IWSG: Hair Hysteria

                                                        



It's time for another edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group.  Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                                      Hair Hysteria

                                                     

Surrounded by my favorite boys; 8/19

My mom's entire life revolved around her hair. From a young age, she fought by any means necessary to keep her hair from getting wet. Mom was the only one in her high school gym class who was able to talk her way out of taking four years of swimming.

Beginning in her 20s, Mom had weekly beauty shop appointments. She would patiently watch her beautician dry and style her hair. Then she would primp in front of the mirror with a pick until her hair was teased and coiffed to perfection, adding enough hairspray to choke an elephant. Fortunately, her saintly beautician didn't take it personally.

Is hair obsession hereditary? Though I suffered through four years of swimming in high school, I admit to being traumatized by bad hair days. Then fate stepped in.

The night before a haircut appointment last April, I received a text from my beautician informing me that she had a bad case of the flu and wasn't sure when she'd feel well enough to reschedule.

I hate change which is evidenced by the fact that I've had slight variations on the shag hairdo since I turned double digits. 

As much as I adore my beautician of over 20 years, I felt that maybe this would be a good opportunity to finally try something new.

Not only was I able to get into another highly recommended stylist two days later, but she was just steps away from our apartment building.

Our first meeting prompted her to ask, "Why do you have a Carol Brady hairdo?"

Carol Brady was the mom played by Florence Henderson on the popular sitcom The Brady Bunch. Shag hairstyles were all the rage in the 70s and Mrs. Brady was quite a trendsetter. The series ran from 1969-1974.

Though almost 50 years later, this was clearly not a compliment, I was in dire need of a stylist who wasn't afraid of hurting my feelings. Boy I miss my mom!

The beautician explained that I could have a more contemporary look by simply growing out my top layers, while trimming the surrounding longer layers. She styled it straight for the first few haircuts which looked great, but I had trouble working with it. Even using a flat iron didn't help.

When I pleaded with her to bring back my shorter layers which had morphed into wings, she assured me that if I just held out a little longer, my hair would be easier to handle. I told her that she was like having an AA sponsor.

Like any good sponsor, she could relate to my frustrations, as she also has curly hair. I decided to follow her lead and stop fighting the heat and humidity by embracing my curls. I'm happier and my husband's happier, so it's a win-win. 

Now I have the best of both worlds, as my former beautician (who's also a color expert) moved into a shop just blocks away from where we live, so I still see her whenever I need highlights.

Hair obsession doesn't only effect the women in our family. Years ago, a close relative joked that he was a member of the "Balding Men's Club," after one of my sons saw him talking to another balding man, and assumed that all men experiencing hair loss knew each other.

One day after being traumatized by the worst haircut of his life, the close relative ranted to the barber in vivid details about what a terrible job he had done. 

Finally, the barber asked, "If I don't charge you for the haircut, will you promise never to come back to my barbershop again?"

IWSG: In Appreciation of Mom

      

                                                    

It's time for the first 2019 edition of the  Insecure Writer's Support Group.  Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh  and the rest of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.


                                            In Appreciation of Mom

                                             
                                              


As I sat by my mom's bedside, I told her how she helped me in ways she hadn't realized.  I explained that it wasn't until I started writing about her humorous adventures that I developed a small but loyal following of bloggers which led to giving me the confidence to put together the anthology, Old Broads Waxing Poetic with Susan Flett Swiderski and a host of gifted writers/poets.

A few years later, I accumulated enough diverse stories to include in a modest portfolio, thus enabling me to get hired as a reporter for a local news website and newspaper - my dream job. But none of this would've been possible without my mom's help.

After I thanked her, Mom replied, "And in all that time I was never a burden."

And my mom kept her word. Even after she endured endless pain from spinal fusion surgery about 10 years ago, I was the cause of my mom's only complaint.

She lived in the multi-level home that my brother and I grew up in, while our home had a first floor bedroom and bathroom, So I insisted that she move in with us for almost a year. But my mom wanted to live on the edge instead of being in my overprotective custody.

She said, "I can't live with you, because you're too nervous that I'll fall every minute. How am I supposed to have any fun?" Mom was about 74 at the time.

Mom's health took a turn for the worse a few months ago. Some of her symptoms included: pneumonia, low hemoglobin which required a blood transfusion, and loss of appetite. She also has Parkinson's Disease.

She was admitted to the hospital on November 18th, but discharged after a few days against our wishes. Though at first she seemed to be doing better, on the day before Thanksgiving she was very weak and didn't recognize my brother. She also was barely eating.

My brother pleaded with the head hospitalist, head nurse and head of patient care to let her stay in the hospital and have more tests to find out why her health wasn't improving, but they insisted on discharging her.

Unfortunately, these strangers who had never met my mom before told him that she had dementia and there was nothing more that they could do for her. He tried to explain that she had all of her faculties before she had taken ill, but they wouldn't listen.

Nine days later  my brother and I agreed to have Mom readmitted to the hospital where she was diagnosed with a collapsed lung and stage 4 lung cancer. Apparently, the hospital hadn't done a CT scan during her prior visit.

She is now in hospice at the nursing home where she's resided for the last three years.Though my mom lost her ability to walk years ago, she never lost her  positive outlook. True to form, she is handling her recent prognosis with grace and dignity.

When I told her she doesn't have to be so brave, she explained that she's grateful to have lived a long life.

My brother and I have tried to spend as much time with our mom as possible. He has been a tremendous help to both of us. Though I tell him not to, he often visits me at the dialysis clinic before heading over to Mom's.

I'm also grateful to my husband and our boys. While my mom was in and out of the hospital, I never once had to ask our grown sons to visit her. They continue to see their beloved Nana frequently which is her greatest joy.

My mom has good days and bad days, but through it all she has never lost her sense of humor. Recently, when my brother asked her to tell me where she'd like to go, she thought for a minute and said, "To the mortician."

But she had talked about wanting to attend the Academy Awards. She always enjoyed the glitz and glamour and would've easily fit in during her heyday.

The other day, Mom noticed that my concealer wasn't blended in properly under my left eye and wanted to fix it. She couldn't believe that I didn't have an emergency supply of Q-tips with me, so she decided to make her own by attaching a cotton ball to a pen. So what if I risked getting poked in the eye, as it was more important to look good than to feel good.

This experience has definitely brought us all closer. My brother and I have spent many nights with our mom, reminiscing, singing her favorite songs and telling her how much we love her.

Growing up we fought about sitting next to our mom on the couch while watching our favorite TV shows. Ever the genius, my brother would always find ways to trick me into leaving the room, so he could steal my seat.

Now we politely take turns sitting next to our mom. Though on some days, Mom could barely speak above a whisper, she said she loves when we fuss over her.

On New Year's Eve, Mom's favorite nurse's aid announced she was going on vacation for a week.  We were all sad, because she's gone above and beyond for our mom and we think of her as a member of the family. Then she told me that my mom asked her to take care of me when she's gone.

In second grade we were asked to write about our best friend. While others were writing about their neighbors or classmates, I wrote about my mom.

I hope to continue writing about my courageous mom and all of her witticisms, Fortunately, she hasn't tried to throw me out of her room yet.


                                                  

IWSG: Mom Talks About...SEX

                                                       
                                                    

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.  

                                                    Mom Talks About...SEX

According to a recent Newsweek.com article, a young married Chinese couple, ages 24 and 26 were trying to conceive for four years, and it wasn't until they visited an obstetrician that they discovered they were literally doing it backwards.

In other words, you know how some wives say their husbands are a pain in the...? Well this young woman was not exaggerating.

The article explained that the reason for the couple's confusion was that China considers sex-education classes in schools "taboo."

Shortly after the doctor sent the couple home with a sex-education handbook, the wife became pregnant. The happy couple was so grateful that they gave the doctor a live hen and 100 eggs.

Sadly, most of my fifth grade sex-education class remains a blur. I just remember while most of the boys were snickering, the graphics scared me into thinking - I will never ever do that with anyone!

Of course my mom was thrilled to hear that, though she reassured me, "You'll feel differently when you're married."

Fast forward 16 years to a month before my wedding. My mom sat me down and in between drags of her Virginia Slims cigarette, she asked me in all seriousness, "Do you have any questions about the wedding night?"

Keep in mind that I was 26 and had been engaged for almost a year. Although I didn't save my handbook, I wasn't going to take a back seat to anyone and my mission was front and center.

So I confidently told my mom that I did not need her help in that department. Then I asked her what outfit to wear to work the next day and if she had time to iron it for me.

My mom sat in a daze until the strangest look came over her face. It was like a huge boulder had been lifted from her shoulders. Then she smiled, but it wasn't her usual smile.

I considered driving her to the hospital, but I really needed my dress ironed.

Words were never spoken, but Mom embraced me in a loving hug.

Did this mean she was finally proud of me?

The news that I was closer to Miss Kitty than "The Flying Nun" made my mom prouder than when I wrote a story about her in second grade entitled: "My Mom's My Best Friend."

When I recently reminded my mom of these events, I eagerly awaited her response.

I said, "When you were trying to give me advice about our wedding night, were you worried that I was going to screw that up too and the lovely wedding you planned would never come to fruition?"

She smiled and said, "Something like that." 

IWSG: The Motherhood of The Traveling Pants

                                                         


It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                        The Motherhood of The Traveling Pants

                                   


When my mom moved into a nursing home a few years ago, I decided that I wasn't going to take any chances. After many falls, she had been in and out of nursing homes for rehab throughout the years and I had noticed that some of her clothes went missing. So every week I brought her clothes home to wash.

Then the calls started coming.

Mom: I have no pants.

Me: What do you mean you have no pants?

Mom: There are no pants in my closet.

Me: How can your pants be missing? They couldn't get mixed up in everyone else's  laundry, because I wash them myself.

Mom: If you don't believe me come and see for yourself. I'm hanging up now, because I have to get ready for dinner.

Me: But Mom it's only 3 p.m.

This happened several times and I searched high and low in her room, but couldn't find any sign of her missing pants. So I went to her favorite department store that she retired from years ago, with her cherished employee discount card in hand, to buy her new pants. 

But then the new pants started to disappear.

At one point I suggested that my brother install a camera in her closet to see who was taking her pants, but her favorite child was too busy bringing her groceries, taking her to bingo, rearranging her room and doting on her other needs.

It really cheered me up when my mom introduced me to a resident's daughter who thought my brother was an only child.

Then one day, as I was hanging up my mom's wash, I noticed a pair of pants that I had never seen before. I checked the label and they were a women's 'tall.'

In my mom's prime she was a statuesque five foot five, so I knew trouble was afoot.

When I asked my mom, she explained that one of the staff gave them to her after she told them that her pants kept disappearing.

Me: So she stole an old pair of pants from someone else and gave them to you to replace a nice new pair of pants that I bought you? 

Mom: Well I needed black pants and they fit when I'm sitting down. I have no problem with that.

Suddenly, I had an urge to watch Robin Hood.

Recently, my mom's favorite department store announced that it was going out of business. The store holds many special memories for all of us. Though my mom worked in women's better sportswear, she knew every inch of the store and always found our family the most beautiful clothes for every occasion.

When we got married, she bought us lovely china that we still use, as well as other household items. She even helped us pick out furniture that has lasted for years.

But when I offered to take her to the store before it closes, she told me that she has a new favorite store with a great selection and even better deals.

Then she said to take a look inside her closet where there was a nice selection of pants that I hadn't seen before in several different colors.

I couldn't imagine where she had possibly gone shopping without me.

Then she explained that she got them just an elevator ride away at the Lost & Found.

When my resourceful mom told the woman who worked there that many of her pants went missing, she gave her the pick of the litter. She now has some great spring/summer jeans and casual pants.

Me: But what if you're wearing other people's pants who still need them?

Mom: Then they should have checked with the Lost & Found.

Me: So an eye for an eye?

Mom: More like pants for pants. 

IWSG: The Wrong Number

                                                                       

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

The following story is a blast from the past that I wrote in April of 2012. 

                                        The Wrong Number

Once upon a time before there was Caller ID, a young man named Stuart would call our house and ask to speak to Bonnie. I would tell him that there was no one here by that name, say goodbye and hang up. A week later he called again and we had the same conversation.

My mom overheard us talking and said, "Would it kill you to be Bonnie?"

I was 23-years-old, still living at home, and on the verge of becoming an old maid.

"No, I'm not gonna pretend to be someone else. We don't even know anything about this guy except that his name is Stuart, and he doesn't know how to dial a phone.

To which my mom replied, "Well, he seems nice."

This was a period in my life when I was working at a job that I loved, but I was in between boyfriends; while my mother and grandmother both had steady beaus of their own. Hence, my grandma hatched her own plan.

My grandma decided that she was going to fix me up with her friend's grandson, after discussing it with his grandmother on the bus. She had never met the grandson, and barely knew the grandmother, but what did I have to lose?

I thanked her and told her that I wasn't interested, but that didn't stop her from handing out my phone number.
He called a few days later, and we laughed about how funny the situation was. The fact that our grandmothers were desperately trying to fix us up, was hard not to find amusing, Since our conversation went so well, we agreed to go out on a date.

I remember that we went to see the movie "This Is Spinal Tap," and out for a nice dinner afterward. It was a fun evening, but we parted friends. We fulfilled our promises to our grandmothers, who may have sat on opposite ends of the bus from that point on and nothing more. 

My mom waited up for me to find out how our date went. I told her that we had a good time, but that I wasn't interested in going out with him again. Then she said that she had a feeling we weren't going to hit it off, but not to worry.

Before I could question why Mom announced, "Stuart called again, and I told him my Bonnie would call him back tomorrow."

IWSG: Is Mom Turning into Florence Nightingale?

                                                                           

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                                              

   

After spending the day visiting my mom at the nursing home, one of my 20-something sons asked me, "Was Nana always so mean?"

I thought carefully before answering and decided to ask him to explain.

He said that while he was pushing my mom in the wheelchair, she kept yelling, "Faster, faster," to lose a 90-something neighbor named Nadine who was gaining speed while pushing her own wheelchair.

In all fairness, Mom had tried on several occasions to be friendly to Nadine and though Nadine never had trouble recognizing the other patients on her floor, for some reason she couldn't seem to remember who my mom was and couldn't hear anything she said.

A few weeks later, my brother came to visit Mom after dinner and there was no sign of her. He asked the nurses and combed the floor, but it was as if she had vanished without a trace. He was particularly concerned, because it was BINGO night and she had been on a roll winning two dollars in two weeks.

After my brother turned down several nonagenarians' invitations to see their etchings, our mom finally appeared outside her room.  He hugged her in relief, as she explained her whereabouts.

Using her super hearing powers and ability to read the room, my mom sensed trouble in the dining room after dinner. Apparently a patient had asked a nurse's aid for a banana and her request was not met. Though Mom had never met the patient, she could not sit back and allow her to be ignored.

She remembered that she had an emergency banana in her room, and sought out to find the woman.

On her journey, Mom never let her one good foot and minimal upper body strength deter her from fulfilling this stranger's dream as she inched down the hallway.

Eventually, a nurse helped guide her over to the patient's room. By this time she had forgotten all about the banana and asked my mom to leave.

On her way back, my mom realized that she had created quite a stir and all of the nurses had been talking about her. Mom took it in stride and held her head high.

When she returned to her room and found my brother in tears, she realized that she didn't have an emergency banana after all.

Later when my brother relayed the story, I told Mom that the patient might have been on a low potassium diet which either restricted bananas or limited them.

"But what if she was having a leg cramp? The potassium in bananas helps with leg cramps. I couldn't just sit back and let her suffer."

My mom's now known as the Florence Nightingale of the 7th floor. Well, only a few people know about it, as most of them can't hear.

IWSG: The Defiant One

                                                                   

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

The following is a repost from May 2014 when my mischievous Mom was in rare form.

                                                       
                                                                                                                         

(The Defiant One) 

 
Before we boarded our flight home from Israel, we made a quick stop at the duty-free shop at Ben Gurion Airport. We picked up some Ahava Lotion for my mom. She likes the special formula of Dead Sea minerals, and the convenient travel size tubes. When I told my husband that we needed to get a few extra he said, "She probably uses them like cartons of cigarettes in the joint." Then we rushed to catch our flight.


After our son graduated, I prepared myself for the worst. Though I knew he would be eating better at home, anything could happen once he stepped out of our house. All it took was a matter of minutes for him to get lost, robbed, or kidnapped by a gang of raccoons.


It didn't matter that he lived on his own for four years at college, now he was on my turf, and I felt entirely helpless. I've heard many stories about sneaky twenty-something kids who've gotten into all kinds of trouble. Little did I know, that he wasn't the one I needed to worry about.


I usually talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day. This rule still applies on days that we spend together. The other night, I reminded my mom that I had an early dental appointment in the morning, and that I would talk to her afterward. She wished me luck, and said that she also had to get up early. When I asked where she was going at the crack of dawn, she replied, "Downstairs."

This struck me odd, as she usually doesn't go to early morning activities at her retirement home, but she said goodnight before I could get anymore information.


The following day I tried calling my mom, but there was no answer. She finally called me back later in the afternoon. I asked her if she was feeling okay, and she said that she was fine. Then I asked  if she went to the doctor. She said, "No, why? What have you heard? Who told you?"


I told her that her story didn't make any sense, and if she was only downstairs then she would've returned my call earlier. Then I asked what was wrong with her, and why she had to keep it a secret. She gave me her standard line, "I didn't want to worry you."

I dove deeper by asking how she got to her appointment. "My nurse took me."

She has a visiting nurse that is set up through her insurance. I didn't realize they were that close. I asked why she asked the nurse to drive her, when I could've taken her. My mom said that her nurse doesn't drive, so her husband took her to the hospital.

My Novocain was beginning to wear off, but I tried to remain calm.

"So her husband drove you?"

"No, he met us at the hospital. Her boss drove me."

"Let me get this straight. So the nurse, her boss at the agency, and the nurse's husband were all at the doctor's office with you, because you were suffering from chronic constipation? It was okay to bother all of them, but you didn't want to bother your own daughter?"


"That's right."


"Did anyone in the group bring you a box lunch?"


"No, but no one gave me any lip either."


"I'm sure your doctor referred you to a gastroenterologist. Did you make an appointment?"


"No, I need to see a spine specialist first."


"Makes perfect sense. I'm sure he'll do wonders for your constipation. And I suppose you gave your nurse a nice present for taking you."


"As a matter of fact, I did."

"The Ahava Lotion?"

"It's the least I could do."