We’ll help you find just the right place for Mom,
A place where she can thrive
A place to give you peace of mind.
We know places …
Big places, little places, even teeny tiny places
One just the right size for every Mom.
Our credo:
No Mom is placeless
No Mom is displaced
No Mom is misplaced
We’re able to place hard-to-place Moms.
From the Serengeti to the Sunshine State,
No place is out-of-bounds for Mom.
All Moms know their place at a Place for Mom.
And if we can’t find a place for your Mom,
no one can.

Tell me a story
One that takes me away from myself
One that reconfigures reality
One that dislodges, defrosts, and disarms me

Tell me a story
One that I can occupy, inhabit, and go back
and visit
One with characters who enchant, enrich
and fascinate
One with the power to make me care
desperately how it turns out.

Tell me a story
One that takes me away, far away,
to another realm and plane of existence.
One that makes me shudder, gasp and sigh.
One that I can sink my dreams into.

I’m listening.

Tell me a story

Tell me where it hurts, and, if appropriate,
I’ll give a kiss to make it well.

I’ll also bring you flowers and put them in
a vase

If flowers aren’t available,
I’ll bring you a pretty rock and write your
name on it.

If I can’t find flowers or a pretty rock,
I’ll draw a picture of flowers next to a
pretty rock with your name on it.

Just tell me where it hurts and I’ll make
you a cup of tea with some honey in it.

Or I’ll brew you a cup of strong coffee
and we’ll sit and talk

Or maybe we won’t talk…
and I’ll just keep you company—for as
long as you like.

And you’ll tell me where it hurts.

I bought three purple pansy plants and
planted them in a large pot outdoors.

Then I forgot to water them.

Three days later, I noticed how droopy
they looked.
I watered them and repeatedly checked on
their condition.
Fortunately, they revived.

“How could you be so remiss?” the pansy
flower-faces rebuked.
“We were better off at the grocery store!” they
pouted.

I meant to water them.
Truly.
I persuaded myself on the day I
bought them that it “looked like rain.”
But who was I kidding?
It didn’t rain.

Pansies look cute and adorable, but it’s
only a cover.
They’re actually fiendish, like gangsters.
They’re unforgiving, unrelenting, and spiteful, too.

Every so often, one of my pansies droops and
acts sullen—just to get back at me.

One would think they could overlook a
little neglect—turn their pansy cheek—but
no, not pansies, they never let go …
never.

There’s one gardenia bud on the whole bush.
Two weeks now—
one bud on the whole bush.
I’ve waited for the bud to unwrap, to bloom,
but no change—
It’s still firmly sealed.

For my first formal dance, my date brought me
a gardenia corsage.
The fragrance was so pungent, I took it off
my wrist and pinned it to my clutch purse.
Then I left the purse in a safe, remote location
until it was time to go home.

When I was with my husband and kids
at Disney’s Epcot in Florida, I saw a small
field that had been planted with gardenias.
I bent down to the ground and inhaled
the scent, took in the creamy white petals
nestled in dark, glossy leaves.
The flower had finally seduced me.

Now, I tend to my own gardenia bush
in its cobalt blue planter, and I wait—
but not patiently.

I make plans.
When I have blooms, I will float
one in a glass bowl.
I will wear one in my hair or
I’ll give myself a corsage and pin it on my chest.

I am waiting for my gardenias to bloom.

After I pinned an image of a sloth on my Pinterest Animals
Board, the image-sharing website supplied me with a multitude
of pins of the grinning South American mammal.

A sample:
Two-and-three-toed sloths
Orphaned baby sloths
Stuffed animal-clutching sloths

Sloths in locations:
In the trees
In the pool
In the bath tub
In the rocking chair
In the hammock
In the jungle gym

Porn sloth such as:
A naked lady holding a sloth
A sloth passionately fondling a kitten
Mating sloths

Miscellaneous sloths such as:
Upside-down sloths
Tree-hugging sloths
Slo-mo sloths
Half-asleep sloths
International Sloth Day celebratory sloths

I am the object of Pinterest’s devotion to my heart’s desires, a
beneficiary of a love-struck algorithm.

I hereby declare, Pinterest, that I like sloths, but I’m not a sloth
aficionado.

I do not covet sloths.

Sloths are cute, uber cute, beyond cute, creepy cute, inconceivably
cute.

But as beguiling as they are, I would not cuddle one.

Their fur hosts a carpet of algae as well as beetles, spiders
moths, larvae, and God Only Knows What Other Hangers-on.

Pinterest, listen up.
Enough with the sloths!

My mother is in room 3563 and it is 3:00 pm.
I am winding my way through hospital corridors
heading to the first floor dining room for lunch.

I am very hungry.

I am worn out.

My mother is very old and frail. I see that clearly
now. It is shocking.

The dining room’s food selections are depleted.

My mother’s care options are depleted.

The grill is closed. (Oh, they had baked chicken!)

The salad bar is also depleted and unappealing as well.

Every medical person refers to my mother’s “baseline,”
and the need to return to it. They don’t know what her
baseline was, though. They pelt me with such questions
as: “Does she recognize you?”

“Yes!” I proudly respond.

By the way, two of the doctors were so extraordinarily
good looking, it provided a welcome distraction.

Like a song, the expression “mother’s baseline”
reverberates on a mental loop. This provides me with a
continual source of amusement and befuddlement.

I make my food choice: a large slice of pepperoni pizza
with a side order of six single-stuffed Oreo cookies.

Despite the poor quality of the pizza, (and as a Chicago
native, I know a lot about pizza), I relish it. It fills me up.
The cookies are okay, too. I break them open and eat just
one cream-covered side.

Fortified by carbs and high fructose corn syrup, I retrace
my steps along the landscape-laden corridors and return to
room 3563, to my mother, who still knows me.

This is a poem that I tossed off,
an unassuming poem.

If this poem were a hat,
It would have a pom pom on it, maybe two,
a pink pom pom and a purple pom pom.

If this poem were a drink,
It would have an umbrella and two cherries
on top,
Or one cherry and two umbrellas.

If this poem were a dog,
It would be a French Bulldog named Marge
wearing a pink tutu.

There aren’t any deep insights
to be gleaned from this poem.
Nothing. Nada.

There aren’t any hidden meanings in it.

None that I know of.

I won’t apologize for my French Provincial Bedroom Set.

Although I am the first to admit that it takes bad taste to a
whole new level.

It was a wedding gift from my mother’s sister, who had
an “in” at the Furniture Mart.

In the showroom, she gave me a choice between a dark
Spanish Inquisition Style or an off-white-and-gold-distressed
French Provincial Suite.

Louis the 14^th prevailed.

My aunt was quick to point out that we were getting a great
deal for her money: two dressers, one with an attached
mirror; a bed frame; an ornate headboard and footboard; and
even two matching end tables.

Eight matching pieces, a completely distressed French Provincial
family!

Over the years—many, many, years—I sought ways to deal
with the garish clan.

I tried to sell it, so I could buy something updated and modern.

No takers.

I inquired at antique stores and vintage shops, ones I thought
would appreciate retro kitsch.

No takers.

I tried to give it away.

Individual pieces elicited interest, but I couldn’t bear breaking
up the “family.”

Eventually, I accepted my Versailles Wedding Bed Chamber as
fated, pre-ordained, a sort of furniture beshert.

I came to realize it’s one-of-a-kind and durable, just like my marriage.

Big dots, little dots,
colored dots, black and white dots—
Polka Dots–
the extrovert of patterns,
the province of clowns,
the domain of flamenco dancers,
the pattern named after a dance.

Polka dots are classic and playful.
They appear in bow ties,
skimpy bikinis, and Minnie Mouse’s dress.
Polka dot experts are able to mix
dots with stripes and plaids,
based on color and proportion.
But I wouldn’t try it at home if I were you.

Contemporary artist, Yayoi Kusama,
creates installations blanketed with dots,
to represent our place in the universe.
Roy Lichtenstein and Chuck Close have
doted on dots, pixelated dots.
But calling them polka dots is a misnomer.

The dots wouldn’t be offended.
Of all the patterns,
polka dots are the most forgiving.

Yayoi Kusama