Page Thirty.
On page twenty-nine, I referenced some flyers I put out in '82. Let's chat about those today.
I'd been living with the Van Myms for a few months. and was still quite new at Salon: Alpha-Omega, having just started there in July of '81. I had no money. Let's repeat that. I HAD NO MONEY. One more time with vigor... BROKE!!! And I was twenty years old.
What are all the things that a twenty year old can do to earn money? Just for fun, let's list, comprehensively:
1) prostitution
2) drug sales
3) steal
4) beg
5) become pope
6) become a major movie actor
7) become president
8) landscape
9) child-care
10) paint
11) clean
12) odd jobs
13) sell shoes
That's it. Nothing else. I researched thoroughly. There were no other things. Now, let's go down this list, shall we? Numbers 1-4, seemed unsavory, just not my style; 5-7, I was certainly qualified for these positions but upper management didn't think so, else I would've gotten the jobs; 8, well... I hate doing yard work; 9, I was a live-in nanny so I didn't think more kids would be kind to my soul; 10, 11 and 12, I could do; 13, not interested.
So... how does one go about getting jobs painting, cleaning and doing odd jobs? The Van Myms told me I should make up a flyer advertising myself, then she would make copies at work. I could then put them in neighbors' front doors and wait for the phone to ring. So I did, then she did, then I did, then it did. She printed up four hundred flyers, of which I put out about three hundred seventy five. I still have the remainders. It's really a lousy flyer - very amateurish - but not too many neighbors seemed to care, apparently. Honestly, I didn't get that many responses, but the ones I did get really made a difference in my life.
As previously mentioned, Dr. Hanson's wife responded and inquired about elder-care. I also got a few responses for cleaning and painting, (I've been told that I'm a good cleaner and painter). I received a few unexpected phone calls for party help!?!? Gee, where would that lead? As these things went out in July, there were the phone calls for yard work. I didn't want them but accepted them. I also got a number of calls for child care. The child care I absolutely said no to. After I explained why, most people understood; that is, all did except for one lady named Lena. That's a separate story. Brother, is that a story!
I'd employ the flyer concept again, later in life. Sometimes you just have to let people know you exist.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
Doctor Hanson
Page Twenty-Nine.
My mother's best friend was named Virginia. This blog isn't about her. It's about Doctor Hanson. He was my very first elder-care client. The reason I bring up Virgina is because she was sort of like my grandmother. I helped her a great deal around her apartment and running errands and so forth. From her I learned the concept of "companionship" as it relates to aiding the elderly. But she wasn't a client in any sense of the word. She was family. She merely prepped me for the profession.
Summer, '82 is when I passed out flyers looking for clients, the first time. This is a separate story for another time, but it's how I met Dr. Hanson. One of my responses came from a woman who lived in one of the very large homes on Fairmount Blvd. here in Cleveland Heights. She had an ex-husband who lived over near Shaker Square. He was a retired surgeon who was ill and needed help. She wanted to know if I was interested. Of course I was.
For the next three years, I helped him, usually twice a week, in the afternoons. We ran errands then we'd go back to his place. I'd make dinner and we'd sit, eat and chat. He died in '85 from his heart condition. He wasn't old, perhaps mid-sixties somewhere.
In spite of a very successful career in surgery and a loving family with four kids he wasn't really a happy man. He had a history with alcohol which wasn't resolved. Many people though he was sober through A.A. but he wasn't. I watched him drink. He was also very concerned over the health of his mother, much more than over his own health which was, in fact, far worse than hers. In fact, he minimized his own illnesses. He had a very large ulcer on his foot which he refused to take care of. One day he said to me, "it's not that bad. It isn't like you can see bone or anything." Maybe I couldn't see bone, but I sure saw stuff I shouldn't have. It was really large and deep. He also needlessly worried about money, to the point that the last six or eight months of his life he took to calling me only occasionally to save cash. But he had enough of it, believe you me.
It was a very valuable and positive relationship to me, though. He mostly was very nice, kind and helpful. At one point he even put me up for a few weeks 'cause I was waiting to move into a new place. He lent me his car on numerous occasions and always took me out for my birthday. He took his frustrations out on me only once, and it was a really bad scene. But he apologized quickly.
I was getting ready to quit my day job at Salon: Alpha-Omega and move out of town. The night prior to my last day at work he informed me that I'd need to help him out the next day. He wanted to fly home to see his mother and needed me to take him to the airport. I couldn't 'because I was booked solid at work doing hair, again, on my last day in Cleveland. He went ballistic with particularly cruel verbage. I didn't budge. Fifteen minutes later he apologized after calling his sister. She laid into him apparently and he showed sincere remorse.
That was really the only hiccup in our relationship. That was when I realized how angry he had to have been at his own life. I've always assumed that those few moments must've been similar to what his kids might have experienced growing up.
His ex-wife called me at work when he died. I went to the funeral and was struck by the lack of grief his family expressed. Well, they had to have been expecting it and they certainly knew how miserable he was in his illness. I think they thought, "now he's out of his misery". That is where some people go when their loved one dies.
Dr. Hanson was in my life for only a few years, thirty years ago. But here I am remembering him vividly. Isn't that amazing? We never can predict the long-term effect others will have on us or we on them. We never know when or how a single little act, positive or negative, will change a life. I hope I distribute positive ones more than negative. I think I do. (Please forgive me. I'm sounding a little like John-Boy crossed with Doogie Howser here.)
My mother's best friend was named Virginia. This blog isn't about her. It's about Doctor Hanson. He was my very first elder-care client. The reason I bring up Virgina is because she was sort of like my grandmother. I helped her a great deal around her apartment and running errands and so forth. From her I learned the concept of "companionship" as it relates to aiding the elderly. But she wasn't a client in any sense of the word. She was family. She merely prepped me for the profession.
Summer, '82 is when I passed out flyers looking for clients, the first time. This is a separate story for another time, but it's how I met Dr. Hanson. One of my responses came from a woman who lived in one of the very large homes on Fairmount Blvd. here in Cleveland Heights. She had an ex-husband who lived over near Shaker Square. He was a retired surgeon who was ill and needed help. She wanted to know if I was interested. Of course I was.
For the next three years, I helped him, usually twice a week, in the afternoons. We ran errands then we'd go back to his place. I'd make dinner and we'd sit, eat and chat. He died in '85 from his heart condition. He wasn't old, perhaps mid-sixties somewhere.
In spite of a very successful career in surgery and a loving family with four kids he wasn't really a happy man. He had a history with alcohol which wasn't resolved. Many people though he was sober through A.A. but he wasn't. I watched him drink. He was also very concerned over the health of his mother, much more than over his own health which was, in fact, far worse than hers. In fact, he minimized his own illnesses. He had a very large ulcer on his foot which he refused to take care of. One day he said to me, "it's not that bad. It isn't like you can see bone or anything." Maybe I couldn't see bone, but I sure saw stuff I shouldn't have. It was really large and deep. He also needlessly worried about money, to the point that the last six or eight months of his life he took to calling me only occasionally to save cash. But he had enough of it, believe you me.
It was a very valuable and positive relationship to me, though. He mostly was very nice, kind and helpful. At one point he even put me up for a few weeks 'cause I was waiting to move into a new place. He lent me his car on numerous occasions and always took me out for my birthday. He took his frustrations out on me only once, and it was a really bad scene. But he apologized quickly.
I was getting ready to quit my day job at Salon: Alpha-Omega and move out of town. The night prior to my last day at work he informed me that I'd need to help him out the next day. He wanted to fly home to see his mother and needed me to take him to the airport. I couldn't 'because I was booked solid at work doing hair, again, on my last day in Cleveland. He went ballistic with particularly cruel verbage. I didn't budge. Fifteen minutes later he apologized after calling his sister. She laid into him apparently and he showed sincere remorse.
That was really the only hiccup in our relationship. That was when I realized how angry he had to have been at his own life. I've always assumed that those few moments must've been similar to what his kids might have experienced growing up.
His ex-wife called me at work when he died. I went to the funeral and was struck by the lack of grief his family expressed. Well, they had to have been expecting it and they certainly knew how miserable he was in his illness. I think they thought, "now he's out of his misery". That is where some people go when their loved one dies.
Dr. Hanson was in my life for only a few years, thirty years ago. But here I am remembering him vividly. Isn't that amazing? We never can predict the long-term effect others will have on us or we on them. We never know when or how a single little act, positive or negative, will change a life. I hope I distribute positive ones more than negative. I think I do. (Please forgive me. I'm sounding a little like John-Boy crossed with Doogie Howser here.)
Friday, January 25, 2013
Restrictive Diets And The Very Old
Twenty-Eight.
I created quite a controversy in my nursing home some years ago. I gradually got more and more disgusted by the policy of dietary restrictions among the very old and I got vocal. Putting an old person on a restrictive diet is very cruel, I believe.
Those people have diminished hearing and diminished sight. They've lost their spouses, friends and sometimes children. They've usually lost sexual partners. Many things they're comfortable with - the world they know - is gone. And now... the ultimate insult... they're not allowed to eat what they want because some doctor, nurse or dietician believes that something isn't healthy.
Let's get this straight...
"My name's Joseph. You can call me Joe. I was in the South Pacific, under MacArthur, during the war. But, let's talk about today. I'm eighty-nine and thirty pounds overweight. I admit, I've always been a little chubby. My cholesterol is too high and I have high blood pressure. I have stable diabetes and all my other organs are okay, knock wood. My wife, Vivian, and two of my three children are gone. One of my sons died in Viet Nam and my daughter died a few years ago of cancer. I never really got over the loss of my son. All my siblings are dead. I'm still at home on a limited income so I can't do most things I wish I could. Even if I could go out once in a while, who would I go with? All my friends are either dead or they've moved away. Everything hurts. You wouldn't believe how vigorous I used to be. I played tennis twice a week. Now, I can't even walk to the mailbox without getting winded. My macular degeneration has advanced so I'm not able to drive anymore and hearing aid batteries are very expensive so it's hard for me to hear sometimes. I don't remember things so well anymore, either. I have to write everything down so I don't forget."
"I'm not complaining though. I've had a great life. I was a machinist and married to the most wonderful girl in the world. You could never have asked for a better wife. Boy was she pretty! All the guys wanted her but I got her. Life's different with her gone. Now, I have to rely on my son and daughter-in-law for everything. They pick up my groceries and pills. I'm grateful for them, don't get me wrong, but they're too bossy."
"For instance, I used to love Stouffer's frozen mac 'n cheese but they won't buy it for me because the damn doctor told them I should eat less fat. They also won't buy me real butter or even 2% milk. I'm stuck with cheap margarine and imitation milk made from almonds of all things. I can certainly afford real milk and butter, dammit. When they do get me pasta it's this whole wheat sh**. Why won't they get me good food? I tried to be a good father. I really did. I sacrificed like they don't know. Who worked while they took vacations? Who scrimped and saved? When I was a child my mother could stretch a dollar better than anyone you ever met. We always had food on the table. And it was good, too. Now, they won't even let me have the peanut butter I like and I don't even know why. They buy me this strange peanut butter that has no flavor.. Why doesn't everybody just leave me alone, God Dammit? I have no independence at all any more. SH**!!!"
I knew men just like this, and women too. And I agree with them. In the nursing home It's even worse because we had TOTAL control over what they ate. And if the doc, nursing staff or dietician decided that Joe shouldn't eat something, he basically had no control over it, especially if he had advanced dementia. And his kids would feel obligated to agree with us. In reality, Joe and his children absolutely have the right to refuse any dietary restrictions. The right to disagree with any nursing home decision is a law, it really is. But modern life teaches that medical workers are not to be disagreed with so Joe is stuck eating food he doesn't like.
As I became vocal about my displeasure with this concept, more people I worked with took sides too. On one occasion I actually got into a shouting match with our head Dietician (whom I was very friendly with). I also occasionally received anonymous notes and articles in my mailbox concerning this very topic. One anonymous party left me an article about a doctor in southern Ohio who completely eliminated all restrictive diets in his nursing home. This would have been about 2004 or so. He felt as I do... they have nothing left. Let them enjoy what little pleasure they can find in life.What are we proving by trying to make a very old person "healthy"?
What is life without joy? If food is one of the very few joys they have left, then why deny them that pleasure. In the rule book somewhere it says that if somebody's cholesterol is too high then they should lower it. Period. End of sentence. Except I don't buy that. I think that if somebody should be allowed to die with have high cholesterol if they want.
Redd Foxx used to talk about a friend of his. This friend gave up alcohol, tobacco, women, gambling and unhealthy foods. Redd said, "He's gonna feel like a damn fool layin' up in the hospital bed dyin' from nothin'.
I created quite a controversy in my nursing home some years ago. I gradually got more and more disgusted by the policy of dietary restrictions among the very old and I got vocal. Putting an old person on a restrictive diet is very cruel, I believe.
Those people have diminished hearing and diminished sight. They've lost their spouses, friends and sometimes children. They've usually lost sexual partners. Many things they're comfortable with - the world they know - is gone. And now... the ultimate insult... they're not allowed to eat what they want because some doctor, nurse or dietician believes that something isn't healthy.
Let's get this straight...
"My name's Joseph. You can call me Joe. I was in the South Pacific, under MacArthur, during the war. But, let's talk about today. I'm eighty-nine and thirty pounds overweight. I admit, I've always been a little chubby. My cholesterol is too high and I have high blood pressure. I have stable diabetes and all my other organs are okay, knock wood. My wife, Vivian, and two of my three children are gone. One of my sons died in Viet Nam and my daughter died a few years ago of cancer. I never really got over the loss of my son. All my siblings are dead. I'm still at home on a limited income so I can't do most things I wish I could. Even if I could go out once in a while, who would I go with? All my friends are either dead or they've moved away. Everything hurts. You wouldn't believe how vigorous I used to be. I played tennis twice a week. Now, I can't even walk to the mailbox without getting winded. My macular degeneration has advanced so I'm not able to drive anymore and hearing aid batteries are very expensive so it's hard for me to hear sometimes. I don't remember things so well anymore, either. I have to write everything down so I don't forget."
"I'm not complaining though. I've had a great life. I was a machinist and married to the most wonderful girl in the world. You could never have asked for a better wife. Boy was she pretty! All the guys wanted her but I got her. Life's different with her gone. Now, I have to rely on my son and daughter-in-law for everything. They pick up my groceries and pills. I'm grateful for them, don't get me wrong, but they're too bossy."
"For instance, I used to love Stouffer's frozen mac 'n cheese but they won't buy it for me because the damn doctor told them I should eat less fat. They also won't buy me real butter or even 2% milk. I'm stuck with cheap margarine and imitation milk made from almonds of all things. I can certainly afford real milk and butter, dammit. When they do get me pasta it's this whole wheat sh**. Why won't they get me good food? I tried to be a good father. I really did. I sacrificed like they don't know. Who worked while they took vacations? Who scrimped and saved? When I was a child my mother could stretch a dollar better than anyone you ever met. We always had food on the table. And it was good, too. Now, they won't even let me have the peanut butter I like and I don't even know why. They buy me this strange peanut butter that has no flavor.. Why doesn't everybody just leave me alone, God Dammit? I have no independence at all any more. SH**!!!"
I knew men just like this, and women too. And I agree with them. In the nursing home It's even worse because we had TOTAL control over what they ate. And if the doc, nursing staff or dietician decided that Joe shouldn't eat something, he basically had no control over it, especially if he had advanced dementia. And his kids would feel obligated to agree with us. In reality, Joe and his children absolutely have the right to refuse any dietary restrictions. The right to disagree with any nursing home decision is a law, it really is. But modern life teaches that medical workers are not to be disagreed with so Joe is stuck eating food he doesn't like.
As I became vocal about my displeasure with this concept, more people I worked with took sides too. On one occasion I actually got into a shouting match with our head Dietician (whom I was very friendly with). I also occasionally received anonymous notes and articles in my mailbox concerning this very topic. One anonymous party left me an article about a doctor in southern Ohio who completely eliminated all restrictive diets in his nursing home. This would have been about 2004 or so. He felt as I do... they have nothing left. Let them enjoy what little pleasure they can find in life.What are we proving by trying to make a very old person "healthy"?
What is life without joy? If food is one of the very few joys they have left, then why deny them that pleasure. In the rule book somewhere it says that if somebody's cholesterol is too high then they should lower it. Period. End of sentence. Except I don't buy that. I think that if somebody should be allowed to die with have high cholesterol if they want.
Redd Foxx used to talk about a friend of his. This friend gave up alcohol, tobacco, women, gambling and unhealthy foods. Redd said, "He's gonna feel like a damn fool layin' up in the hospital bed dyin' from nothin'.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Back To School Shopping
Twenty-Seven.
Two of my four sibling are sisters, one in Cleveland, the other in North Carolina. This blog takes place in N.C.
She has three royal offspring: eldest is a princess, then two princes. Every year for perhaps half a dozen I went down for a summertime excursion. My first visit, in '95(?), saw me being received by a Princess who must have been around ten, The Crown Prince of eight and the Younger Prince who would have been maybe six or so. The kids and I were very comfortable with each other as we lived a mile apart 'till they moved down South in 93. There were numerous visits at other times of year as well, but these summertime excursions took on a specific tone over time.
That first year Sis convinced me what a joy it would be to take them Back To School shopping. Have you ever taken three young kids to the mall all at the same time? If you have, we speak the same language. If you haven't, oh, it's a joy!!! Thankfully, the kids and I just loved each other (still do), so their behavior wasn't as horrid as it could've been. But still, it was rough.
For some reason though, my sister liked the idea so much that every summer itinerary thereafter included my taking them clothing shopping.
Over time, a few patterns emerged: concerning the Princess - Of all my nieces and nephews she's the style maven. She inherited my interest in fashion and design. Thankfully, her current career in finance is well paying. The Crown Prince - if it was ever clean, he'll wear it. If he has a date with a young lady, perhaps he'll tuck his shirt in. He's in school to become a nuclear engineer; engineers are known for their jeans. The younger Prince - he hates clothing. He hated it then and he still hates it. If he could spend all day in the buff, he would. He was the most difficult to shop with 'cause he was simply offended by the whole concept of clothing. A few times he's left Western civilization to go surfing; when you're surfing by yourself in Indonesia or Nicaragua you don't wear clothing. He's also in engineering school, so he'll be stuck in jeans too. Pity.
I do believe though, that bonding at the mall can be very fun. We really did have a blast. When developing a relationship with a kid, you simply have got to go to them. If you wait for the kid to meet you halfway, the relationship won't ever exist. Back To School shopping is a perfect excuse to hang out with your kids.
Two of my four sibling are sisters, one in Cleveland, the other in North Carolina. This blog takes place in N.C.
She has three royal offspring: eldest is a princess, then two princes. Every year for perhaps half a dozen I went down for a summertime excursion. My first visit, in '95(?), saw me being received by a Princess who must have been around ten, The Crown Prince of eight and the Younger Prince who would have been maybe six or so. The kids and I were very comfortable with each other as we lived a mile apart 'till they moved down South in 93. There were numerous visits at other times of year as well, but these summertime excursions took on a specific tone over time.
That first year Sis convinced me what a joy it would be to take them Back To School shopping. Have you ever taken three young kids to the mall all at the same time? If you have, we speak the same language. If you haven't, oh, it's a joy!!! Thankfully, the kids and I just loved each other (still do), so their behavior wasn't as horrid as it could've been. But still, it was rough.
For some reason though, my sister liked the idea so much that every summer itinerary thereafter included my taking them clothing shopping.
Over time, a few patterns emerged: concerning the Princess - Of all my nieces and nephews she's the style maven. She inherited my interest in fashion and design. Thankfully, her current career in finance is well paying. The Crown Prince - if it was ever clean, he'll wear it. If he has a date with a young lady, perhaps he'll tuck his shirt in. He's in school to become a nuclear engineer; engineers are known for their jeans. The younger Prince - he hates clothing. He hated it then and he still hates it. If he could spend all day in the buff, he would. He was the most difficult to shop with 'cause he was simply offended by the whole concept of clothing. A few times he's left Western civilization to go surfing; when you're surfing by yourself in Indonesia or Nicaragua you don't wear clothing. He's also in engineering school, so he'll be stuck in jeans too. Pity.
I do believe though, that bonding at the mall can be very fun. We really did have a blast. When developing a relationship with a kid, you simply have got to go to them. If you wait for the kid to meet you halfway, the relationship won't ever exist. Back To School shopping is a perfect excuse to hang out with your kids.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Kosher Foods
Page Twenty-Six
Now for a life skills lesson.
Kosher food. What is it? What isn't it? I occasionally get asked those questions for few good reasons. Mostly I think I get asked for the sake of conversation, but maybe not. Just in case you ever wanted to know*.
Kosher food laws are found in the Torah. They're spelled out very clearly with little room for interpretation. In fact, there are probably few things in all of Jewish law which leave less room for confusion, loop holes or inconsistency. In a nut shell:
1) any seafood that has fins and scales has the potential to be kosher;
2) any animal that chews its cud and has split hooves has the potential to be kosher;
3) the birds which are listed in the Torah as being kosher are potentially kosher;
4) any fruit and vegetable has the potential to be kosher;
5) no bird or animal may ever be eaten along side or prepared with a dairy product;
6) any thing prepared in the wrong pot or served on the wrong plate isn't kosher.
That's it, no more. You got it? Huh? What's that? You still don't understand? Oh for crying out loud! Okay, let's take this one at a time.
1) Fish. That one actually is self-explanatory. It's all about the fins and scales. Therefore, no shellfish, no creepy-crawly things... only swimmy fish is kosher. And only the swimmy fish that has the necessary fins and scales. So, no shark as they don't have scales. Sorry, no Lobster Newburg.
2) Animals that chew their cud and have split hooves are kosher if they're killed properly and even then only certain sections of the animal may be eaten. A special dude named a shochet has to do the ritual slaughtering. He kills the animal very quickly by cutting its throat. And then no skin or certain sections of the hind quarters are kosher. Also, ALL blood must be drained from the animal as blood isn't kosher.
3) Most of our normal American birds are kosher but allegedly some kosher-keeping Jews won't eat turkey because turkeys were unknown in bible days. Therefore it isn't on any list in the Torah, yeah or nay. Some Jews don't want to take a chance; therefore they won't eat it at all. Again, the bird has to be killed properly by a shochet and all blood drained.
4) Fruits and vegetables are all kosher if they've been rinsed and inspected for little insects 'cause little insects aren't kosher.
5) No animal or bird may be cooked with any dairy product or served with any dairy product. Therefore, no Beef Stroganoff (beef/sour cream), no Chicken Paprikash (chicken/sour cream), no cheese burgers (beef/cheese), for lunch, no chicken salad sandwich with a glass of milk on the side (chicken/milk), no pot roast with ice cream for dessert (beef/milk) and no lemon meringue pie while watching TV after dinner 'cause of the butter in the lemon curd. If meat is consumed, six hours must pass prior to dairy being consumed; if dairy is consumed, thirty minutes must pass before meat.
6) If a meat dish is prepared in a pot which was used for a dairy meal, both the meat and the pot are no longer kosher. Therefore, separate pots, pans, dishes, glasses, flatware and so forth are used for meat dishes and dairy dishes. Sometimes, you'll see two microwaves, two ovens, two 'fridges and so on.
That's basically it. From here it starts getting complicated. You'd be shocked at how many dairy products show up in prepared items that really should have no dairy, and vice-versa. That jar of chicken bullion cubes on your pantry shelf? It may possible contain a dairy derivative. That's a no-no. For this reason, food which has been prepared in a kosher facility, under the watchful eye of a religious dude, has a special little symbol on it which means it's kosher. Sometimes next to the symbol, there will be another symbol or two which signify if it's dairy, meat or neither. Dairy is milchek, meat is fleishik and neutral is parve. Interestingly, fish and eggs are parve but don't ask me why. So, chicken bullion which really only contain fleishik products and is prepared properly can be kosher. You'd be REAL surprised at how many items on your shelf right now have these little symbols. It's in Big Businesses best interest to have as wide an audience as possible. So many average, American companies have kosher certification. You may have never noticed 'cause it didn't occur to you or you didn't know what to look for on the label. Something like 75% of all prepared food in the US is certified kosher.
Almost all the laws pertaining to flesh consumption have to do with animal cruelty. Having an animal suffer while it's dying isn't nice, so quick death is kinder to it. Also, milk is for a calf and cooking a mom cow in the food intended for it's offspring is cruel. These are the very real origins of many of these laws.
I won't take up space right here and right now talking about Passover. Those dietary laws are off the hook. I'll address Passover food in anther blog.
Technically grasshoppers are kosher. Some people dispute that, but look it up. Food that isn't kosher is called traif. Pepperoni pizza is traif. So is shrimp cocktail, McDonald's and ham and cheese on white with mayo and mustard (dijon) - traif. A well-meaning neighbor inviting a rabbi over and preparing a meal with all kosher food but in a pot that was used the day before to prepare split pea soup with ham? Traif. I'm ubber traif.
*But didn't know whom to ask.
Now for a life skills lesson.
Kosher food. What is it? What isn't it? I occasionally get asked those questions for few good reasons. Mostly I think I get asked for the sake of conversation, but maybe not. Just in case you ever wanted to know*.
Kosher food laws are found in the Torah. They're spelled out very clearly with little room for interpretation. In fact, there are probably few things in all of Jewish law which leave less room for confusion, loop holes or inconsistency. In a nut shell:
1) any seafood that has fins and scales has the potential to be kosher;
2) any animal that chews its cud and has split hooves has the potential to be kosher;
3) the birds which are listed in the Torah as being kosher are potentially kosher;
4) any fruit and vegetable has the potential to be kosher;
5) no bird or animal may ever be eaten along side or prepared with a dairy product;
6) any thing prepared in the wrong pot or served on the wrong plate isn't kosher.
That's it, no more. You got it? Huh? What's that? You still don't understand? Oh for crying out loud! Okay, let's take this one at a time.
1) Fish. That one actually is self-explanatory. It's all about the fins and scales. Therefore, no shellfish, no creepy-crawly things... only swimmy fish is kosher. And only the swimmy fish that has the necessary fins and scales. So, no shark as they don't have scales. Sorry, no Lobster Newburg.
2) Animals that chew their cud and have split hooves are kosher if they're killed properly and even then only certain sections of the animal may be eaten. A special dude named a shochet has to do the ritual slaughtering. He kills the animal very quickly by cutting its throat. And then no skin or certain sections of the hind quarters are kosher. Also, ALL blood must be drained from the animal as blood isn't kosher.
3) Most of our normal American birds are kosher but allegedly some kosher-keeping Jews won't eat turkey because turkeys were unknown in bible days. Therefore it isn't on any list in the Torah, yeah or nay. Some Jews don't want to take a chance; therefore they won't eat it at all. Again, the bird has to be killed properly by a shochet and all blood drained.
4) Fruits and vegetables are all kosher if they've been rinsed and inspected for little insects 'cause little insects aren't kosher.
5) No animal or bird may be cooked with any dairy product or served with any dairy product. Therefore, no Beef Stroganoff (beef/sour cream), no Chicken Paprikash (chicken/sour cream), no cheese burgers (beef/cheese), for lunch, no chicken salad sandwich with a glass of milk on the side (chicken/milk), no pot roast with ice cream for dessert (beef/milk) and no lemon meringue pie while watching TV after dinner 'cause of the butter in the lemon curd. If meat is consumed, six hours must pass prior to dairy being consumed; if dairy is consumed, thirty minutes must pass before meat.
6) If a meat dish is prepared in a pot which was used for a dairy meal, both the meat and the pot are no longer kosher. Therefore, separate pots, pans, dishes, glasses, flatware and so forth are used for meat dishes and dairy dishes. Sometimes, you'll see two microwaves, two ovens, two 'fridges and so on.
That's basically it. From here it starts getting complicated. You'd be shocked at how many dairy products show up in prepared items that really should have no dairy, and vice-versa. That jar of chicken bullion cubes on your pantry shelf? It may possible contain a dairy derivative. That's a no-no. For this reason, food which has been prepared in a kosher facility, under the watchful eye of a religious dude, has a special little symbol on it which means it's kosher. Sometimes next to the symbol, there will be another symbol or two which signify if it's dairy, meat or neither. Dairy is milchek, meat is fleishik and neutral is parve. Interestingly, fish and eggs are parve but don't ask me why. So, chicken bullion which really only contain fleishik products and is prepared properly can be kosher. You'd be REAL surprised at how many items on your shelf right now have these little symbols. It's in Big Businesses best interest to have as wide an audience as possible. So many average, American companies have kosher certification. You may have never noticed 'cause it didn't occur to you or you didn't know what to look for on the label. Something like 75% of all prepared food in the US is certified kosher.
Almost all the laws pertaining to flesh consumption have to do with animal cruelty. Having an animal suffer while it's dying isn't nice, so quick death is kinder to it. Also, milk is for a calf and cooking a mom cow in the food intended for it's offspring is cruel. These are the very real origins of many of these laws.
I won't take up space right here and right now talking about Passover. Those dietary laws are off the hook. I'll address Passover food in anther blog.
Technically grasshoppers are kosher. Some people dispute that, but look it up. Food that isn't kosher is called traif. Pepperoni pizza is traif. So is shrimp cocktail, McDonald's and ham and cheese on white with mayo and mustard (dijon) - traif. A well-meaning neighbor inviting a rabbi over and preparing a meal with all kosher food but in a pot that was used the day before to prepare split pea soup with ham? Traif. I'm ubber traif.
*But didn't know whom to ask.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Missing Your Children
Page Twenty-Five.
Do you want to know one thing they don't warn you about prior to becoming a parent (or surrogate parent)? You'll end up caring almost as much for your kid's friends as for your own kids.While living with and taking care of the Shapiro boys I came to care for many of their friends deeply. I've already mentioned Spanky. There were, of course, many more. I found out last month that another friend whom I saw frequently, Eliza, was pregnant. I heard this news through the grapevine.
To hear news of weddings, births and new jobs of your kids' childhood friends is glorious, it really is. It's also bittersweet. It just re-enforces the life cycle. Believe me, I know the life cycle. I take care of many old people in addition to the childcare I provide.
You know what? Today's blog is rambling. I started out writing about children's friends and now I'm talking about the life cycle of the human being. Perhaps I'm in a mood. Watching children grow up and move away is depressing as hell. It just is. When the Shapiro boys come home and then leave, I have deep psychological difficulties. I've also told the Queen Mother (mom of the three princes and one princess whom I currently nanny ) that she really needs to savor all the time she has with her kids now 'cause one day in twenty years she's going to look back and cry, wishing they were little again. With all their fights, with all their screaming and yelling, with all their tantrums and foot stomping, in twenty years those memories are going to bring tears. At least they will for me. Yeah! I'm so lucky.
Love your kids while you have 'em. Love your children's friends while they're around. They grow up so fast, it leaves your head spinning like a roller coaster, wondering... when did they enter middle school? Five minutes ago they were in Kindergarten. Before you know it they're away at college. It really does happen that fast.
I was very lucky, I became really good friends with the Shapiro boys. This, in spite of that darned teenaged era. I basically lived with very good friends for those eight years. Perhaps that's one reason I miss them so much. Because I don't know how it's going to play out with the princes, I really chose to just value my time with them like it's my lasts moments on earth. If, hypothetically, I end up nannying them until Fauntleroy graduates from Shaker Heights High in 2023, I'll have that many more memories to be grateful for.
A friend recently asked if I ever missed having children. Was she kidding? All the parental energies that could possibly have dammed up in my male system never even had a chance. Not a single molecule of unspent parental desire exists in me. I became a live-in nanny at age twenty for crying out loud. Then I continued off and on (mostly on) until age thirty-one. More recently, I was asked to get back into nannying at age forty-six. And the potential exists for me to continue until age sixty-two (depending upon what my future holds). That's a million years of memories and worries and concern and joys and jubilations... all about children: children whom I've been deeply involved with.
And time with kids really does go that fast. I know this. Value the seconds, even the rough ones. In fact, twenty years later, it's the rough ones make the best Thanksgiving Day stories.
I think some future blog will be about the fact that I'm not a normal nanny. And parents and bystanders have noticed this. I don't actually even stop and acknowledge the term baby-sitter. I go straight to "Foster Parent", without passing Go, without collecting $200.00. But really, that's for another time.
(My God, today's blog was aimless. Oh, well.)
Do you want to know one thing they don't warn you about prior to becoming a parent (or surrogate parent)? You'll end up caring almost as much for your kid's friends as for your own kids.While living with and taking care of the Shapiro boys I came to care for many of their friends deeply. I've already mentioned Spanky. There were, of course, many more. I found out last month that another friend whom I saw frequently, Eliza, was pregnant. I heard this news through the grapevine.
To hear news of weddings, births and new jobs of your kids' childhood friends is glorious, it really is. It's also bittersweet. It just re-enforces the life cycle. Believe me, I know the life cycle. I take care of many old people in addition to the childcare I provide.
You know what? Today's blog is rambling. I started out writing about children's friends and now I'm talking about the life cycle of the human being. Perhaps I'm in a mood. Watching children grow up and move away is depressing as hell. It just is. When the Shapiro boys come home and then leave, I have deep psychological difficulties. I've also told the Queen Mother (mom of the three princes and one princess whom I currently nanny ) that she really needs to savor all the time she has with her kids now 'cause one day in twenty years she's going to look back and cry, wishing they were little again. With all their fights, with all their screaming and yelling, with all their tantrums and foot stomping, in twenty years those memories are going to bring tears. At least they will for me. Yeah! I'm so lucky.
Love your kids while you have 'em. Love your children's friends while they're around. They grow up so fast, it leaves your head spinning like a roller coaster, wondering... when did they enter middle school? Five minutes ago they were in Kindergarten. Before you know it they're away at college. It really does happen that fast.
I was very lucky, I became really good friends with the Shapiro boys. This, in spite of that darned teenaged era. I basically lived with very good friends for those eight years. Perhaps that's one reason I miss them so much. Because I don't know how it's going to play out with the princes, I really chose to just value my time with them like it's my lasts moments on earth. If, hypothetically, I end up nannying them until Fauntleroy graduates from Shaker Heights High in 2023, I'll have that many more memories to be grateful for.
A friend recently asked if I ever missed having children. Was she kidding? All the parental energies that could possibly have dammed up in my male system never even had a chance. Not a single molecule of unspent parental desire exists in me. I became a live-in nanny at age twenty for crying out loud. Then I continued off and on (mostly on) until age thirty-one. More recently, I was asked to get back into nannying at age forty-six. And the potential exists for me to continue until age sixty-two (depending upon what my future holds). That's a million years of memories and worries and concern and joys and jubilations... all about children: children whom I've been deeply involved with.
And time with kids really does go that fast. I know this. Value the seconds, even the rough ones. In fact, twenty years later, it's the rough ones make the best Thanksgiving Day stories.
I think some future blog will be about the fact that I'm not a normal nanny. And parents and bystanders have noticed this. I don't actually even stop and acknowledge the term baby-sitter. I go straight to "Foster Parent", without passing Go, without collecting $200.00. But really, that's for another time.
(My God, today's blog was aimless. Oh, well.)
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
On Hating Your Own Food
Page Twenty-Four.
Have you ever been a Personal Chef and had a job where you hated your own food so much that McDonald's was your regular stop on the way home? I'm serious. Let me tell you the story.
I was hired on by an otherwise pleasant household to come and cook a few days per week. I was also invited to always stick around and eat whatever I made. The job started out well enough and the money was much needed. Problem was, there was Asperger's in the home. At first I thought, "I can handle this, after all I've dealt with far stranger things in life". In fact, the person in question could be charming. But what caused the problem were the demands made on my menus. Shortly after I arrived, The family member in question convinced everybody else that an ultra-low fat diet was the healthiest way to live. Subsequently, I was told to make meals which contained no more than six grams of fat. Now, six grams of fat per meal is low. I mean that's LOW. LOW!!! Allowing for three meals per day that equals eighteen grams of fat per day. I bet an Anorexic tries to stay between five and ten. Weight Watchers, last I heard, allowed thirty per day to loose weight at a healthy speed. An average healthy-weight American needs, perhaps, forty to maintain their weight. One McDonald's Big Mac contains twenty-nine grams of fat.
This person acquired cook books and gave them to me. This person learned a lot about nutrition. I was then instructed on the assets of an ultra-low fat diet. I was gradually given stricter and stricter guidelines to follow. WOW! Was that food bad or what?
For the record, I'm in decent shape. Anybody meeting me might say that I could loose 6-9 pounds but no more. I'd like to loose two inches around my waste. I typically eat rather nutritious food. It's what I crave most often: salads, vegetables, fruits, lean meats, water and so forth. I also love the crap but I really don't crave it as often. I really do know and live healthy eating. (Plus, I exercise a fair amount.) So, I can be pretty objective about this topic. I'm telling you that the food I made just sucked.
There were also food allergies in the home which added a further level of complication. (I was told in advance that the food allergies were psychosomatic.) Additionally in the home: one vegetarian and one deer hunter who loved venison.
One day after I'd been there a year or longer, the phone rang and it was a relative. I took the message and then they began talking with me 'cause they'd heard about me. They said. "Jeremy, how do you feel having to make food that tastes like sh**?" I hemmed and hawed and tried to be diplomatic but they'd have none of it. They just went on and on about how people knew what I was capable of and how I was stuck making terrible food. I was also told that all the relatives had been looking forward to coming over on a regular basis to eat my food, but as the menu changed to accommodate the ultra-low fat requirements, family members were making more and more excuses not to come. I wish I were making this up.
That job lasted a little while. They would always give me a great reference if I ever asked for one. But I'll tell you, I probably ate more fast food food while working there than I have since becoming an adult. I simply wouldn't eat that stuff. I wouldn't give it to a dog.
Have you ever been a Personal Chef and had a job where you hated your own food so much that McDonald's was your regular stop on the way home? I'm serious. Let me tell you the story.
I was hired on by an otherwise pleasant household to come and cook a few days per week. I was also invited to always stick around and eat whatever I made. The job started out well enough and the money was much needed. Problem was, there was Asperger's in the home. At first I thought, "I can handle this, after all I've dealt with far stranger things in life". In fact, the person in question could be charming. But what caused the problem were the demands made on my menus. Shortly after I arrived, The family member in question convinced everybody else that an ultra-low fat diet was the healthiest way to live. Subsequently, I was told to make meals which contained no more than six grams of fat. Now, six grams of fat per meal is low. I mean that's LOW. LOW!!! Allowing for three meals per day that equals eighteen grams of fat per day. I bet an Anorexic tries to stay between five and ten. Weight Watchers, last I heard, allowed thirty per day to loose weight at a healthy speed. An average healthy-weight American needs, perhaps, forty to maintain their weight. One McDonald's Big Mac contains twenty-nine grams of fat.
This person acquired cook books and gave them to me. This person learned a lot about nutrition. I was then instructed on the assets of an ultra-low fat diet. I was gradually given stricter and stricter guidelines to follow. WOW! Was that food bad or what?
For the record, I'm in decent shape. Anybody meeting me might say that I could loose 6-9 pounds but no more. I'd like to loose two inches around my waste. I typically eat rather nutritious food. It's what I crave most often: salads, vegetables, fruits, lean meats, water and so forth. I also love the crap but I really don't crave it as often. I really do know and live healthy eating. (Plus, I exercise a fair amount.) So, I can be pretty objective about this topic. I'm telling you that the food I made just sucked.
There were also food allergies in the home which added a further level of complication. (I was told in advance that the food allergies were psychosomatic.) Additionally in the home: one vegetarian and one deer hunter who loved venison.
One day after I'd been there a year or longer, the phone rang and it was a relative. I took the message and then they began talking with me 'cause they'd heard about me. They said. "Jeremy, how do you feel having to make food that tastes like sh**?" I hemmed and hawed and tried to be diplomatic but they'd have none of it. They just went on and on about how people knew what I was capable of and how I was stuck making terrible food. I was also told that all the relatives had been looking forward to coming over on a regular basis to eat my food, but as the menu changed to accommodate the ultra-low fat requirements, family members were making more and more excuses not to come. I wish I were making this up.
That job lasted a little while. They would always give me a great reference if I ever asked for one. But I'll tell you, I probably ate more fast food food while working there than I have since becoming an adult. I simply wouldn't eat that stuff. I wouldn't give it to a dog.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Ace Ventura Pet Detective
Page Twenty-Three.
It must have been 1995 when others first told me that I should be canonized.
On page twenty-two of this blog, I mentioned that I recently gave a haircut to a very young lady after giving her grandmother and aunt haircuts first. Here's another story about that family.
I met them in 1986 as hairdresser. The story of how we met is great but that's for another time. By the early 90's they referred to me as a family friend. (Today they refer to me as a close family friend.) At the time, Mom stayed home to watch the kids and Dad was a doc, a rather famous researcher actually.Well, in early '95 Dad was invited to give a speech in Washington D.C. and Mom wanted to go too. This would be the first time that they'd leave the girls alone. Lisa was fifteen and Ann was twelve. (Lisa is the mom of the young lady who's hair I cut and talked about on page twenty-two.) They asked me if I would move in and watch the girls over this long weekend. I was thrilled as I really liked these young ladies and the money would be great.
The weekend was primarily uneventful, a score you always hope for when leaving your kids with a nanny. (Now-a-days, I do a ton of overnight house-sitting, dog-sitting, cat-sitting and elder-sitting. When I receive the phone calls asking "How's it going" I usually respond, "It's quiet and a little boring, a response you want to hear.") Anyhow, it was a little boring in spite of the fact that I enjoyed these girls. Saturday night, Ann convinced me to rent Ace Ventura-Pet Detective. Lisa had a girl friend over and they didn't join us. So Ann and I popped the corn and watched this movie. Just so you know, my movie taste runs closer to Fellini, Bergman, Godard and Lang. But with God as my witness, I sat through that movie for the sake of this twelve year old girl. Admittedly, I think I even laughed a few times. But Ann was highly entertained which is the most important thing.
When Parents came home and got caught up to speed on the proceedings, they told me that neither of them was willing to sit through that movie. They knew my cinema taste was close to theirs and they mentioned that I really should be sainted.
Lisa and her husband now teach English in South America and Ann is a chemist in NYC. I usually see them when they come home. At least once every couple of years some player reminds everybody else of the time that I sat through that movie. Oy!
It must have been 1995 when others first told me that I should be canonized.
On page twenty-two of this blog, I mentioned that I recently gave a haircut to a very young lady after giving her grandmother and aunt haircuts first. Here's another story about that family.
I met them in 1986 as hairdresser. The story of how we met is great but that's for another time. By the early 90's they referred to me as a family friend. (Today they refer to me as a close family friend.) At the time, Mom stayed home to watch the kids and Dad was a doc, a rather famous researcher actually.Well, in early '95 Dad was invited to give a speech in Washington D.C. and Mom wanted to go too. This would be the first time that they'd leave the girls alone. Lisa was fifteen and Ann was twelve. (Lisa is the mom of the young lady who's hair I cut and talked about on page twenty-two.) They asked me if I would move in and watch the girls over this long weekend. I was thrilled as I really liked these young ladies and the money would be great.
The weekend was primarily uneventful, a score you always hope for when leaving your kids with a nanny. (Now-a-days, I do a ton of overnight house-sitting, dog-sitting, cat-sitting and elder-sitting. When I receive the phone calls asking "How's it going" I usually respond, "It's quiet and a little boring, a response you want to hear.") Anyhow, it was a little boring in spite of the fact that I enjoyed these girls. Saturday night, Ann convinced me to rent Ace Ventura-Pet Detective. Lisa had a girl friend over and they didn't join us. So Ann and I popped the corn and watched this movie. Just so you know, my movie taste runs closer to Fellini, Bergman, Godard and Lang. But with God as my witness, I sat through that movie for the sake of this twelve year old girl. Admittedly, I think I even laughed a few times. But Ann was highly entertained which is the most important thing.
When Parents came home and got caught up to speed on the proceedings, they told me that neither of them was willing to sit through that movie. They knew my cinema taste was close to theirs and they mentioned that I really should be sainted.
Lisa and her husband now teach English in South America and Ann is a chemist in NYC. I usually see them when they come home. At least once every couple of years some player reminds everybody else of the time that I sat through that movie. Oy!
Friday, January 11, 2013
A Child's First Haircut
Page Twenty-Two
Have you ever been in a salon while a tiny child was getting their haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? Have you ever been the parent of a tiny child while they were in a salon getting a haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? May I tell you what was going on?
The first lessons we teach toddlers is don't go near the stove, don't stick things in outlets, don't touch knives, don't pull animals' tails and don't play with scissors. All of those things, you see, cause tremendous pain. The stove has a flame which can burn, the animal has claws which can scratch and scissors have sharp blades which can cut and draw blood. Kids start learning these things real early on. You know what I'm talking about.
Some children learn particularly well that scissors cause pain, 100% of the time. These are the kids who scream like Mrs. Curtis while being attacked by Mr. Perkins. Think about it. They've been trained to think a certain way about scissors, and now, all of a sudden, those medieval weapons are being waved around their head, ears and eyes. I know I'd freak out in that situation.
There are ways to alleviate this situation. Little Baby Janet or Little Anthony Jr. should accompany Mommy or Daddy to the beauty salon or barber shop a few times in advance of their own cut. They need to see, a few times at least, that in this context scissors are not lethal weapons. If possible, Janet or Anthony could even be introduced to Liberace, the stylist or barber, a couple of times over the course of a few months and maybe a little friendship should be encouraged. Little Janet needs to learn that Mommy enjoys having her hair cut and Mommy enjoys talking with Liberace. If Little Anthony sees that Daddy doesn't cry when the scissors are near his head, a few times at least, then he probably won't either.
It's all about education. I recently gave Miss Margaret her first haircut, Miss Margaret isn't yet two years old. I told Grand-mama that Madge needed to see me in action as much as possible prior to her own cut. So Grand-mama scheduled her own cut and then Madge's Aunt's cut over the course of a few days prior to Madge getting hers. Scheduling was complicated by the fact that Madge was only in town from South America a short while during the holidays. We had to work fast at getting Madge comfortable with me and scissors. I bent over backwards trying to become friends with that little girl. I think I was positively creepy, but everybody else seemed okay with my behavior (but then, they've known me since 1986). By the time Madge was getting her haircut she was as comfy with the whole situation as if she was laying down on the fluffiest cloud in the sky. All was right with the world.
If you don't want your kid being a terror in the salon and ultimately traumatizing themselves worse than anybody else, please take my suggestions.
Have you ever been in a salon while a tiny child was getting their haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? Have you ever been the parent of a tiny child while they were in a salon getting a haircut and they were screaming in terror like Janet Leigh in Psycho? May I tell you what was going on?
The first lessons we teach toddlers is don't go near the stove, don't stick things in outlets, don't touch knives, don't pull animals' tails and don't play with scissors. All of those things, you see, cause tremendous pain. The stove has a flame which can burn, the animal has claws which can scratch and scissors have sharp blades which can cut and draw blood. Kids start learning these things real early on. You know what I'm talking about.
Some children learn particularly well that scissors cause pain, 100% of the time. These are the kids who scream like Mrs. Curtis while being attacked by Mr. Perkins. Think about it. They've been trained to think a certain way about scissors, and now, all of a sudden, those medieval weapons are being waved around their head, ears and eyes. I know I'd freak out in that situation.
There are ways to alleviate this situation. Little Baby Janet or Little Anthony Jr. should accompany Mommy or Daddy to the beauty salon or barber shop a few times in advance of their own cut. They need to see, a few times at least, that in this context scissors are not lethal weapons. If possible, Janet or Anthony could even be introduced to Liberace, the stylist or barber, a couple of times over the course of a few months and maybe a little friendship should be encouraged. Little Janet needs to learn that Mommy enjoys having her hair cut and Mommy enjoys talking with Liberace. If Little Anthony sees that Daddy doesn't cry when the scissors are near his head, a few times at least, then he probably won't either.
It's all about education. I recently gave Miss Margaret her first haircut, Miss Margaret isn't yet two years old. I told Grand-mama that Madge needed to see me in action as much as possible prior to her own cut. So Grand-mama scheduled her own cut and then Madge's Aunt's cut over the course of a few days prior to Madge getting hers. Scheduling was complicated by the fact that Madge was only in town from South America a short while during the holidays. We had to work fast at getting Madge comfortable with me and scissors. I bent over backwards trying to become friends with that little girl. I think I was positively creepy, but everybody else seemed okay with my behavior (but then, they've known me since 1986). By the time Madge was getting her haircut she was as comfy with the whole situation as if she was laying down on the fluffiest cloud in the sky. All was right with the world.
If you don't want your kid being a terror in the salon and ultimately traumatizing themselves worse than anybody else, please take my suggestions.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I'm Moving Out!
Page Twenty-One.
I started watching the three princes (and one princess) in February, 2010. At the time they were 6,8,10 and 16. The princess is now down at Ohio State but the three princes continue to make my life interesting.
The youngest, Fauntleroy, took to me rather quickly as he does with most people. I'm a youngest too, so I tend to know what makes us tick. We're an interesting breed. We're just so used to crowds that even when we say we want to be alone, we don't actually mean it.
About a year after I started... let me back up. The summer after I began, Fauntleroy began asking if he could move in with me. One day, he even told his mother that he was moving in with me. I politely replied by asking him who would take care of his mother if he moved out. (His mom was finishing her fellowship in Oncology. She needed taking care of.) I also told him that when I'm at home by myself I'm really quite boring. (Not super true, but whatever.) So he did have a history of wanting to move out. This, in spite of the fact that his middle brother is his best friend, he likes his oldest brother, he ADORES the princess, he just loves Grandma (who lives with him) and he squirms with glee when he sees his mom and dad. I think that I just paid him so much attention that he didn't know how to contain his excitement. So the best way he could express his feelings of comfort with me were by saying he wanted to move in with me.
Okay... about a year after I started, he got upset at his brothers. Really upset. And I think it was over something ridiculous, like someone took his book or something like that. He just began crying and carrying on like there was no tomorrow. This was minutes prior to my quitting time. I interceded and straightened out the situation. He then apologized to them for loosing his head. But then, when they didn't respond to his apology and offer up their own dubious apologies he lost it again. Oy Rebbenish Allelim! So it was time for me to leave. I decided that Grandma needed to earn her keep so she could deal with her three darlings.
When I got ready to leave though, Faunt announced that this time he REALLY was moving out and in with me. I put on a boot and he put on a boot. I put on a scarf and he put on a scarf. When I walked out the door, he walked out the door. You get the idea. While I was opening up the passenger door in my car to let him into the back seat, his best friend did open up the house door and yell to me wondering where I was taking him. I walked back and quietly said we'd be back in a few minutes as I was taking him around the block. He seemed satisfied and closed the door.
So we drove around the block. Thankfully, it's a big block. We talked. We talked. We talked.We talked. When we were about halfway around the block, he asked where we were going. I said we were driving around the block. "Oh." We continued talking. I reminded him how much everybody loved him and how lucky he was to have so many people care for him and watch out for him. You know... all the usual stuff.
When we arrived back in his driveway, he bounded out of the car and bounced with glee back into the house. I just left. Sometimes I'm not paid the going rate for a child psychologist.
Later that week, I asked Mom if she knew about this situation. She had no idea. It wasn't important enough to any of the principles to tell her.
I started watching the three princes (and one princess) in February, 2010. At the time they were 6,8,10 and 16. The princess is now down at Ohio State but the three princes continue to make my life interesting.
The youngest, Fauntleroy, took to me rather quickly as he does with most people. I'm a youngest too, so I tend to know what makes us tick. We're an interesting breed. We're just so used to crowds that even when we say we want to be alone, we don't actually mean it.
About a year after I started... let me back up. The summer after I began, Fauntleroy began asking if he could move in with me. One day, he even told his mother that he was moving in with me. I politely replied by asking him who would take care of his mother if he moved out. (His mom was finishing her fellowship in Oncology. She needed taking care of.) I also told him that when I'm at home by myself I'm really quite boring. (Not super true, but whatever.) So he did have a history of wanting to move out. This, in spite of the fact that his middle brother is his best friend, he likes his oldest brother, he ADORES the princess, he just loves Grandma (who lives with him) and he squirms with glee when he sees his mom and dad. I think that I just paid him so much attention that he didn't know how to contain his excitement. So the best way he could express his feelings of comfort with me were by saying he wanted to move in with me.
Okay... about a year after I started, he got upset at his brothers. Really upset. And I think it was over something ridiculous, like someone took his book or something like that. He just began crying and carrying on like there was no tomorrow. This was minutes prior to my quitting time. I interceded and straightened out the situation. He then apologized to them for loosing his head. But then, when they didn't respond to his apology and offer up their own dubious apologies he lost it again. Oy Rebbenish Allelim! So it was time for me to leave. I decided that Grandma needed to earn her keep so she could deal with her three darlings.
When I got ready to leave though, Faunt announced that this time he REALLY was moving out and in with me. I put on a boot and he put on a boot. I put on a scarf and he put on a scarf. When I walked out the door, he walked out the door. You get the idea. While I was opening up the passenger door in my car to let him into the back seat, his best friend did open up the house door and yell to me wondering where I was taking him. I walked back and quietly said we'd be back in a few minutes as I was taking him around the block. He seemed satisfied and closed the door.
So we drove around the block. Thankfully, it's a big block. We talked. We talked. We talked.We talked. When we were about halfway around the block, he asked where we were going. I said we were driving around the block. "Oh." We continued talking. I reminded him how much everybody loved him and how lucky he was to have so many people care for him and watch out for him. You know... all the usual stuff.
When we arrived back in his driveway, he bounded out of the car and bounced with glee back into the house. I just left. Sometimes I'm not paid the going rate for a child psychologist.
Later that week, I asked Mom if she knew about this situation. She had no idea. It wasn't important enough to any of the principles to tell her.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units
Page Twenty
From 1987 until about 1995 I was staff hairdresser to three Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units. I started at the first one because one of my hair clients worked as a Tech (read: baby-sitter) on the unit and she was corralled into cutting the kids' hair simply because somebody had to do it. That unit was at a local hospital and the kids were there for twenty-eight days of detox, evaluation and treatment. Some of those kids showed up in the first place with outrageous hair which would need to be cleaned up. Others simply needed regular cuts, as four weeks can be a long time to need a trim. My client didn't really enjoy the job so she asked me if I might be interested. I was and thus I began going there every Saturday Morning.
About a year later, that same hospital opened up an adolescent "halfway house" right on the campus. This halfway house, "The River," would be a place for the kids to live on average four months, so their new found sobriety could stabilize prior to going back home. There was a teacher, cook, classrooms, dorm rooms, dining room, living area and so forth. The administrator invited me to join that staff as well, so this would be my second unit. I went to the River every Wednesday afternoon.
Shortly thereafter, a private adolescent halfway house, ten miles east of here and already about five years old, heard about me and asked me to join their staff. With them, "Dimensions," I worked on call, but their kids stayed on average four-six months. So technically, I worked in one unit and two halfway houses. I just say I worked in three ACDU's, it's simpler.
Some of the kids from the ACDU went to the River but most went home. So the River which normally had a few dozen kids, got a lot of their kids from other hospitals and other states. Dimensions was also a magnet for various treatment centers. They too had a few dozen beds. At the time, this concept was new and insurance companies were more than happy to pay for all this hospitalization. By the mid-90's though, the insurance companies were saying "NO!!!" to paying for teenaged drug treatment. So most ACDU's and accompanying adolescent halfway houses around the country were shuttering up. The ACDU and the River would eventually close, in fact the entire hospital closed. Dimensions is still open but it's substantially harder to get in than it used to be. The kids have to go down much farther than 20 years ago. But I digress. My jobs ended at the hospital, obviously, when it closed and I would eventually tell Dimensions to take me off their roster because it got to the point where they only called me once a year anyhow.
I enjoyed those jobs tremendously. I liked the kids very much and valued spending time with them.Some of those patients I cut for five months, at a rate of one cut a month. That's enough time to get to know and like somebody. I also appreciated the feeling that I "worked somewhere." I hadn't had any co-workers since becoming a free-lance hairdresser in '86. And with those jobs, especially the River, I felt like I worked with other people. Very often, we'd schedule cuts around dinner so I could eat with everybody. (Eventually I'll write about the River's cook. The hospital intentionally built a kitchen on the unit and hired a cook. Big brass rightly recognized that they needed to feed hungry teenagers who hadn't eaten properly in years. Hospital food wouldn't do and brass knew it. That food was remarkable. Holy Moses! it was good.)
I sometimes think about some of those kids. I can still see them in my mind's eye. The odds were against them but statistically some of them had to have turned out okay. I'll write more about my experiences on these jobs in the future.
From 1987 until about 1995 I was staff hairdresser to three Adolescent Chemical Dependency Units. I started at the first one because one of my hair clients worked as a Tech (read: baby-sitter) on the unit and she was corralled into cutting the kids' hair simply because somebody had to do it. That unit was at a local hospital and the kids were there for twenty-eight days of detox, evaluation and treatment. Some of those kids showed up in the first place with outrageous hair which would need to be cleaned up. Others simply needed regular cuts, as four weeks can be a long time to need a trim. My client didn't really enjoy the job so she asked me if I might be interested. I was and thus I began going there every Saturday Morning.
About a year later, that same hospital opened up an adolescent "halfway house" right on the campus. This halfway house, "The River," would be a place for the kids to live on average four months, so their new found sobriety could stabilize prior to going back home. There was a teacher, cook, classrooms, dorm rooms, dining room, living area and so forth. The administrator invited me to join that staff as well, so this would be my second unit. I went to the River every Wednesday afternoon.
Shortly thereafter, a private adolescent halfway house, ten miles east of here and already about five years old, heard about me and asked me to join their staff. With them, "Dimensions," I worked on call, but their kids stayed on average four-six months. So technically, I worked in one unit and two halfway houses. I just say I worked in three ACDU's, it's simpler.
Some of the kids from the ACDU went to the River but most went home. So the River which normally had a few dozen kids, got a lot of their kids from other hospitals and other states. Dimensions was also a magnet for various treatment centers. They too had a few dozen beds. At the time, this concept was new and insurance companies were more than happy to pay for all this hospitalization. By the mid-90's though, the insurance companies were saying "NO!!!" to paying for teenaged drug treatment. So most ACDU's and accompanying adolescent halfway houses around the country were shuttering up. The ACDU and the River would eventually close, in fact the entire hospital closed. Dimensions is still open but it's substantially harder to get in than it used to be. The kids have to go down much farther than 20 years ago. But I digress. My jobs ended at the hospital, obviously, when it closed and I would eventually tell Dimensions to take me off their roster because it got to the point where they only called me once a year anyhow.
I enjoyed those jobs tremendously. I liked the kids very much and valued spending time with them.Some of those patients I cut for five months, at a rate of one cut a month. That's enough time to get to know and like somebody. I also appreciated the feeling that I "worked somewhere." I hadn't had any co-workers since becoming a free-lance hairdresser in '86. And with those jobs, especially the River, I felt like I worked with other people. Very often, we'd schedule cuts around dinner so I could eat with everybody. (Eventually I'll write about the River's cook. The hospital intentionally built a kitchen on the unit and hired a cook. Big brass rightly recognized that they needed to feed hungry teenagers who hadn't eaten properly in years. Hospital food wouldn't do and brass knew it. That food was remarkable. Holy Moses! it was good.)
I sometimes think about some of those kids. I can still see them in my mind's eye. The odds were against them but statistically some of them had to have turned out okay. I'll write more about my experiences on these jobs in the future.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Car Repairs - God Help Me!
Page Nineteen.
I know that this blog is supposed to be about my experiences with food and children plus my history with elder care. I feel though that since I've already strayed from those topics occasionally, if I really go off into left field sometimes it isn't a mortal sin. Clearly, this blog would have already blown up if there were some strict rule about adhering to your own parameters. But it's still here, so there you go.
I dropped my car off this morning to have some relatively minor work done. I needed a couple of new tires, new brakes, new wiper blades and an oil change. Neil then called me back and gave me a laundry list of things that need to be done 'else my car will explode, and take half of Ohio with it. For the record, I trust Neil tremendously. He's been doing my car for over twenty years. His brother-in-law was one of my best friends during my college days and I'm quite friendly with his father-in-law. Also, I decorate his garage for the holidays every December, for free. (That's a separate story.) He and I are buddies. But every single time I take The Golden Warrior in to be serviced, it needs an additional $43,769,753,008,178,264,938.61, plus tax, worth of work. I'm sick of it!
I'm very grateful for this car. It's a 2001 that I purchased from some current elder-care clients in 2010. When I bought it from them in November of 2010, this nine year old car had 16,000 miles and they essentially gifted it to me, charging me 1/3 of it's value. I'm quite thankful that right now I have the money to put in the required repairs. Neil is also putting the wiper blades and oil change on the house which is nice. (Most of my oil changes are on the house to say thanks for the free Christmas lighting.)
What did people do one thousand years ago when their cars needed work? I know that back then they didn't have as much disposable income as we do today, so how did they pay for their new mufflers, carburetors and broken air conditioning systems? I can't believe that British peasants of the middle ages were okay with the auto repair price fixing that we've come to terms with in the 21st century. Perhaps the Norman Invasion was really just a bunch of people looking for a cheaper place to get their cars repaired? Do you suppose that Richard III was really just pissed off over some car repairs gone bad? And I read on the internet somewhere that Joan of Arc was actually rebelling against the outrageous prices of transmissions, especially when she found out that the price is primarily labor as the parts themselves only cost a few hundred bucks.
But, again, I'm grateful for my savings account. I have the money stashed away, though I'd really prefer to spend it on an Asian getaway. I want to... oops... Neil just called for me to pick up my car. I'll continue this later.....
Neil promised me he'd keep the total under a predetermined amount, but he went over by $57.00, so he chopped that off. That was nice. As I was pulling out of the garage he rushed over and told me that yesterday was his and Kathleen's anniversary. They reminisced how I did her hair for the wedding. I have virtually no memory of that but I assume that it happened.
I know that this blog is supposed to be about my experiences with food and children plus my history with elder care. I feel though that since I've already strayed from those topics occasionally, if I really go off into left field sometimes it isn't a mortal sin. Clearly, this blog would have already blown up if there were some strict rule about adhering to your own parameters. But it's still here, so there you go.
I dropped my car off this morning to have some relatively minor work done. I needed a couple of new tires, new brakes, new wiper blades and an oil change. Neil then called me back and gave me a laundry list of things that need to be done 'else my car will explode, and take half of Ohio with it. For the record, I trust Neil tremendously. He's been doing my car for over twenty years. His brother-in-law was one of my best friends during my college days and I'm quite friendly with his father-in-law. Also, I decorate his garage for the holidays every December, for free. (That's a separate story.) He and I are buddies. But every single time I take The Golden Warrior in to be serviced, it needs an additional $43,769,753,008,178,264,938.61, plus tax, worth of work. I'm sick of it!
I'm very grateful for this car. It's a 2001 that I purchased from some current elder-care clients in 2010. When I bought it from them in November of 2010, this nine year old car had 16,000 miles and they essentially gifted it to me, charging me 1/3 of it's value. I'm quite thankful that right now I have the money to put in the required repairs. Neil is also putting the wiper blades and oil change on the house which is nice. (Most of my oil changes are on the house to say thanks for the free Christmas lighting.)
What did people do one thousand years ago when their cars needed work? I know that back then they didn't have as much disposable income as we do today, so how did they pay for their new mufflers, carburetors and broken air conditioning systems? I can't believe that British peasants of the middle ages were okay with the auto repair price fixing that we've come to terms with in the 21st century. Perhaps the Norman Invasion was really just a bunch of people looking for a cheaper place to get their cars repaired? Do you suppose that Richard III was really just pissed off over some car repairs gone bad? And I read on the internet somewhere that Joan of Arc was actually rebelling against the outrageous prices of transmissions, especially when she found out that the price is primarily labor as the parts themselves only cost a few hundred bucks.
But, again, I'm grateful for my savings account. I have the money stashed away, though I'd really prefer to spend it on an Asian getaway. I want to... oops... Neil just called for me to pick up my car. I'll continue this later.....
Neil promised me he'd keep the total under a predetermined amount, but he went over by $57.00, so he chopped that off. That was nice. As I was pulling out of the garage he rushed over and told me that yesterday was his and Kathleen's anniversary. They reminisced how I did her hair for the wedding. I have virtually no memory of that but I assume that it happened.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Thanksgiving '92
Page Eighteen.
Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
"I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
"Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
"WHAT?"
"Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
"Yeah, I know."
"Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
"Of course, I'll make it."
"Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
"Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
"Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
"I'm hungry."
"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
"Yeah."
So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.
Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
"I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
"Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
"WHAT?"
"Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
"Yeah, I know."
"Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
"Of course, I'll make it."
"Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
"Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
"Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
"I'm hungry."
"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
"Yeah."
So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.
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