The 2008 Holiday Letter

I’ve resisted starting this letter for weeks now, but it has to be done. The thing has taken on a life of its own. My little circle of critics have been pining for the next installment, while glibly offering comments like “The letter last year was OK, but not nearly as funny as the one before!”

I’ll get the animal count out of the way right up front. But first, let me explain…

Poor ancient rabbit of the forgotten name passed away this summer, after a little bunny stroke. He (she?) was in the care of our good friend, bless her heart, while we were on vacation. It would be convenient to blame Jill for his untimely death, but as he had to be propped up for meals, I’m afraid it was inevitable. Despite my protestations of never, ever, EVER acquiring another, I replaced him/her almost immediately with dear, little Greta Garbo -- a reclusive rabbit that darts into hiding at the merest glimpse of a human. Why leave a perfectly good hutch empty, right?

Zina has acquired another horse, after an unsuccessful fox hunting attempt on her beloved Curtis. It appears that her new steed, Layla, may be good for something other than consuming forage. And while on our annual pilgrimage to the Ranch Resort in NY, Sofia and Zina decided that it might be a stellar idea to bring home a souvenir or two. Preferably of the living, furry sort, as we have so few animals. Despite my emphatic veto, we carted back a pair of pitch black, demon sibling kittens, quickly dubbed Audrey and Kreatcher.

Leaving our current tally, in order of size, at: 4 horses, 3 dogs, 3 cats, 1 rabbit and a fish that we keep in case the cats need a midnight snack. His bowl is their main water supply, but thus far he has escaped consumption.

Thanks be to whomever hovers above, Sofia and her cat Kreatcher have their own digs in the city. Lovely, darling girl, but always needing forty of her closest friends over for a beer or twenty. Miss you, honey – but, buh-bye. My daily phone calls keep the reasons for moving out fresh in her mind. Sofia remains employed at our friend’s horse farm, and wields a mighty manure fork. Her horse, Bella, is conveniently stabled there, giving her the opportunity to do something with the thing other than pay its bills.

Zina is officially a licensed stylist, working her way up the hair covered ladder at the salon where she has worked for several years on Newbury Street. She still resides at home and we continue our historical bouts of cold silence interspersed with shouting and tearing of hair. (At least now when I pull out a hunk, she can trim it up for a natural look.) Working full time and maintaining two horses keeps Zina on the run, so texting and emailing are our best forms of communication. Home interactions often consist of a few seconds of nag, yell, thump, and swear, as we pass each other in the hallway – not necessarily in that order.

As for me, things are relentlessly the same. The biggest news is my determined weight loss and fitness in anticipation of my trip to St. Thomas in January. The thought of exposing a white body in the middle of winter is bad enough, without adding all the rest. And it finally occurred to me that while the aging process is completely out of my hands, I have full control of the eating portion of the program. Revised menus along with a very mean Personal Trainer can do wonders! My horse, for one, seems quite appreciative of my downward spiral.

Despite the dismal state of things globally, I’m feeling quite holiday cheer-ish. Even the collapse of our front retaining wall hasn’t dampened my spirits; I just avert my eyes as I pull in the drive. So, in that light, I send you bunches of festive good wishes from all the Baltopoulos creatures, two and four legged. Keep your eyes focused forward and ignore the debris as it falls around you during this holiday season!

xoxo Ruth xoxo

Mama Mia

My Mom has been on my mind a lot lately. She has been living in an assisted care/nursing facility quite unhappily for many years now and I worry about the quality of her life.

Even more to the point, the lack of quality in her life.

Bernice went from zero to sixty in under ten seconds. From hale and hearty -- a homeowner doing her own driving, weeding, cooking, cleaning, shopping -- to complete dependency. Virtually overnight. I think that's an awful lot to take, even with fair warning.

Always a vibrant, independent personality, she has expended considerable energy resisting settling into her current digs. Having been there a few times, I can empathize with her lack of interest.

But what can be done? She needs 24 hour care and is in a wheelchair. None of us have the set-up, schedule flexibility or money to make it happen in our homes. Regardless of the reality, it makes me feel badly to think of her ever-narrowing life.

When my Dad died I made a pact with myself to call her daily. For the most part, I am quite successful, although, believe it or not, she can be hard to get on the phone sometimes! It's amazing how much a five or ten minute conversation means to her.

Major, major kudos to my sister Susan, who is a daily force in her life. And as is generally the case, Mom takes her frustration out on her, the most devoted and available.

Here I am, 150 miles away with thrice yearly visits, and she treats me like a Queen.

You'd think with 7 children she would be up to her elbows in visitors every day. Unfortunately, we are typical ugly Americans with frenetic lifestyles which often preclude doing the right thing for elderly parents.

That being said, I'm off to call my sweet ole Ma...

Spit it Out

Gotta write. Sumthin.

Writer's Group is bearing down on me like an express train, and nary a word have I tapped. I should be working on the next chapter of my (guffaw) book. My thyroid is purported to be doing better, but it clearly hasn't informed the rest of my body.

This morning I woke up early with a full slate of good intentions. I was going to finish mowing the lawn, move some bluestone patio slabs around and pick up some provisions at the store. All before my business opened at 8:00AM.

What actually happened was a pot of coffee, the last few chapters of a good book, and some emailing. No guilt, but according to the weather guessers, we may have Ark conditions for the next 40 days. Well, perhaps I'll be able to bale my own hay.

It's a devious mind that I have, allowing me the time to eek a blog entry, all the while dodging a chapter draft. The sharp sound you will now hear is me dope slapping myself...

Blah Blah Blog

Haven't had the time or compulsion to write. Nothings wrong, just been sitting on my heels more in my down time. Add to that some late winter ailments from the various heinous bugs bouncing off the walls of my home from the children in my care. Kids love to share.

Funny story: I recently had an extremely overdue annual check-up and ended up being called back in for a redo on a blood test for thyroid levels. Afterward, the Dr. rang to let me know I had to go on thyroid meds. When I mentioned this to a nurse friend, she shouted "Dear Lord, now THAT explains your hyper energy!" I sadly informed her that no, it was exactly the other way around.

My thyroid thang was hypo, not hyper. Soooo, everyone should probably back away slowly as my body ramps back up to its normal unreasonable activity level. Extra pounds will miraculously melt away and all the aches and pains that I attributed to being over 50 are going to disappear. Hahahaha. I crack myself up. Four weeks later and I'm still waiting. Miracles notwithstanding.

Recently I chopped off my hair. Short. Gave my lovely, fabulous, wonderful stylist a pic of Halle Barre with a waifish cut and told to make me look like THAT. I mentioned that the boobs would be nice too, but didn't think it was her area of expertise. Anyway, I love it. Easy, cutesie, one two three.

Oh, and for those of you that insist on telling me, each and every time I revert back to my natural brown hair color, that you like me better as a blond, please pound sand. Here is the appropriate reaction to a new hairstyle: "OH, WOW, I like your HAIR!" Lie if you have to. Noting that I cut my hair without offering praise or chiding me on color choices is not acceptable. Don't make me ask if you noticed, either. You know who you are.

And while I'm at it -- for all the people out there who drive as if they are on the Autobahn for the first time, take a sedative. My local early morning drives for errands and coffee are not worth dying over. If you have a burning need to zoom heedlessly around like a bloody fool, get involved in racing and see if you can explode yourself.

On another note, if anyone has won the lottery and feels like throwing me 50K or so, that would be awesome. I can give you the payment details when you contact me...

Old Horse, New Trick

Horses are the best thing to step foot off of the Ark and the oldies are most definitely the goodies. The old men and ladies of the equine world with their patented personalities and particular crankiness make my day.

One oldster at my farm, Dream, will pin her ears, pinch her nostrils and threaten to kick all while sidling up to you in hopes of having a treat held out toward her anger stiffened lips. You would think she absolutely abhorred being patted by her facial expressions and body language, but she moves in closer if you stroke her neck. Typical woman, some might say.

Tucket, our resident curmudgeon, lumbers around like an elephant. Food rules his world. Beware if he spies your approach bearing grain or hay; he may run you over in his eagerness to begin the meal. Some days he is a perfect gentleman as you lead him out to his paddock, others he gallumphs off, his handler flying in his wake like the tail on a kite. Don't try to figure him out, even he doesn't know what's up.

My old paint, Cue, who is now a lesson horse in a friend's school program, is unbelievably 20 years old. I still think of him as a teenager, which is not entirely inappropriate as his manners can be rather juvenile. He is a wonderful guy, but still spooks in fear at plastic bag and fallen log monsters. When nervous, he dances, prances and takes off like a 2 year old with a bee on his butt. He is what he is.

Offering peace and comfort to these amazing creatures in their elder years should be a natural part of ownership. I wish I could take all the old ones and park them at my farm. Watching their geriatric grouchiness can be habit forming.

Aim Carefully, Cupid

(This has been submitted to a local publication)

Valentine’s Day is a celebration of romantic love, but this year I am hijacking it for my Mom. More specifically, I intend to persuade Cupid to send off some well-aimed arrows.

Bernice has just turned 84. Married to Frank for 61 years, he left her embrace four years ago at age 88. The bright glow of her amazing soul has dimmed, yet she abides each day with curmudgeonly grace and humor.

Mom resides in a nursing facility that is one of the best, but flatly refuses to call it home. Seven years later, I can’t say as I blame her. Walking through the door sucks the life right out of me. It’s the bald truth, distasteful as it sounds.

Overextended, jaded staff aplenty, with a few amazing exceptions bobbing to the top of the tub. I remain thankful that my large family resides locally to watchdog her treatment, having moved out of state many years ago.

After my Dad’s death, I vowed that I would telephone Mom daily. I have kept that promise although it is increasingly difficult to contact her. No, Bernice has not become a busy socialite, but is forgetting basic tasks. Using the phone, TV and tape player have become major challenges.

Emergency open-heart surgery left Bernice with a pronounced weakness in her legs that has deteriorated over the years leaving her wheelchair bound. Complete dependency is a difficult role for my feisty, independent mother. She now requires an alarm on her chairs and bed to alert staff of her persistent efforts to walk, often forgetting she cannot.

Elder care is a challenge for all. After twenty years of working with kids, I have extreme empathy for caregivers while holding a stern resolve that one should only enter the fray if they can be kind as well as efficient. Burnout is a fact that more people need to recognize and address.

Here is my heartfelt advice: Only work with the elderly if it brings you joy. The crotchety, unhappy people in the homes need boundless love and understanding, not curt handling. If it is no more than a source of income, you will be looking at them through a lens colored with impatience rather than one magnified by respect.

Therefore, on this day of love I am enlisting the help of Cupid to send out darts of empathy and caring to those whose sight has dimmed. My fervent hope is that an arrow or two lands on the posteriors of people working with Bernice.

Sorry, no can do (and other random thoughts)

The rest of the world may be eating vanilla pudding, but I don't want to. Tapioca suits me just fine and the lumps are part of the charm. Poke and stir you might, they refuse to be squashed into submission.

The concept of Political Correctness gives me heartburn. Bravo to those who can walk the straight and narrow path of properness and diplomacy. I prefer to wade and slip alongside in the muddy gutter of reality. It sounds a mess, but not so much, really. Once the stuff dries you just brush it off and move along.

My imperfect familial background has left me with a twisted soul and a warped mind. Even so, I am happy in my skewed self and have as little interest in altering the natural course of my aging body as I do in homogenizing my thoughts and memories to make them more palatable for public consumption.

Life's a crapshoot. People are flawed. Families all have their own individual recipes of screwed-upedness. There are gender differences. Biases exist. Prejudice is alive and well. We can't bury all of the imperfections of our youth. Just because something isn't acceptable now doesn't mean it never happened. We are not all good. Get over it.

Writing for Dollars has been an eye opener. I have discovered that I abhor selling myself. Nagging, unless it involves my kid and cleaning, is not my strength. The time I have available to tap out prose is limited, so I cherish the fruits of my labor. I expect the rest of the world to follow suit.

In the self-imposed madness of my life, hanging with the Yayas keeps the mortar in my bricks. All four of us brash, loud, opinionated and mildly crazed, we eat, drink, bicker and chortle our way through life's common travails. Spending time laughing like a hyena is proper medicine; don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

So, for 2008 and in line with the chest beating mantra of my children's generation, I'm gonna do what I WANT. Write what I feel in my own way. Stop editing my actual thoughts to fit a mythical audience. Keep expectations on the down low. Say what I think and know why I feel that way. Go with the flow.

I may end up crying me a river, but I will be floating down it in a boat of my own design.