Random Good Things About Bako #13

No paparazzi.

I was wistfully watching the Academy Awards last night, drifting through misty, watercolored memories of Oscar parties past. Other people staked out Halloween or Christmas, but the Oscars were "my" signature event and for years I threw a huge Oscar bash. Catered, of course.

The last year I held it was 2001, and it was a disaster. Fat Lisa showed up early and plowed through all the food before they'd even given out "Best Supporting Actress"...

"Those appetizers were great. What else do you have?"

Those weren't appetizers. It was all the food that I had, enough to feed 20 people. And it was all gone. All, except the crudité - Fat Lisa didn't do vegetables.

And then there was my obnoxious (ex)friend Debra from New York. She went off her meds and decided to entertain the room with a non-stop, viciously nasty, running critique of everyone who popped up on TV. "Make her stop, please" my other friends pleaded, and Lord knows I tried. I even tried to kick her out. But she thought she was bringing the house down with her witty, solo, New York repartee. People left in droves, and by the time "Best Picture" finally arrived there were only three people left, and Debra was one of them. We haven't spoken since.

The next year, in the aftermath of 9/11 and the just then launched war in Afganistan, the Oscars opted for a muted, somber approach and I decided to pass on a party. And that was that. Never did it again.

But I digress.

So, as I was watching the Red Carpet arrivals and all the jostling paparazzi a thought popped into my head...

"I sure as hell don't miss that."

If you've ever had to run the gauntlet of them at baggage claim at LAX as they stalk B-List celebrities, you know what I mean. I had a whole convoy of them in black SUVs run me off the road on Sunset as they pursued poor LiLo as she tried to get a latte. And I've been stuck in gridlocked traffic on Robertson as they spilled into the street trying to capture Paris as she shopped at Kitson. Our house in LA wasn't far from the Michael Jackson death house, and for weeks it was like a scene out of "Apocalypse Now" as news helicopters hovered and buzzed the neighborhood..

No, I don't miss that.

And now that I live in Bako, it isn't an issue!

There isn't a paparazzi for over a hundred miles, because there isn't anyone famous for over a hundred miles. Not unless you count the high school football heroes, past and present. They walk as Gods* among the people of Bako. A couple of people have told me that Tommy Lee Jones "secretly" lives here. I can appreciate that. I basically "secretly" live here too - I'd never admit to living here in a million years. All the same, I think it's ludicrous and wishful thinking.

People also hint that "Big Hollywood Celebrities" come to Bakersfield to get plastic surgery away from the limelight. There might be some credence to that - there are a ton of plastic surgeons here, and one of the biggest has offices in Malibu - I just saw him on "Million Dollar Listings" selling his beach house for $5.4 mil. But seriously, celebrities can go to just about any corner of the globe to escape the limelight, and I rather doubt they'd choose Bakersfield.

Switzerland? Sure. Bakersfield? Not so much.

*The link shows what passes for celebrity stalking here in Bakersfield. David Carr was a local football hero and now plays for the 49ers. He was in town over the weekend. Buying a Camaro.

For Those Of You Keeping Score At Home...

Cats: 2 Opossum: 0

I feel so bad for the cats. I'd forgotten how proud they are. The two cats that ended up in the traps seemed so embarrassed they had been tricked by a handful of Meow Mix.

Sunday Inspiration

Opossum: Part Deux

The Great White Opossum Hunter arrived shortly after I posted Part 1 of the story.

After the less than stellar performance of Joe Allen, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised, and somewhat relieved, to open the door and see a professional young man in a crisp, starched uniform standing there.

This was Jerry, and he looked like a park ranger.

He got down to business and he really knew his stuff. He examined the entry space and rattled off countless opossum facts. He retrieved a ladder from his truck, which I could see was loaded with traps and all kind of critter paraphernalia. He was about to ascend into the attic when he turned to me and said...

"Now, you're gonna hear me talking to myself. I have a little flip cam and I'm going to be recording my observations and I can show you when I get back down. I wouldn't want you to think I was crazy or anything."

Yeah, we wouldn't want that.

As he climbed up the ladder he added...

"I also post all the videos on YouTube..."

I think "crazy" just went back on the table as an option.

He was up there quite awhile and I could hear him murmuring as he roamed all over the house. When he got back down we huddled to look at what he saw.

It was your classic "good news, bad news" scenario, emphasis on the "bad news".

The good news? There was probably only the one opossum. They're solitary animals, Jerry said. He'd put out some traps and we should have him or her in a couple of days. It may take longer only because the weather turned frigid and the opossum may choose to stay hidden until it warms up a bit.

And then the bad news...

While there is probably only the one opossum, he probably isn't the first. This house sat vacant for so long, he or she may just be the last in a long line of occupants. The bottom line is that large portions of the attic have up to 6 inches of opossum poop in it! And it would appear opossums aren't quite as solitary as we thought. He or she seem to have a large number of rat friends! And they've pooped everywhere too!

Bottom line - our attic is one big Haz Mat zone and it isn't going to be cheap to fix it.

I wasn't happy, to say the least.

Jerry set up three traps near the entry point, near our front door. He baited them with dry cat food.

"Now... you'll probably end up trapping some of the neighborhood cats" he explained nonchalantly.

Oh great. Well, the dogs will enjoy that part. They won't be happy to discover it's "catch and release".

He showed me how to spring the cage and free any wayward felines. Or dogs. Later that night, when we returned from our walk, my littlest dog just about snared herself going after the cat food. She'll eat anything.

So now it's a waiting game, waiting for the banshee scream of a trapped opossum in the dead of the night.

And then we get to deal with the toxic nightmare upstairs.

Remind me again the benefits of home ownership?

Meals On Wheels

"You're gonna laugh..."

The boyfriend and I were out running errands and it was lunch time. We were trying to figure out where to eat when he got the idea to take me to a restaurant a co-worker had taken him too.

"You're gonna laugh, but the food is actually pretty good."

And laugh I did, when we pulled into the parking lot of the Crest Bar & Grill.

But it turns out the food was actually pretty good. Probably the best burger I've had since we've lived here.

The reason I laughed is because it's not just the Crest Bar & Grill.

It's the Crest Bar & Grill and R.V. Resort.



Honestly, I don't get it. If you're going to spend 100 grand on a land yacht, you picture yourself camping at the beach, or Yosemite or the Grand Canyon or something. Not an asphalt parking lot off the highway in Bakersfield.

"Who would stay here?" I asked.

The boyfriend answered "It's probably just a pit stop on the way to somewhere better."

That's the story of Bakersfield in a nutshell.

That's not to say it wasn't nice for what it was. It did have a golf course...

BREAKING NEWS... BREAKING NEWS... BREAKING NEWS...

The world is a dangerous place and it's important to stay informed. That's why I tune to the local news, which is where I just learned of the latest menace...

Illegal Bathtub Cheese.

You mean to say there's "legal" bathtub cheese?

Opossum, Where Art Thou?

We never addressed the whole ghost/opossum situation before I unexpectedly had to leave for medical duty. And the boyfriend chose not to deal with it while we were gone because he can sleep through just about anything noise-wise.

But that all changed last night.

I'd heard rumblings overhead every night since we've been back, but I'm an insomniac and it wasn't loud enough to wake the dogs. Then last night all hell broke loose up in the attic. I haven't a clue what caused it, but it was like an opossum rave was going on all night. The dogs went berserk, jumping on and off the bed. The one thing the boyfriend can't sleep through is motion, so he'd wake up enraged. Things would settle down for a bit and everyone would go back to sleep and then a few minutes later it would all happen again. All night.

This morning the boyfriend was sleepless and angry and he issued a ultimatum...

"Call an exterminator."

I called several, in fact. I don't know what it says about Bakersfield but each of them told me they were swamped and it would be a week at least before someone could come out.

But then I received a returned call. From Joe Allen.

I liked him immediately - that's the name of one of my favorite restaurants in New York. Turns out that's not the best criterion to judge an exterminator.

There was a knock at the door and there stood Joe Allen, a small dumpy man with yellowed buck teeth and a goofy smile. He said he was there to help, which I found oddly comforting.

"So tell me about your rat problem" he said.

It wasn't rats I explained, I thought it was a opossum.

His smile faded.

"I don't really deal with opossums" he said. "I specialize in rats".

I did not know exterminators specialized, like doctors. Good to know.

"I can take a look at it and confirm it's a opossum, and then if I can't do anything for you I can give you the name of a opossum expert."

I don't really need an "expert". This isn't the fucking Natural History Museum. Just catch the damn opossum.

I showed him the spot outside where we believed he was getting in, a gap near where a trellis attaches to the house. It had obvious claw marks around it and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it was bigger than a rat. Which is a good thing, because the one thing Joe Allen is not is a rocket scientist.

The entry portal confirmed, it was now time to head up into the lair. The access panel to the attic is in the closet of the guest room, and as I cleared out some space, Joe Allen fetched his ladder. He put up the ladder and I popped the lid and then he started stammering...

"Um, OK, I guess I'll just go up and, um, y'know, see what I can see..."

I turned to look at him and that's when I saw it.

Fear.

Joe Allen doesn't "deal" with opossums because he's terrified of them.

He crept up the ladder with his Maglight and ever so slowed peaked over the edge into the void. He scanned around a bit and then quickly jumped down the ladder.

"I better put on some gloves just in case he bites" he said as he whipped out a pair of latex gloves.

Dude... latex gloves? Have you seen the teeth on an opossum? Good luck with that.

He climbed back up the ladder, this time venturing until his upper torso was fully in the attic. He scanned around and then called down, slightly panicked...

"Do you have a big stick of some sort?"

For the love of God. I took down the wooden rod from the closet and handed it up to him and he gripped it tight at his side, like a spear.

He tried to describe what he was seeing and I finally just said the hell with it and climbed up there too.

Immediately, one thing became clear. The bigger health risk is probably not the opossum, but the 40 year old asbestos insulation. Can't imagine how the home inspector missed that. Oh, right, he never went up here.

So, it would appear this house has been Club Med for opossums - fruit trees in the backyard for a constant buffet, the house had sat vacant for over a year so there was little chance of being disturbed. Judging by the amount of opossum poop up there he (or she) had been living here for quite awhile. There were dens burrowed into the insulation and any number of places to hide.

Joe Allen seemed a little calmer.

"I expected to see them hanging from the rafters."

Really? Like Dracula? You need to get a fucking new career.

"Yup. Definitely a opossum." he said.

Brilliant. Now we knew exactly what we knew when he showed up.

Joe Allen beat a hasty retreat from the attic.

"It's definitely beyond my area of expertise" he said.

No shit. And it's not the only thing, I'm sure.

So he gave me the number for an opossum expert, an "Opossum Hunter".

More and more this is starting to resemble "Jaws". But with opossums.

He's due here shortly, so Part II tomorrow.

We’re Here. We’re Queer. Get Used To It.

I was curious to see how life as we knew it had changed with the revelation that we lived in the "Pink Triangle" - that's what you get when you connect the dots between our house, Jim and his gay dad, and the gay neighbor across the street.

The answer would appear to be, not much.

The boyfriend hasn't had any interaction with any of them since the Super Bowl party. I thought for sure there would be cocktails scheduled by now. Maybe brunch down at Buck Owens' Crystal Palace (it's the best in town, they say). But that's not how they roll here, I guess.

Not much is known about the neighbor. He made so little impression on the boyfriend that he couldn't even describe him. Of course he'd been drinking. I think his name is Tom, although the boyfriend was a little shaky on that bit of information too. The only thing I can deduce about him is he's a Bad Gay. His front yard is overgrown and unkempt and as we head into March, his Christmas decorations are still up. That would simply be unspeakable in West Hollywood.

And then there's Jim and his dad. Jim was out with a cocktail when I pulled up with the dogs on Monday, as usual. He came over to say hi and asked about my mom. He could see that the three of us were ragged out from the drive and said he'd leave us alone and we could "catch up" later.

Catch up?

With what? Other than dog-walking small talk I know nothing about him.

But then last night, I met dad.

I was taking the dogs out for their final walk around 9:30, and as we walked back I could see a car backing out of Jim's driveway. As the car drove away, there was a lone figure standing on the sidewalk.

It was Kenny Rogers.

Or a dead ringer for him.

Turns out it was Gay Kenny Rogers, otherwise known as Jim's dad.

He was dressed in sweats and flip flops. As we got about 10 feet from him, he spoke out in the gayest, sing-song voice...

"I know who YOOOOOOU are! You much be Eric. Im Erich too.... with an 'H'".

I was getting a total disconnect between him and Jim. They didn't seem from the same planet, much less related.

He extended his hand in such a way I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. I chose the former.

He expressed how happy he was to meet me and sang the boyfriend's praises. Mentioned something about getting together soon. For some reason all I could think about was Kenny Rogers Roasters Fried Chicken.

I was actually kind of excited about the prospect of our own little Bako gay clique, but it's starting to look like a sketchier proposition that I imagined. Time will tell. We'll see what I think after I meet the other neighbor.

Where There’s Smoke...

The day before I left on my little unplanned holiday I noticed new tenants moving into our old rental.

I've now seen them several times - the dogs still like to walk past the duplex. Y'know, for old times sake.

And I think I can say with some certainty one thing is true...

Mary's karma train has pulled into the station! Big time.

These people are chain smokers! Heavy, heavy chain smokers. The type who light their next cigarette with the one they're currently smoking.

Every time I've seen them, a couple, they both have smokes dangling out of their mouth. And the wife, or girlfriend, smokes the loooong ones, the ones that last F O R E V E R. Not only that, but they've placed a cafe table (with ashtray) and chairs right by the front door, right next to Mary's.

So she's getting it from both ends.

So to speak.

Poor dear.

Darkness On The Edge Of Town

The drive back was incredibly sad, and it wasn't just because of the horrific traffic.

It was sad leaving my folks. As trying as the past three weeks had been, it was actually great being able to spend that much time with them. And a little frightening. While I obviously knew my parents had aged, I never really thought of them as "old". In phone calls and brief visits home, they always seemed so spry and together and I never really allowed myself to think that they're in the twilight of their lives. But spending all this time with them, with the faded memories and moments of confusion, not to mention the health crisis, really opened my eyes. My mother suddenly looked so fragile yesterday I almost decided to stay.

And it's sad returning to a life of panic. For three weeks I was able to put my frantic life of unemployment on pause. And for three weeks I was actually able to feel useful for a change. But today we hit the play button again and another morning of panhandling for work.

And of course, as always, it was sad returning to Bakersfield, the town everyone loves to hate.

Before I left yesterday, I went out to lunch with my folks at their favorite local coffee shop. And as always, seated alone at the counter, was my second grade teacher, Miss Lee. She has to be in her late 80's, although you'd never know it. Still wearing the same butch, bowl cut she's worn since the Nixon Administration when I was in her class. She never married or had kids, and the speculation she was a lesbian just went unsaid.

She invited herself over and sat at our table, but nobody minded. She's always such a hoot and she and my father always seem to have such a good time. The fact that she always tells me I was one of her favorite students doesn't hurt. She probably says that to everyone, but these days I'll take what I can get.

We enjoyed our lunch together and it seemed to brighten my mom's mood. She was obviously a little down at the the thought of me leaving. When I mentioned that to Miss Lee, her face fell into a scowl.

"Back to Bakersfield, huh?"

I nodded, embarrassed. I felt like I was headed back to prison.

"I honestly don't know why you live there. Surely there has to be something somewhere else? You were always such a smart boy, you'll figure it out."

I hope she's right. She always was.

Back To Bako

Homeward bound. Finally.

And, for better or worse, home is Bakersfield.

I've missed the boyfriend immensely and can't wait to see him.

And I've missed our new home, which I've come to really love. I'd love it a whole lot more if we could just airlift it to another city.

I realized last night that I've lived at my parents house longer these past few weeks than I have in the new house. Time to get back.

I really hope my folks are up to the task. For the past two days my mother has acted invincible, but I'm realizing now that may have just been an act to make me feel it was OK to leave. This morning she seems a little emotional and scared.

I hope everything will be OK.

Wrapping It Up

Unlike Hosni Mubarak, I can tell that I've overstayed my welcome. Not by much, a day or two at most. There haven't been any protests or yelling or anything. Yet. So it's all for the best that I'm leaving tomorrow.

Truth be told, ever since my mother regained her super powers at the hair salon the other day, she hasn't needed much, if any, assistance from me. The only purpose I serve now is transportation.

My father hasn't driven in years, for good reason. When the call first came down three weeks ago, the only prospect as frightening as my mother's surgery was the idea of my father back behind the wheel. My mother isn't all that much better, but she hasn't hit anything lately. As far as I know. But for better or worse, she's been the wheels behind this operation for the past 10 years.

From the start, the doctors and surgeons warned her she wouldn't be able to drive for 5 or 6 weeks. It isn't because she isn't physically able to, it's a safety precaution. To perform the heart surgery, they had to saw through her breast bone, or "crack her open like a lobster" as one nurse tactfully put it. That takes at least 5 weeks to heal and until then they don't want her driving. Even a minor fender bender, something my mother knows all to well, could deploy the airbags and without the protection of a fully healed breastbone, it could conceivably kill her.

We explored various options, since me staying here 6 weeks isn't feasible. My parents are both too proud to apply for the disability access program, so we finally settled on a combination of friends, neighbors and cabs.

But then on Thursday, her surgeon spilled the beans and she finally realized she that, technically, she was able to drive, it just wasn't wise or safe, two things she's never let stand in her way.

They both swear to me they won't drive once I leave, but I know better. By the time I get home to Bako I'm guessing they'll already have a couple of trips under their belts.

Does. Not. Compute.

The microwave wasn’t the only machine that died.

The week before all the medical drama unfolded, I received a panicked call from my mother...

“My computer won’t turn on.”

Back in the late ‘90’s, my mother decided to get a computer. My father was already retired and had no interest in learning anything new, but all my mother’s friends had e-mail and she wanted it too. As a loyal Mac user, I suggested she get an new iMac. My brother-in-law tried to lure her to the Dark Side and a PC. It was a battle of wits that I ultimately won and later came to regret.

What I didn’t anticipate was that I would become her de facto IT department. For years I fielded anguished phone calls anytime something went wrong. Often it was something simple like a loose cable and I could talk her down on the phone. Anything more complicated than that was impossible. I’d try and talk her through some troubleshooting tips and she acted as if she was being called on to defuse a nuclear warhead. So, more often than not, it required an emergency trip to the OC. More than once I even made the drive down on my lunch hour when my distraught mother insisted she couldn’t survive until the weekend without e-mail. At the end of the day, it was almost never an actual computer problem. She has a bad habit of inadvertently dragging folders into folders and then when things disappear she panics and just starts randomly clicking things. My job then becomes untying the knot.

But then she found Cindy.

I don’t know how she found her, or where. But Cindy proved to be a lifesaver. Cindy is a Mac expert who makes house calls at a reasonable rate. My mom has used her for two or three years now. She evidently has a day job, because she’s only available evenings. It wasn’t unusual for her to show up at 9 or 10 at night.

My mother loves Cindy.

“She just so nice and so patient with me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

I’d never met her, but I’d heard all about her.

“She’s really quite stylish” my mom would say. “I don’t know where she works during the day, but she’s always so so well dressed when she shows up here.”

When I first got here weeks ago, I took a look at the computer. I’ve worked on Macs for 20 years and can handle minor troubleshooting and repairs, but I couldn’t even get the computer to turn on.

“Call Cindy” said my mom.

So finally, Thursday, I gave her a call.

She was nice and pleasant on the phone. She said it was probably one of two things. Either there was an issue with the power source, which was fixable. Or it was bad logic board, a terminal failure. She said she’d come by Friday evening to check it out.

Last night I was out having a smoke in my parent’s covered entryway. A light rain was falling when up pulled a cherry red late 90’s Camaro. In the dim street light I saw a woman step out of the car.

Cindy.

She was tall; my mother mentioned she was tall. She was wearing a skin tight, knee length red pencil skirt and high black stiletto heels. Long, straight blond her fell over a white blouse and her black wrap. She carried a sparkly clutch purse and looked like she was headed out for a night on the town. As she clicked up the front walk in her impossible heels and stepped into the front porch lights, one thing was clear.

Cindy was a man.

I’m gay, I notice these things.

Although with Cindy it was hard to miss. She looked to be in her early 40's. She was at least 6’4” without the heels and towered over me in them. She had heavy, masculine facial features which she’d slathered with kabuki style makeup. The hair was obviously a wig, and a bad one at that. And then there was the prominent Adam’s apple.

I was momentarily thrown but quickly recovered. I invited her in and she greeted my parents warmly. They obviously had no clue.

I walked her back to the den where the computer was and she quickly got down to work. She whipped out a screwdriver from her clutch opened the computer and immediately saw that the logic board was shot. There’s wasn’t much she could do. The computer was 6 years old and had run it’s course. She advised my folks to get a new computer and she would come back and and transfer everything onto the new machine. And just like that, she was gone.

So this morning we’re off to the Apple store, a luxury I don’t have in Bako since the closest store is 100 miles away. We’re getting them a new iMac and Cindy is coming back Monday evening, after I leave, to get it all set up.

I’ve debated whether or not to tell them.

Oh the one hand, I can’t imagine it would be a problem for them. They never had a problem with me being gay and they’ve accepted my boyfriend as part of the family. In fact I think my mother views him as the daughter she wished she had. Several of my cousins are gay, and the conventional family wisdom is that it’s all somehow genetic and not a big deal. And the old flaming queens at my mother’s hair salon are like a second family to her.

But somehow, this is... different.

I don’t believe they’ve ever encountered Chicks with Dicks. And maybe it’s best they never know they already have. I think it would alter how they feel about Cindy, and I don’t think that would be fair to her.

So I’ve decided to let sleeping trannies lie and leave it at that.

O Mighty Isis!

You know how Super Heroes always seem to have some ring or amulet or secret place from where the draw all their powers and strength? I've discovered my mother's...

The Hair Salon.

Seriously. She's like a changed woman, back to normal. Almost. She still needs a little help, but the minute we returned home from the salon she was bopping around the house as if nothing had happened. And the first thing she did when we got home was call and make her next appointment. It's like crack.

It appears my work here is nearly done.

No Nukes

It appeared we were headed for a relatively drama-free day yesterday.

And then the microwave died.

For elderly parents, the microwave qualifies as life support.

“That isn’t right, it’s practically new!” my mother exclaimed.

I knew that wasn’t true and when we tracked down the owner’s manual (my parents throw nothing away) there was a receipt attached from 1990.

So off to Lowe’s I went. I tried to find one that was as similar and simple as the one that died, but microwave technology has come far in the past 21 years and even the simplest one had more bells and whistles than I knew they could handle.

And I was right.

“The buttons are different!” was the first thing I heard when it came out of the box.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

As I tried to teach my father the ins and outs, I was reminded of Karen Black in “Airport ‘75” with the tower trying to teach her how to fly a 747. After about a half an hour, he seemed to catch on. He wanted to re-heat a cup of coffee and it seemed fairly simple...

There’s a button marked “:30”.

You push it.

I left him to it as I went to return a phone call and several minutes later I heard a commotion in the kitchen and came out to find my father, agitated, in front of the microwave watching his coffee boil over like Mt. Vesuvius. I still have no idea what went wrong.

It’s OK, I still have a week. Hopefully they’ll get it by then, otherwise they’ll starve to death.

Today is our first big outside excursion. We’re going to get my mother’s hair done.

It’s really been her only concern since surgery. Rehab and recovery? Not so much. When they first removed her breathing tube it was the first thing she asked about...

“How’s my hair?”

She could barely walk when she was released from the hospital last Wednesday, but somehow she just assumed she’d still make her standing Friday morning appointment. When we put the kabosh on that, she wasn’t happy. She informed us there was NO way she was going to go another week without having her coif re-done, so we compromised and scheduled it for today. In the meantime, the boyfriend gave her temporary doo over the weekend which was, quite frankly, better than what she normally gets. But all the while she was counting the minutes until her trip to the salon and now we’re off.

I hope it goes well. It should. The landing at Normandy went off with less planning than this trip.

Mother’s Little Helper

My mother is making a remarkable recovery. She’s slowly getting back to her feisty self and has absolutely no problem telling me what I can do and where I can stick her breathing and stretching exercises.

She’s doing so well, in fact, that over the weekend my role here experienced a... shift.

Sometime Sunday afternoon, after the boyfriend left, the tables turned and the scales tipped and I suddenly became... “the help”.

I was rounding the corner from the hall when I unexpectedly ran into my mother, shuffling unassisted for the first time from her recliner to the bathroom.

"Do you need any help?" I asked as she approached.

"No dear, I'm fine" she said as she grabbed my hand and patted my wrist. "You don't need to help me."

I was happy to see her getting her independence back, but then she added...

"But you really need to get caught up on the laundry."

I was a little stunned.

I watched as she toddled down the hall and just before she disappeared into their bedroom she called back "and the living room is looking a little dusty too."


So now, in addition to my regular nursely duties and cooking, we've added light to moderate housework. If they didn't have a gardener, I'm sure that would be on the list too.

Yesterday was particularly bad because I had actually picked up a small job and had stupidly assumed I might have a free hour to actually work on it. But every time I sat down at the computer, I was politely reminded that the whites needed to be folded or the dishwasher emptied.

"When was the last time you watered the houseplants" she asked.

Um... never.

"Have you vacuumed yet today?"

At one point she subtly hinted that the silver hadn't been polished in ages.

By 6pm, I was close to cracking. I hadn't even had 10 minutes to take a shower that day.

I thought about slitting my wrists, but all the knives in the house are dull. I'll have to add that to the list... "sharpen knives". It wouldn't have done any good even if they were sharp. With my mother's superior medical knowledge, she would undoubtedly know how to save me and then I'd find myself alive with no hands.

I was really, truly at the end of my rope. I excused myself and went to my room to try and collect myself.

I sat in the dark and reflected on all the things my parents have done for me throughout the years.

I reflected on how happy I was to still have my mother here.

I reflected on how much help I have been to them over the past two weeks, which I know they appreciate.

And I reflected on my mother's prescription for Vicodin.

Either her primary physician is careless, or he knows her all too well, because he called in a year's worth of pills. She's never going to miss the few, maybe more, that I'll need to get through the next week. And trust me, they work.

So that's how long I'm staying. Tuesday is my last day here, because I managed to get a job interview the following day in Bako.

I've got my work cut out for me for the next week. Maybe I should go ahead and call in a refill.

Holidaze

Today is Valentines Day, but it's hard to get too worked up about it since the one I love is so far away. We'll make up for it whenever I get home, I'm sure. I will say it's nice to see my parents still in love after 55 years of marriage. My father has never been the demonstrative type, so it was a little surprising to hear him tell my mother he loved her as we put her to bed last night. Surprising and touching. I should be so lucky.

Actually, the holiday I think about the most these days is Groundhog's Day. That's the day I first drove down and my stay here is beginning to seem like the Bill Murray film. Every morning I half expect to be waken up by "I've Got You Babe". This is getting old.

Home Sweet Home

The boyfriend just left a little while ago and I can't believe how sad it made me to see him leave. This must be how inmates feel on visiting day, hands pressed against the glass as the phone is hung up and your loved one raises to go, leaving you behind bars.

I'm also homesick, which is odd because for so many years I still considered this "home". But here I am, in the house I grew up in, sleeping in the same room, and yet it feels all so foreign now. They say "home is where the heart is", and right now my heart is on the 5 heading back to Bakersfield. Like it or not, Bako is home.

But here's the thing...

Since I left home over 25 years ago, I've only ever spent, maybe, two nights back here at a time, max. But now I'm closing in on spending two weeks here and I've come to a frightening conclusion...

My hometown is a lot like Bako. I mean... a LOT.

Flatten out the hills into a dusty plain, toss in a couple of cows and shellac the whole thing with a Hew Haw veneer and they're kissin' cousins.

There are the obvious similarities, like the trains rumbling and wailing in the distance. There's the undercurrent of Right Wing Bible Thump-ery, which was neatly summed up by a bumper sticker I saw in the hospital parking lot...

"Jesus Saves, Obama Spends."

I'm not even sure exactly what that means, but it left me with the mental image of Jesus stuffing a mattress with wads of cash.

There's the fog. Although it's the somewhat refreshing coastal variety and not the smothering stink-fog of the Central Valley.

There's even a Demonic Ice Cream Truck! It's been in the 80's the past couple of days and yesterday while out walking the dogs I heard the unmistakable electronic, tinny sound of "Turkey in the Straw" and when I looked up, around the corner came a clone of the scary ice cream truck that trawls our neighborhood in Bako.

And finally, there's the whole Mayberry, small townishness about it all. My mother was treated in the same hospital where my sister and I were born. I walk the dogs past my old elementary and high school. And there's the local coffee shop my father insists on eating at every single damn day. So far we've run into my old second grade teacher, my high school principal and several total strangers who claim to know me from high school.

"We were in Mr. Schultz' German class together!"

Really? I took German?

There are, of course, notable differences.

It doesn't smell here, for one. That's a huge plus right off the bat.

And the small town vibe comes off as charming and quaint because you know all the big city amenities are only 20 minutes away. Not to mention the beach. Without that, I think this place would be suffocating. Like Bakersfield.

Birds Of A Feather

The boyfriend called last Sunday with exciting news from Bako. I know, doesn't seem possible. Oxymoronic even. But it's true!

The boyfriend has been horribly lonely without me and the dogs. He was working in the yard Sunday morning when our crazy neighbor Jim approached him and asked if he'd like to come over for their Super Bowl Party. The boyfriend was noncommittal and called me to ask what I thought.

Initially, I was apprehensive. They seemed like an oil and water combination. Jim is something of an enigma. We know he lives with his father and neither appear to work, unless you count Jim's scavenger hobby - it turns out all the broken down furniture and dead appliances we placed out for the trash are now safely living at Jim's...

"You really throwing out that lamp? Mind if I take it?"

I just assumed both were on "disability", but several times Jim has mentioned "our house on the coast". I know people scam disability all the time, but I doubted you could carry off a heist large enough to afford two houses, let alone one at the coast. Maybe they made a ton of money and retired? Then why would they be in this neighborhood? Or Bako at all? It was a conundrum.

Ultimately I told him to go to the party. He was lonely and could use some company. If he was uncomfortable, he was only across the street and could beg off. At the very least he'd be among familiar belongings, including our lamp.

I ended up watching the Super Bowl with my family in my mom's hospital room. As the first quarter ended, my cell phone lit up with the home number. My heart sank - the party had been a bust for the boyfriend and now he was back home, dejected and alone.

Wrong!

The boyfriend was ecstatic! And a little tipsy.

Long story short - Jim's dad is gay! The house on the coast? It belongs to Jim's dad's gay lover! There were also several of our new neighbors at the party, including a guy who lives just across the street. And guess what? Gay!

Who'd a thunk it - we inadvertently moved into Bako's version of the Castro. OK, that might be a stretch, but still...

And to top everything out, the guy across the street works in advertising and after talking to the boyfriend about me, promised to hook me up with contacts when I return.

So, something to look forward to in Bako... potential work and potential gay friends. It's a start.

And the most important thing to look forward to, the boyfriend. He's driving down for the weekend and it can't come soon enough because I'm about to crack. My hat is off to anyone in the nursing profession, because this is just absolutely draining. You need the patience of a Saint, and that's nothing I've ever been accused of having.

Dr. Mom, Medicine Woman

My mother was discharged yesterday from the hospital, where she was a model patient.

Apparently, that was all an act.

Because if the first day home is any indication, it's going to be rough sledding for the foreseeable future.

Unbeknownst to me, in the years after I left home, she secretly acquired advanced medical knowledge, more than all the doctors, surgeons and nurses we've encountered in the past week. She didn't share her superior medical knowledge with them, perhaps so as not to embarrass them. She has no problem unleashing it on me.

"Mom, you need to walk" I say.

"No I don't".

"Mom, that's not the way you're supposed to get up from a chair."

"My way is better."

"Mom, you need to elevate your legs."

"Who told you that? No I don't."

If I thought I was going to get any back-up from my father, I was sorely mistaken. He's her wingman...

"Now, leave your mother alone!"

And then there's the "Valley of the Dolls."

Her list of medications runs two pages long. I dutifully lined up her morning regimen, about ten pills in all. I gave them to her in a little cup and then she proceeded to pick and choose the ones she felt like taking, like it was a salad bar.

"Mom, you have to take ALL the pills" I say.

"Who says? I don't need all of these..."

And so it goes. I finally got her to take them all because the hospital was sending a traveling nurse to check up on her and I threatened to rat her out.

The pill thing I don't understand. She loves pills. One whole cabinet in the kitchen is almost nothing but pills. She's hoarded them for as long as I can remember. She never throws anything away. Several years ago I called her and she seemed out of sorts. She explained that she had a pinched nerve in her neck...

"I took a Vicodin, but it isn't doing any good."

Perhaps that's because it was prescribed in 1986.

When the cabinet gets unmanageable, she "consolidates", mixing all the pills until each bottle looks like a bag of skittles. Years ago, while I was home, my lower back went into spasm and I was in excruciating pain. My mother came to me on the couch with a glass of water and a pill.

"What is it" I ask.

"It's a red one".

"Yes, I can see that... but what IS it?"

"I'm not sure, but it's good for your back. Or was that the yellow one..."

I took a pass.

The only pills you could trust were the Valium, and that was only because they had the little "V" stamped out of the center of them.

I'd kill for one of those right now.

But you know what? It's fine. I love her.

When I think of all the grief I put them through as parents, this is the least I could do. She's home, she's safe and she's on the mend. Anytime I find myself pulling my hair out, I think of the grim alternative I could have been dealing with. So, one day at a time. Tomorrow will be better than today.

And the visiting nurse is returning, so I still have some leverage. She's a tough cookie.

No Rest For The Wicked

Three.

The number of times my sister has launched a Mona Vie recruiting assault on me... in the hospital!

The woman is shameless.

I seem to remember another cult obsessed with juice, and that didn't end well.

Although, to hear her tell it, it isn't about the juice anymore. It's a "fantastic business opportunity". She claims she has several people interested in signing up with her, but she wanted to make sure I had the first crack at this "revolutionary business model".

I want to just tell her to fuck off, but the hospital frowns on instigating explosive family drama in the cardiac care unit. Go figure.

That isn't even the worse of it.

Saturday morning, not long after my mother had her breathing tube removed but was still unable to speak, my sister sat by her bed, stroking her hand, telling her she was going to be better than ever.

"What we really need to do is get your cholesterol down. And the best way to do that is by drinking more juice."

It's ghoulish. For all we know "the juice" is what triggered this crisis.

I know my mother and sister have had "issues", but I never thought it would come to the point where my sister would actually try to kill her.

Priests Say The Darndest Things

My mother unexpectedly ended up having to have open heart surgery. I suppose that's really the only way people have open heart surgery... unexpectedly. It's not the type of thing you slot in on an open weekend.

When the call came in Tuesday night, there was really no question that I would be the one to handle things. My work load these days is what we politely refer to as "light". I left as soon as I could the next morning. I also took the dogs, not because I didn't think the boyfriend could deal with them, but because I had a sinking feeling I was going to need their comfort more than he would. Which proved to be right.

My father had taken a cab to the hospital; he hasn't driven in years. I dropped the dogs at my parents house and prayed they wouldn't pee on the white carpet. I spied two cases of Mon Vie in the dining room and couldn't help but wonder if there was some sort of connection to the current crisis.

I walked into my mother's hospital room and was taken aback to see a priest sitting by her bedside, holding her hand and reading from the Bible, not really the first thing anyone wants to see when they walk in on someone with a potentially fatal heart condition. My mother beamed when she saw me and the priest rose to greet me. My mother introduced him as Father Bill. We aren't Catholic, but the hospital is, and he explained it he was just part of the service, like housekeeping or a pillow mint.

Had I known that just the next day I'd be relying on the kindness of the Sisters of St. Joseph, I probably would have thought twice about Monday's snarky post about the Weeping Virgin Mary. Probably.

Father Bill was a soft spoken, kindly man, and my mother mentioned I had just driven down from Bakersfield.

"Bakersfield!?" he exclaimed as he screwed up his face.

"Why on God's green earth do you live in Bakersfield?"

"It's along story, Father" I said and he nodded knowingly.

"I spent a night in Bakersfield once" he said. "Felt like a week".

*BaDumDump*

For a Priest, he seriously had good comic timing.

My mother had the surgery on Friday and came through with flying colors. She's spent the past two in ICU and is being bumped down to a regular room later today. We hope to have her home by Wednesday. And then the real fun begins. Rather than days, it looks like the recovery is going to be measured in weeks. At this point, I haven't a clue when I'll go home.

But I'm going to start blogging again. I need something to keep me sane. I have a ton of half finished posts, not to mention breathtaking Bako news from the lonely boyfriend back behind the Alfalfa Curtain. It may not be daily, but we'll see...

On Hiatus

So the blog is going on a little unplanned hiatus. I've decided to check into rehab following a 36 hour alcohol and cocaine binge, where I danced naked with porn stars before collapsing and being rushed to the hospital.

Oh wait, that's Charlie Sheen.

I always get us confused.

Why is it that he still has a job and I don't?

Actually, I have to leave town to attend to a minor family emergency. Could be a few days, could be longer. It's hard to tell at this point.

I was going back and forth as to whether to take the dogs or not. On the one hand, it's going to be a hassle and a distraction. On the other, I love them and worry about leaving them in the sole care of the boyfriend. Don't get me wrong - he loves them as much as I do. It's just that his parenting skill set is a little lacking. Years ago he tossed out the idea of adopting a little girl, someone he could shop for and dress up like the princess he never was. When I pointed out that our house at the time had no spare rooms, he helpfully suggested we could just keep her in the basement. And then last night I had a dream that I came home to a neighborhood plastered with "Lost Dog" flyers, sooo...

it looks like the dogs are getting a road trip.

I should be back by Monday.

"Our Top Story Tonight... A Miracle From God..."

That's actually how the local news opened, with a "miracle of God".

No "allegedly" or "some people claim" or any of that namby pamby objectivity. Just a simple statement of fact. That's just how things work here.

The story was about an icon at a local Orthodox church, a painting of the Virgin Mary. Parishioners claim it began to weep an oily substance that smells like roses. They claim it's Myrrh. As in "gold, frankincense and myrrh" from the Bible.

OK, first of all, how many people have actually ever seen Myrrh, much less smelled it? A show of hands? I'm pretty sure if there was an oil that smelled like roses we'd be seeing Myrrh scented candles and Glade® Renuzit® Myrrh Room Deodorizers. And that isn't the case, is it?

The crack reporting staff interviewed members of the congregation, who all claimed it was miraculous and a "window to heaven". Ever skeptical, the reporter said "OK, if you say so".

They also interviewed another pastor who was surprisingly dubious. But then he was identified as being from one of the more radical Evangelical churches, and we all know how they feel about the Mary Worshippers. Gotta throw cold water on the whole "miracle" thing before it cuts into profits.

But the weirdest part of the story was when the cut back to the studio for the wrap-up, where the anchor informed us that it isn't actually a painting. It's a reproduction, manufactured by a company in Montreal. There are other copies of the same painting all over the world, and evidently they ALL weep oil.

Did anyone think to turn the thing over and check for the refillable Myrrh dispenser? It seems to me it's nothing but a fancy room air freshener.