A Day in the Life of Christmas

Gramma,

Five of the thirteen grandkids spent last weekend with us.  After school was out, they arrived from three different directions, each about an hour away.  The girls chose to share the queen size bed in the guest room, a room as big as a living room and outfitted  with a fireplace and tv.  That left the boys with the little room.  The girls watched DVD's.  Much to their chagrin, the boys wanted to hang out with them.  Eventually, I sent them to watch tv in their room.

It took all morning to get them ready to go to a play.  We stopped at Walgreens so I could pick up a prescription.  They all chose a snack item and vitamin water for the road trip.  Then they railroaded me into buying them each a small toy item.  We were the first ones at the theatre.  We looked at art displays while we waited.  The kids couldn't believe the prices. 

We saw "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever."  Costumes reflected the sixties-seventies era.  The father came out in the most hideous leisure suit I have ever seen.  I almost said WTF out loud, which I related to him afterwards.  The story revolved around two families from different sides of the track and a Christmas pageant run amok when the usual director was out of commission. 

It was funny and poignant at times, interspersed with inappropriate behavior that delighted the kids. The mean girl was fond of smoking cigars in the church bathroom.  She had no idea who Jesus was.  The boys were terrified of her and her younger sister.  The draw for this financially challenged family was free refreshments.  In the end, the three wise guys brought peculiar gifts to the manger, including a canned ham from their welfare basket. 

During intermission, the kids roped me into buying cookies, which I had intended to avoid, but it was a fundraising effort.  I hadn't been to this bare bones theatre with open seating in a  hodge-podge of chairs.  We had seen all the plays at the usual venue, where the special effects and seating reflected a high degree of sophistication.  In the car, I asked what they liked best.  The naughty kids won out. 

The last year of the Macy's Christmas display was showing in Minneapolis.  In line, there was some annoying old bag in front of us.  Her short dark hair was sprayed into a helmet.  She held a winter scarf up to her nose and mouth the whole time, as if she were fending off chemical warfare.  I began a barking cough, caused by dust, cobwebs and the smell of cigarette smoke on coats.  Each time I coughed, she looked at me in horrified disgust.  So I took pains to cough when I didn't need to. 

The animated displays were worth the wait.  Santa's gift shop beckoned at the end.  Stuffed items were thirty percent off.  I wanted to be young enough to own one of those soft treehouses with stuffed animals poking out all the knotholes.  I asked the twins if they would like to share one.  "We don't like to share,"  I could understand that.  Everybody got their own. 

The kids unboxed gingerbread houses before I could change out of my good clothes.  I was tired and put some leftover hot dish in front of Dave.  Veve and Ollie got into it over some triviality.  Ollie stormed upstairs.  I sent Dave after him.  Eventually, he put down his book and rejoined us.  Five houses were uniquely covered in frosting and candy.  The table was littered with leftovers. 

The kids ate pizza in the living room before heading to bed, which meant falling asleep with a movie.  House cleanup the next morning took upwards of two hours.  The twins were leaving around ten to go see Santa.  Dave watched the Vikings play at noon, while I took two kids to Wisconsin.  Dave took Ollie home while I watched the Packers play. 

Memories were made.  The twins said I was much more fun than their other gramma, and could they come for a week in the summer.  I hoped so.  More waffles with free reign of Reddi Whip and sprinkles.  More hands for the dogs.  More carrots for the donkeys. 

Veve's mother called the following week to tell me that the kids were told to draw something that reminded them of Christmas.  She drew a picture of a building with Macy's on the front of it. 

Oh, Holy Night

Gramma, 

Drove an hour to see two of my grandchildren perform in the annual "holiday" music program.   It has become commonplace in many schools to avoid any reference to Christmas.  The music teacher has been with the district for three years.  She is young, energetic, and innovative with her selections.  This year, it was very jazzy. 

The singing also involved actions, with hands, entire body movement and sometimes instruments.  There was a song about lighting a candle for peace.  The lights were dimmed.  Three kids with flameless candles lit the candles of other students, who in turn spread the light until they all held lit candles.  It was a somewhat mournful song, almost a lamentation of the futility of hoping for peace. 

Tears ran down my face as I though of the children of Aleppo being murdered, their last vestiges of hope and life being witnessed on social media.  Their parents pleading for help, the world watching.  No savior arriving.  No peace for them. 

For more than a month, Veve has been telling me they have been practicing a super secret song they can't tell anyone about.  She was very excited about it.  She is in the third grade.  I didn't pry.  The third, fourth and fifth grade sang their separate songs.  Then they performed together. 

The teacher was visibly nervous.  The auditorium was dark.  She told the crowd that she hoped we would like it.  She didn't know how we would receive it.  The kids worked very hard to make this happen.  As she tuned her guitar, I heard what I thought were the first frail notes of what I couldn't believe was coming. 

The kids began with soft voices, as if they were far away.  "Oh Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining, this is the night of our dear Savior's birth...."  Their voices rang out louder and louder.  The music teacher sang solo for two verses while the kids did the chorus.  Her voice conveyed a passion for what she was doing.  My eyes were leaking again.  You could hear a pin drop when it was over. 

I was among the first to stand up.  Somebody had dared to put Christ back in Christmas in a public school.  I wondered if she had gotten permission for this.  Would it become necessary to sign a reinstatement petition? 

The quality of the children's voices was beyond their years.  I would guess there were some unfamiliar with the Christmas story.  I wondered if in the process of learning the words, they were helped to understand.  Had the teacher taken a chance on overstepping boundaries to explain it?  Whatever happened here and whoever was in on it, Wow, just Wow. 

It's Cold Outside...

Gramma,

It's been a month since my last post.  (didn't that sound a bit Catholic)  We are experiencing another super moon.  The tree shadows on the ground last night were spectacular.  I love tree skeletons.  Too bad they don't photograph well.  The windchill is 25 below zero.  Prediction for tomorrow and the weekend is worse--45 below.  Snow will also be involved.  At these temperatures, the ice melting stuff does not work on the roads.  Glad I don't have to go anywhere. 

Last night I made several trips out to the rental unit in the shed.  One of the energy efficient heaters needed repair--since last summer.  Nothing like being on top of things.  Not my fault.  Our professional heating and air conditioning friend kept promising to do it.  By 7:30 last night it was determined he was unable to figure out the problem.  The off peak heaters are a breed that requires specialty training for installation and repair.  First thing I did this morning was call for repair. 

It has been crazy hectic around here this past month.  The only lull was on Thanksgiving.  We did not go anywhere or have anyone over.  I still make a large meal, freezing leftovers for soup and pot pies.  Eleanor gave up this holiday a few years back, but demanded that we show up for pie.  Forty-five minutes one way to forgo a nap and force down some pie.  Glad that's over. 

In a moment of stupidity, I almost ruined Thanksgiving by calling my estranged son to come over for food.  There is a large family gathering on his dad's side every year, but he was unwelcome.  This is not the first time he has alienated everyone with his vicious postings on Facebook and in the flesh.  He posted that he had dinner with an older couple that took pity on him.  I'm sure he was all charming and polite.  They don't have to deal with the Aaron we know. 

Eleanor had a stroke around Thanksgiving.  It was mild, with no long term effects.  She was laying on the floor in her bedroom when she called family for help.  She spent several days in the hospital before going to a nursing home for unnecessary transitional care.  She was afraid to go home because she might have another stroke and die,  She is over eighty.  WTF.  I would absolutely rather die than be in there. 

The problem for her was deciding which "Help I've Fallen And Can't Get Up" device to purchase.  Call your friends.  Ask what they have.  Nope.  She had to pester all three of her kids to research the market.  All three kids had different opinions.  We went to visit.  The nursing home was noisy--nonstop beeping equipment, loud voices echoing off bare walls and floors--bad smells and people slumped in wheelchairs.  I could smell Eleanor's halitosis before I got to her room. 

The weather was bad and we got there around dinner time.  We were practically chased off by Eleanor so she could go eat the food she was complaining about.  To get Medicare to pay for this unnecessary care, she was required to go to rehab classes that she complained about.  There were such activities as taking directions on how to make a sandwich. 

Dave's son Cory had open heart surgery this week.  When he tried to join the military ten years ago, he was rejected because he had a leaky aortic valve.  That was replaced with a mechanical valve.  He is in and out of consciousness with the pain meds.

Dave tried to get his mother to go with him to visit Cory.  Eleanor is busy having a full blown pity party for herself.  She's whining again about how she wishes her sons would get along.  She doesn't talk to one of  her brothers, but of course, that's different.  She can see the asshole in him, but not her beloved ass-clown of a son. 

In preparation for knee replacement surgery, Dave has had several doctor appointments this month.  I am required to go along so I know what's going on.  He has vague reasons why he is not telling his family in advance.  I will honor his decision.  Due to the nature of his work, he will be home for twelve weeks.  Good practice for retirement.  He also needs shoulder surgery and the other knee replaced.  Then it will be time to retire. 

I had a colonoscopy that revealed why I have had the diarrhea for several months--some breed of colitis.  The drugs are $1500 a month.  Co-pay was $150.  Hopefully two months of treatment will clear up the problem.  Cause?  Ibuprofen 800's or some prescription mental health drug.  Getting old is not my thing.  I do not like to talk about my ailments, because that is what old people do. 

Winter is here.  Going out to rearrange the snow.  Be back tomorrow. 

Super Moon

Gramma,

My super-size corgi is on a diet.  She is also on a hunger strike.  This morning I told her to step away from the dog dishes.  She knows the command.  I offered her a separate bowl of diet kibble that only she could access.  Refusal.  My corgi's have a lot of cat-like behaviors.  She walked away without even trying to vie for the prime morning spot under my desk.  I guess we aren't speaking.  I will give her a few days before I change tactics. 

Last night was the "Super Moon."  I went outside to watch it come up through the tree line.  I've been sick with something upper respiratory, so went to bed early.  The moon glow falls across my pillow as I drift off.  I planned to be outside before dawn to watch it finish the night.  Too late.  The cat weighs me down. 

My barking cough kept me from my dentist appointment.  I planned to not get dressed, maybe even go back to bed and read a book.  It's grey and dreary, but not cold.  I half-heartedly make a to-do list for the week.  I don't want to do anything.  I waste time on the computer.  Then, Bob shows up.  He used to own this house.  He lives in Colorado.  He has the gate code.  He will try to get an invitation to dinner and several nights of free lodging.  He has his a new little pound puppy with him. 

Our conversation is punctuated by my frequent coughing.  Bob quit playing Santa years ago because the kids always got him sick.  He tells me he will be in town through Thanksgiving, almost two weeks.  As usual, he repeats himself.  I nod and cough.  He tells me what he has been up to and that he has brought a car load of things for his step-kids.  Dave texts me while we are visiting.  I look at the phone and smile. 

I tell Bob that I need to let Dave know I got his text about working late.  I text him, "Bob is here."  And, I smile, because Bob drives him nuts.  He shows up without warning and stays without an invitation.  He helps himself to whatever's in the fridge.  He sits in Dave's chair.  He expects that I will cook three meals and dessert.  My phone is lighting up with Dave's texts.  "Fuck."  "Not staying at the house."  "Four dog limit."  "Hello." 

I snap Bob's picture.  His dog is sitting on the back of Dave's chair.  Good thing I can't laugh while coughing.  I hit send.  "FUCK," Dave responds.  I smile as Bob keeps talking.  I tell him Dave says hi.    Bob decided to leave.  I didn't even have to encourage him by telling him I needed to go back to bed.  I could have offered him some home made apple pie or something to drink, or dinner later in the week.  He will likely be back before he heads home. 

I text the neighbor that he is in town.  She says, thanks for the heads up."  They too have gates, and he does not have their code.  He will knock on other doors, looking for food and shelter.  I like Bob well enough.  I am more tolerant than Dave when it comes to this kind of intrusion.  My eyes glaze over and the mind wanders after awhile. Dave fumes. 

The next morning I went to feed Mr. Peepers, my canary.  Bob's dog had  left me a dog bomb and wet spot by the cage.  I had promised a friend recovering from back surgery that I would clean her house.  There was no other day I could do it.  While I was there, Bob called her.  She did not pick up.  We listened to his message inviting himself for a get-together.  I came home, still sick, exhausted, and too tired to drag the carpet cleaner upstairs. 

I'm a little jumpy.  I heard a car door slam outside and said "Oh fuck," to myself.  He's back.  It was the mail lady delivering Christmas gifts I had ordered online.  I look at my calendar for the next week to see how much stuff I have going on, real excuses.  Then I figure out how many other excuses I need to make up, just in case. 

Election Day 2016

Gramma,

November 8, 2016,  Election Day.  I wake up with a complete lack of enthusiasm that dogs me all day.  It is beautiful out, sunshine and relative warmth.  I do not want to get dressed and go to the polls.  My blood pressure rises just thinking about it.  I feel foggy.  The dog and I get in the car for the four mile drive to the town hall. 

I am not smiling.  Neither is anyone else.  I am in the booth with my cheat sheet, so I know who to vote for and who not to vote for.  I am pissy because all those relentless political ads I was forced to endure for months are not the assholes that are on my ballot.  My cheat sheet does include those who are, but that does not make it better. 

The presidential choices disgust me.  Neither speaks my language.  I feel paralyzed.  But, it doesn't matter, because I have sold my vote to my husband for six cases of beer.  I do not like his candidate.  He is a ruptured pig gut.  I do not think he is the lesser of two evils, but it doesn't matter.  I am good for my word. 

It's a rarity that I climb back in bed.  I pick up a book and read a few pages.  The cat is curled up nearby.  Her fur is soft and comforting.  My duress does not matter.  Regardless, her tomorrow will be the same as today.  The tuna will be forthcoming.  The bathroom will be cleaned.  The evening news does not predict a clear winner.  I am stone faced, resigned to whatever.  I share a bag of popcorn with the dogs.  The cat welcomes me back. 

Dave comes to bed late.  There is no word.   Later, I wake up screaming, "help, help, help."  Dave wakes me up at the same time I wake myself up.  I dreamed the bottoms of my daughter's and my feet were impaled with many needles of fine crystal glass.  Please don't let the dream ensue when I close my eyes. 

Before five a.m. I check my phone to see who won.  I nudge Dave, "Your guy won."  He says, "I know."  He has been checking his phone all night.  I am resigned.  I feel nothing.  I get up and let the dogs out, put some coffee on and start the fire.  There are states not yet called.  We are one of them.  We don't matter, because it is over.  The country has raised a middle finger to the status quo. 

I am struck by how the morning show hosts are able to deliver the news without betraying any personal feelings.  I am rarely at a loss,   don't know how I feel.  Life will go on.  I will pop more popcorn.  Meanwhile, Facebook is not funny today.  There are vitriolic rants, stunned disbelief, hate, and fear.  I can't absorb it all.  I have friends on both sides of The Wall.  I try to look for the positives. 

I think Obama Care is a failure.  For me, this is the fault of the senate and legislature.  They created a monster with their ugly little personal interests, pushing and shoving until the original intent became an unholy stepchild,  Dave and I wanted everyone to have affordable health care.  For many people, it is not affordable. In theory, it was a good idea. 

When Jesse Ventura became the governor of Minnesota, I was optimistic.  He was pretty brash and rough around the edges, but I thought he had potential.  Hopefully, he would be open-minded, willing to become enlightened in the face of facts and figures.  I was wrong.  I am not holding my breath on The Donald being any different.  Global warming is just the tip of the iceberg.  I am thinking now the same thing I thought then, how much damage can he do in four years. 

The Twins Were Here

Gramma,

It was a rare occasion that the twins were here for the weekend.  The girls turned eight on Halloween.  Their mother died of MS a year ago.  The baby is eighteen months and was here briefly while the girls were being dropped off.  They live with Dave's ex-wife and her husband in a small apartment.  They do not have legal custody.  I suspect that the kids are getting on their last nerve and  they wanted a break.  I fully expected to be hit up for money for something. 

The father of the children is busy hunting and fishing.  He bought a new boat with government money meant for the girls.  He does not volunteer anything to support the kids, including his time.  He is a weird little puke who should be in jail for tax evasion.  When his dog died, he put the collar on Tanya's grave.  The dog was not special to her.  He got another dog.  I would guess the dog gets little more attention from him than the children do.  We did not ask the twins any questions about how things are and they did not offer any information. 

Bubba and Veve were here as well, so there were four kids making noise.  Although I said no about a hundred times, I let them be kids.  No, you can't go on the roof of the house if I am not with you.  No, you can not go on the roof with shoes, it's bad for the shingles.  There is a deck that goes from a bedroom onto the roof, but the shingles are much more interesting.  Yes, you can go on the roof of the small playhouse.  There is a ladder and slide involved.  No, you may not go on the roof of the treehouse.  Get off that ladder.  No, you may not go on the dock out to the island if I am not with you.  Yes, there is a monster. 

A trip to Wal-Mart was made to pick out a birthday toy of their choice.  Nope, that's not an option, choose something else.  The multitude of pre-landfill plastic disgusts me.  Grampa came along.  He NEVER goes to Wal-Mart.  I do not go on a Saturday.  I get pissy just thinking about it.  The old woman and the old cashier in front of us were having a social event.  Dave and I exchanged glances and stink eye.  It was good for Grampa to see how fast and far $150.00 goes.  He tried to hand me a twenty for a Dairy Queen cake.  I rubbed my fingers together and smiled.  He waited in the car. 

The kids helped take down all the Halloween décor.  They demonstrated the speed of a beer truck being unloaded at a biker event.  I took the four-wheeler out back with the kids in the trailer.  We got stuck and unstuck more than once.  We raced around the yard with the dogs trying to keep up.  Then we had more ice cream cake outside.  And more popsicles.  They dragged their feet cleaning up their own stuff to go home.  I always start the process two hours in advance. 

They think we live in a mansion.  I have corrected that notion to clarify that it is a castle.  My hope for their time here is to go home and say how much fun they had.  I hope they tell their cousins all about it.  They were here once, three years ago.  Maybe they will pester to visit.  More kids is not much more work.  In the end, it's the same amount of clean-up. 

In a month, the twins will be coming for another weekend.  We will go see a Christmas play with three of my grandkids.  It will be their first time seeing our house decorated with the village and upside down Christmas tree and the lit up Jesus people out by the road.  Their mother is watching.  I know because their were dragonflies following me when I was mending fences the day they came to visit.  Dragonflies were their mother's thing.  They are not in season here in late fall.  This is all good for Grampa's spirits. 

Witches Ball

Gramma, 

Happy Halloween.  Saturday night's annual Witches Ball was a success.  The bike club and some of the Christmas cookie exchange group were in attendance.  My floors are covered with leaf litter and footprints.  Despite rain much of the day, the guys were able to get a bonfire going with a blow torch. 

Blood spurted from a steak stuffed into the neck of the headless guy.  I warned him to step away from a quilt that had taken months to make.  The flasher's interpretive dance included a stuffed pantyhose appendage, which Freddy Krueger tried to filet.  The priest and nun were unsuccessful at saving souls. 

Two zombie girls spent hours in the upstairs bathroom doing their makeup.  They didn't even take a break to refresh beverages.  I checked on them to make sure they weren't locked in.  The temperamental door intermittently requires someone from the outside to open it.  That can be scary in an unfamiliar house with a haunted reputation.  The noise coming from the Halloween village on the main floor drowned out the screaming and door pounding coming from upstairs. 

One of the cookie exchange girls showed up late, drunk and disorderly.  A big joint was hanging out of her mouth.  She is not a big pot smoker, but thought it would be cool to ask people for a light.  Her ex-husband-to-be had been a club member, but was kicked out for causing too many mandatory meetings with the Hell's Angels,  Girlfriend did not help his cause.  It is bad form to criticize another club when you are at a party on their turf. 

She decided to kiss all the guys around the fire, claiming it was her birthday and she could do as she pleased.  She was also dancing around in dark corners with a member who was there with his girlfriend.  This too, is bad form.  She will not be invited to anymore events where club members are present.  I was glad when her driver dragged her out to the car.  I would imagine she is still recovering.  Drunkeness and diabetes is not a good combination. 

Family drama kept another couple away.  The evil drunken mother of two grandchildren threw the family dog out of a moving truck.  Then she tried to choke her ex-husband, threatening to kill him and get custody of the kids.  This is while he was driving.  The kids were screaming.  They told the police they never wanted to see her again. 

One of the cookie exchange girls and her husband were headed to North Dakota to support the pipeline protest.  Otherwise, almost everyone showed up.  Two of the dogs were dressed as wieners.  Two were sent to their boxes for trying to mark guests as their territory. 

As witches arrived, I was just getting out of the shower.  There wasn't time to put on some Christmas music.  I should have gotten up earlier, but we were out late the night before celebrating at a surprise birthday party. 

A friend spent the night and helped put food away.  It had taken me all month to prepare for this event.  Sunday was spent on the couch watching bad t.v.  Then the Packers lost by one point.  I shouldn't have chosen to watch NatGeo after that.  Seeing the planet destruct from global warming is the stuff of nightmares. 

The gates are open for brave trick-or-treaters,  It is over fifty degrees here in the northwoods.  As I can't keep candy in the house without it disappearing, the kids are getting mardi-gras beads.  The grandkids will be here next weekend to help take down the mess.  Their next visit will be to install Christmas, much less involved than Halloween. 

Indian Summer

Gramma, 

October eighteenth was an amazing Indian summer day in Minnesota.  Even the morning was warm enough to pull me outside early.  Rain and wind from the night before left a vast carpet of heavy, wet leaves waiting to be mowed.  Many of the trees are showing their full skeletons.  The oaks hang on longer, some till spring.  Vines crawling up the house are crimson.  Some flowers are still blooming. 

I fed the ducks, the peacocks, and the songbirds, then filled the donkey water tank.  There were a few more squash and pumpkins to pick before mowing the garden.  The dogs trailed behind as I buzzed around the yard picking up sticks, putting away yard tools and finishing the Halloween decorating.  The clowns needed to be blood-splattered with red house paint.  I fired up the lights to see if the breaker would blow. 

Bicycles, power washed by the storm, leaned against an out-building.  Some of them are outgrown and will be sent to the Goodwill.  They had collected dust in the lean-to where straw is stacked and animals hang out in a fenced section.  The floor is dirt.  Firewood was stored here until we installed a gas fireplace.  Gone are the days of cutting, splitting, and hauling into the garage and then into the house.  After we gave it up, I missed the smell of a crackling fire.  I don't miss the mess. 

The afternoon sun dried the leaves enough to mince with the tractor mower.  The litter is good fertilizer.  I mowed for hours, taking several breaks to replenish my beer.  Sun, warmth, cold beer--it is a halcyon day.  This  day sums up why I choose not to chase the almighty dollar at the expense of sheer joy.  I have "enough" and I can stretch a dollar until it screams. 

I worked at a publishing company in Minneapolis for a brief period.  The sky was just lighting up when I left in the morning.  While stuck in afternoon traffic, I couldn't wait to get home and be outside.  It seemed that as soon as I got my clothes changed, the dark slammed down.  While I enjoyed the work, the situation did not give me balance or feed my spirit. 

Life is about choices.  We are all one decision away from a whole different life.  While our financial assets may not be as healthy as some of our friends and relatives, I believe our quality of life is richer. 

Dream Sequence Outing of Last Night.

Gramma,

My dreams are epic--vivid, detailed, and complex. 

Last night there was a gargantuan black horse with this asshole male rider.  I wanted to take the horse for a spin, but the asshole said only he could control the dark horse.  So I asked if I could ride along to some really cool countryside.  He said yes, he would take me later.  Then he picks up two of his teen daughters and takes them for an all day ride.  He doesn't get around to taking me for a ride and I am put out by this.  There is an average, tame brown horse that I could ride.  It had been in view when I was looking at the big black guy.  I thought maybe I could take it, but we wouldn't go anywhere cool, or very far, or very fast. 

While I was waiting for the horse dick to come back, I was again, as in other dreams past, in a too small duplex with my birth family, none of whom I like or want to be with.  I was fighting for space to call my own/bedroom.  One room had a toilet in it that would overflow when flushed.  There was also a washer and dryer in that space.  A door to the outside did not have a sturdy lock on it and nobody liked having that room because, God forbid, someone had stolen potato chips, (I do not like chips), and old shoes from the closet.  The other rooms available had problems, two of them with non-functioning toilets.  I often have dreams with nasty toilets that leak, overflow, are full, and don't work. I need one that works, and none of them do. 

Meanwhile, I am on a trip in an interesting foreign country, (which is often a dream theme).  The horse and man are there too, but not visible.  While I wait for his sorry as to show up, I am making plans to showcase my sister/ friend/daughter-in-law's baby with a party.  I have the baby dressed up like a cupcake confection, all ruffled and yummy.  One minute she is a newborn, the next she is sitting up.  Against the wishes of the baby "owner," I have been sneaking rice baby cereal in her bottle.  I try to hide the evidence of this.  She is too young yet and having a hard time swallowing it. 

A white male with no personality and no friends shows up early for the party.  I wholeheartedly welcome him before realizing's he is not the friend/person I thought he was.  He tries to get me to commit to coming to a party at his remote mansion on a beach.  He wants me to bring all my friends/family/people.  I tell him okay, but am really not planning to show up or put my friends through this.  The ocean there is cold, the sky will be overcast, and there is something unsavory about it. 

I am also hanging out with nuns in this foreign country.  We are having a good time, pillaging the massive library for our own use, and talking about life's mysteries.  (I often hang out with nuns in my dreams.)  There is this mega church under construction in this old country, (pre-indoor plumbing.)  The church is amazing, with unique artistic use of large stone blocks.  It will never fall down, but it is only about a third of the way finished.  The foundation is sturdy, the bones are all there, and one lone guy is working on some small aspect with a trowel.  He is high off the ground and smiling. 

I want this church to be finished, but there are bad people from a negative political faction that want to halt the progress permanently.  They show up on horses.  I argue with them until they agree that if the locals can raise the money, it can go forward.  They think this is not possible.  Along with other people on this trip, we are being detained and fleeced for various infractions.  I have taken library materials, two children's books I want to share back home because of the "moral of the story" potential.  I write a $150.00 check to then nuns for the church before heading to the airport, (which is incongruous with the era).  This is a lot of money for the time.  I am not at all wealthy, but am willing to sacrifice for this cause. 

I regret not having time to say goodbyes and am afraid I will miss my flight.  There are a significant number of people who are also worried they will not get to the plane on time.  We are in a very long line, not unlike today's TSA  check points.  The jerk on the horse did not show up to take me on the fun ride to see a piece of countryside I heard was worth the trip.  At this point, it's okay because I am pissed and planned to tell him off for being such an arrogant piece of shit. 

End of story. 

Anybody want to venture an interpretation.  I was raised Catholic.  As an adult, I have had good relationships with nuns in a variety of situations.  I am sick of dysfunctional toilet dreams.  I am sick of this small duplex setting. 

New Lives

Gramma,

The new granddaughter finally arrived.  She's a noisy model.  Her days and nights are mixed up.  Mom gets no sleep.  She complains often on Facebook at all hours of the night.  Mom wanted to call her Jazzerine.  She wanted to call the first one Aquila.  Though I do not object, these are not white girl names.  The protesters won.  She is called Lundon Violet.  She is breast fed, so I will not be relieving mom for awhile.  Baby formula costs more than alcohol. 

Three of the grandkids spent the weekend here.  So mom got a break from Bubba acting out because he is no longer the baby.  He just started kindergarten.  He is always fun to have around.  He likes to be very very busy.  The other two kids are older and do not want his company.  I need to have this set of three at the same time, as otherwise they would not be able to see each other at all.  Ollie's dad is not welcome anywhere but the bar these days. 

We decorated for Halloween,  This is a big tradition.  There are menacing, bloodthirsty weapon wielding clowns, complete with dead bloody doll babies and stuffed rabbits.  Blood spattered toddler sized zombies  colonize outside the iron gates.  Anybody trying to invade will be shanked by rose thorns.  I do this for the kids who ride the bus.  Today, I will zip tie upside down skeletons to very long poles.  They will be reminiscent of Cirque de Soleil.  These will flank the gates.

Lighted spider webs stretch across the gates.  There is a Bates Motel sign.  The "vacancy" light flickers.  There are caskets in the yard.  Skeletons sit on a collection of colored toilets talking on phones, drinking beer, holding their skeleton dogs on leashes.  There are witches, signs, pumpkins, tombstones and spiders.  The annual Witches Ball is always the last Saturday of the month. 

Inside the house, the kids form a chain gang on the stairs to bring up boxes of decorations.  Veve helps set up the villages while the other two fight over the I-Pad, making Grampa testy.  Purple and green cobwebs are stretched on the chandelier and over pictures.  It looks like Halloween threw up all over the house.  I am overwhelmed by the mess. 

Kids are noisy things.  And demanding.  Also, they always want something.  I'm hungry.  I'm thirsty.  Can I have a donut.  Can I have fudge for breakfast.  GRAMMA, tell them it's my turn.  Bubba spilled his milk.  You made me.  Ollie won't put away the scooter.  He used it last.  "Did you fart Bubba."  "No, my ass blew you a kiss."  Wonder where he got that.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  I was just holding him back by the throat.  Can I pick some flowers to bring to mom.  There is enough racket to give the devil a headache. 

And so it is, with great amusement, that girlfriend's partner of thirty-some years is leaving her for a woman with six frequent grandkids.  Freeloader has no concept of cute, adorable tiny ninjas of death who are the right height to punch you in the balls.  He has no experience with grandchildren, or children period.  He does not like them.  He does not like noise, or to be interrupted when he is watching re-runs of Jerry Springer.  Kids monopolize the tv.  It is best to let this happen, as the alternative is more noise.  

The new living space is tight.   It is likely section 8.  There is no garage.  Except for his storage unit, Freeloader will have no manspace to call his own.  The kids will be in all his shit.  No escape.  The new girlfriend gets around in a golf cart.  Freeloader will be picking up and dropping off kids.  He has always been tight with money.  He has plenty, he just doesn't want to share it.  He contributed $400 a month to live with my friend.  This included his own office, bedroom and pole shed.  And he was ornery.  Had I known, this would not have been happening.  She lives paycheck to paycheck. 

AND, there is a new grandbaby, freshly hatched.  We wish we could see the shit show up close and personal.  Freeloader reignited a decades old relationship on Facebook with a woman who had wronged him every which way to Sunday.  He is over seventy.  He has visions of reclaiming his studly self.  She smokes.  He hates smoke.  Nothing like kissing an ashtray.  He snores like a Harley.  She talks incessantly.  She is on disability.  He will be the meal ticket for many. 

AND, he is headed for South Carolina with his Indian motorcycle in the back of his pick up truck.  He paid cash for these things.  The bike is too heavy for him to manage since his back surgery.  There is a record-breaking hurricane heading up the coast.  His girlfriend has been biting him in the ass for days to get out there and drive her to safety.  It is a two day drive and the truck is acting up.  The bike will be pelted with hail.  A tarp will not help, as it will beat on the bike and rub the paint raw.  We think this is funny, because we are shallow that way. 

He didn't even say goodbye to his cat.  Weed and paraphernalia was left behind.  After a lifetime of toking, he is quitting.  I am amazed that guys never quit thinking with their dicks.  The honeymoon will be short.  We figure he will beg to come back in the spring.  "You can come back to Minnesota, but not here," she will say.  We will laugh and drink and smoke in the hot tub on the deck.  Maybe we will take a bike trip to South Carolina to see the devastation.  Stay tuned....

Bikes, Blues and Barbeques

Gramma,

Just returned from a week in Arkansas for the Bikes, Blues and Barbeques rally.  The roads are all winding and it is wise not to exceed the suggested speed limits.  After all the chaos of summer, I needed this time to hang out with friends, partying and riding.  This year, the heat was oppressive.  We cut some of our rides in half to avoid the afternoon temperatures.  When the heat index was near a hundred, we drank more beer.  My foot still hurt from the bike falling on it,  The swelling was worse in the heat. 

There are still bars in AK that allow smoking.  My asthma forced me to stay outside.  There were two dogs tied up while their owners sat in the air conditioning.  I joined the dogs on the curb.  I got my dog fix hanging out with a friendly pit bull and some kind of happy mutt.  I always miss my animals when I am away.  My cat, who hates everybody, is likely hibernating under my bed.  The house sitter will only know there is a cat by the disappearance of food and water from her dishes. 

My house sitter lives in the city.  She has no car, so commutes using mine on the few days she is working.  She will call in sick and take some vacation.  When I get home, the car seat will be moved all the way forward.  Finding someone who is good with four needy dogs is problematic.  Also, there are no house keys, which city people do not embrace.  But I have iron gates and you need a code to get in.  The dogs can run free, even when no one is home.  Kate is happy to drink and toke and use the fire pit.  She likes the country sounds of frogs, the wind in the trees, the braying donkeys and screaming peacocks. 

I leave her copious notes for everything.  "The sound of werewolves will get the dogs barking after  midnight.  They are coyotes in disguise.  She texts me to ask who is Mr. Peepers.  "The canary.  Feed the canary."  Throw dog food out the front door for the loose peacock.  Do not allow Clark outside while feeding the penned peacocks.  He will streak past you and terrorize the birds.   Kate is a slob and I will come home to a mess, but she is worth it in peace of mind. 

While in AK, we take my stepdad, his wife and son out to eat. She is a hoarder, so we do not stop in.  Why anyone would move to AK from the north is beyond me.  As Norm has "summer teeth," he blends in with the locals.  (Summer there and summer not.)  He is 80ish.  I don't think I will see him alive again.  When we are taking pictures, I whisper "I love you," in his ear.  We have history.  We both endured my mother. 

The people-watching in AK should be listed on the tourist sites.  While listening to music at a concert, two women got into a heated passion play.  "You're not from around here are you," Dave said to a guy in the beer line.  "How did you know?" he asked.  "You have all your teeth." 

Our friend, Stick, smokes.  At the hotel, he came in from an outdoor smoking session.  I yelled at him and the woman he was talking to.  "That's my husband.  You leave him alone."  She mouthed, "I'm sorry" from the elevator.  Stick protested that I was not his wife and he didn't even know me.  His wife was amused.  "You sit your lily white ass down," I ordered.  The black bike group in the lobby laughed.  Later, I got the desk clerk to text Stick about the nice time she had talking to him, leaving a fictitious room number. 

At an overlook, I kept telling Stick to move over a little more, pretending that it would be a better photo op.  He didn't realize that someone had spray painted "Dick," along with a graphic, on the cement barrier he was standing behind. 

By the end of the week, I had a pretty good beer gut going.  We set off for home in the early morning.  Stick left two hours before us and the other couple, He Who Dawdles, left after us.  Stick warned us of the traffic ahead, where the cops were thick and where the roads were clear.  We almost caught up when they stopped for lunch.  I couldn't wait to see my pests.  Several interesting texts came from the house sitter. 

Where are the garbage bags.  WE are taking the recycling with us.  WHERE is the vacuum cleaner.  WTF.  In the past, Kate has had parties at the house and not cleaned up.  But, AGAIN, my animals are cared for.  Except when Titty, the cat, was trapped in the basement where her litter box is, with no food or water,  I came home to a somewhat vacuumed house. The attachment hatch on the vacuum was not violated. 

Kate was gone when we got home.  The mailbox was clogged.  Nests of dog hair had accumulated in every corner.  It always takes me a week to get back on track.  I posted on Facebook that my dogs had a spectacular time when I was gone, as there were only a few shots of vodka left in the half gallon of high end shit in the freezer.  "But, I left you a very nice brownie," she said. 

"I'm eating it now with ice cream." 

"I hope you don't plan on doing anything for the rest of the day." 

"Unpacking and relaxing." 

"You will mostly be relaxing." 

"WTF.  Why didn't you leave instructions on portion control." 

I slept for twelve hours. 

Men Behaving Badly

Gramma,

Tuesday morning I looked at my phone.  My daughter had texted at 10:38 p.m. that Trashcan was arrested.  He had come to her condo, believing that he had a right to be there.  They both called the police. 

I asked for details.  She was at the courthouse and didn't have anything to report.  Her boss was being a jerk about her being off work again.  Trashcan had called him and the corporate office to alert them that she was doing meth.  We joked that as long as she showed up and did her job, it didn't seem to be a problem. 
___________________________________

Girlfriend stopped in to help make plans for my annual Witch's Ball.  Halloween happens to be her birthday.  She chastised me for not wearing my foot brace.  My foot is not doing well.  Later, she called to say that her boyfriend of three decades had left a note on the fridge that he would be gone a few days--bucket list.  They had not been getting along well.  He was selling large items that belonged to him, like the motor home and a car.  Then she found a receipt in the garbage can for a $300 antique mug he sent to somebody several states away, where an ex-girlfriend of his lived.  I asked if she wanted me to come and help her pack his shit. 

As I am an evil bitch who zealously protects her friends, I thought up some shit.  After consulting Google regarding common law marriage in Wisconsin, I found that the equivalent is now called co-habitation law.  I provided girlfriend with the details and the name of an asshole attorney.  I took another friend of mine who I had coached in the fine art of divorce to her house, where we proceeded to toss the pole shed for any signs of hidden financial documents or cash.  A search of the house had turned up nothing.  Girlfriend had already searched the house.  Sneaky Pete had his computer with him. 
____________________________________

Girlfriend called to say Sneaky Pete's brother-in-law had died earlier than expected.  She left a message with Pete, but he didn't call back.  His sister heard from him and he was "cutting his vacation short."  We had brainstormed and rehearsed for plan A, B, and C. 
___________________________________

My daughter texted to say that Trashcan had made bail.  He left court with the gift of jewelry.  Hope he enjoys his ankle bracelet. 

Not the Only Shit Show in Town

Gramma, 

Sunday, I sent frequent updates and pictures to Sonny's previous owner.  It made me smile.  Sonny meets the donkeys.  Sonny stalks the peacock and decides against pursuing something bigger than himself.  The outside cat is also bigger and doesn't back down.  Sonny squeals like a baby when the cat takes a swipe at him.  The dogs all have bad breath.  I need to start cleaning their teeth.   We had no visitors or phone calls.  It was eerie.  I couldn't burn my hell-fire sized brush pile.  It was too windy.  A storm was blowing in. 

My daughter called.  She had met Trashcan at the vet office on Saturday.  He said her dog was sick.  Afraid he would do something to her baby, she did not call the police.  The dog was showing signs of kidney failure.  Right away I thought of anti-freeze.  He threatened that under common law marriage, he would take her to court for half her condo if she didn't drop the charges.  He didn't have a leg to stand on.  I told her to bring it up at her appointment with the domestic violence people.  "I hope you're going to nail him for this."  She reiterated that she didn't want to ruin his life. 

Monday morning Girlfriend called and told me all about her mediation session with the soon to be ex.  He was livid that she had come in with a list of $70,000 dollars worth of hidden assets.  His attorney had neglected to share that with him ahead of time.  She had both barrels loaded for bear.  He thought he was going to get her to walk away in exchange for her not paying his sorry ass maintenance.  She will walk away with about $500,00.  He will not be able to live in their nice log house by himself. 

He also tried to hide that he could go back to work after his back surgery.  There were reasonable accommodations afforded by way of the Union.  He thought nobody would notice that he was eligible to collect retirement benefits if he did not want to attend work.  She has no pancreas.  Her doctors sent a letter stating she should not be working. 

He wanted her to pay his attorney fees and expenses related to being sued by the nursing home after his uncle died.  "Do you really want to go there Scott," she said.  As the executor, Scott had siphoned money from his uncle's bank account and put it in the safe.   He knew she would out him on that and the unreported $30,000 dug up in his uncles yard.  He and his sisters had quite the dispute over that.  I encouraged girlfriend to write a letter to the nursing home detailing the situation.  Especially the part where his sister talks the uncle into selling his land to her for pennies on the dollar. 

Girlfriend figured she would get drunken hate calls from Scott after their session.  Instead, she got drunken calls from his daughter asking "How could you do this to my dad.  How is he supposed to live."  Oh fucking well.  Good thing she has a security system and guns.  He is so pathetic that he goes to the food shelf on his way to the liquor store to load up on cigarettes and whiskey. 

In the evening, we settled in to watch the Harley and Davidson special on the History Channel.  Dave started reading a recent rant against me on Facebook.  Then the texting began.  He was going to show me.  It was my fault that he was losing his house.  He and his son would have no place to live.  I suspected his dad was kicking him out now that his girlfriend wasn't paying $500 of the $800 monthly rent.  I was blamed for breaking up their relationship.  He had actually notified her on Facebook that they were no longer together. 

He threatened that he would call the police and tell them that I was an alcoholic, pot-smoking, drug addicted.  He would see to it that I never saw his son again.  He would tell the police that I had guns and I would go to prison for the rest of my life.  All in caps, littered with LOL's and HAHA's.  Dave called him.  He wouldn't answer.  Dave left a message asking him if he needed to come over and kick his ass. 

I went to bed.  A text came in.  I didn't look at it, figuring it was another tirade. 

To be continued....

Open Heart

Gramma,

Before I left, I was in the process of adding another dog to our pack.  I put that on hold.  Sonny was a four-year-old Jack Russell.  I saw him on Craig's List and fell in love with his face.  For days I kept going back to look at his picture.  I started showing it to Dave.  "Isn't he cute?  Look at that face.  He needs a home." 

"What are you saying?  You want that dog?"  A few more days went by and he said he didn't care.  Jack's are our favorite breed.  Nothing would ever replace Radar, but this guy looked like a fun time.  There was a $250.00 re-homing fee, which was waived because there were no other takers.  The daughter was allergic to him, reacting with skin rashes that bled.

I made arrangements to have the dog out for a meet and greet.  Her car broke down.  My car broke down.  I agreed to pick him on Labor Day Saturday.  Dave's son was coming over with the baby.  This was a rare occasion.  Dave's 82-year-old mother decided to make the forty minute trek up the freeway to see the baby.  It probably took her an hour and pissed off a lot of people along the way.  I was feeling crappy.  Probably stress.  I vacuumed and picked up a cake in town. 

It was unusual for the daughter-in-law to visit.  Then came the bombshell.  Dave's son needed open heart surgery.  He planned to have it done after hunting season.  I think Dave was in a daze.  He held the baby.  We had cake.  Eleanor was going to leave.  I told her we were going to the cities anyway, that Dave could drive her home and I would follow.  She objected.  After we dropped her off, we went to pick up the dog.  It was a bright spot. 

We sat outside drinking  beer and watching the dogs be dogs.  We didn't like the name Sonny came with.  We tried other names on him.  Clark kind of fit.  Maybe Spanky, as in Spanky and Our Gang. 

Later, when my daughter did not respond to texts or calls, I contacted the police department and asked them to do a wellness check.  I got a groggy call back from her, saying she was sleeping.  I will keep doing this until she gets it that I need to hear from her.  She goes to work at three in the morning, that was enough to worry about.  There are only two people that go in at that hour.  Ashkan has lots of guns.  He also has connections. 

My son blocked me on Facebook and his phone.  My other son called his dad to take away his brother's guns again.  My daughter-in-law threatened to get a restraining order.  I couldn't blame her.  Early one morning there had been shooting near the end of their long driveway. 

My sister texted and said she was sure she would soon be blocked.  The two of them were going at it.  My son was awful, throwing shit in her face about her actor son and me.  She was arguing with a mean little five-year-old.  I went to bed at ten, adding a sleeping pill to my cocktail.  Later, I heard a text message sound.  I ignored it, thinking it was one more insult from my son. 

To be continued....

Bi-polar Shit Show

Gramma, 

I was happy to be home, to my sanctuary. The lawn needed baling.  It had been two weeks.   I had more shit shows waiting.  My eldest son's bi-polar med cocktail had been changed.  His insurance would no longer cover the real medication, for which he was on a five dollar co-pay plan through the makers of Abilify.  For several hundred dollars more, he could have the generic.  It wasn't an option.  So his therapist gave him something else that he could get free samples of.  I could tell the meds weren't working.  His therapist said to give it a few weeks. 

He started out feeling less than.  Then he became easily agitated and annoyed.  I could see this from his Facebook posts, where he has always shared way too much.  He has no filter and no concept of discretion or appropriation of information.  I got reports from people saying he had turned into a raving asshole.  He criticized his best friend for his lack of nice things.  He bought himself a $22,000 truck that he didn't need with money he didn't have.  This is classic bi-polar behavior. 

He and his girlfriend came over in the new truck.  He was paranoid that everybody was talking about him and his truck, questioning whether or not he could afford it on twenty hours a week at the YMCA and his disability check.  He loudly, in caps, ranted on Facebook about how it was nobody's business, that he always paid his bills, which I knew not to be true.  When he walked to his truck, I asked girlfriend how long he had been this way.  "About a month.  I can hardly stand it."  I carefully asked him why he bought a new truck. 

He ranted about the thousands of dollars in repairs he had made on the truck he had traded in.  He got $2000.00 for it on trade.  I shook my head.  He has always been instant gratification impulsive with his spending.  Girlfriend let me know that during visitation, he had been making his nine-year-old son cry until he asked to go home.  I notified my ex-daughter-in-law.  The rantings became manifesto's.  He alienated friends and family, burning bridges and sinking boats. 

My own misguided post on Facebook drew a lot of interesting feedback.  Basically, I said I was fed up with  people who pretend their families are perfect, posing their lovely pictures and words, while behind the scenes they were mean to each other and hid ugly truths.  I ended by saying that this façade made other people feel bad about themselves.  My rant had been precipitated by some personal business with family.  The real people gave positive feedback, while the guilty objected.  The controversy I had stirred up made me smile and have another beer. 

My bi-polar son called in a rage, saying his girlfriend was uncontrollably crying because I had made her family sound so pathetic.  That was not my intent.  He insulted me every which way to Sunday.  I could not get a word of defense in edgewise.  I was just like my evil mother.  He called me Joan and Mommy Dearest.  He said they would never speak to me again.  I took the post down.  I had made my point with the right people. 

His girlfriend decided to take a bunch of pills, which she did frequently when frustrated.  It was her second trip to the hospital in a month.  She was not taking her bi-polar meds or going to mandated therapy sessions.  Neither was my son.  And it only got worse with the confrontational tirades. 

I was still reeling from Denver and decided not to engage with him.  It would be pointless.  In his mania, he was unreachable. 

To be continued....

Texting Trashcan--Domestic Violence

Gramma, 

The text messages and calls from Trashcan continued.  I told him I was coming out to help my daughter.  I said I was bringing Dave and my son to take care of the Mexican.  Undaunted, he said, "Good, you will probably need them to get her away from him and the drugs.  I want her to get the help she needs." 

"I'm going to get her the help she needs," I said.  He kept texting, asking when I was coming out.  Then, in one of his texts, he dropped a bombshell.  He said she had been raped and molested much of her childhood and teen years." 

"Who did this?" I asked.  He didn't know, but was sure it was the reason she was acting the way she was. 

I called her.  I asked if it was true.  There was loud silence.  I knew it was true.  I was in the car with Dave.  We were coming from the  cemetery.  It was the one year anniversary of his daughter's death from MS.  I had all I could do to not start screaming.  I was holding my throat, trying to sound calm.  "Yes," she said.  When I got off the phone, I told Dave to cover his ears.  I screamed for a good five minutes, deep, primal screaming that left my voice hoarse. 

When I got home, I booked a flight for the next day.  Dave had taken the rest of the week off to mourn his daughter.  He had the dogs to keep him company.  My daughter protested my coming out.  She said she was staying with a friend and had no place to go.  She did not want to return to her condo because he would come there and she was afraid.  I said we would change the locks.  I planned to take the rail into Denver and Uber from there.  When she realized I was not taking no for an answer, she said she would pick me up at the airport. 

We went directly to the police station, where we spent several hours with an officer who specialized in domestic violence issues.  She gave my daughter a pep talk about pressing charges and not feeling bad about it.  The DA had pictures, testimony from her, and the hospital records.  They would go forward without her if necessary.  My daughter didn't want to ruin Trashcan's military career of seventeen years.  He only needed three more years to get full retirement.  There is zero tolerance for domestic violence in the military.  He would lose everything and he knew it. 

He kept lighting up our phones with attempted contact.  "Tell her not to do this, I have nothing left.  I want to work this out.  She's lying.  The Mexicans told her to say this.  They did this to her."  The police took pictures of all text transcripts.  I wrote a three page statement regarding the phone calls.  His lawyer told the police he hit her once with an open hand. 

Trashcan refused to turn himself in.  For some reason he was not working.  He was in hiding.  His attorney said to call him when they had the warrant and he would come in with his client.  The first night, with new locks, we both slept with one eye open.  There was an Order for Protection waiting for him.  The order stated that he should return her dog immediately. 

After a few days, I brought up the topic of rape.  I told her about my rapes.  It was strange that I had never talked about them.  She opened up a little bit.  When she was fifteen, she had a boyfriend.  Because she wouldn't have sex with him, the kids taunted her.  She was labeled a lesbian.  Three boys decided they would fix that.  She wouldn't say who.  "It doesn't matter.  Some of them were dead," she said.  A co-worker had also raped her when she was not on birth control. 

I bought her groceries.  We went to some second hand stores looking at clothing.  We took a drive into the mountains and explored a little town.  We spent more time at the police station.  We got contacts for domestic violence resources.  She went to work half a day, then almost a whole day before taking me to the airport.  An advocacy appointment was set up for the day after I left.  Labor Day was coming up. I asked the police if they could arrest Trashcan on Friday, so he would have to spend a three or four days in jail.  There was not much more I could legally do. 

To be continued....

Seven Week Shit Show

Gramma, 

It's been a seven week shit show since I last posted.  My daughter-in-law is raging hormone pregnant with number three and ornery as a billygoat kept from his harem.  She has been punishing the five-year-old and the eight-year-old for their age appropriate transgressions by not letting them visit gramma.  They are driving her nuts.  Way to shoot yourself in the foot.  I would have jumped at the chance to be rid of them.  We had it out.  I called her a very bad word and she heard about it.  It was accurate, but for the sake of the grandkids, I apologized to make nice. 

Then I had a bike accident.  A friend in our bike club rear-ended me when we were taking off from a stop sign.  Both our bikes went down.  My right foot was trapped under the floorboard with about 800 pounds of weight on it.  My bike was weighted down by the bike that ran into me.  There were two riders on it, so more weight.  The other bike, which was stuck on my tailpipes,  had to come up first. 

When my bike was lifted off me, I had to lay on the road while the pain subsided.  We were about seventy miles from home.  I asked Dave and the other guy to help me up by grabbing me under the armpits so I didn't put weight on it.  I didn't take my boot off for fear that I wouldn't be able to get it back on.  It hurt, but I rode my bike home anyway, stopping for a few beers on the way. 

Two weeks later, I had ex-rays done.  With two fractured toes and a fractured ankle, I went home with a mechanical walking brace.  It is man-sized, and I hate it.  Feels like I'm dragging a log around.  I don't wear it consistently, but I wore it through the airport on an emergency trip to Denver.  It got me better seats on the way there and back. 

My daughter's boyfriend put her in the hospital.  She had a black eye, concussion, dislocated jaw and he had pulled out plenty of hair.  The doctor gave her the name of a good plastic surgeon. 

Her boyfriend called before I found out about this.  He was distraught and told me my daughter was on meth and seeing a Mexican guy with tattoos on his neck.  She wasn't making her condo payments and hadn't been to work in awhile.  My heart sunk to the pit of my stomach.  He didn't know why she was doing this and he wanted to get her some help.  He wanted to work things out.  He had been crying non-stop over their broken relationship.  He didn't understand.  He had done so much to help her.  Then he says, "I shouldn't have done it, but I hit her." 

After a long, pregnant pause, I asked "Why did you hit my daughter?"  Because she just kept pushing me and pushing me and pushing me.  And he was crying.  After I hung up, I called my daughter. Reluctantly, she admitted that she was in the hospital.  She didn't want me to come out.  She sent a picture to her brother.  I asked him to send it to me.  She was the face of domestic violence.  Ashkahn had made it sound like he had hit her once.

He kept frantically calling and texting both of us while we were on the phone.  He wanted to know if I knew anything, if I had heard from her.  I said I had not and that she rarely responds to my calls or texts.  He knew that was true.  He just wanted her to get help.  I said, I will be out to get her some help." 

to be continued....

Heat Wave

Gramma, 

Temps are in the triple digits again.  Our air conditioner dates back to the seventies.  I don't think we turned it on last year.  It is not energy efficient.  There is an inadequate floor drain that basically goes into the dirt under the cement floor.   I empty the runoff bucket every four hours, so the AC is off at night.  I can't imagine living in the south with this oppressive heat being a constant.  I am sure they feel the same about our unrelenting winters. 

The power went out last night.  Dave's breathing machine shut off.  Makes breathing difficult.  It was off for hours.  There are branches and sticks all of the yard and driveway.  The worst of it is that the electric gates won't let anyone in our out.  Going to work is problematic.  So, at the ass crack of dawn, I was out in my pajamas with tools in one hand and a flashlight in the other.  Mission accomplished.  Falling back to sleep, not so much. 

It was supposed to rain this morning.  It did not.  Liars.  Now I will have to water plants in the evening.  Everything looks wilted.  The pond is drying up.  Soon, I will be able to replace the missing dock supports without wearing waders.  Just standing outside right now is miserable.  I don't like being stuck inside.  At least there is a breeze for the animals.  The biting flies are less able to land.  It's days like this that I wish I had a friend with a pool lake.  The river's are too high and dangerous to go tubing. 

Meanwhile, I will bundle peacock feathers for the consignment store, catch up on mending, and steam Dave's shirts.  I counted twenty empty hangers.  I would rather be working on my outside sculptures.  The bigger than life peacock, witch, and flying monkey are ready to cement. 

Long Lost Nieces

Gramma, 

My long lost nieces came for a visit.  They are in college now.  Being low income, with excellent grades, they qualify for full scholarships.  Their gas guzzling, rust bucket has no AC.  The drive was almost an hour in triple digit heat.  Their mother is a hateful, mean-spirited person who hides behind her religion.  I don't feel special though, as she is also like that to my brother.  In public, such as at my dad's funeral, she pretends there is nothing amiss. 

Before their mother cut off my contact with them, I always brought bags of clothing and fun food, bread and donuts.  They would come running to the car, excited to see what I had for them.  They were pre-teen.  There would be a fashion show with the new clothes.  "What would we do without you," they said.  They bragged about me to their school friends, who wished they had a fun aunt too. 

One day, I showed up with presents for the girls.  I was not invited inside.  The parents stood outside, blocking the door.  So, I left the gifts with the girls.  My step-mother tried to find out why I was no longer welcome.  My adopted sister told her to leave it alone.  At the time, she was not speaking to my brother.  She had many grievances against him.  A lot of it seemed like sibling rivalry and jealousy.  I did not grow up with these people.  There was the expectation that I should not have anything to do with my brother. 

At my father's funeral, she was friendly to both of us, so I thought she was no longer interested in being estranged.  I was wrong.  Over the years, I sent my nieces money for birthdays and holidays.  Sometimes, I would get a letter back.  My step-mother kept me apprised of their activities.
Then, they found me on Facebook.  I was surprised their mother allowed this contact.  Ditto, them showing up in the flesh.  "Mom says hello," they said.  I did not respond to that. 

I declined the invitation to a graduation party.  It would have been awkward.  I prefer to go where my presence is celebrated, not tolerated.   I don't like that game where you pretend everything is fine. 

We had an awesome four hour visit.  There was home made hummingbird cake and artichoke pizza.  I sent them off with gas money.  They promised to come again soon, but I know they are busy with work and school.  Their vehicle is untrustworthy.  I wish I could give them more than moral support. They said they did not know how poor they were until they got to college.  Only recently were doors installed in their bedrooms.  There are no doorknobs.  Education is their way out. 

The Soulless Lot

Gramma,

Drove the truck to a motorcycle event the other night.  It's a good time to catch up with old friends.  It was too rainy to ride.  We parked the car and headed to the bar.  There was a big fat white cop who felt the need to yell and heatedly gesture at us to walk to a distant tent instead of to our nearby destination.  It was confusing that he was making us go that way.  The people in the tent were also  not clear on why he did that.  He was a cop rented for the evening.  The attitude from the man with the gun served to perpetuate the current negativity towards officers.  Way to alienate people for next year.  Put me in a mood for the evening.  When we left, the officer was enjoying a jovial conversation with a Barbie doll. 

For the most part, I have been a law-abiding citizen, but cops are a fickle bunch and I have serious trust issues with them.  For years, I needed to pop Xanax every time I saw one in my rear view mirror.  They betrayed me completely when I was most in need of protection from my ex-husband.  They falsified police reports.  They said I wasn't being followed by a suspicious person, that it was probably someone who wanted to get to know me.  I said, "I am very approachable.  There is someone following me wherever I go."  It was someone stalking me on behalf of my ex.  The police refused to take any action.  I didn't realize they were all in the same bed. 

I was terrified after my daughter and I were shot at and the police declined to help me.  Two of my dogs were already missing/killed and another was taken to the vet with a gunshot wound.  My heart was racing all the time.  I put nails in a piece of plywood and laid it across the driveway at night.  I called a private investigator to document what my ex was doing to me.  When I found out she was a friend of the county sheriff, who was a friend of my ex's family, I canceled her services.  In retrospect, I wonder if she would have stood her ground in defending my claim. 

In my search for one of the missing dogs, I met a man who turned out to be a convicted child molester.  I told him what was going on.  He said he could help me.  Instead, he contacted my ex and a plan was put in motion to set me up for solicitation of murder.  The police facilitated a "Squeal for a Deal" with the child molester.  In exchange for his testimony against me, they would keep him out of prison on his latest offense.  The molester couldn't keep any of his stories straight.  He and my ex were deposed separately.  Their lies didn't match up.  Of course, no action was taken for perjury. 

So, yeah, I have trust issues with police.  I know other white people who have had equally disastrous experiences with law enforcement.  I don't like attorneys either.  They seem pretty much like a soulless lot. 

Getting Religion

Gramma,

Dave went on a motorcycle fundraiser today.  I went to my grandson's baseball game instead.  I drove an hour to get there.  It was about as interesting as watching paint dry, but I enthusiastically stuck it out.  Until today, they were undefeated.  They lost by one point, but can still take the trophy if they win tomorrow.  Then football season starts.  When I was a kid, nobody ever came to my stuff, so  I always show up at events I am invited to. 

Except this one time.  Joan, our mother, paid little or no attention to what we did when she was sleeping, as long as we made no noise.  She worked nights.  Once a week, a bus came around the neighborhood picking kids up for an evening of cookies and Kool-Aid.  Religion was involved.  We learned Bible stories, memorized verses, commandments, and books of the Bible. 

At the end of summer, there was a children's program.  We begged Joan to come to this.  She showed up with her bright red lipstick and pointy crimson fingernails, full makeup and perfectly done up bottle-red hair.  We were raised Catholic.  I do not know what fundamentalist church group we had been attending.  Joan was mortified.  We had not noticed that the teachers never wore makeup.  Smiling proudly, we each recited our memorized material.  I had learned,  The Lord is my shepherd....  Joan forbid us to get on the bus again. 

Later, I connected with the Lutherans.  Some of my friends invited me to their weekly fellowship night.  Then I was invited to their summer camp on Bay Lake.  I couldn't believe I was allowed to go.  It was a week of bliss, no yelling from Joan, no constant tension, no fear of doing something wrong.  Away from the chain smoking, I could breathe better.  I cried when I had to go home. 

I did not enjoy Catholic Catechism classes.  They were boring and the nuns were mean.  Joan never helped with the lessons.  They were confusing and I often didn't understand what I was supposed to do.  The nuns made some of the kids stand at the blackboard with their noses in a chalk circle for the entire hour when their work wasn't right.  But, as long as I attended the classes, I was allowed to participate in Lutheran events with my friends.  Hayrides, volleyball,  co-ed summer camp.  One year, I even got to be a counselor to the younger kids.  It was a small place of joy in an unhappy childhood. 

Today's Snapshot

Gramma, 

After I mowed the yard yesterday, I was suddenly overcome with exhaustion.  My mower is a tractor.  Mowing is a pretty passive activity that I enjoy, especially when I am low on energy.  I get to admire all the flower beds, yard décor and animals.  It is an especially robust year.  Everything is lush and bigger than life.  This is the third time in the last week that the only option is to lay down.  I'm even too tired to watch TV.  The earliest I can see my regular doctor is three weeks away. 

My monthly mental health appointment was today.  My therapist has finally taken the plunge and given two week's notice.  Her supervisor has repeatedly claimed programs she has developed as her own work.  There is also that backstabbing and lack of appreciation thing.  I hear the same complaints from many of my working friends.  We are both working on the big picture. 

We talked briefly about my daughter-in-law not returning my calls, which means the kids have not spent any time this summer making memories with me.  She is angry about something, but won't tell me what.  She is pregnant and crabbier than usual.  It is a sad thing to deprive us of time together because she has a butt hurt.  Meanwhile, I will send the kids postcards.  Life is getting shorter by the minute.  Get over yourself. 

If the weather holds, Dave and I are going to a biker event when he gets home.  It's been dreary and sprinkling.  There is nothing planned for dinner and there will be food.  I ate a dozen monster cookies today.  I got them at a garage sale.  Find of the day was a lot of gypsy looking bedroom stuff--pillows, curtains. fabrics.  I am thinking for my granddaughter's bedroom she will have in the basement when her baby sister gets her old room.  Maybe it will wait until teen years.  I have storage space in my hoarding shed. 

Dog Tired

Gramma,

Moonshine had a strange Uber customer yesterday--a set of keys. 

We got so much rain yesterday, two rivers are flooding.  Tornado's of destruction, threw people's shit around.  But, today is a top ten gorgeous Minnesota day.  There's a nice breeze cloudless skies, low humidity and 84 degrees.  I regret that I was too exhausted to take advantage of it.  I had planned to continue work on an outdoor peacock sculpture.  

Spent much of the day in bed, too tired to even watch TV.  I hope this is not Lyme's disease.  I've had it before and was down more than a month, plus lengthy after effects of body aches and bouts of no energy.  My friend's dog just tested positive.  Mercy was limping and had tender joints.  I treat my dogs monthly with a preventative.  Why isn't there prevention for people? 

Poor Eddie has blue balls.  Princess is in heat and he can't reach.  I would get him some help, but I don't want winter puppies.  Next time.  Spring puppies.  Ready for summer homes with kids.  I am looking forward to making Auggies, an Australian Shepherd, Corgi cross. They are herding dogs.  Mine are both mini's. 

Don't know what I will do with the revenue.  It will not be enough to take the grandkids to Iceland and sleep in an igloo under the northern lights.  Maybe my sister and I can go through the Keyes in a rented convertible.  I would like to go to Cuba with Dave before McDonald's gets there. 

Tomorrow is an unplanned day with lots of options.  Hopefully, I will have double energy, which sometimes happens.  Dave is working late tonight.  I will meet him at the fixit shop with his antique truck.  First gear has a rattle.  There will be room in the shed for me to dig out the plates necessary for my peacock sculpture.  It's time for a beer.  Hope I can sleep tonight. 

The Cheese Stands Alone

Gramma,

Dave stayed home today.  I don't like that he gives me no advance warning.  He knew this on Friday.  I plan my days around his schedule.  So now I can't spend all day in bed with my boyfriend.  Dave is practicing for retirement.  Two years till go time.  He will have knee surgery and then shoulder surgery.  He's hoping he can skate out on that. 

Summer TV is pretty dreary.  We often watch several episodes of Orange is the New Black in the evening.  I binge watched the series while visiting my daughter in Denver two years ago.  Granted, I was drinking copious quantities of beer and ingesting pot candy, but I don't remember a lot of details.  This concerns me, as my brother is only 52 and has early onset Alzheimer's. 

As a former guest of the Wisconsin DOC, I find Orange is the New Black to be a good rendition of how things are.  Whites were the minority.  Crimes were mostly drug related.  My crime of Solicitation of Murder was highly revered, so I didn't get a lot of shit that new inmates get.  Nothing there is secret.  Inmates worked in the office and had access to information.  I had been in the state nut hut for a couple months being evaluated for trial.  This gave me the added security of being seen as a loose cannon.  I was classified as violent and dangerous. 

I was pretty much white bread back woods with no priors.  NO STREET SMARTS.  I was in church choir, garden club, president of the Fine Arts Board, and worked on Love Baskets at Christmas.  I was a secretary where I worked, until I had ten years in and was vested for retirement.  Then I grew ginseng for export.  We had forty acres of woods to grow it on.  I lived in mosquito heaven with three kids and their sperm donor. 

I compartmentalized my life--there was this life with my spousal unit and his abusive behavior, the public façade with him, and life with my kids, friends, and work.  I led a double life.  I didn't have the words or knowledge necessary to understand what he was doing to me.  There was some physical abuse, but the majority was emotional, sexual and financial.  Even when he was around, he was rarely available to us.  When he was, it was mostly not pretty. 

The last straw was when he did something to our oldest son that made him attempt suicide.  I came home from choir practice to find that he had been taken to a mental health facility more than an hour away.  His younger bother was sitting in a rocking chair in a fetal position.  The police had surrounded the house and confiscated a gun. 

I called his father at work.  "What do you want me to do about it," he barked.  "I just thought you would want to know."  The paternal grandparents blamed me.  I went to see an attorney. 

After I filed for divorce, things escalated.  Marriage counseling was an utter failure.  He had done nothing wrong.  And, so the stalking, gunfire, harassment and manipulation began.  His family was well-known in the area.  Friends and acquaintances backed away from me.  The cheese stands alone. 

Shit Barrel

Gramma, 

It's hot and sunny with no wind. It's supposed to rain later today.  I hope so.  Yesterday I went to buy wild bird seed and came home from Fleet Farm $300.00 lighter.  Plants were seventy-five percent off.  I also bought candy.  I had to go home and get the truck.  The back of my van could only fit so much.  No garage-sales for the rest of this month. 

I've been planting for a three hours and need to take an extended break.  Too much heat makes me sick and I end up down for the rest of the day.  I'm resisting the urge to take a nap.  I've eaten a pound of maple nut goodies and the sugar spike doesn't help.  Princess, my minnie Aussie, is in heat.  She is whiney and taking a nap.  Nobody would know if I took a nap too.  But, I am full of dirt, so no. 

My daughter-in-law seems to be avoiding me--not returning my calls.  I wanted the kids for a few days during the week.  They keep me upright.  The hell with it, just an hour is all.  An hour and twenty minutes later, I head back out to dig more holes.  I wasn't sleeping, but I wasn't moving. 

Girlfriend called this morning to tell me how crappy her mini-vacation was.  She took her soon to be ex-husband's sister with her.  Why is beyond me.  Icky Vicky whined the whole time about her husband and her brother.  The rule was that neither of those things were up for discussion.  Vicky said she didn't think that was going to work for her and wouldn't shut up.  No hotel reservations over the Fourth equaled a $200.00 a night room.  They came back from Michigan early. 

Another girlfriend called to tell me the latest drama with her kids.  One of her grandsons didn't want to hang out with his cousin while gramma spent time with her sisters.  So brat boy calls his daddy and protests loudly.  Daddy calls gramma and gives her what for about not watching his kids (for free). 

Gramma dropped the kids off anyway.  The granddaughter tells the her aunt, a new mother, that she is a baby killer.  One of her children died in a freak accident last year.  Of course, she heard that from her dad, who is, of course, an asshole.  So, the texting started between the two brothers. 

"You're a bad parent.  Your kid died because you weren't watching him." 

"You're a bad parent.  Maybe you should have given your daughter up for adoption at birth so she wouldn't have gotten molested by your in-laws. 

"You should get a job and maybe your wife wouldn't fuck around on you with your best friend, loser." 

You should quit your job and quit embarrassing dad with your shitty work."  (They work for the same outfit and the kid is a fuckup.)   "Shove another turkey baster of meth up your ass." 

Things deteriorated from there.  We all have something.  I am grateful for the peace and quiet of this day.  It is not my turn in the shit barrel. 

PTSD

Gramma, 

Hail predicted.  Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage.  That pretty much insures we won't get any weather.  Can't believe anything these hacks say.  First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m.  It was sunny and hot.  We need rain.  My grass is shredded wheat. 

The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere.  I deadhead every morning.  All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass.  Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this.  The windows are open and he is singing away. 

Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth.  My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late.  They spent the night.  We grilled and drank a lot of beer.  The kids had a fire in the pit.  I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing.  There is a bruise on my ribcage.  I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning. 

Party at my son's the next night.  He bought the house and land where he was raised.  I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home.  I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things.  Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots.  It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990. 

My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd  given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch.  Bullets flew past us.  The shepherd went down.  I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house.  "Get Baby," she yelled.  Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday.  Baby was wearing a bonnet.  I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety. 

When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet.  Later, I called the Sheriff's Department.  An officer showed up and blew me off.  My husband's family had the police in their pocket.  I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help.  He too ignored me.  I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed. 
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time.  I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me. 

Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed.  I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch.  That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary.  My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time.  Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother? 

Busy Busy Busy

Gramma,

It's been crazy busy around here.  Dave took last week off to gather his wits for Union negotiations this week.  Mostly, that involved sitting on the patio drinking, stewing and putting words on paper that he wanted me to reconstruct.  If ever I was to apply for a job, I would put down Union Interpreter as one of my talents.  This involves translating Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck Fuck into something more palatable for management. 

On Friday, we took off for a three day weekend with the bike club.  We put on about five-hundred miles total, looping through the backroads of Wisconsin farm country.  The ditches were full of wildflowers.  Hay being baled is one of my favorite childhood smells.  The corn looks good this year, a little ahead of the "Knee High By The Fourth of July" rule. 

Amish people were farming with horses. We gave a wide berth when passing horse-pulled buggies.  The slowest McDonalds on the planet was on our route.  Some Amish people left with enough food to for the zombie apocalypse.

The bartender at one stop had on bib overalls.  I got lumpy Spotted Cow tap beer at another bar.  After dumping two glasses, I asked for a bottle.  I do not drink warm beer.  Back at the dive motel, we did our serious drinking.  Some of the guys had noisemaking fireworks.  Surprisingly, we have never been kicked out of a motel.  On occasion, the police have shown up to our campsites.  Outrageous stories are told and legends are made. 

My daughter and her guy friend arrived late Sunday.  Guy friend's name is Aashkahn.  I call him trashcan.  They are here for a week.  We have been hanging out, drinking and laughing.  They don't get up until around two.  My schedule is off until after the Fourth.  Stories to follow. 

Friends Don't Let Friends

Gramma,

Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker.  You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars.  They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in.  They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated.  This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms.  You have to do the time. 

Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover.  But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate.  This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves. 

My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up.  My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been.  They are scuffed from hitting the pavement.  The lining is torn and frayed.  Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog.  I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in. 

Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers.  So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification.  Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers.  Bungee cords and rope materialized.  Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike. 

Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection.  His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment.  Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special."  Bikers commune in black.