Sleeping with the sugarplums

Is it healthy relaxing and unwinding, or unhealthy retreating with depression? Is it hibernating, or a dangerous sleep disorder? Is it okay to put on our jammies at seven p.m., burrow under two quilts, and pull the pillows over our head? Can we pretend to be a bear in a cave?

We don't sleep enough. Studies keep reporting this finding. We don't sleep at the right times or in the right places. Worse, our kids don't sleep enough, even though we are glad to see them fall asleep any time anywhere. Phew!

Aging and dementia wreak havoc with sleep routines. So do pain pills, cough meds, sleep aids, job stress and mortgage worry, pregnancy, menopause, restless legs, caffeine, alcohol, parenting infants, parenting teens with drivers licenses, and overdue library books.

This is the first I've heard of a PBS Sprout channel, or its annual Christmas Eve "Snooze-a-thon". I applaud the idea of kiddies sleeping through the night, but their reliance on a tv or online program of sleeping puppets is frightening. Why would the tots even have access to media in the middle of the nighty-night?

Just the idea of snooze-inducing tv brings back in HD my five surreal days in Dad's hospital room when he was hallucinating. A lowly night-shift aide was the savior who tuned Dad's tv to the C.A.R.E. channel. The channel's music helped cancel out the beeping, blinking, dripping, chatting, pages, squeaky nurse shoes, elevators, and floor buffing machines. Don't let anybody tell you a hospital is a quiet place! It's a 24-hour arcade.

Dad had been sleeping all day between gurney rides for tests and x-rays. When awake he was seriously paranoid. After dark he'd been hallucinating, but in the very wee hours he was all charm and chatting with anyone who humored his requests for sandwiches and ice cream.

Trying to sleep on the hard cot in Dad's room at night so I could confer with elusive doctors by day, I was getting almost as loony as Dad. Not easy to get shut-eye when the patient is ripping out his IV and believes you are an enemy spy

The C.A.R.E. channel showed outer space images all night, accompanied by relaxation music. Galaxies, Saturn's rings, and nebulae began convincing Dad that night was night and a fine time to sleep. All day the channel showed horses frolicking in a pasture near a mountain range, and other subtle hints that day is the time to stay awake. It was simple, brilliant, and effective. Amen!

Asking your doctor might not lasso relief. Asking Santa might not bring a frolicking pony. Ask your hospital if it has the C.A.R.E. channel for patients. Tell the little sprouts to stay under the covers for another bitty while!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

My three minutes in court

Having done printmaking in art class Wednesday morning I was dreading the swearing in oath part. The palms of my hands were bright magenta and orange. Do you solemnly swear that you can't get your hands any cleaner than that?!?


The reason I was coming before the county probate court judge was to be deemed sane enough to be the independent administrator of Dad's estate. Friends and family had cautioned me against mentioning my side career as a vermicomposting edu-tainer aka Worm Lady.  


The lawyer just told me, "Oh, by the way, you are sworn in now," before we ever went in the courtroom.  No raising colorful hand.  Not one bit like on Perry Mason.


Then we sat at a table with the judge, and I said yes or no (as appropriate) to questions like:  

• Did your dad have or adopt any children after 1996?
• Have you ever been found mentally incapacitated?
• Does your family still have that meth lab down in the holler?
• Will your brother Darryl or your other brother Darryl contest this will?

Raise your right hand and repeat after me ...  No, your other right hand.

I kind of wanted to stay and watch the probate judge's final hearing of the day as it was going to be a doozy. The old lady had already cussed out her court-appointed attorney in the lobby for never having contacted her, for arriving late with no necktie and no yellow legal pad, and for limping with a torn knee ligament.  She was scattershooting her disgust with the over-air conditioned courthouse. Her husband and daughter were with their attorney who had a mouth like Martha Raye trying to get some kind of guardianship over the woman so she wouldn't do something financially wacko.  


Maybe I just haven't watched Judge Judy since Dad died.

No, that is not me. That is Elena Kagan being sworn in. And Midge being sworn in to Barbie's court. And a magenta zebra puppet ready to tell the whole truth.  And some lady who is the new health commissioner of the US Virgin Islands. And an altered photo of Michelle Obama's glove on Inauguration Day.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Waiter, there's a fly in my ointment.

Vanna is wearing a turquoise chiffon gown with shirred empire halter bodice, front slit, train, and Aurora rhinestone trim around waist.  So am I.  No, wait. Not quite, but I am sort of dressed up by my standards.  I'm attired in a knit top with 3/4 sleeves, shirred shoulders, and a draped neckline that shows a bit of actual cleavage.  Shh!  Don't tell.  I have on slacks, too.  I'm headed to the theater.

Except not.  Dad, the Great Minimizer, is reporting pain in his leg.  His pain is not relieved by Tylenol. Dad never reports pain, so this is significant.  It minimizes the annoyance of the malfunctional t.v. in his new shared room.

The t.v. is on.  The t.v. is off.  The t.v. is possessed. Gremlins.  Yup.

The t.v. stays on through a marathon of Judge Judy and Nightly News with clips of Newt chittering like a chunky middle-school hamster after a dozen Pixie Stix.  [I have the sound down realllll low.] Then, inexplicably, right when I'm ready to solve the lip-reading puzzle on Wheel and win a trip to tropical paradise, the t.v. is off.

I'm blurting out "A PRIVATE EYE SEARCHING FOR FLIES", then all dark.  Ten minutes later the t.v. is back on in the middle of "A KETTLE OF SEAFOOD GUMBO".

CLUES.  Not FLIES.  Well, duh. PRIVATE EYES IN GUMBO???

Some of Dad's discomfort may come from enraged eczema.  Thus the ointment is needed in his stew.

fly in my soup  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C8nl8eBoq0


fly in the ointment

Fig. a small, unpleasant matter that spoils something; a drawback. We enjoyed the play, but the fly in the ointment was not being able to find my hat afterward. It sounds like a good idea, but there must be a fly in the ointment somewhere.

Yesterday I rescued a June bug from the lunch room and "returned it to the wild!" I've been hanging out in preschool so long I can't even stomp on a overturned June bug with creepy wiggling legs, or at least not in front of the kiddies.  Soon I won't be able to flush a cockroach in private.

Dad is out of pain on a narcotic.  The x-rays showed no fracture or dislocation.  The soup is in the crockpot. My life has too much drama and too little theater.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Visualize whirled worms

World peace is beyond my control.  "Whirled peas" always brings mental images of bad junior high cafeteria tricks back at Millard Lefler in the late-Sixties.  Whirled worms might be manageable with a touch of Doppler radar.  

Whirred worries about worms are causing an undercurrent of anxiety as my Worm Show moment of fame approaches.  In just a few weeks I'll be presenting a "We Dig Worms" event for a nearby public library summer reading program.  My worms are not at the peak of their training, ready for Olympic competition.  And the worms are far ahead of me!

Tuesday evening I sorted worms from humus while tracking weather watch radar on t.v.  Joplin, Missouri was on my mind, as were memories of Omaha in 1975.  I moved my worm bin to the living room so I could sort while watching t.v.  I was afraid I'd have to take my bin of little critters with me into my "safe room" (aka downstairs bathroom).

We were lucky.  It rained hard, but my area didn't get any hail.  This weather dude kept talking about the curving tail motion on the storm cells.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Night and Day Comma You Need Triple A Batteries

Friday Dad didn't want me to leave after his supper.  Parting is such a recurring struggle that I could say good night til it be morrow. 

Today Dad is a colicky baby with his days and nights reversed.  Up since four a.m., he sacked out after breakfast and slept well past lunch.  This isn't a completely bad thing.  Sitting in the sunny corner of his room I completed all the progress reports for the elementary students.  Then I read Timothy Schaffert's Coffins of Little Hope on my Kindle.

Wednesday I left a note for Maintenance regarding the dead batteries in Dad's remote.  Friday I spoke with a higher up about the problem.  Today I went to Walgreens and bought batteries.

What happens to the residents without family popping in often?  Does anyone at the facility ever check their remote controls?  Is that why all the tvs are blaring with bizarre shows?  The residents can"t zap out "Oprah" or "I Dream of Jeannie"?  And just why do I hear the theme from "A Summer Place" every afternoon at five?  Percy Faith and His Orchestra, please give me strength!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Oprah in purple needs all sorts of help.

When I got to Dad's room he was hollering for help.  He was cold, he was wet, he was hysterical.  He was channeling Gene Wilder in "The Producers". 

"What do you need, Dad?"

"I need all sorts of help!"

Kicking into hyper drive, I remove Dad's dinner tray and clean up the spilled milk without crying.  He has spilled a whole carton.  I mop the floor with the sleeveless undershirt previously reserved for cleaning spectacles ... pull off the wet bedding ...get supplies from the linen closet down the hall to change Dad's bedding and hospital gown, and manage to adjust his thermostat.  The a/c is blasting cold air on a wet codger who prefers tropical temps. 

"Sit down and take a load off," Dad orders.  Okay, I sit, wishing he would use his oxygen.  The aide tells me Dad's been agitated all day, pushing his call button again as soon as she checks in on him and turns off the call light. 

"Did you get out and about today, Dad?"

"No.  I couldn't.  Oprah was here, and she wouldn't leave.  She kept promising food, but not delivering."

"What was Oprah wearing, Dad?"  

"Something red.  Purple."  Was Oprah real?  Since when did Dad watch Oprah?  Since when did the remote control go missing?  I do a major search of Dad's room, even crawling on the floor to look under his bed. 

Dad's favorite aide, "The Lady in Red," tells me she found him trying to get out of bed this afternoon because he "needed to find something to throw at the tv".  Dang, that happens to me nearly everytime I turn it on.

The remote is found.  Long live the remote.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Pastels for $200, Alex.

Food coloring and vinegar alter this hard-boiled source of protein into a symbol of rebirth.

• What is an egg? Pastels for $400, Alex.

Combining a bright tempera color with this paint, or diluting a watercolor pigment creates a pastel.

• What is white?  Pastels for $600, Alex.

This popular food usually combines a dairy product with fruit, and might be packaged for disgusting slurping from a plastic tube.

• What is yogurt? Pastels for $800, Alex.

A pastel green frozen scoop minus the chocolate chips is just this chilling ice cream flavor.

• What is mint?  Pastels for $1000.

Creamy, rich, thick paint strokes depicting cafeteria dessert offerings make this artist a good luncheon choice at the Sheldon Museum of Art.

• Who is Wayne Thiebaud? 

Paging through The Art of Richard Diebenkorn  while listening to Herbie Hancock's River might be good stress relief for this former flower girl.

• Who is CollageMama?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

"One of those girls must be seven feet tall."

The pink Dora lunchbox zipper broke.  As it traveled around the three sides, the zipper teeth meshed, then gaped, then meshed.  Wrote a note to the mom.  Tomorrow my student will have a new pink lunchbox for her bologna sandwich.

Dad's thinking travels around three sides alternately meshing and gaping.  Wrote a note to the doctor, but Dad will not have a new brain tomorrow.  We are going to have to deal with the unmeshed teeth, confounding gaps, and frequent leaks.  We will have to deal with it in a kind, gentle, nonconfrontational way.  Telling Dad he's full of baloney doesn't do either of us any good.  I might hum that Oscar Mayer song  as a coping device, though.

Dad was eating tuna salad and cornbread for supper, and shoveling it in pretty well, so I didn't interrupt.  Instead I wondered why my wheelchair-confined father was wearing windstop nylon jogging pants with reflective stripes down the sides.  These are NOT Dad's pants.  Maybe they belong to the seven foot girl.  Maybe Watson could shed some light here.

I was curious about the "Jeopardy" show with Ken Jennings and Watson, the IBM computer.  Dad was sufficiently glad to have my company to let me watch part of the show.  My three-sided zipper brain malfunctioned trying to explain the computer search process for natural language puns as if I understood them!

Dad was in bed staring at the billowing hospital drape in front of his open window when I arrived Monday.  His aide had opened the window to the seventy degree afternoon breeze, but left his heater set at seventy-two.  Dad seemed to think very tall girls were hiding behind the drape and wiggling it.  This is the same Dad that thinks boys are playing leapfrog behind his bed and that I am Tall Alice.  The hospital drape on its curved ceiling track is beyond his comprehension.  When I scooted the drape down the track so the wind wouldn't catch it, Dad asked where all the girls went.  "Did they just shoot straight up?"  Yes, Scotty, the seven foot tall girls beamed up!

Like Alex Trebek, quoted in Sunday's Washington Post, I'm not worried about being replaced by a computer:

"Jeopardy!" host Alex Trebek isn't afraid he'll be replaced by a machine. "It's a possibility," Trebek told me recently, "but it won't happen for a few years." After all, the machine would require "infinite patience, great wisdom, a sense of humor, which is hard to build into a computer. And tenderness when dealing with contestants."

Oh, Lordy, save me from the seven foot tall girls wiggling the drape and send a double dose of tenderness for dealing with the contestant!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Breakfast for my neighbors

I fell asleep on the couch early last evening, during Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations" trip to Liberia. I meant to watch his new trip to Rome, but I was a drowsy travel companion. That meant I was ready to catch the early bird's worm.

The sun was just sneaking down to the creek between the condo buildings when I started the second half of my loop. That's the slow half for photos and activating the senses.

Maybe I looked hungry, because a squirrel on the ground grabbed half an osage orange fruit in its mouth and ran up a tree. That's the equivalent of you or I grabbing a bed pillow in our mouth and running.

Half an osage orange is the size of a large toasted sesame bagel from Einstein Brothers with tomato/basil cream cheese. Maybe I was hungry. Or the fruit is the same size as a small grapefruit if you are dieting.

My dad called Osage oranges "horse-apples". We used to see them near Willow Creek in Pierce, Nebraska, when he took us wading. My dad didn't think horses really ate them.



The strange yellow-green globes were more common when we lived along a creek in Edmond, Oklahoma. I tried to cut one open, and ended up with a rubbery, caulky substance difficult to remove from my kitchen knife. That must have been in early summer, as the fruits come apart more easily this time of year.

Each time I walk along my North Texas creek I find signs that animals are eating the osage oranges. Some animals must pick them apart while they are still on the tree. Little bits of yellow come floating down. Others wait to nibble the fallen fruit.



My Visual Reference Guides : Trees book by Colin Ridsdale has proven again to be fairly useless beyond the pretty pictures. It states osage orange fruits, or "syncarps" can be 14 inches in diameter! A men's regulation basketball is 9.39 inches in diameter. Syncarp is correct. That's an aggregate or multiple fruit like a blackberry or pineapple. The yellow bits falling down look like pineapple snow. They would be the "drupes", the individual fruits packed tightly together in the syncarp.



In the early morning light the fruit bits look more green. And the glare I got from another squirrel when I stopped to photograph this one was pretty mean. Believe me, I didn't want his breakfast.

The squirrel didn't feel safe returning to nibble on the ground. As soon as I reached an acceptable distance, the squirrel raced to the nearest fruit like a football player trying to recover a fumble. It grabbed the fruit in its mouth and raced up the tree.



Osage orange trees have several other names:

• Bois'd'arc, pronounced bodark.
• Hedge-apple, more accurate than horse-apple, as the trees were used to make hedges on the prairie.
• Bow-wood refers to Native Americans use of the wood for making bows.
• Maclura pomifera
• From now on I will call it the Squirrel Bagel tree.
  
  

According to Wikipedia, squirrels only tear the fruit apart to get the seeds. Also, the fruits are not poisonous to humans but would cause vomiting. And, interestingly, the fruits float. We can test that last bit of information in preschool next week.

As usual the Tree Notes blog has intriguing information on the subject of osage orange trees. The tree provides a very good firewood.

My breakfast was hashbrowns with fresh cilantro, mild salsa, a fried egg, corn tortillas with a black beans and pepper jack cheese, avocado, Greek yogurt, coffee, and orange juice. Don't tell the squirrel.

Have a lovely day, and eat more breakfasts.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Composers for $500, Alex

This composer created an opera about a hot-blooded gypsy and a matador, but the downloadable ringtone was too subtle to be answered in a timely fashion by middle-aged bloggers.

Who is Bizet?

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder