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- A refrigerator is a cooling apparatus. The common household appliance (often called a "fridge" for short) comprises a thermally insulated compartment and a heat pump—chemical or mechanical means—to transfer heat from it to the external environment (i.e.
- (refrigerator) white goods in which food can be stored at low temperatures
- (Refrigerator (horse)) Refrigerator was an Appendix Quarter horse racehorse who won the Champions of Champions race three times. He was a 1988 bay gelding sired by Rare Jet and out of Native Parr.
- An appliance or compartment that is artificially kept cool and used to store food and drink. Modern refrigerators generally make use of the cooling effect produced when a volatile liquid is forced to evaporate in a sealed system in which it can be condensed back to liquid outside the refrigerator
- Procure the loyalty and support of (someone) by bribery
- obtain by purchase; acquire by means of a financial transaction; "The family purchased a new car"; "The conglomerate acquired a new company"; "She buys for the big department store"
- bribe: make illegal payments to in exchange for favors or influence; "This judge can be bought"
- Obtain in exchange for payment
- Pay someone to give up an ownership, interest, or share
- bargain: an advantageous purchase; "she got a bargain at the auction"; "the stock was a real buy at that price"
Safeway vs. Berkeley Bowl
So much for all that organic, locally grown, fair trade nonsense;
Jean's not going back.
Last night, Jean called, receipt in hand, to tell me, "This place
charged me $180 for a bunch of stuff I didn't buy! I've never even
heard of Wallaby yogurt" (see yogurts at bottom of cart).
Nope, it's all yours, I'm afraid. Those 7-up minis you thought were
so cute? You bought 'em. That thick-cut Boar's Head bacon? Yours,
including the extra one in the refrigerator. Lavender soap? uh huh,
all you. 3 orange juices? You want to know who put them in your
basket? That was you, mom. At the end of the day, I'm not sure she
believed me, but we won't be trying "new" places to shop any longer.
Although a good idea at the time ("I've always wanted to check out the
new Berkeley Bowl"), the visit and subsequent confusion about what she
bought underscores the real malevolence of this disease.
Jean did not remember buying the products because she could not go
back far enough to have a memory of selecting them. At least going to
Safeway, she may forget the actual trip she made last week, but she
has enough memory stores to remember some trip she took there. Her
brain can piece together the receipt with the aisles in the store
where she might have bought the products. A new store, even with the
same products in it, completely throws her off.
The conversation, as we went through each item on the list, was
painful and long. At one point, I felt myself getting very cranky,
wanting to just yell, "Ya, bought it, Blanche!" But I held my tongue
and concentrated on the hell that it must be to stay in a constant
state of hell where you cannot know for sure whether what you don't
know is something you cannot remember or is something that you never
knew. What must it be like to think you may have been swindled, but
know that there's a distinct possibility you may be wrong? For me, I
would constantly worry about my own safety. It helped me understand
the growing importance of order to her.
There is a movie, The Forgetting, that chronologs the slow, painful
end of Alzheimer's patients. Though only two hours long, I had to
watch it in three stages, because my eyes would get too swollen to
make it all the way through. It's worth seeing, if only to understand
that, as bad as things are now, the worst is yet to come.
Alzheimer's always has the same end result, but the path to getting
there varies with the patient. I have had the privilege of knowing a
friend's father for some years now. He was diagnosed with the disease
in 2005, and at that time, had a memory, lived alone, and was a
generally happy man. Over time, his memory began to fade and -- at
least according to his children -- he became more "himself." He
enjoyed relaxing in the sun and people-watching. He loved to go to
parties. He loved women. And while his memory was fading quickly, he
never seemed particularly bothered by it. In his world, there had
always been someone to care for him. When he was younger, his wife
managed his life. Then, after she died, and long before he was
diagnosed with the disease, his daughters did everything for him.
His transition last year to an Alzheimer's care facility, therefor,
was simply more of the same. He didn't resist. He understood that
he would be cared for. I saw him last week and "introduced" myself to
him. He smiled, happy to be in the sun, and shook my hand.
I wish it could be that way for Jean. That somehow, she would softly
ease into the disease and be OK with knowing we'll always take care of
her. I wish she did not have the obvious fear (terror, really) of
losing control. LIke Mr. Barnett, I wish she trusted her daughter to
do the right thing. But that's not Jean. And it makes me sad, not
because I have to spend 40 minutes on the phone with her explaining
each purchase, or because she's sure to fire any caregivers who come
to the home and no doubt threaten to sue me if I have her removed.
That's a minor inconvenience, really. It makes me sad because her
horrific ride will be made all the worse by her own resistance to it.
She doesn't have a history of being cared for -- she has always been
the caregiver. She never had people she could truly trust in her
life: my dad was a brilliant man, but a flakey provider. Jerry was
an alcoholic, and John, though loving to her, always expected her to
care for him. Daughters do not count -- after all, it's only been 30
years since I left home.
So, my mom is in town...
So, my mom and baby brother (who is now 6'5") are in town for a visit. My brother tells me a tale of woe about happening upon a pie festival (next to the car show he was attending), and seeing a cupcake booth. He wanted to buy a cupcake, and was horrified when the booth owner informed him that her cuppies were, GASP!- DUMMIES!!!! AHHHHHH!!!!
After this devastation, he felt himself to be in need of a cuppie which was, how shall one say this? NOT styrofoam. Poor lad.
So, I promised him wonders beyond any cupcake he had ever had before (especially the styrofoam ones), or would ever have again.
I entered my culinary domain, and began adding ingredients to the bowl of my stand mixer of joy.
Dry ingredients. Check.
There was ONE egg in my refrigerator.
Having just baked, I had (rightly) expected lots of eggs in my egg carton.
My mother used all my eggs for meatloaf.
So, we had brownies.
BTW- I have no feelings of animosity toward my mother, whom I adore, and am extremely close to. However, this makes a good story. :) MEATLOAF! Honestly, Mother!!!! :)
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