Marblehead Reporter Epstein Hillel School Honors STEM Activist Gelfund

Saugus High School Celebrates Theater

http://saugus.wickedlocal.com/news/20180307/saugus-high-school-celebrates-theater

Marblehead JCCNS & politics and policies in the age of Trump

http://marblehead.wickedlocal.com/news/20180305/marbleheads-jccns-amp-politics-and-policies-in-age-of-trump

Congressman Moulton Holds Town Hall in Saugus

http://saugus.wickedlocal.com/news/20180228/congressman-moulton-holds-town-hall-in-saugus

Saugus Advertiser: Model friend Mike Ruggeri of Saugus gets a 'celebrity' send off

http://saugus.wickedlocal.com/news/20160720/model-friend-mike-ruggeri-of-saugus-gets-celebrity-send-off

Involuntary Simplicity: Our Lady of Perpetual Construction

Welcome to Our Lady of Perpetual Construction. Services are not being held today, but we appreciate your continued prayers.

Our Lady of Perpetual Construction - not closed for renovations.

I do love HGTV.

Our house has been under some form of construction, or reconstruction, for over eleven years. That basically means that since we moved into this house on Lake View Avenue, we have been doing some form of home improvement. Throughout those years of Saturdays, and weekends, and vacations, Pete and I have been alternately covered in paint, in both chip and drip form, insulation fibers, hardwood splinters, cement, patio sand, dirt, horsehair plaster, and sadly, and most disgustingly, actual human feces in the inexorable journey to turn this sweet little white house into our Dream Home. 

I've liked this house since I first paid attention to it. It was one of the homes in my grandmother's neighborhood. The woman who lived here before me knew my father, and raised 6 children in this house. The rooms aren't big - they are now larger than Mrs. Conley knew them to be, as Pete and I have knocked out quite a few awkward walls, strange closets, odd heating elements to make way for what would be the ultimate vision of the space. 

Still, most of the rooms would be best described as "cozy." They are not cramped, due to the incredible blessing of 8 foot ceilings. There is lovely light in every room, and there is no dearth of places to nap, sit, read, or daydream on a porch, a front yard chair, a hammock. It is about 1300 square feet and according to our favorite carpenter, as he yells out due to his power-tool induced hearing loss, we "HAVE SQUEEZED OUT EVERY OUNCE OF LIVING SPACE" out of its little corner footprint.

And so, after all this time, after the literal blood, sweat, and many tears that construction projects can bring, we are almost done. Almost. So close. After two bathrooms, a back porch, a reconstructed sill, a new heating system, new plumbing, new wiring, walls put up and walls taken down, all that we need to do is finish The Kitchen. The best part, right? The heart of the home, the stuff HGTV dreams are made of.

But we've stopped.

Just stopped.

We finished opening up that room about two years ago. We ripped up the flooring, and put up most of the dry wall, and then...

Nothing.

All we need to do is plaster, floor, and cabinets. That's it.

But. we haven't. It hasn't been just that one of us is tired. Or busy. Or that we can't do it. It has been a mutual ending. A full and complete stop.

Why? I'm not exactly sure.

Is it Money? Admittedly, lately, that's been a factor in everything for us. Pete is making do with what he can, but we are still living mostly on a teacher's salary, which although nice, really only takes us through the month ahead. I'm not complaining. The shift has been a huge inspiration for this Involuntary Simplicity thing - without exaggeration, we have really learned what is, and what isn't really important to us because of the boundaries that lack of cash has forced upon us.

One of the first of many Friday night pizzas.

Is it Lack of Motivation? We know exactly what we want, we've had it measured, we've done countless mock ups, we've picked out the finishes, and we have the appliances. So, what is it?

Maybe the question is really, why? Why do we need to do it? Yes, we spend a lot of time in there. The kitchen. Most of our evenings with friends start and end in the vast cavern of this particular room. Is it pretty? No. But it is oddly comfortable. Do I worry about spills, or stains, or broken glasses? No. I don't. I can make a pretty nice dinner in there. The pizza is available every Friday night. And there's nothing in it we don't really need to have. 

Ugh.

Maybe it's because the reason we did most of this construction, is gone? My mom. When she was living in our house, the necessities of her safety and care inspired the new heating system, the downstairs bathroom, and the porch conversion, and inadvertently caused us to redo the heating, rewire the electrical, restructure the back yard. And now, she doesn't live with us. She helped us in so many ways, and now that she is no longer living in our home, maybe our inspiration is gone. Maybe, Eunie was the Muse. The Lady in Our House of Perpetual Construction? 

Or maybe, just finally, we, as a family, are just okay.

I still love seeing it everyday.

I'm not saying I wouldn't love a shiny new kitchen with a warm, rich floor, sparkling counter-tops, and pristine cabinetry. My Pinterest feed is lousy with it. But honestly, I don't need it. In preparation for the kitchen remodel, Pete and I have created the basic structure of how the room will be set up eventually, an L-shape of lower cabinets, allowing for seating at a peninsula. We have used a large temporary unfinished modular island with an overhang, ugly chairs, and a homemade set of shelves that house electronics, our house phone, snacks. We have paired down small appliances, and eliminated extra plates, glasses, pots and pans. Our kitchen runs very lean, and I like that it only takes me minutes to clean. I've hosted countless nights in this barren room, nights filled with a lot of laughter and love. The shiny and sparkling absolutely notwithstanding. Unnecessary to make things better.

Okay, maybe for Carrera marble. It is classically beautiful.

As a matter of fact, after last Thanksgiving, we hosted this insane dinner on Friday in which our table snaked out from the dining room into the makeshift kitchen, friends elbow to elbow, yelling across the room to pass the broccoli down the Z angle towards the living room. It was, and remains to be, a hilarious night, filled with great conversations, and fun memories and  and three generations of friendship. I wouldn't trade that night for all of the Carrera marble and hardwood floors in the world.

Things aren't always easy for us in the Kitchen. I can't tell you how many pairs of socks have holes in them from the nicks and dings in the unfinished floor. Or how many fibers of pink insulation made it into our pasta sauce before we semi-closed up the walls.  

And I have fervently prayed for strength over my kitchen sink, as I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and looked out over my pretty porch, patio, and backyard garden out of the new unfinished window over the rebuilt bulkhead. I have found that in Our Lady of Perpetual Construction strength, and peace, and maybe an odd sense of that, right now as ugly as it is, it's functioning, and it's okay, and that is good with me for right now.

The "construction as metaphor" is not lost on me, trust me.

Involuntary Simplicity: 50 First Dates with Mimi

There’s this perpetual bit that I’m forced to run through anytime I happen to speak about my mother. It’s truly uncanny. I could actually write down people’s lines for them before they deliver them. It’s like I’m in a continual rehearsal for this one scene and it plays out every time almost word for word, gesture for gesture, no matter who is playing opposite.

LEHS Stage - home sweet home.

Lights cue on a blank stage.

SARAH: Well, my mom has Alzheimer’s…”

SYMPATHETIC CONVERSATIONALIST: tilting their heads, Ohhhhhh, IIII’m soooo soooorrrryyyy.

SARAH: No, it’s fine.

SYMPATHETIC CONVERSATIONALIST: lips pulled in over teeth, head nodding on its tilted axis.

The role of the SYMPATHETIC CONVERSATIONALIST is played by friends, colleagues, family acquaintances, new acquaintances. This character is generally a nice person.

I always appreciate their well meaning gestures, people do care, and do their best to be supportive of the situation I have just somehow uncomfortably delivered, “Yes, and…” I am always grateful for kind words – I’m no dummy; I take what I can get at this age. It is however interesting to reveal to my partner in the scene that Alzheimer’s, although structurally, is yes, technically a tragedy, some of the scenes? Pretty damned funny.

I did not ask for this.

For example: My mom flashes me her boobs. A lot. How many of you can say that? It’s like a perpetual Mardi Gras, and I’ve unwittingly been put in charge of the beads. Actually, I’ve seen a lot more of my mom’s real estate than I am particularly comfortable admitting in a public blog. The reason being was she stopped wearing underwear about two years or so ago, citing that everything I bought her, or all of her older support bras, her big cotton underpants, were, “Way too tight. I don’t think these are mine,” she would whisper conspiratorially.

Hanes Briefs, roughly enough fabric to properly outfit the mast of a Sunfish.

“Oh?” I would reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Are they yours?” Holding up an expanse of white cotton cloth with the elastic stretched tight, I was unable to see past it to her upper body and torso to answer to her face.

“Iiiii don’t think so,” I would say to the fabric in my face.

“Well, they’re not mine.”

PRO TIP: It is pointless to argue with a person who has Alzheimer’s Disease. They are stubborn once they have glued onto an idea. Plus, you will come away from it shaken and upset, and a few minutes later, they will not even have a clue as to why you’re clenching your teeth, “Oh honey, you must have had a bad day. Come sit, and have some chocolate. But not too much, your underwear will get too tight. I don’t think these ones are mine, by the way.”

I take the giant underpants, “Maybe I can check to see if any local sailors lost some  yardage on their ships. No? Perhaps a local balloonist?”

Thar She Blows!!

            She would laugh.

            It didn’t always go like that, but I usually could end it the same way.

Usually.

It was and still is hard to see her when she falls into her head, whispering to herself as she tries to feel her way back up through the fog to remember some tiny little idea, a name? She just had It, and why won’t it come back? I can see her struggle, watch it plainly appear and play out on her face, unaware, her eyes search inward, her fingers find her lips, touch her nose, her breath just hitting over the palm of her hand. The scene is wrenching, but what is wonderful about it is, she – my mom - can forget it.

She can forget it. I don’t, my brother and sisters don’t. My husband and children don’t, but she can.

She lives in the present. Not saying that it is always positive, but it is always fresh, and has the possibility of being wonderful. The days when I bring her hot chocolate, or play her The Songbird Album on the constant wonder that is my iPhone, my mom always has the potential to smile, to sing, to look at me and tell me how beautiful she thinks I am.

I'm singing "A Woman in Love" as I type this.

The next moment may not be good. The next day could always hold disaster. I know that, I lived with the constant threat of it in our house for the five years that she was with us: What if she trips? What if she wanders out? What if she tries to heat up her coffee over the toaster again? What if she threatens Pete to call the police again when she doesn’t recognize him or the children?  

I lived and worked in a constant pace in which I had to rush home to make sure that she was okay, or that I had to relieve someone who had taken on her care while I was driving the kids to practice, or had to teach or take a class. I had no time to waste, my mother was home and I need to be sure she’s safe. She is safe now, and I visit her, and she is happy to see me, even if she is not quite sure how I belong to her, but still somewhat aware that I do. She still complains about her waistband of her underwear, usually greeting me with her pants half around her ass, like the boys in the middle school where I teach. She thinks it’s funny when I tell her that. And from there, her mind can go anywhere.

I’m not saying Alzheimer’s is a blessing. The eventual ending is what people are responding to when I say that my mom has Alzheimer’s Disease, The “Oh, I’m sorry,” lives in the final act. And yes, I’ve read the spoilers. But for now, as the scenes play out, and the lines are sometimes spoken through tears, I can take a beat, talk with my mom, and still laugh.

Murphy, Pete, Mimi, Anna, and Fay.