sleepover (m)

Went to a charity event the other night.  Had to go, as I am chairing the annual fund.  It was held at this beautiful home of a former CEO of a major bank.  House was decked out...flowers everywhere.  His wife, the hostess, about 115 pounds, was wearing a tight dress, low cut, with pastel high-heeled shoes.  She has a torn meniscus in both knees but a. is thin and b. is thin.  No surgery for her.

The hors d'ouvres were off the charts.  I counted 8 varieties of hot hors d'oeuvres, 4 cold ones (passed on trays) and a station of salami, cheeses, crackers and a station of veggies and dip.  People were raving about the food.  I inquired as to who the caterer is.  "Our personal cook," she replied.  Guess I won't be leaving with his business card.  After about an hour and a half, I had 3 celery sticks and 4 grape tomatoes.  Most unsatisfying, although the tomatoes tasted like the ones you get in August.  Perfect.

Left about 8 p.m and came home to a pot of clam chowder on the stove from Legal Seafoods.  Harrison's dinner.  My nephew "made" it for him.  I was going to have a salad with turkey slices but didn't have the desire.  Instead, I went to my bedroom.

Took a bath, read a book and called my mother at 9 p.m. for a nightly "check in."  She wants us to check in morning and night to make sure she's okay.  Line was busy.  Unusual.  Called again.  Busy.  Fifteen minutes later.  Still busy.  Called my brother Phil who said she's probably on the phone with my godmother Lillian who can talk for hours.  Called Lillian...reached her and got caught on the phone for 30 minutes before I found a window of opportunity to say I had to go.

At 10:10, the line was still busy.  Called the phone company to have them check the line.  Couldn't do it as their "verification equipment" was broken. 

Made an executive decision to call my mother's tenant to go downstairs and knock on the door.  The tenant, a heavy set woman in her 70's, had hip replacement surgery last Fall.  This was, by the tone of her voice, a monumental request.  Sh..t.  This is the second time we've called upon her in as many days to come to my mother's rescue.  My mother will kill me for asking her for help again but I had to know she was okay.

The tenant reaches my mother.  The phone is "broken" she says.  Are you okay?  I ask. Turns out, she had chest pains today.  And a bloody nose.  Actually, the bloody nose is still bleeding and it's been two days.  I told her I was coming over to spend the night there.

Tried to convince my mother to go to the ER.  "No.  I'm going to bed.  I hate hospitals."

I slept on the sofa in the room just outside her bedroom.  Last time I did that was the night before my father's open heart surgery which did not go well.  Needless to say, it was a restless night.

Around 3 a.m., I woke up.  Hungry.  Realized I hadn't had dinner and lunch was broccoli and few pieces of turkey.  Foraged in the refrigerator.  My mother has a sweet tooth.  I saw Sara Lee Pound Cake, a few Reese's peanut butter cups in their bright orange packaging.  I looked for a piece of fruit or cheese or protein.  Nothing.  The only fruit I saw was in a large crystal bowl filled with cake and whipped cream.  A trifle.  My mother's signature dessert.  Why would she have a whole trifle for herself?

With all my willpower, I closed the door to the refrigerator.  I grabbed one fistful of Chex Mix, drank water and brushed my teeth and went back to the couch.  Well, at least I fit on the narrow couch.  The Tempur-Pedic pillow was a disaster.  I woke up at 4 and thought I had a stroke as the side of my head which lay on the pillow was numb. 

At 7 a.m., I woke up to the smell of coffee.  Got up and got dressed.  Searched in my cosmetic kit for deodorant.  I didn't pack any.  Looked in my mother's medicine cabinet.  Mitchum roll on.  Now, some of the businesses I've managed include Secret, Dry Idea, Soft & Dri, Right Guard, Old Spice and Gillette deodorant/anti-perspirants.  My own mother is using Mitchum.  "It was on sale" she said.

While waving my underarms to dry, I saw her bathroom scale.  I stepped on it.  Down 3 pounds from my scale.  I asked her if it's accurate.  "Same as the doctor's scale," she calls back.

Hope so.

And the trifle?  It is for a dinner party she's going to this evening.  Fifty pounds ago, we'd be going to a bakery to buy a replacement.