Town Hall

Out of curiosity, I attended the monthly “air your gripes to management” meeting today at Dad’s retirement facility. Lots of people showed up, way more than for my Thriller dance class. I was impressed that residents are encouraged to voice their opinions and get actively involved with their community. There was a brainstorming session for desired programs and outings, promotion of wellness services, and an operational review to assess what was working and what wasn’t. Here’s what I learned:

• There’s lots of walker congestion. Walkers are clogging up the hallways, rolling around the dining room tripping the servers, and being deserted in the synagogue. Folks may not have automobiles anymore, but they still like to play bumper car.
• Parking lot etiquette is terrible. Visitors and family members are parking their cars in residents’ spaces (oops, guilty!).
• The food is never hot enough, fast enough or spiced enough. The lack of bacon in a kosher kitchen was not mentioned, which is my father’s main gripe.
• One lady requested a training seminar on how to cope with change, recognizing that as a 90-year old, it was hard for her.
• The dress code may be overly relaxed – men are showing their legs in too-short shorts. It was unclear if this was about bad wardrobe choices or lack of good looking legs.

The last comment of the meeting came from a woman whose husband recently died; she wanted to know how to dispose of all of his stuff. I was torn between horror, sympathy and offering my list of previously used garbage bins throughout San Diego County. After an awkward moment, she was comforted by her neighbors, then suggestions poured forth. The facilitator suggested that this concern be handed privately as a 1-to-1 chat. No one here is in denial about death; it’s a practical topic. Just like where to get the best haircut.

Behind That Smile

Lest anyone think that it’s all fun hanging out with Dad, consider today’s 6 hour dental marathon. It started with me pestering him a few months ago to get his teeth cleaned, realizing that he had other priorities over the past 2 years, such as dealing with relocation, depression and death. We had worked through the list of body parts needing repair, and now it was time to focus on oral hygiene. I found a great (and expensive) dentist who quickly moved beyond flossing to fillings. When he started digging around the cavities he decided there was so much decay that a root canal was needed. Off we went to a great (and expensive) endodontist across the street. I now realize what’s worse than getting a root canal (I’ve had a few). It’s listening to a root canal being performed on your 92-year old father. Sid did fine. I was a nervous wreck. Actually I was surprised he declined to watch the procedure on the camera screen; he used to enjoy watching my mother’s heart surgeries.

Dad got frozen yogurt as a reward for surviving the torture, and for dinner we had Jewish penicillin (chicken noodle soup). We reviewed all the discounts that were pursued, making the experience more worthwhile: senior discount, birthday discount, military discount, cash discount (since he doesn’t have dental insurance, which wouldn’t have helped much). He saved a few hundred dollars due to my creative negotiations. More important, he can keep doing what he does best: eating.

Zombie Pride

Life is Southern California is not quite real. The sun always shines, everyone smiles for no reason, and the surfers resemble the undead. I now remember why I moved to the Northwest 20 years ago. However, things are going well. Dad is thrilled that I’m keeping him company and I had a good turnout for my first Michael Jackson Thriller dance lesson. Eight ladies and one brave man learned the Zombie March and Booty Bounce. People in the dining room make swinging claw hands when I walk past them. We didn’t make much progress beyond these basic moves since my “students” tend to get tired and wander off. There’s one lady, Helen, who is really into marketing my services. She advised me to hit up the girls at the onsite beauty salon who “would look better with some zombie makeup.” If I can get through teaching all of the dance moves over the next two weeks, this will make an awesome YouTube video.

Meanwhile, I’ll be busy with my kayak, bike and snorkel gear, making sure I take time for myself. So far I sprung a leak in the middle of a lagoon and got sand in my gears; it’s all fun. I live in a cottage owned by Jehovah’s Witnesses who don’t take themselves too seriously. They view prayer as the answer to home repair, which isn’t helpful as many items in my place keep breaking. We had cocktails the other evening while their 3 dogs and 2 cats climbed onto my lap. I’m getting a little lonely since my friends here are all over the age of 90. I re-subscribed to Match.com using my new location to see if the dating prospects are any better than the ones in Seattle. The guys here are better looking but can’t make complete sentences. Much as I like pretend zombies, I’m not going to socialize with the real ones.

Beach Babe

For the next month I’m living in Leucadia, a coastal town where everyone wears wildly colored leggings, rides cruiser bicycles, and worships pastries. Paradise! I had to drive 1440 miles to get here, for 31 hours over 4 days, but hey, it was fun. I rolled through ocean cliffs and redwood forests and camped at State Parks. I showed up yesterday at Dad’s retirement village just in time for the Sukkot happy hour, featuring a tiki hut, chocolate martinis and hora dancing, which felt like a customized celebration of my arrival. It turns out this particular holiday is about feasting, eating and sleeping outdoors, so I’m a better Jew than I thought since I do that all the time.

I’ve rented a cottage 5 minutes from Dad’s place where I can stash my kayak, bike to the beach, do my schoolwork and shop at Costco. It even comes with 2 cats nearby who keep me company. So far I’ve barely been “home”; I’ve been catching up with my senior buddies. Ida turned 99 last week. To celebrate we went for ice cream and then to the beach to check out the surfer dudes. She explained that her friends are “alter-kockers” –Yiddish for “old shitters” – I am learning so many interesting phrases (actually per bubbygram.com it means old fart; over the hill).

My father is thrilled that I will be taking him out regularly to eat prohibited foods – bacon, shrimp, and processed sugar. I’ve stocked a supply of napkins in the car to clean him up; he’s a messy guy. For our adventures together, I’ve arranged for a harbor cruise, a train ride and flu shots. I also submitted paperwork to the DMV for a new handicapped parking placard. When my brother was recently in town, the police confiscated my mother’s parking card that our whole family was using for years. It turns out it’s illegal to access the account of a dead person and technically, Dad could have been thrown in prison. He would NOT like the food there, it’s best for everyone to start fresh. Oy vey!