They're stealing from me

A little more than a year and a half ago we helped move my uncle from his house in Palm Springs to an assisted living facility in Santa Monica.

He was scheduled to move in to Studio Royale here in Culver City but they cancelled his reservation and said they could not accommodate him. I can't be sure but I think it might have had something to do with my uncle getting on the phone with them and giving them a full throated display of his cantankeraciouness.

Given the situation and the outrageous expensive costs of assisted living, the Santa Monica facility, which shall remain nameless, was our only choice. It was not a good one. My uncle, a strong man who has survived 43 years of being HIV positive and has travelled the world, including several grueling flights on Aeroflot ("worst airline in the world") as well as several train rides to the furthest reaches of Russia.

And yet, for all that heartiness, he could not stomach the food that the Santa Monica facility that shall still remain unnamed. It had nothing to do with the dirty carpet, the incomplete kitchen construction, or the inattentive staff, and had everything to do with the limp vegetable lasagna.

And so, we moved him again, to a place closer to Culver City and within a stone's throw of semi-edible food, Terrazza. 

If you're unfamiliar with independent living or assisted living facilities, consider this your primer. But if you have aging parents or aunts or uncles with dwindling savings and boxes of useless files and extension cords, let me suggest you educate yourself.

While all senior facilities appear dismal and depressing, there is a definite pecking order. And if you're lucky enough and well-to-do enough, you'll make the cut at Sunrise, the 5 diamond gold standard in old people living.

I'll spare you the gory details.

But I will share a phenomena that occurs at every senior space, throughout the land. And friends and family who know will most certainly back me up on this.

Due to Covid and my uncle's increasing immobility, he cannot leave the facility and go shopping for his miscellaneous needs. As such we make weekly trips to get him coffee, pears, grapes and whatever odds and ends he has on his list.

Last week, he wanted dish towels. So while at Target, my wife picked him up some dish towels and ran it by Terrazza. An hour later, my uncle called. Not so much to thank Debbie for getting him some kitchen accoutrement, but to put in his weekly bitching and moaning about the staff.

"They're stealing from me."

"They're not stealing from you."

"They are. They don't pay the staff enough so they steal from the residents."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know that packet of dish towels you just brought me? One is missing."

(My wife laughing at the notion that the staff would steal a dish towel)

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You brought me a packet of four and now there are only three."

"Ronnie, there were only three towels in the packet."

"Oh."

And  so it goes.