much, solely because I've had to mention my father out of his pants.) Somehow, he got locked out.

He sat on the porch for around 5 hours until his coworkers came to the house to find him, expecting him to be dead, I imagine. At the time, my mother and I were visiting her mother (Nana, the cat-hater).

When we got word that my father had been sitting, in his underwear, on the porch, with temperatures in the low 40s, we were a) glad he was alive and b) concerned. Much talk was had about how someone gets locked out on the porch. How couldn't he get back in? Why didn't he check the door? Who ever heard of such a thing?

And then, one of my mother's sisters pipes up: Wasn't there anything on the porch he could have used to break back into the house?

My mother says: No. We have some chairs, our washing machine and dryer, and maybe a broom.

Silence for a few moments while we all absorb that mental image. And then, from Nana: I need a new broom.

Yeah, why bother.

Today was the Great American Teach-In. For those who don't already know, this is a day when adults flood the US school system to share their experiences and insights with children who don't belong to them. I'm one of those adults.

I teach Ethics, so I talked about ethics.

When my mother heard what I did today, she said, "Oh, do you think the kids got anything out of it? No, probably not, right? It just went over their heads. But at least you didn't have to go to work."

It's All About the Furniture.

I told my sister I started this blog. When she finished panting from her uncontrolled laughing jag, she said, "Don't forget to include what Nana said to me about Mojo." (Mojo is her dead dog. He died when he was still a puppy, of parvo [a totally avoidable disease but that is not the point].)

I had to admit I didn't remember the conversation about Mojo.

"Really? You don't remember her calling me when I was still devastated about losing my six month old puppy?"

Well, no.

"Here's what she said. She said - at least he died before he got so big that he could eat your furniture."

It's Not a Real Cat.

My grandmother, who is 89, had a bout of trigeminal neuralgia a few weeks ago. I'm not particularly close to my grandmother, for reasons which will unveil themselves throughout the course of this blog, but nevertheless it's not as though I wanted stabbing pains to shoot through her entire face. (Until last night. Ah, I kid. I kid.)

So, l recently sent her a card - a benign card, not a get-well-soon card - just a little cheerer-upper, with an illustrated cat going through the motions of a day in the life of a cat. You've seen them. 8am - wake up. 9am - lick butt. 10am - stand directly in front of someone's walking feet. Etc.

Last night, I called her just to check in. (And my mother had just flown to see her, and it's always good to check in and make sure they haven't annihilated each other in some form or another.) My grandmother gets on the phone and, after the customary "what did you have for lunch what did you have for dinner oh that sounds like a good snack but not a meal who ever heard of such a thing," she asked why I sent her that card.

I said I sent it because I thought it was cute.

She asked if I associate the thought of her with cats. Because, she explained, I know she doesn't like cats. When she was once preparing my nephew's bottle (you should know my nephew is now 15), my sister's cat jumped on the counter, and that's all Nana needed to see about a cat.

"You know that's not a real cat, right? That it's a card, with a drawing of a cat on it?" I asked.

She then mentioned that I'd bought her two teddy bears over the course of the last 10 years. (Completely true. She told me she used to love teddy bears when she was younger.)

"Well, I just don't know why you make a connection between me and animals."