naughty

I might have had a more interesting childhood had I not come equipped with a slightly overly-constraining sense of propriety. Or maybe it was just timidity. On thought, I'm going to blame it on a congenital disinclination to be caught rocking the boat. I seem to recall that, among the notes recorded by my mother in my baby book, one says "You're a little bit 'sneaky.' We have to work at keeping you honest." Well, I guess the work paid off, but there are moments. In fact, I'm sure the only difference between me and an impulsive kid is that, while we'd get into the very same trouble, I'd wait 'til no one was looking, then put it all back the way it was.

Do you remember sitting in the dentist's chair, just after the hygienist left the room but before the dentist came in, wishing you were brave enough to pull out the water sprayer or the air blower and give them a try? I think I was in college before I was uninhibited enough to do it. (I also wanted to test the chair controls and open all the drawers, but there's only so much you can accomplish in a minute and a half. To an extent, I satisfied this urge later, by looking in all the cabinets at the pediatrician's office when my kids were babies.)

This kind of inborn behavior regulatory device never entirely goes away, which I guess is a good thing, and it certainly whirred into action as I considered taking one of Gabe's Concerta pills this morning. But I told it to shut up and switch off. I've been giving the kid the stuff on school mornings for years now. I'm probably the only person in the world who would hesitate to try it once in roughly a decade. Gabe says it helps him a bit with focus, and the wholistic approach is that judicious use of such things can help a brain wire itself for learning.

There was nothing special about today. If I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I'm going to have to blame my mental fogginess on too many squares of organic milk chocolate. I'm also fairly certain that there's no direct relationship between brain cloud and performance, but when--after removing about 5 clean glasses from a recently run dishwasher--I turned around and began loading the same dw with dirties (I mean, while it was still 3/4 of the way full of cleans,) it occurred to me. That I'm an absent-minded ditz whose frontal lobe might benefit from a wake up call.

So I took a Concerta. It's 27mg of extended-release ritalin. That was 6 hours ago. Report: I feel no better. No worse. No less foggy. No sharper. I am still performing adequately through the shroud of chocolate-induced mental vagueness, and I'm as certain as I need to be that I'll have no further use for that controlled substance. I may still look in cabinets at doctors' offices, but it will not be for neurostimulants, it will simply be because I like to look.

Brain cloud?

There's little worse than disembodied statistical data of exactly the sort you wouldn't want. As various sources disperse recent findings that spousal caregivers of Alzheimer's patients seem to have an enhanced probability (6x normal) of developing dementia themselves, I find myself not rushing to draw a clock face and insert the numbers and hands into their appropriate spots. (I'll probably do it later. I confess though--I just counted backwards from 100 by 7s. I think I got it. I was supposed to end with 4, right? Just kidding.)

One thing I can tell you for sure: socializing is good brain tonic, and sometimes--when I'm feeling like my clarity of thought is about on par with the clarity of tomato juice--I wish I could just drink tomato juice. Or something akin to tomato juice. If you can drink your vitamin C (to ward off scurvy,) what elixir can I drink to ward off the fog, when good conversation is in short supply?

It is something of a comfort that I have always been a fog brain. I'm pretty sure that my brain worked as well as it was ever going to work 20 or 30 or so years ago, and then--as now--I could be as murky as Turkish coffee. Hence, fog-brain cannot, I surmise, be considered a harbinger of brain death. Nor does it apparently stop me from counting backwards.

categories.

I'm not sure why no one has ever described Jeff's particular condition as Posterior Cortical Atrophy. Probably because virtually all of the scrutiny he's received, post-diagnosis, has been under the auspices of the Georgetown University Hospital clinical study, and the requirement for participation was Alzheimer's, but whether a variant under the AD umbrella could be identified was irrelevant.

I'm not sure why I care. But I seem to. I suppose it's that since I live with this syndrome, I am apt (as I am with anything else in my purview,) to turn it upside down and inside out, and just see how much sense I can make of it. (Not much sense, as it turns out, but I can name and categorize, and that gives me a useful tool for holding everything at arm's length.)

Here are a few of my discoveries:
Patients with PCA (as opposed to classic AD) tend to be younger. (check.) Marked impairment in visuospatial tasks, reading, and writing. (check.) Relative preservation of memory compared to typical Alzheimer's. (check.)

But that's not all you get when you know not only the beast's first name, but its second name as well. Suddenly I have a whole quiver full of nameables. Can't open the car door? Apraxia. (ping!) Can't look where I'm pointing? Oculomotor apraxia. (ping!) Can't see that you just poured yourself two glasses of oj? Simultanagnosia. (ping!) Completely unable to grasp what I'm telling you? Transcortical Sensory Aphasia. (ping, ping, ping.)

I think I'll help out the neurologist (or Nurse Practitioner, as the case may be,) next time we head to G-town for a status update, by pointing out that according to my research (cue voice of Dorothy Ann from The Magic Schoolbus,) Jeff's AD pattern seems to most closely resemble that of Posterior Cortical Atrophy syndrome. I'm sure he or she will thank me very much.

robots aren't fuzzy

Jeff decided to go stand next to Ritchie Highway today, on the strip of curb-bordered grass between there and the Panera parking lot. This was because I behaved offensively in Panera while we were in line to order. Actually, I think it was a cumulative series of offensive acts, starting with the one where I decided, just after we walked in, to back up 5 steps and hold the door for the lady who was juggling a baby carrier and a drink tray. To Jeff, what I did was this: I returned, pointlessly and perplexingly to the Panera entryway and he followed (because what else is he supposed to do?), at which point I did the bowling alley pin-clearing thing with my arm, and cleared him out of the path after a couple verbal attempts failed. He did not see the lady with too much stuff, he just perceived being pushed around.

Then I did it again. Twice. Because the Panera man was trying to carry a 25 pound vat of coffee from the kitchen to the coffee island, and Jeff was, as usual, fully blocking the aisle. Knowing where to stand is very difficult for him. He simply cannot assess traffic patterns, and grasp layout. But, the emotional impact of being ushered here and there, "like a little kid," is something he entirely grasps, but external to context. In other words, the attempt I made to explain why I chose expediency over a gentler more time-consuming approach was met with disbelief. He was not in anyone's way, he can see what's going on, and I'm the only one who seems to think there's something wrong with him.

Sometimes these funks fade in a jiffy, which is good. And sometimes they don't, which was today. I understand that when someone is feeling very blue, and tells you that you'll "never see him as a whole person again," that the personality you should be able to put on is a "there there" sort of nurturing grandmother, or at least a very therapeutic counselor. But I am Dōmo arigatō, Ms Roboto, and--while I try to be kind in my actions and words programming--I am hardly the warm fuzzy the situation calls for. All I could think of was this: If Chessie the cat tells me that "I'll never see her as anything but a cat," what can I say other than, "but you are a cat?"

So, when Jeff said "So, what can we do?" as if this is a crisis, and there's a solution, I could only respond like this: "Well, I can keep trying to improve my skill at gauging situations and their potential pitfalls." Of course he didn't know what I was talking about, but it didn't hurt his feelings. In practice it means that the next time we go in Panera or similar, I'll suggest he sit down and "hold our table" while I wait in line. Sitting at the table is a pretty good idea. Standing on the strip between the parking lot and Ritchie Highway is not a pretty good idea.

Goodnight Jim-Bob...

I just sent Gabe off with the driving instructor I’m paying for extra on-road lessons (above and beyond the three 2-hour shifts that come with Driver’s Ed.) There is always a flutter of trepidation in my chest which half anticipates that the guy will turn the SUV around 10 minutes into the session, and storm down our brick walk bellowing “ARE YOU KIDDING? Just NEVER put this kid behind the wheel of a motor vehicle! OKAY?”

That hasn’t happened so far and, all in all, the guy seems pretty laid back, fueling my hope that the school will release his Driver’s Ed completion certificate very soon. It occurred to me that if I don’t encourage Gabe to refresh his deodorant on the way out the door, it might go even faster, but that seems unkind.

Meanwhile, Gabe has all sorts of end of year activities going on related to graduation. On Friday, he and his class of 12th graders (plus the requisite staff) will take a bus to New York City for the day...a trip on which they will, among other things, dine at a restaurant called “Jekyll and Hyde’s” which claims to be the “only haunted restaurant in Manhattan.” The only one? That seems implausible, unless they mean the only one where the haunting is staged purposefully.

At school, Gabe is preparing a video to be shown at graduation, summarizing...I don’t know exactly what...somehow summarizing Gabe. They can do this when the graduating class is roughly 20 students in number. Gabe decided, since his sister Olivia is home for the week, that she must appear in a clip. First we made this practice run, in which I play Gabe (and Gabe himself appears at the very end, looking typically scruffy: )

This reminds me exactly of why, when my siblings and I used to make tape recorded radio shows spoofing episodes of The Waltons, I always played youngest sister Elizabeth. All I had to do was make my voice just slightly more nasal. Like this. (Here I am also speaking John-Boy’s line: )

Can you tell that this blog post is really little more than an experiment in embedding video? Yes, that’s what it is. As such, we’ll enter one more--this being the actual “interview” with Olivia.

I am hoping that Gabe’s actual finished project is somehow more coherent than this clip might lead you to expect. His playwriting teacher is very impressed with his skills, particularly as expressed in an absurdist drama he’s written. I am not surprised that the absurdist style is a stand-out area for Gabe.

It was fortunate that Olivia was home today when I found myself on the phone with Delta Airlines, attempting to secure a reservation change for Rachel who will now be flying back from Costa Rica in two days instead of in four. Because Gabe called to be picked up exactly in the middle, while I was listening to the Delta rep make all sorts of noises like "oops," and "uh-oh," and other utterances that caused me to worry. So Olivia picked up Gabe, and the Delta transaction got completed. I am glad. It’s been a bit of a dicey experience for her and her fellow Masters in Teaching students, but assuredly a learning one.

(I never talk about Becca, because Becca never tells me anything. She is both the lowest maintenance and most independent of my children. But sometimes a little maintenance required at least keeps you in touch.)

Here there be monsters. But not really scary ones.

I tend to overcompensate for my tendency to fumble the balls I'm meant to be juggling. Sticky notes are essential to my arsenal, as are the timer and alarm features on my iPhone. But, as my Japanese teacher said when she typoed her hiragana: Even monkeys fall from trees (saru mo ki kara ochiru さるも木から落ちる,) and I'm about 200 times clumsier than any monkey.

What I did this morning (or last night, rather,) was fail to set my alarms. Normally I must adjust my bedside clock from its weekend setting of 6:15 am, to its weekday time: 5:15. But that is not enough. Sometimes we have a power outage which reduces all the digital clocks in the house to helpless blinking, so I also set my iPhone to go off at 5:30 as a backup plan. Last night, due to some unwarranted state of relaxation, I did neither, and the bedside alarm began to chime forcefully an hour later than I planned to arise.

There's nothing quite like awaking with a tizzy all laid out for you, and I am completely unable--at such a time of rushedness--to maintain the carefully groomed composure with which I normally try to direct both Jeff and Gabe. Hence, Gabe had to be hustled out of bed and into the shower, as he issued loud protests of this sort: "I KNOW!" and "I'M NOT YELLING! CAN'T YOU TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN EXPLAINING AND YELLING?" (Gabe explains loudly, you see.)

Jeff meanwhile, rattled into the day clueless as to what might be different from any other day and innocently asked whether I intended to use the elliptical first or second. "I don't have TIME to spider!" I not-quite-snapped, as if my self-induced state of dither should have anything to do with him anyway. (Note: spider=elliptical trainer around here. I know it's weird. You'll just have to accept it.)

Fortunately he did not sulk, or feel too ill-used, as can be the result of my composure falling off the edge of the map, and I got some coffee brewed before throwing a handful of random foods into a brown paper lunch bag and herding Gabe out the door. Through all this Olivia, home for the week, did not wake up, and the dog accepted that she'd have to wait 25 minutes for her breakfast in generous spirits.

As for the rest of the day, Jeff--very fortunately--was invited to lunch by Bill, and Olivia and I accomplished our slate of errands with little ado.

BLab

I am pretty good at answering this question by now, because Jeff and I have this conversation approximately once a week. "Which is easier to learn," he asks, "English or Japanese?" This question presumes, of course, that I could supply an answer from the standpoint of one who is not already fluent in English, and that is a tricky bit of objectivity to achieve for one who is. But I try.

"I am sure that English would be easier," I say, "for a speaker of most European languages, but perhaps for a speaker of Chinese, Japanese would be easier. At least one would have a starting familiarity with many of the characters used." Then I always add that for a Martian, previously unschooled in any human system of communication, I would have to recommend Japanese over English on the grounds that once you learn the grammatical rules of Nihongo, you can count on a reasonable degree of consistency, unlike modern English which incorporates such a hodgepodge of influences that almost all bets are off from one word to the next. Jeff thinks it's funny every time I mention the Martian, which is nice. I am not such a comedienne that I can come up with new material very often, and he's a brand new audience every time I say it.

I decided we would walk along Baltimore's Harbor Heritage Walk today. It's a mostly brick promenade which follows the contours of the various piers and commercial or residential frontages along several miles of harbor running through Federal Hill, Harbor East, Fells Point, and Canton. I almost said "we decided," but then I stopped myself and wrote "I decided" instead. Because I decided. I always decide, then I tell Jeff what we're going to do and he is pleased. Sometimes, just on principle, I ask him what he would like to do and he thinks earnestly, brow wrinkled for a few moments, before saying "I don't know...what would you like to do?" So I decide. The shape of today was partly determined by the fact that at Gabe's pre-college physical 2 weeks ago they did not give him a tb test. Then, his college health forms turned out to require one, so now we must squeeze in 2 quick trips to the doctor's office this week--one for the test and one for the nurse to decree it officially negative--and it can be tough to make it within doctor's office time parameters unless I pick him up myself, rather than leave it to carpool. Hence, driving into the city early made sense. But, despite the sunny outlook promised by my iPhone weather app, clouds and an aggravatingly insistent wind kept it brisker than would be ideal, and we were happy to take refuge for half an hour in a grittily bohemian Fell's Point coffee joint prior to heading north to the Baltimore Lab School.

And now we're parked at 23rd and North Lovegrove St (an alley, actually,) in a metered space which is too narrow for a real car. I don't know who painted the lines on this block of 23rd, and I don't suppose it really matters. The meters are painted blue, and are so old that they take nickels and dimes. No meters installed within the last 20 years take nickels and dimes. In fact, meters of any sort are largely obsolete. Earlier, for our harbor walk, we parked on Caroline Street, along a curb where parking coupon dispensers are situated at regular intervals. They take credit cards, and dispense small slips of paper showing an expiration time, which you place on your dashboard. I like this system, as I can't count on having enough quarters for a meter, and I no longer expect to be able to scrounge Chuck E Cheese tokens from under a car seat. Once, Jeff and I did that in Frederick Maryland when we were desperate and it was raining. It worked. I wonder now, how many parking meters contain Chuck E Cheese tokens?

in the morning

Bird feeders, hanging within viewing distance of my kitchen counter stool, are ridiculously pleasing. Better than fish, because you don’t have to clean the tank. Not better than fish, because the fish don’t exit stage right when you approach to pour another cup of coffee. Perhaps they’ll get used to our morning bustle. Whether they learn to accept Hazel the cat wiggling her hunting haunches at them from the countertop window is another thing.

I made Gabe drive to Quizno’s and back last night. It is easy to see that his confidence with vehicle operation is increasing as he willingly zips into turns and maintains a lively monologue on the Absurdist drama he penned in school while exceeding the speed limit at erratic intervals. It’s a little disconcerting actually, as his other mode is a style I’d call “Grandpappy’s monthly outing,” wherein he adheres stubbornly to exact speed limit, even when there’s not another car in view, and spends 5 stopped minutes preparing to consider possibly turning. I sincerely hope that the time he spends away at college, car-less, will be sufficient for his brain wiring to ripen such that his two modes can synthesize into placid but confident good judgment.

Last night Rachel videochatted me from Costa Rica. Her six weeks will have been a striking juxtaposition of beach-combing relaxation and an immersion in some of human society’s harsher realities--how a corrupt administrator in a poorly regulated school system robs children, how means of redress can be vastly less accessible than in this U.S. system about which we love to complain, and how the horror of opportunistic murder (in this case, a son-in-law of her host family,) can strike with jarring randomness. I will be glad to have her home, but will absolutely be unable to keep up with her Spanish.

a dash of pepper

Why, with cars, is there always something amiss with a solenoid valve? I think it's become one of those words like "consultant." If you don't know what you do for a living, but sometimes people give you money, you say "I'm a consultant." If you want to add an extra charge to a routine automobile service tab, you blame it on a solenoid valve. Jeff and I have once again braved the ped-unfriendly hoof-paths of West Annapolis while we await consultation on a Subaru's solenoid valve. And, by the way, drive belts.

Meanwhile...I've been having an interesting time exploring the topic of neurotypicality. As far as I know "neurotypical" is a term which exists only as a way to designate the counterpoint to brains with wiring that places them anywhere on the Asperger's/autism spectrum. This is a slowly developing interest of mine, which has accelerated recently in a quest to gain understanding of my kid and, by extension, myself.

I have only recently stumbled across the term BAP, or "broader autism phenotype," which is a term to describe people who may not be clinically on the autism spectrum (who may not, in other words, meet diagnostic criteria for even a nameable syndrome at the milder end of the spectrum, such as Asperger's,) but who have traits of behavior and personality that resemble, even if in a minor way, those of autism or Asperger's.

The thing is, I have exactly such a kid. So much so that every neuropsychological evaluator we've seen in the context of pursuing his alternative education--and there've been quite a few--has hastened, upon hearing of and witnessing his personality, to hand me an Asperger's parent questionnaire. He never scores in the diagnosible range. The tests are always fishing for an underfunctioning grasp of humor, which he does not have, and he loses quite a few points on the basis of having been a very tactile small child. But the fact remains that they always suspect it, and--to people who know Asperger's--his style of social interaction often seems suspiciously familiar.

I understand that the whole concept of the Broader Autistic Phenotype is controversial in some quarters. But logic and intuition lead me to believe that the extreme end of any neurological variation (especially one which is already established to exist on a spectrum--a continuum,) will be balanced by a minor end, where behaviors and characteristics may establish an individual as odd or quirky without imposing the functional handicap of autism, or the social handicap of Asperger's.

On that note, I recently took a quiz designed to score me relative to the BAP scale. Let me disclaim right up front that I am as wary as a person should be of granting too much credence to any "quiz" hosted by Helloquizzy or Cupid.com or whatever it was, but I still found the results striking. Here is what the summary of my results said: "You scored 102 aloof, 90 rigid and 82 pragmatic. You scored above the cutoff on all three scales. Clearly you are either autistic or on the broader autistic phenotype. You probably are not very social, and when you do interact with others, you come off as strange or rude without meaning to." Oops.

Oh, so now what is it Emily? Without a socially legitimized career label you're resorting to assigning yourself a social dysfunction label? No, no, I may be silly, but I'm not that silly. I don't require a label. But what I might appreciate is a means to cut myself some slack for having grown up feeling like such a weirdo-cum-alien who still doesn't seem to have the normal wiring where connecting with people on a social level is concerned. (A few people though. Jeff was extraordinary in his ability to grasp my wavelength which is why I miss that aspect so much.)

Here is another quote from the BAP analysis: "Given the low concordance of autism in siblings and fraternal twins compared to the concordance in identical twins, it is likely that autism results from the combination of a number of alleles, 3 to 15 or even more according to researchers." This makes sense. If you throw a handful of pepper in the soup, you get peppery soup. If you throw a pinch in it may be more palatable but it won't be unpeppered. My son Gabe is a little peppery. So is my brother Jim for that matter. Two people, each one degree of genetic separation from me, who would, I daresay, score higher than 102, 90, and 82.

So what does all this mean? Nothing. Well...something. It helps me look at my kid (as well as myself and my brother) in a kinder, more curious light. (not that the light was unkind before.) What is the significance of a differently-wired brain? What might be the advantages? Surely it's not a bad thing as long as one doesn't get too hung up on trying to grasp why one seems such an awkward fit with the "normal" coffee klatsch crowd. (Which I did. Get hung up, that is.) It's easier, though, to lose the hang-up if you realize it's not a character flaw, it's your wiring. The thing about Gabe is, he has no such hang-up. There's enough pepper in his soup that he doesn't even think about it. The thing about me is, I apparently live close enough to the cut-off point...I am, in other words, close enough to "normal" that I see across the fence and wonder if I oughtn't to be on the other side.

all aboard!

Trip planning is an area where I leave little to chance. Even when I don’t have reservations chiseled in, I will almost certainly have Googlemapped the locations of several Paneras and Chipotles along the route, allowing for some flexibility as to which address I’ll later tap into the GPS, depending on timing and traffic.

I’ll admit, there is an aspect of adventure that is lost when multiple channels of information become available, but I’m not sure I’d go back to the old way...Hungry adults, cranky toddlers, tooling in a southerly direction down a Virginia interstate...must stop! Blue sign, up ahead says (not promisingly) “Colonial Family Restaurant.” But, having passed miles of exits of nothingness, we decide to take our chances. Well, this was not the WORST overcooked pasta a la runny ketchup dished out in an ambience replete with burned out bulbs, sticky tabletops, and the happy patter of a fly family reunion...actually, yes, it probably was the worst. We may never have topped the Colonial Family in terms of abject disgust factor, but we’ve come close.

My first impulse, while planning our upcoming Fall railroad adventure, was to leave some loose room. Get on at point A. Get off at...point B, C, or D, depending on what I felt like. Get on again, when we’ve seen enough. But then I learned that Amtrak bedroom compartments book up months in advance, and sleeper trains were an important feature of my travel notion.

Consequently we are, more or less, planned to a fare-thee-well. Not a bad thing either, considering all thinking on the fly must be performed by one brain for two bodies, one of which tends to balk when asked to move too quickly. In October we will board the Capitol Limited, and chug from Washington D.C. to Chicago, through the battlefields of Harper’s Ferry West Virginia, and along the south edge of Lake Erie. In Chicago, we’ll change to the Southwest Chief and nearly complete a cross-country odyssey, traveling across expanses of the plains I’ve only ever flown over. We’ll get off in Santa Fe, and spend 2 days and nights testing to see whether the town really is as touristy as they say, before we return to the Chief, and travel several hours farther to Flagstaff. I have only ever seen the Grand Canyon by air. (Once, while flying from Baltimore to Denver, I changed planes in Las Vegas. I realize this makes no geographical sense whatever, but the sky was clear and the view of the Canyon was unparalleled.) So now, I will visit in person, and I hope that our Fall timing will keep us out of the worst of the mass-of-humanity crunch.

So now I have reservations of the booking kind, and a few of the emotional kind. How will Jeff do walking the jostling aisles of a locomotive? Will disorientation cost us too much sleep during our 2 nights aboard? (This, I hope, will be simplified by the tiny size of the bedroom compartment, and the convenient location of the potty an armstretch away. At least I won't have to get far out of bed to provide guidance.) And I predict that the adventure will be, all in all, well suited to his needs and current life preferences. Jeff likes to watch the world go by, ask strangers where they're from, eat, and sleep. A train trip, with meals and bed included, might be ideal.

Now excuse me. In the spirit of overplanning, I have The Rough Guide to the Grand Canyon, and a Moon Handbook guide to Santa Fe, and they want me to read them, highlighter poised and ready.

watching birds helps

I had high hopes for 2010, and I am finding that, in a small way, it is turning out to be a year of peace-making as far as my life and I are concerned.

This actually is not a day on which I should, in particular, feel a sense of peaceful resolve. Patti, the teacher who usually drives Gabe and a couple others to school, is sick again and it appears that tomorrow will be consumed by bookends of teen-shuttling, from here to Baltimore and back. With a doctor appointment in between. Woo hoo for sudden schedule lock-ins. Yes, my ever-so-slightly Aspergery tendencies feel rebellious, but my philosophical aspect is able to keep them in check. (Newsflash: I’m off the hook for the morning run--thanks Sarah!)

Well, I suppose it’s no new revelation that what bravery I felt in the realm of property ownership was completely undone with the demise of my partner’s mechanical abilities and general situational perception. That is part of why I admire condos--low maintenance, no yard, little to clean. The building is not my problem. But I also know, without a doubt, that an itch to pick up and leave is really--at a root level--nothing but an impulse to run away from a situation which is not escapable. When this house was in the throes of growing pains, and the roof leaked, and drywall dust was a component of the air we breathed, I remember thinking how--if we could just achieve basic inhabitability--that I could happily live here forever, diddling away at the minor things remaining.

I am, with minor fits of kicking and screaming from my inner runner, finding my way back to that sentiment. Only change live here forever to live here for a while, anyway. I am growing slightly more confident that I can keep it from falling apart. (If you opened the boggart cupboard in front of me, here’s what I’d see: A house in derelict condition that I’m responsible for selling!)

I’m turning from a component of Em & Jeff back into Emily the single person--at least from the standpoint of self-identity--and perhaps, after (what’s it been?) 6-7 years, I don’t hate it anymore.

pc-aroma

Why do non-Macintosh computers...such as my Toshiba netbook...such as the Gateway desktop Gabe is glued to...have an interesting and distinctive smell while warm and in operation that I've never detected from a Mac? I don't know. In a tiny way, it reminds me of the way my brother's electric racetrack set used to smell when you'd get the little vehicles fired up and zooming. Just before they fell off on the banked curve, that is.

It wasn't the dawn's early light, but it was good.

Advantage: Oldness. At age 62 you become eligible for a $10 lifetime Senior Pass which will admit you (and the other ≤ 3 people in your car) to National Parks and Federal wildlife areas all over the country

Yesterday's goal was to obtain one. National Park Service information online made it clear that such a thing could be obtained in person only, and--being of the get-it-done-now school of thought--I wanted to, well, get it done now.

I had not visited Fort McHenry, right down the road in Baltimore, since one of my kids formed a star, or a fraction of a stripe, or--I don't know--maybe a grommet, in the annual "human flag" event where they try to convince a couple hundred third-graders to sit still long enough for a picture to be snapped from a helicopter. It isn't easy. I don't remember this as a particularly fun field trip as these things go!

Wednesday was jacket weather, but the sun was a trooper. And for once I actually appreciated the informative video which described exactly why Francis Scott Key was aboard a ship in the harbor and thus excellently positioned to see the bombs bursting in air. (he was supposed to talk the British into releasing a prisoner--his friend Dr. Beanes--who was not, as far as I can tell, Rowan Atkinson. If he had been, no negotiator would have been required. It would have been The Ransom of Red Chief--at sea edition.)

This time I paid the kind of attention you can't pay when your companions are under 14...i.e. I read the descriptive plaques and stood still long enough to listen to the recorded commentary in places such as enlisted men's bunk room or officer's poorly lit, but better appointed, chamber. The voice of the recorded commentary, btw, was Alan Walden--a longtime WBAL radio voice--and Jeff named that tune, I mean voice, rather quickly. I couldn't come up with it, though I did concur. I could however walk in a hunched posture up and down the cramped steps into the "bomb-safe" chamber without bumping my head 3 times on the way up, and I could take pictures without the photographic subject having to guide me in pointing the camera in the right direction.

Here's the thing about Jeff--even with an increasingly bewildered and slightly askew expression as a regular feature of his face, he manages to not look his age. It has always been thus, and his recent boyish haircut reduced the unruly sticking-out grey-haired factor, so when we walked into the Fort McHenry visitors' center and I declared that we'd like a $10 lifetime pass please, the reaction of the two rangers on duty was a rapid but kindly protestation that it was only for those age 62 and up. At which point I grinned knowingly, pointed at Jeff, and said "That's why we brought his i.d."

Fortunately I had thought to ask Jeff if he had his wallet just after we walked out our front door. He did not. He hadn't seen it for a couple of days, he said, which left me two options: Get his passport from where it's safely stowed in a filing cabinet, or look for the wallet. I started with the latter and--after patting down several pairs of pants, awkwardly hanging in the closet--it paid off. Wallet recovered. And i.d. ready to move into my wallet, next to the National Park Senior Pass which will, by the way, get us into the Grand Canyon next October without the usual $25 entrance fee.

Atomic Clock

Freddi the dog smiles at me with a big doggie grin as I come in from dumping the overflowing trashcan of recyclable plastics and bottles into the big yellow bin outside. She was hoping she could come, but not this time. Dogs are very forgiving.

Outside, I’d noticed that a box had tumbled out of the yellow bin. “Atomic Wall Clock,” it said. The clock itself is now suspended on a screw on the wall, just above the bulletin board in the dining area. Exactly where, 3 days ago, the big-faced analog clock with day and date readout had been hanging. I’m thinking of putting the analog back and finding a new home for the atomic wonder clock. It’s dark, unlit, and too hard to read.

Besides--despite my scientifically precise probe of a couple months ago, which ascertained that Jeff can read a digital but not an analog clock--the Atomic Wall Clock has failed to deliver. Or Jeff’s brain has taken a step away from clock reading of any sort.

”What’s it say?” I questioned, pointing helpfully at the 3 inch tall numbers 9, 4, and 4. “Right here, in the big window.” Jeff scrutinizes it, clearly uninspired. “Wednesday,” he says. Oops. No, today is Saturday and I’m pretty sure I’ve corrected my initial a.m./p.m. time-setting error, so the smaller, lower window is reading “SAT.”

”Here,” I say. “Nine, four, four...nine forty-four.” “Oh yes, of course,” Jeff replies, “nine forty-four.”

Here’s why the clock is atomic: It’s supposed to periodically check its time against atomically transmitted signals and adjust accordingly. Here’s why it doesn’t: Our house is apparently too fortress-like to let even atomic signals pass through. This used to mean cell phones barely worked inside, but current performance suggests that both Verizon and AT&T are broadcasting with a little more gusto these days. But I doubt there’s any monetary incentive for the atomic clock radio waves to get stronger.

It is later, evening. I’m sitting here at my computer where I should have an absolutely clear shot, visually speaking, at the atomic clock. I can’t read it. Not at all. I see nothing but the glare of the kitchen lights firing back from its glass readout windows. (But if I get closer, it will tell me the date, day, time, and temperature, both indoor and out.) I think atomic clock esquire is moving to the front hall. Or somewhere. Here’s why I don’t care: We just had dinner--with Gordon, Tracy, and Helen--at the Stoney River Steakhouse. I don’t eat steak, but the mahi mahi was tasty, and I drank 1.5 glasses of a rather delicious and overpriced chardonnay. Also, I both purchased and mounted a lovely bird feeder today. It is hanging from the soffit of the back roof overhang, just outside a kitchen window. Perhaps, by tomorrow, the birds will have found it.

Pedestrian Crossing...please?

There is Annapolis, and then there is Annapolis. The first is a 350 or so year old town whose narrow streets and cozy harbor are frequently pictured in promotional material designed to highlight the colonial allure of Maryland’s “sailing capitol.” And a charming town it is, with housing prices reflecting the fact that the historic district is as big as it’s ever going to get, so folks pay dearly to live within walking distance of brick-paved streets, with easy access to boat shows, holiday fireworks, and exciting Spring flyovers by the Blue Angels stunt planes during Naval Academy graduation week. What they don’t get is a guarantee that they can park the car within blocks of the house, or a serviceable grocer, since downtown--with the exception of a wine merchant, a pharmacy, and a mini-mart--is devoid of merchants that actually serve the needs of residents as opposed to visitors.

But make no mistake--it's a great place to visit, eat, and walk. (Please though, don't forget to check the ground now and then while walking, as 200 year old trees do a number on what might at one time have been dependably level brickwork!)

As for the other Annapolis--the greater surrounding parts still within Annapolis postal code range--you can about flipflop the list of convenient and inconvenient features. Can you park? Yes. Can you walk? Well...

Rachel, daughter #1, is on a 6 week internship (which looks an awful lot like a vacation) in Costa Rica. Which meant it was time for the battery in her car (which isn't yet technically hers) to take its own sabbatical. And also die. Well, almost die. The AAA guy got it fired up just long enough for me to get the car to Annapolis Subaru for service. (and a new battery.)

Annapolis Subaru even shares downtown's 21401 zipcode. But it's on the west edge, separated from historic by a mile or so of industry, gas pumps, junk food, and "Walking Lester," a local guy who ambles with an unmistakable trebuchet-style gait up and down West St, sometimes picking up trash. Between Annapolis Subaru and a couple of decent shopping centers runs Maryland Route 2, a main conduit connecting southern Maryland to Baltimore. What does not run between Annapolis Subaru and those shopping centers are any officially planned means to travel on foot.

But, did we want to spend 3 hours in the dealer’s waiting room listening to Judge Stern-Lady on tv, giving the litigants in a petty lawsuit a good talking to, or did we want to take our chances with Route 2 and its environs? Plan B, of course, as daytime tv turns my brain into rice pudding, and across the highway at Whole Foods Market were blueberry muffins and coffee.

So right about here I want to thank the less-rich residents of the surrounding neighborhoods who are more likely to work in the stores than shop there, because they have trod footpaths through a man-made landscape which was designed on the assumption that humans cannot move 20 yards without a motor vehicle.

Wending our way along a slightly quieter backroad, Jeff and I maneuvered along the edges of yards and businesses before getting to a genuine, fully-functioning pedestrian crosswalk with lights, from which we finally achieved access to the grocery store and our reward. The trip from that shopping center--Annapolis Towne Center--to its nearest competitor, the Harbor Center (nowhere near the harbor, note,) was trickier. My opening thought was that we could travel via the “inside passage” of Home Depot, Outback Steakhouse, and Chevy’s Tex-Mex Grill parking lots, thus avoiding too much intimacy with Route 2. No dice. Each individual enterprise--be it a solitary restaurant or a U-shaped shopping plaza--appears to exist on its own bluff, with the space in between carved into impassible, impossibly steep county-owned trenches, often peppered along the edges with fences and/or no-trespassing signs. Hence, we were left with little choice but to follow the, fortunately, well-worn path of the local foot-commuters, right alongside the highway.

There was a stretch that made me uncomfortable, where the the curb gave way for drainage and we had to wait for a truck or two to rumble by so we could step momentarily into the road. Not comfy when your companion is inclined to trail by 10 feet, and has been known to lose his footing and stumble off a path now and then.

Nevertheless, we made it to Barnes & Noble, where I bought one book called America by Rail and another on Japanese grammar.

I have no argument with Dwight D. Eisenhower and his interstate highway system, but when did humans forget that they had legs, and consider only the needs of wheels? It was a silly decades-long habit ranking right up there with forgetting we come equipped with the means to feed infants, or thinking that we should synthesize food and color it bright orange and blue.




I can explain

Jeff’s family lived across the street. When I was 7, he was a 21 year old college student. When I was in high school, he was an adventurous but unrooted young man, hopscotching between driving a VW Beetle up the Alaska-Canadian Highway to see what he could see, stinting as a handyman on a Seattle college campus, and visiting folks in the most derelict of Baltimore subsidized housing venues as a social services caseworker. None of which had anything to do with his college major--Medieval History--but most people can say the same thing. As the parent of five kids--all with a very relaxed attitude toward the whole marriage and babies gestalt--Jeff’s mother was, shall we say, pleased when her oldest took an interest, at a Christmas Eve party, in the girl from across the street.

I, on the other hand--for all my lack of focus on the points of college major, or career goal--carried with me a certainty that the right partnership was a big missing piece in the bewildering puzzle of life, and it did not take me long, following our first date to a boring film followed by coffee and a donut, to recognize a kindred spirit who’d exactly fill the empty niche.

It is not difficult to recall why I wanted to marry Jeff. He became, in short order, the most extraordinary kind of best friend I’d ever had. We had fun from the get-go. I was hooked, like with coffee. Not because he possessed any glamorous traits which would earn him a slot on “The Bachelor,” but because my brain had found a nutrient of which it had heretofore been deprived, and there wasn’t any deciding...there was just knowing.

A Pavlovian serotonin spike in my brain preceded every dinner out with Jeff. Because we could talk. I could talk about whatever philosophical, religious or creative nonsense was tap-dancing through my cranium, and he'd fully engage, fully grasp, and return in kind. Once, following a physiology exam, I gave him a tediously detailed description of the metabolic processes cascading through a dog as it escaped in panic from a burning house. I don't know how many people would relish such an exposition...but Jeff did. I admired his woodwork, his architectural vision, his curiosity about the world, and he cared for me in all my unfocused randomness. You might say that neither one of us exactly knew what we wanted to do with our lives, so we both pretty much did whatever we wanted until we turned whatever we wanted into a team project.

Conversation could be silly, if you'd even call it conversing. Sometimes it was nothing but rhyming words we vollied like pingpong balls. I was young, awkward, and resolutely stubborn. He was patient, goofy, and open. For some reason, I was what he'd been waiting for, and he was a window of privilege that life granted me for 20 excellent years.

A student of architecture--especially that of F.L.Wright, H.H. Richardson, Stanford White and others with a taste for robust design--Jeff built shelving into any free nook, the better to fill with his growing library of books entitled The Old House, The Not So Big House, The Shingle House, The Small Smashing Shingle House. While I was too scattered to achieve purposefully, we both nonetheless pursued education for its own sake, though with rather different foci. Jeff explored drafting, business, and accounting. I forayed into art, language, creative writing (with a brief traipse through nursing.) And we bred a tribe of creative, fun and pleasant people. (Sadly without a mathematician or auto mechanic in the bunch.)

Not the most efficient yeoman on the job, Jeff trudged nonetheless with dedication toward his extra-career goals...a point of some frustration for me. He habitually underestimated the complexity of any remodeling endeavor, leaving me to raise children in a neglected, leaking house, while he spent half his work days steadfastly turning South Baltimore squalor into sturdy, attactive, rentable row-houses. In the final analysis, and despite his persistent vexation that he'd yet to achieve financial independence, this stood us in good stead when retirement became an unbidden necessity, as I was able to sell the houses for investable funds prior to real-estate crashing in value. (And hire a crew to put his unfinished project--the transformation of our own home from a small Cape Cod into a handsome bungalow--in order.)

The goodwill that family and community extend toward Jeff in his present state of impairment is a testament to the kind of person he's spent his life being. People like him. He's never been anything but honest, earnest, and ready to help, and people are inclined to nurture him in return.

As for me, I have nothing to say in summary. To even attempt to summarize the significance of what has been lost means to--at least momentarily--disengage the robotic force-field I have erected as an emotional buffer. I care for Jeff now with a sort of cantilevered love. He deserves the best attention only, and I provide it insofar as I am able without exposing that now empty niche where, for 20 years, a puzzle piece used to fit.

11, give or take 37.

We sure are having a terrible day for such a good day. The little weather gadget in the upper right corner of my Tosh is shining a bright sun and a "66º F" at me and, indeed, we just returned from a dog-walk where I had to go sleeveless it was so mild. But the weather in Jeff's head is a thick and barely penetrable London fog. Today I made strides, and crossed a few items off my to-do list, while striving to help--without patronizing--my spouse. It isn't easy.

I've said it before, but when days like today reinforce the principle I'm moved to say it again: It's when an AD person needs the most help that he most resents it, so careful treading and a backup plan of thick skin is fundamental. Today was in fact so far to the dysfunctional end of the bell curve that I didn't even get the "what a controlling bitch" vibe from strangers, because it was undoubtedly evident to casual observers that I was dealing with an impaired person. Just now, exactly before I typed this sentence, here's what I did. I got up from my counter stool and helped Jeff place his wine glass on the eye-level shelf. He was inserting it at a 45º angle, quite obviously unable to calculate whether to lie it down or stand it up. At lunch, he could not pull a chair out at Lebanese Taverna without knocking into the man behind him and being stuck, flummoxed. So I led him around to the other side of the table, positioned a chair for him, and we both sat on the same side, out of the way of other diners. Returning to the car, I headed to my door, whereupon he stopped, turned, and began to approach the door of the black SUV behind us--the one with a lady getting out, who might have been a bit disturbed by a rumpled man trying to enter her vehicle. Again, subtlety be damned, I gently led him around to my passenger door, opened it for him, and he got in.

My friend Katherine recently sent me a link to an article describing how a certain line of research posits that the plaques of Alzheimer's are a response to inflammation. This squares well with my observations of the past half-decade. I sense the inflammed times--they manifest as periods of Jeff's feeling more tired and more unwell--and I expect, based on experience, that what will follow is a step down to a lower plateau of function. Last month I noted unwellness. This month I note diminished cognition.

Apart from our outings, he does little. He sits in his chair, half dozing. (Chessie, our chunky diva feline is presently taking advantage of this for a back rub.) He goes outside and stands in the yard or the driveway. He enjoys the sun when it's out, and likes to watch the world. Not that there's much of the world to see from our street, but it seems to be enough. Or he naps, purposefully.

Bottom Line Personal, to which I most decidedly did not subscribe (although they like to pretend you did, and send you issues in the hope that you'll re-up when notified,) arrived in the mail today. The headline article is about "The Happiness Project," and summarizes the findings of a journalist, Gretchen Rubin, who collected reports via her website on what strategies stood out as effective in upping the happiness quotient of humans. Subscribed or no, it caught my eye, and I read the synopsis with interest. It did not (despite what the article suggested) surprise me.

#1. Seek novelty and challenge. I know this one well. I can feel serotonin spikes in my very own head, and I am keenly aware that they are triggered by adventure. It is no wonder, given the boundaries of my recent life--an immature young adult, still in need of daily guidance, and a spouse who needs a sitter--that I am feeling a bit mired in the doldrums. I'm worried about next year. I've been anticipating for a long time--with Gabe in other hands--the opportunity to take Jeff along on adventures...adventures that, really, are for me. I don't know what I will do if he becomes no longer capable. Strategy #2 (and I will skip the rest for being more obvious and pedestrian,) is to try doing whatever you enjoyed doing at age 10. Ok, as for me, I'm going to say 11. Because 11 was my favorite age. At 11, I was likely to be looking for someone to play with. No surprises here--I still am! The playground is limited, but I am very excited when I get a moment with a peer. (And here we will define peer as someone who can carry a conversation!) Oddly, I feel very much like I did when I was 11. Bored, diddling around. I tend to berate the child that I was for not being industrious enough--and I am trying to make up for it now by learning, reading, writing...but at 11 your world is limited. There's your house, your community, and what fun you can make of them. How did I end up 11 again? Funny little world.

planes, trains, and...yeah...autos.

Years of living with an irksome tendency to miss small details when it counts (I call it holes-in-brain syndrome) have taught me that one alarm is never adequate if I must wake up. So this morning, as my iPhone let loose with a bad-to-the-bone piano riff, my regular alarm clock prepared to chime out in synthesized bells. No need. I turned it off. Getting up at 3:30 a.m. is novel enough to jar me into alertness.

Well. Fie on getting up at 3:30 a.m. only to find out--after 30 minutes in the Delta check-in line--that your flight is cancelled and they can't get you to Costa Rica until tomorrow. At 4 p.m. we returned to Baltimore-Washington International...and Rachel's off to spend tonight in Atlanta, thus avoiding a rerun of this morning's adventure. Her comrades--a small cadre from St. Mary's all of whom will be completing a final internship abroad, in pursuit of their Masters in Teaching--will spend an extra day hanging around the Costa Rican airport town of Liberia before they all catch their ride to Nosara for their homestays and classroom assignments. I'd be more inclined to fret if Rachel had not previously traveled back and forth to Panama and Nicaragua. Costa Rica is aptest, of the three, to be the safest and most touristy.

Between runs to BWI, I squeezed in a trip to the vet. Hazel's belly-licking allergy has flared beyond food-control, and today she got her first steroid injection in almost 2 years. Dr. Olexia assured me that 20 months is an exemplary record, and I should hardly kick myself that I lost my grip on my dietary mastery of her immune system. She has, at this point, been well exposed to every protein source one can offer to a domestic cat, and it's time for the big guns. Or small, I guess, as what I'm about to resort to is feeding the wee nuisance a special diet wherein the proteins are hydrolized into such short amino acid chains that they're...theoretically...barely recognized by the immune system as worthy of attack. We'll see...

Then I got Gabe launched on an expedition with the driving instructor before taking off to the airport again with Rachel. Not half-bad, was the report I got later (about the driving--which says nothing, you'll notice, about the other half,) but he has a bit of trouble maintaining focus for the full 2 hour session. I quickly scribble a reminder on the calendar to dose him pre-drive on Thursday, with the same "alertness-helper" he uses to maximize the value of a school day.

Did anyone see the article in this weekend's Parade magazine supplement about American trips by rail? That is it. That's what we'll do next year. If Jeffy's still hanging in there, I'm going to tuck him onto the Southwest Chief, jump on behind, and try a sleeping car for the first time ever! We'll stop in Santa Fe--yes. Flagstaff--yes. Anywhere between L.A. and Chicago we feel like, for that matter. Or I feel like. As for Jeff, he likes windows. And looking at stuff. And food. I think we can swing this.

You have entered...The Mall Zone...

I must abashedly confess that we once again spent our midday outing striding purposefully from one specifically-targeted Annapolis Mall location (for sneakers) to another (for lunch,) and back again.

I don’t know if I’ve been clear that I don’t find shopping malls to exactly be pinnacle examples of the kind of human cultural sites that are worthy of frequent visits...but, hey, sometimes you need stuff and they serve a niche function. (A function at which Annapolis Mall sadly failed today as, once again, shoes for size 9.5 feet--that’ll be 41 in Euro--proved unavailable.)

Still, on the combined topics of malls and creativity, have you taken a gander at mannequins lately? It’s apparently a specialized art branch to design humanoids for display purposes. I will admit here and now that the talking, sliding, frozen-faced characters on the latest batch of Old Navy® advertisements and commercials give me a small case of the willies. It’s all very Twilight Zone, which might be the point...but even now I find the Zone a little disconcerting, unless the episode features William Shatner to give it a buffering dose of hamminess.

The Stepford people from Old Navy, however, have nothing on the pseudo-children in the kids’ department at Nordstrom. I will show you.

Exhibits A and B: Are these characters human? I reckon not, unless they display a heretofore unheard of genetic mutation triggered by eating too much squid. Either that or they’re...you know...aliens. You can tell because of the smug expression on the face of the blue-shirted boy who, it’s safe to say, clearly calls all the shots. When all the spelling bee champs at your children’s schools turn out to have faces like these, well...don’t say I didn’t give you a heads-up. (Note that the little girl in the pink dress is not even normal by squid-people standards. My guess is that she is actually a pet.)

Now we turn to a very different but equally disturbing vignette from Lord & Taylor, the department store that must be traversed to access Punk’s Backyard Grill from Nordstrom, without walking through the parking lot. We’ll call this Exhibit C. Quite apart from the fact that this boy’s face is apparently melting into featureless uniformity, it must be quite unsettling to have to dress up in your monkey suit only to find yourself at this party. (Umm...Mom? Do we hafta stay? Nobody here has a head.)

All I can say is, mannequin artists must be fascinating people with curious backstories. Our lunch, by the way, was tasty as usual. It was not squid.

It's only STAIN-less

Do not even wave a Scotch-Brite® (or similar) cleaning pad in the vicinity of a stainless steel appliance. I did several years ago when stainless steel appliances were a brand new concept for me. Why wouldn’t I? You use scratchy stuff on pots and pans. You use scratchy stuff on stainless steel spatulas with egg cooked tenaciously onto their leading edges. Why would an appliance be different?

Well, they are. They have a grain. A grain which will be tragically disrupted by a well-meaning but aggressive assault with a scratchy pad. We’ve lived with it since then--an abstract swoosh, roughly reminiscent of a cobra under the spell of a snake charmer. Right in the middle of the freezer door. Glaringly obvious.

I don’t even remember what nature of crud inspired the attack, but I’ve considered it irreparable ever since. Until, a few weeks ago, I randomly decided to Google it, and stumbled across a strong and enthusiastic recommendation for Revere Copper Cleaner in just such a situation. The poster had purchased the stuff at Williams-Sonoma.

Sadly, our Annapolis Williams-Sonoma--for all their array of shiny cookware and inspirational gadgets which I would never use in real-time--did not carry Revere Copper Cleaner. Neither did Target. Neither did “Sur La Table,” the charmingly hoity-toity kitchen supply temptress near Target. But I had found it on Amazon, and was shocked by the price. It was almost $40. This must be some kind of hot stuff, I thought, declining to purchase it then and there. But this was prior to my failure at all the brick & mortar locations, and finally--owing to the easy nature of Amazon button-pushing, and the constant in-my-face nature of the refrigerator blotch--I ordered it.

It came today, in a larger box than expected, and I instantly grasped the reason for the high price. I had purchased a case of 12. Well, I need it. And you can’t exactly return 11/12ths of a purchase. And it worked! Mostly. With close examination, or in certain reflective conditions, I still see the scratch. The biggest nuisance was that once I worked for a while on the scratched area, I had to do the rest of the fridge to match. But it’s 95% improved, and I’m pleased.

Now I will be handing out 7 oz. jars of Revere Copper Cleaner like party favors. Tea? Coffee? Copper Cleaner?

One day at a time (that's the only way there is, right?)

It hasn't been a promising week on the Alzheimer's front. We are going to take the garbage and recycling out, I say with my therapeutic expression of friendly invitation. Jeff jumps up. He is ready to roll. Do you want to get the blue bin out of the closet? I ask.

The blue bin is a small plastic waste can into which we cram all recyclable paper until such time as it goes outside to the big yellow bin. We empty it every Sunday, for Monday morning pick-up. On some days which aren't Sunday, Jeff just takes it out and dumps it for something to do. But today he is bewildered by both the term "blue bin," and the concept "closet." He hovers near me as I remove the full plastic garbage bag from the large trash container in the kitchen, and tie the ends closed. Then I walk him over to the closet and point to the blue bin. Why don't you grab that?

Outside, he follows me to the road, spies the partially full yellow bin (which I have already pulled out,) and makes ready to drag it back to the house. No, it's full, I say. They're going to pick it up tomorrow.

Later that night, going to the Hippodrome Theater where we will see Stomp with my mom, Gabe, and Gabe's friend Matt, Jeff cannot find the door of the car, cannot fasten his seat belt, forgets how to hand the lady at the door his ticket 30 seconds after I place it in his hand, then tries to walk through a glass door, instead of the open one next to it. I am nearby to hand over the ticket myself, then steer him through the doorway.

Today proves little better. We are labeling and stamping concert association postcards with a handful of volunteers at Mom's dining room table. I know Jeff cannot put the labels on in the proper place, nor the stamps. I have him peel off then hand me stamps. It's not a speedy way to get things done, but we move along, and when he hands me bits of the plain white sticky paper framing the sheet of stamps, instead of a stamp, I simply stick it to a sheet of scrap paper and wait for the next one.

Nowadays I open his sandwich wrapper at Whole Foods, spread it out, and orient the sandwich halves for easy grabbing. I open the chips and aim the bag opening toward him. I unfold a napkin for maximum absorbent surface exposure. It's a good lunch. Jeff praises his "Santa Fe Sunrise" sandwich, and I enjoy my salad bar stuff.

I confer with my mom by phone. Yes, she has noticed a decline. She uses the word "precipitous," but I don't think it quite is. She notes that my grandmother, in her declining years with Alzheimer's, lost functions gradually. First the function would blink on and off for a while, like a dashboard light with bad wiring. Later, it completely conked out.

Jeff sits on the couch, and I sit in the rocker and read an entire chapter of Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid until I am about out of voice. Jeff likes it. He doesn't get every single nuance, but the chapter is about Americans' fears and fascinations in the 50's--nuclear detonations, Communism, teenagers--and he remembers the time well, as he is only a very few years older than the writer. We note that somewhat-crazy politicians are nothing new.

In between the day's dynamic adventures I have answered review questions in Japanese, washed laundry, and read commentary from both sides on today's big news--the health care overhaul has passed Congress--making a pleased comment or two myself, while being careful to keep my tone non-incendiary. The rancor bewilders me. In a two-party system sometimes it will go this way, sometimes that. The world as we know it is no more likely to end than it was last week. Jeff notes that our very conservative friend Bill is doubtless on a rant of epic proportion today. Jeff isn't bad at reasonable observations when he's sitting still.

It is 7:30 pm. I have nothing left to provide in the way of entertainment, so Jeff goes to bed. I am going to watch "Property Virgins," an HGTV program about first-time home buyers. I don't know why I like "Property Virgins"...maybe Sandra Rinomato's overbearing personality makes me feel sensibly mild-mannered. Or there's just nothing else on, and I like the sound of human voices sometimes, even if it's only pseudo-company.

dinged cars, wrinkled clothes...yes, we're rumpled.

I pulled a wadded-up pair of L.L.Bean khakis out of the small t-shirt drawer on Jeff's side of the closet. There was a balled handkerchief in the pocket, and a braided belt still in the loops.

"Aha..." I said. So this is where last night's outfit, worn to the neighbors' 50th anniversary party, ended up. Two days ago I had pulled more wadded trousers out of Jeff's sock drawer. Today I got tired of the blue Eddie Bauer flannel-lined broadcloth shirt which has served as his default overshirt for roughly 2 weeks. "Wear this chambray," I said, handing him something suitably lighter for the changing weather. He put on his clean clothes. When he met me outside for a dog-walk, 15 minutes later, he'd added the other ubiquitous flannel-lined shirt--the army green one. It must mysteriously disappear into the laundry of no-return, I noted to myself. At least until Fall.

Later today, I did driving practice with Gabe. Our first in roughly a year and a half. Gabe drives like someone who has never driven before, and I fear it will continue to be so well into his paid sessions with the professional instructor, which start next week during his Spring break. We both maintained our decent humors, more or less, as we traversed (more of less) the byways of several neighborhoods near ours, misgauging turn radii and becoming friendly with hedges. It remains clear that I haven't the temperament to teach him myself, any more than he has the temperament to tolerate me as co-pilot. He says he finds the professional guys less annoying. I hope that under their tutelage he'll progress faster, and that they'll feel no need to scold me for our lack of practice since '08.

Now it's time for me to dig out Jeff's dress-up clothes, hoping I didn't fail to note their last location. With luck, I caught his suit before it hit the floor last time (whenever that was,) and I will not find it smashed into a wrinkled rag in a drawer full of pencils and loose change. Tonight we will attend a fundraising dinner event for the Community Center down the street, and it will be an excellent time to catch up with my sister, whom I never see, as she is usually either teaching school or ferrying small children to scouting events, while I am helping some people put their underwear on properly, and encouraging others to remove 15 dirty glasses from the computer desk, or not drive into stop signs. As a help, there will be several useful hands in our group, to take turns towing Jeff back into position when he gets stuck behind chairs or stares relentlessly at someone who does not wish to converse with him.

But there will be food, and there will be wine, and I will be happy.

many mouthfuls

Most likely I'll have to drive to Baltimore and pick Gabe up after school tomorrow. There is little chance that his usual carpool will push off promptly enough for me to make it to the orthodontist by 4:30 pm if I wait and meet him at the rendezvous point.

This is, roughly, the last orthodontic appointment I'll be taking a kid to ever. And that was a lot of teeth, a lot of wire, and a whole Jaws-sized mouthful of money, all told. (Nor have I quite seen the end of it, as Gabe will require--not long down the road--a permanent installation to replace the absent tooth which is currently supplied by means of a retainer appendage.)

What else am I almost done doing? Quite a few things, when I stop and think about it. In just under three months, I will have assembled my last school lunch. (I can't say this will break any hearts, as I have a long and entrenched history of uninspired lunch-packing.) But that's 18 years of lunch duty...and upwards of 40 if you measure in kid-years.

This summer, I will tote Gabe to his last drum lesson. I will (I hope) assist in the acquisition of the fourth and final driver's license. And I will be entirely through with waking up at 5:15 a.m. on a normal morning, so as to allow time to feed the cats and dog, make the coffee, and get Gabe up in time for carpool.

It's a little difficult to imagine life beyond a generation of regularly scheduled obligations. And no question many of the gaps will be quickly filled by irregular and unscheduled crises. But I think I'm ready. One of the things I will do is attempt to memorize the last name of my handyman, which is, by the way, Maarschalkerweerd.

Mac 'n Tosh

My MacBook Pro is a 15 incher. It's a fine figure of engineering, and a reliable workhorse. It is also seventh in a long lineage of Macs, following (starting in 1988) a Mac SE, a Mac Performa (which had, as I recall, the coolest introductory video,) a hot pink iMac (which developed a certain finickiness with regard to rejecting disks on demand,) a bright orange "toilet seat" iBook laptop (my very first "all mine" computer,) a pristinely white and clunky eMac (only recently donated to a shelter,) a small white, almost square, iBook, and a larger silver MacBook Pro (only recently donated to a daughter.)

Despite my obvious default inclination, I've maintained a PC desktop in the computer room, since the girls were in high school, for the purposes of (at the time) easily opening downloadable physics class homework. The Gateway is, at present, the seat of Gabe's domain, when he's not battling zomboids and demonoids on the PS3. Hence, as fanfic and anime sites are hotbeds of slippery worms and trojans, I have become passably competent at analysing and remedying problems that occur on PCs and not Macs.

So it was with only slight trepidation that I stepped outside my normal behavioral patterns and recently purchased a Toshiba netbook. Here is why I did: A 15" MacBook does not comfortably fit inside carry on baggage, nor does it tuck into a convenient green totebag. Additionally, I would have trouble philosophically accepting its loss due to accident or theft. Furthermore, it is unsatisfactory to type and blog on an iPhone, beyond brief texts. The final straw is that I don't like the look of the new iPad for typing, and I decidedly do not want to join the guinea pig generation of the things. So, I bought a Toshiba netbook.

It was a little weird for me--an avowed Mac enthusiast--to do so. I had to talk myself into looking at it as if I were conversant in two languages. And I had to, as a matter of course, install antivirus software, Avira in this case. And I had to laugh at my silliness. Because it seemingly is a fine little beast--easy to port, and perfectly functional. Not a Mac, 'tis true, but quite ok as far as I can tell.

So, once we commence moving around the country (for example--we will deliver Gabe to Connecticut in August, with an extended side trip to include an inn, and Mark Twain's house,) I will (gently) drop the Tosh in my carry-along and leave the Mac safely on my desk. Because it will be at that point that I can (finally!) blog about something other than a) angst, b) home maintenance, c) food shopping, and c) computers.

Give me a P!....J! oops.

I'm brainstorming.

Actually, I'm not sure whether one brain can storm all by itself, so it may be that I'm merely brainsqualling, or just brainclouding. (Wait...braincloud...that's what the bogus doc told Tom Hanks he had in Joe Versus the Volcano to falsely convince him he was terminal. Well, whatever...I'm certain, actually, that I do have braincloud, and I'm equally certain that it's not terminal.)

This is the nature of my squall: (It was more of a revelation preceding rapt consideration...) I absolutely will not need a 6 bedroom house in a very few years. Really, I won't. I don't think anyone will come back for any significant amount of time, with the possible exception of Gabe, who may try to, whereupon he will discover that the chair in the computer room has been rigged with a Batmobile-like spring device which will eject him through a special Gabe-shaped cut-out in the roof. I'm going to have to see if Dutch the handyman can work on that.

But, honest-to-goodness, I cannot picture what I'd want to do instead, because--for some reason--my vision is apparently incapable of extending that far. I'm pretty sure that this house--this rather wonderful, handcrafted, visionary, but utterly quirky house--is much too much for two people with one and a half brains. But what to run away to? And would I simply be running away from a loneliness that's going to follow me anyway? Seems entirely possible.

I cannot move to one of the places I would go if this silly life scenario had played out 2 or 3 decades down the road, when a choice to be surrounded by other seniors and the usual senior amenities (including conveniently proximate nursing care) might be sensible and appealing. Nor is it enough to stay here, reminding myself that my mother and sister are 2 and 3 miles down the road--because we have our separate lives and responsibilities and only intersect when it's deliberate. This is a largish house, on 1/3 acre, on a pleasant street where you only see your neighbors in passing, while walking the dog. I don't think this is how humans were designed to live. At least not alone.

I am somewhat enthralled by the notion of co-housing--planned neighborhoods, where families or individuals have their own smallish homes, but carry out many functions in a central structure, and enjoy community meals, a group garden, central greens. I guess it could be awful. It depends. It could be magnificent.

Trouble is, I'm far too impatient, and anxious to answer a question that doesn't yet require an answer. Lots can happen. Life may flop its own idea of a next step down in front of me like a gauntlet that I haven't imagined. And I am intrigued by that possibility.

INFJ. That's me, as measured by Myers-Briggs. I think, though, that I will just take that J and exchange it for the P, if you don't mind. I'm done with the J. You can have it. It wants everything to be mapped out and settled, and things are almost never mapped out and settled. Silly old J. Maybe it would like a glass of Pinot.

No shortage of bamboo, however

Between our backyard and the neighbors' behind us (there are two, as our lot backs up to a midline,) is a 15 foot County right-of-way. The County never has and, as far as I can imagine, never will access this no man's land. They certainly by no means maintain it in any way and, as such, it has become--over time--a sort of default place to throw the old Christmas trees, yard waste, and sawdust-based kitty litter. Our property line was more or less marked, as of almost 20 years ago, by a row of Leyland cypresses which we planted as wee little things of roughly 3 feet tall. Over the ensuing decades the ones which got sun grew tall and windblown. The ones which didn't were relatively stunted, and brown at the bottom. Many have succumbed to winter, and more than ever to the snows of 2010.

When we felt a need to fence in our dog Freddi, the only option was within the cypress-line, and the fence--as it now stands--shortens an already shallow back yard. Hence, as the only cypresses remaining are the healthy batch on our southwest border, we'll be having the sticks and fallen evergreens hauled, and then resurvey for a new fence. The dog will get an expanded sniff and poo zone, and the back view will seem a good deal less stunted than it does now. Without any cypresses, there's a clear vista into the yard of the Two Yapping Spaniels, but since the trees hardly muffled the noise...what difference?

Yes, this is instead of buying furniture for the back patio. But, perhaps it will be a more inspirational place to stand.

RDA of distraction? Check.

The first Fresh Market I ever visited was in Greensboro, North Carolina. We had checked out of the Hyatt Place after breakfast, but were early for the Guilford College open house, and there it was--in a snazzy new bells & whistles shopping center--The Fresh Market. So we stopped. As I recall we purchased a package of dried mangoes and a 6-pack of Cheerwine (Gabe's choice--I do not enjoy its cherry cough syrup allure.)

Gabe declared it to be the finest grocery store he'd ever experienced...nay, one he could verily work for, and we've been awaiting the arrival of the new one which, as of last Wednesday now occupies the space vacated by Whole Foods when it transitioned from marvelous to mind-bogglingly stellar.

Jeff and I visited Thursday, as part of our "lunch and a field trip" daily routine. As often happens with new stores, the staff--for that week--are the most scurryingly helpful humans on the face of the planet. It was the first time since I was four years old that someone (not related to me) has carted my purchases out to the car. (No, I've forgotten. They did that at Whole Foods, same location, first week or so!)

We will return. Especially since we enjoy the Lebanese Taverna, three doors down, for lunch. And I will assuredly buy a 4-pack of cupcakes. (Unless I buy an apple pie.) I will probably select a few apples, tangerines, and green things. But they will not be the green things from the broad central region of the store, which is overflowing with bins of fancy candies of all stripes, and snack mixes containing everything from pumpkin seeds to candied kumquat.

The Fresh Market is not likely to be my venue for the most serious of grocery shopping, but when you're as tickled as we are every time you get a tiny, free cup of coffee, then shopping for minneolas is at least as good as Disney. Probably better, since you would be hard-pressed to get coffee at the latter for under three bucks.

liniment required.

I can feel my brain.

Just a few seconds ago, for example, I had a website in mind. I was going to go to it next, but got distracted by a bit of flash-happy visual clutter and--clink--that website rolled right off my cerebral desk and into a dusty corner amongst a couple of neurons that most likely concern themselves with whether Gabe has any socks left that he hasn’t picked holes in.

I’m pretty sure I’ll find it later. (and discover it was about as valuable as a gum-ball machine trinket.) But the notable point is that I felt it go clink, just as I feel something akin to lactic acid build-up after a 5 page Japanese chapter test.

Ever faced a treadmill, or a 3-mile run, and had your cranky, groggy muscles say you’re kidding, right?, even if they go on to acquiesce? That’s exactly the way my brain feels--even three semesters in--every time it’s faced with a page of text in hiragana and kanji, as opposed to nice “normal” romaji. (this is pretty much typed in romaji, btw.) It’s like you go to open the receptors of your brain and find them packed in cotton batting, with a muffled voice in the back weakly protesting that it’s stuck.

So far I usually manage to unstick it. And I wonder whether--if your brain is slowly getting gunked up by beta amyloid--can you feel it? You can’t unstick it, like I can, and this soothes my paranoia a bit.

Life? Yeah.

Tonight, we finished The Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America by Bill Bryson. Tomorrow we will start The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: a Memoir, by the same. I’ve read it before. Actually, I’ve read them all before, and I can’t quite remember which, over the past 2-3 years, I’ve already read to Jeff. But it doesn’t matter, because I enjoy them, and he does too.

Today I had the fleeting thought that I could switch over to rereading the Harry Potter Chronicles, or Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy--either of which (set) I’d happily give a third go to. But here’s why Bryson will win out: While they’re sequential, (Lost Continent narrates his trip across America, and Thunderbolt Kid describes his childhood in Des Moines, Iowa,) neither requires retention of details. I’m certain we would not retain the plot throughout a novel, but with Bill Bryson it doesn’t matter. Each chapter is a vignette in and of itself.

In a sense, our lives are very much like the lives of our cats. The most interesting and pressing topics are what will we eat?, is it nap time?, should we go outside?...but we add thrills, including How much fun can we have buying groceries?

I’m not sure what to make of the life of an Alzheimer companion. Sometimes I feel like a caged bear, and wish for anything that I could have a job--even at a coffee shop--because then I’d make a couple bucks, and really appreciate my free time. Maybe. Other times I notice how relatively pleasant and gentle the pace is, and know plenty of folks who’d happily live at this speed for a breather. And sometimes I’m mentally generating a list of possible ways to have someone to talk to who can follow a conversation. But I guess it’s a life. So I don’t need to get one.

Super freaky

Pick that up later, I say. Pick it up when we’re done. But scrupulosity is one of the interesting features of Jeff’s changing brain, and if something from his fork takes a swan dive--as two bits of shaved carrot did today--he will root around under the table until he finds it.

Metro Silver Diner is one of our semi-regulars, because of its veg-friendly options and convenience to Target and Whole Foods Market. Its character is a quirky cross between retro 50s, and space-age (also retro 50s, I guess) Jetsons-style ingenuity. You survey the large back-lit menu boards, then enter your credit card and choices into a self-serve, touch-screen kiosk which has its own “do you want fries with that” tricks, such as splashing up a picture of a frosty milkshake and asking, with polite encouragement, whether you’d be interested. If you’re me, you hit the “no thanks” button. Then you grab a “number key” which resembles a plastic ankh, input your number on the screen, and find a table, whereupon you stick the skinny end of the key into an electronic box which sits where--in the old days--your personal jukebox control would have...and that way, the waitstaff knows where to bring your Summer Citrus salad and Veg Chili combo.

Jeff picked up the two bits of shaved carrot and placed them on the table. Five minutes later, when a chip of bacon escaped from his sandwich to the table and he began to toss the bits of everything back into his salad, I grabbed the carrot shavings with a napkin a split-second before he would have. You picked those up from the floor, I said. I did? replied Jeff. Yep, says I. Let me go get another napkin. (and pitch the floor food.)

Intervention is the norm. The irony is that the best way to minimize the appearance that I’m a control freak, is to be so very in control that I’ve headed off potential disasters before they require direct intervention. As a rule, I manage to do it with an even temperamental keel. But I’ve observed this: When frustration shortens my temper, and crankiness burbles out ahead of my action...it’s usually myself with whom I’m mad. Not that you’d know that. Cranky is cranky. No one needs it. But it comes when I should have intervened sooner, but didn’t.

Case: This morning. I’m chopping an apple. The dog is standing in the back yard issuing loud woofs. It’s 6:00 am. The neighbors don’t need this. I will get that dog, I say, in a minute. I know I should leave the apple and go get her now. But Jeff heads out the door. Maybe this is fine. Maybe I can let him do it. Maybe...he is not carrying her in the back door upside down in such an awkward way that one slight gravitational tug will have her hanging by her arthritic back-legs. I scurry over and rescue the dog. You can’t carry her like that! I scold. I should not scold. It’s not nice. But I know the truth is that I am scolding myself. I’m not frustrated with Jeff, I’m frustrated with me. My job is to prevent disasters before they’re born. Because, unlike with kids, there is no valuable learning experience for a person with AD. If the kid forgets to insert the filter basket and the coffee overflows all over the countertop...well, next time she probably won’t forget. If the AD person forgets to insert the filter basket and the coffee overflows...there is a mess, there is--for this moment--a sense of failure, and there is no learning.

So, yes, if you insist, I am a control freak. It’s the only good choice.

wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles...

ApplianceLand finally delivered and installed my new dishwasher today. Two dates scheduled and lost to snow back-log, but today it actually occurred. Oh, it better run like a freshly-tuned Jaguar. Without going anywhere, I mean.

So, after removing all the dog-bombs from the backyard with my little rake and pan combo (these can--due to the residual snow--be otherwise known as i.c.b.m.s,) I explored the new Kitchenaid dw. (p.s.--I cleaned up the doggie work as a courtesy to the tree removal crew who will be clearing out the fallen and dead leyland cypresses from the backyard within the next couple of days, barring substantially more snow.)

As for the dishwasher...well, for starters, I am not minding another block of stainless steel, as opposed to the cabinet front set that was taken out. Also, there is always the learning curve of establishing new loading habits when you find yourself facing an unfamiliar set of interior prongs and brackets.

Still, the process has not been without fun. In reading the user guide, for instance, I discovered that Star-K, whose business it is to certify appliances as kosher or not, contributed an entire half-page to the proper usage of my dishwasher on the Sabbath and/or holidays. (Well, not my dw, per se, as it is not owned by an orthodox Jewish household, but the model.) Apparently, the 2 drawers are sufficiently disinclined to commingle their contents that you may designate one dairy and one meat. But you must not, of course, run the thing on the Sabbath. You may load it if you like, but only being very careful not to accidentally touch the sensor panel at the front of the drawer, thus inadvertently turning on a function. Furthermore, you must (if you have previously engaged it) disengage the child safety feature, and change the setting on the low rinse-aid indicator light so that it doesn’t do the work of alerting you to low rinse-aid on days when it's not free to do so. So there.

Oy vey! I thought. At least I’m not worried about that set of rules. Conjugating adjectives in Japanese is quite complex enough. This did not prevent me, however, from dancing around in front of the dishwasher, a la Tevye, singing Traditioooooon! tradition!...(stomp!) di di di di (stomp!) di di di di (stomp!) di di di di...di di di di diiii!

Oh, and apparently Dutch--the handyman--is planning to do some work for me, despite the fact that he hasn’t called me back. He told my brother-in-law Gordon. Ok, whatever works. He’ll come over eventually, and I’ll have a leaky floor all ready for him.