Picasso on my mind

Quick trip to San Francisco this weekend: dinner with friends, followed by a play (including for no extra charge the world’s most annoying usher, who nagged patrons nonstop about a series of offenses that nobody was even committing) and then next day, a fine Picasso exhibit.

Picasso doesn't rank as my personal favorite, but I can appreciate a lot of what he did to define 20^th century art. That he lived to be 91 and was still active, growing in new creative directions, amazes me as much as the passion for life and art that burned brightly to his final days. A brief description of his love life, as detailed in Wikipedia, is exhausting to imagine, even at my comparatively young age:


In 1944, after the liberation of Paris, Picasso began a romantic relationship with a young art student named Francoise Gilot.  She was 40 years younger than he was.  Picasso grew tired of his mistress Dora Maar; Picasso and Gilot began to live together.  Eventually they had two children: Claude, born in 1947 and Paloma, born in 1949. In her 1964 book “Life with Picasso, (Gilot) describes his abusive treatment and myriad infidelities which led her to leave him, taking the children with her….

Picasso had affairs with women of an even greater age disparity than his and Gilot’s. While still involved with Gilot, in 1951, Picasso had a six-week affair with Genevieve Laporte, who was four years younger than Gilot.

Oh—and for the record, he was married during the time all these adventures took place. But this was a man who lived by his own rules, both artistic and personal. I’m torn between admiration and disgust at such a free spirit, knowing I could never live as he did, and yet wondering if maybe, at least to some extent, being a true artist means rebelling against all conventions.

Eventually, according to the experts, Picasso accepted the limitations of age. His later art apparently reflected a waning interest in young women, yet his love of life remained. His last words, spoken over dinner while entertaining friends in 1973 were nothing if not inspiring: "Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink any more."  


Here's to you, Pablo.

Nothing to say? Then...

Some eons back (during my early teen years, as I recall) I skimmed a Reader's Digest article entitled, "Are you a Bore?" And to this day, I can quote the opening lines: "Are you a bore? If you think you are, relax--you're not. But if the thought never occurred to you, then there's a terrible chance that you are..."

So now, all these years later and almost 10 months into this blog, I raise the question to myself, if only in hopes of avoiding the dread possibility. There is only so much that can be said about weekly visits to the grocery store, odd parental quirks, or even general observations on aging. And for the time, I may have said enough.

Complaining constantly about a single subject quickly becomes tiresome even when doing so offers readers some amusement or a sense of therapeutic release to the writer. Andy Rooney, who never ran out of things to complain about, finally reached the decision (at age 92) to give it a rest, after over 1000 episodes.

It may also be that focusing so much on the negative, or turning other people's problems and shortcomings into a subject of amusement, could be less than therapeutic. It certainly doesn't bode well for me in the karma department.

For now I stand by all the horrible things I've said thus far, and at the same time have decided to strive for brevity and enlightenment more than cruel mockery in the future.... but please note that there may be times I miss that goal, if I even aim for it. Sometimes, a story will be just too good, or a remark too foolish to let languish. No apologies for those eventualities. The only apology I'll offer is if I've been boring anyone...

Death of a Refrigerator (part 2)

The repairman said he felt terrible; he was truly sorry to be the bearer of bad news...but there was nothing that could be done to save my parents' refrigerator. Their 4-year-old Amana would have to be commended to the nearest recycling team, which, after stripping whatever metal might be worth something, will haul the remains to a landfill where they'll rest for the next 20 generations or so.

One hopes for something good to come out of this sad tale; a scientific advance, perhaps...or a life lesson--anything to prevent other families from going through the same pain. I was thinking our local newspaper might have run an inspirational story (my calls to the city desk went unanswered). Probably, these events are both too commonplace and depressing for them to burden an already overwhelmed public.

Here then, is the humble lesson, borrowed from the wisdom of many cultures that recognize this universal truth: "You get what you pay for." Put another way, "the very cheapest will cost you dearly." Or as a friend's Croatian grandmother said more than once, "I'm not rich enough to afford the cheapest."

Wisdom like that should guide us, help us from making painful mistakes. Sad to say, my parents once again opted for a fairly cheap refrigerator...but this time with my blessing. It appears to be a slightly more reliable brand and should get them through at least another 5 or 6 years--and may even outlive them. In any case, I'm not holding my breath...

A truly rotten day

What a day. I’ve never had so many opportunities to say “I told you so,” even though I held back almost every time. So for all those occasions I could have said it to my parents, here goes: moving up here to live in a flimsy tin can? A bad idea—I told you so. Trying to manage the details of everyday life with only occasional help? A terrible idea, and yes, I told you so.  As for that Amana refrigerator you bought, I really did advise you to get any other brand, but it was the cheapest one so of course you went ahead and made the purchase.

It wasn't quite this bad...

And as I could have predicted, that very refrigerator took center stage in yesterday’s little drama. Barely four years old, it gave out sometime during the past week, but true to form, my parents weren’t quite aware it had expired until Friday evening when my dad noticed that his ice cream was a lukewarm soup. 

I got the call just before 9 a.m. on Saturday, about an hour before I was scheduled to stop by. “Well, we have a major problem,” Jeannie began. And in her predictably tortuous fashion, she described every detail pertaining to the refrigerator’s final illness (“I knew something was wrong because the lettuce was warm”) and ended up saying, “So I guess it doesn’t make much sense to buy groceries since we don’t have a way to refrigerate them.”

Still, there was no other choice for me but to drive there and help them carry out an action plan. Call a repairman? Buy a new refrigerator?  I knew that whatever path we took was bound to be a lot more involved and time-consuming than our normal Saturday. And, with Murphy’s Law in force, I had to be back home for a 2 p.m. appointment.

Arriving at their place, I opened the refrigerator and was hit by an almost palpable stink of rotting cabbage.  When I informed them that nearly everything would have to be tossed, Jeannie protested:  “But the yogurts? They haven’t been opened yet, they should be all right.” No, I said. “What about the eggs—I’ll bet they’re still good.” I pointed out that their “use by" date had passed more than a month ago, to say nothing of the recent conditions. Desperate, she made one more attempt: “And these chicken breasts were in the freezer, so they just thawed and are probably OK.” In answer to that, I opened the package of chicken and reeled back, nearly gagging.

I have no doubt that given their diminished sense of smell (coupled with a profound reluctance to throw out food they’d bought) they would likely have tried to eat at least some of the spoiled things if I hadn’t been there to intervene.

Ultimately, I maneuvered them toward a solution. After a hearty lunch at our local Chili’s, we stopped at Target where I located a mini-refrigerator on sale for only $59. Just big enough for juice, wine and a couple of food items, it should tide them over until they can get a repair person to come out. 

This small crisis will pass—but others are surely on the horizon—and for some future emergencies, even the most skillful repair person will only be able to shake his head and say that nothing can be done.  Just remember: I told you so.

Food, glorious food

My dad’s continuing weight loss—he’s now down to 102 lbs—hasn’t really been addressed, if in fact it can be. Knowing the pathetic state of Jeannie’s cooking (and having heard that lunch earlier that week consisted of grapes and nonfat yogurt) spurred my resolve to find a solution.

Beforehand, I checked out a handy online Calorie Calculator, which tells you to plug in a person’s age, height, weight and sex, along with their activity level, and it will then give you the minimum calorie requirements for that person.  Gene’s magic number would be about 1250 just to maintain his current weight, and I estimate that he consumes no more than 1000 calories on a good day. 

My battle plan: take Gene out for lunch, mostly to see if giving him a choice of tasty, calorie-dense foods might inspire him to eat more. He opted for Chinese, since Jeannie dislikes it, meaning that he never gets to enjoy what used to be a favorite cuisine.

We headed for the nearest Chinese restaurant, and after some discussion, he decided on sweet & sour pork. The lunch special came with soup, salad and a fortune cookie.  As the food arrived, so did the problems: the hot and sour soup was too spicy for Gene, so a couple of spoonfuls were all he could manage. The salad was small and bland, but he ate most of it.

When our main courses arrived, I noticed the servings were huge—each one big enough to satisfy two normal (read non-American) appetites. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to clean his plate I still imagined that he might get through half of it.  As it turned out, some 20 minutes later, the mountain of Chow Mein on his plate was barely diminished, while more than half of the pork remained—and he said he was full.  We packed the rest to go, though I wondered if it would ever be eaten.

So—despite my best efforts—taking my father out to a restaurant of his choice and giving him an opportunity to eat what he wanted resulted in a net intake of perhaps 450 calories. While that’s more than he would get from one of his usual lunches, it still isn’t enough. 

As tempting as it would be to cast all the blame on Jeannie, even if she were to prepare enjoyable, adequate meals every day it’s likely that my father would not eat enough to gain weight and maintain his long term health.  And the downward spiral goes on….

Labor Day Special

People look at me strangely when I tell them I love my job. “That’s nice,” they say, but with a mix of bewilderment and resentment that reveals how odd they must think I am. Strange and lucky, I guess.  Nevertheless, it’s true—I love my job and get bored on 3 day weekends, ready to go back to work.

Almost everyone else in my family went into teaching, which could explain why I chose another path.  Dad, mother, stepmother, stepbrother, aunt, uncle—all in different branches of the same business.  Education may be a rewarding profession, but it’s also more demanding and repetitive than many jobs. Maybe that’s why so many teachers get worn down over the years.

My father would come home most days from teaching community college students and head straight to the bedroom for a nap. “Teaching is hard work," he would say. “It wears me out.”

For many years, my stepmother worked as a substitute kindergarten teacher, because a full time position would be “just too much” given her domestic responsibilities.  I recall once she had a longer term assignment, and everyone in the household was put to work helping her keep up with the chores.  (I didn’t mind doing my own laundry, but preparing the next day’s bag lunches for 3 people just felt wrong.)

On the positive side, with both parents working as teachers, our schedules meshed. Leisurely summer vacations were the rule when my father and I lived alone; not long after he and Jeannie got married, the two of them would take extended trips, allowing for some marathon parties at our house.  

The end of summer always brought with it a sense of looming finality, the death row feeling of numbered days.  Labor Day weekend was more of a cruel joke than a holiday, and then back to school…I imagine that was one of the times that most teachers and students were on the same page.

Retiring at 60 was a true gift for my father. Unlike those men who retire and then, having no idea what to do with themselves, die shortly afterward, he’s enjoyed the ultimate long and leisurely vacation which summers only hinted at. The few times I asked if he would want to volunteer as a mentor, or even work part time, he would laugh. “Never again,” he said.

I should be so lucky.

A little Schadenfreude, perhaps?

Jeannie had a pretty bad week; my dad had a pretty good week, and that ratio is unacceptable to her. It’s not as if she actively wishes other people ill, but if they’re doing OK while she’s suffering any discomfort or inconvenience, then by god, they’re going to feel her pain too. 

I got an earful when I called to check in. “Oh, Gene’s status quo, but me—well I’ve had a terrible week.” She proceeded to regale me with a litany of her woes: a dental problem that couldn’t be fixed in one visit; a pacemaker appointment that never happened because the technician wasn’t in; her daughter calling in tears because she had to (chose to, actually) give her cats up to the humane society. There may have been a couple of other items but to be honest I wasn’t paying attention.

Of course, it would be easy for me to go into my sympathetic listener mode. With most people I really mean it, but Jeannie has a knack for fashioning everyday annoyances into a do it yourself Greek tragedy, so I usually pay the least amount of attention possible.

Some time ago, I recall her describing a trip they took to Costa Rica. The trip itself, she said was wonderful, but getting back was “pure hell.” I had visions of airplane trouble, maybe an emergency landing…but no, it was just a crowded airport and a slight delay.

My usual response to her complaining is a blend of upbeat flippancy—“Oh well, I guess it keeps life interesting,” or something along those lines. If I’m feeling more sadistic, then I might start telling her about an acquaintance who’s battling cancer, or someone who just lost a family member. Predictably, she retreats, saying that maybe she should be grateful, and that things could be much worse.

The stereotype of the querulous elder, moaning about this or that problem seems more a matter of character makeup and is not the domain of the elderly alone. I’ve known many old people facing truly serious challenges, but who rarely complain about their lot, or they might just mention their problems in passing.  Jeannie is not of the “less is more” school and apparently believes that the more she complains, the more seriously other people will regard her problems, however slight.

She does the same thing in reverse when she’s happy about something—if her world is just right, and she’s thrilled that everything went well, she trumpets the good news (which usually consists of little more than a pleasant meeting with her club, or a meal out) as if everyone should celebrate for her.  

It isn’t my place, nor would it be right, to rain on her parade when she’s happy…but I can’t help feeling a sense of unrestrained glee when her day is clouded by life’s little inconveniences. Call me mean-spirited—but at least I keep those sentiments to myself...most of the time.