Gramma
I have a neighbor I clean for. She is a pain in my ass. She tries to tell me how to do my job. I haven't been there for five months, but today is the day. I only schedule on rainy days. Sometimes I make up excuses why I can't come, like "I have a hairline fracture in my foot from when I slipped on the ice." That worked for two months.
It's a marathon for me, good exercise and some garage sale money. While I'm working, I usually get at least one phone call asking me what I'm doing. "It's a three toilet day," I answer. I don't take any breaks, but I'm physically useless the next day. I hate coming home exhausted to my own dirty house. I also don't like leaving the dogs home all day.
Usually, Deena has a doctor appointment and errands that save my ears for part of the time. Truly, she will not put her earplugs in because it is of no consequence to her that she can't hear me. She just keeps yammering away.
She is like an old person, going on and on ad nauseum about her laundry list of ailments. Her other favorite topic is her mother, who is justifiably a pain in her ass. Deena mimics her controlling mother, who complains incessantly about her own health issues and favors her brother with money and attention. Ironically, she has become her mother.
On one occasion, Deena and I went to a play at the Guthrie. The back seat driving got so bad that I had to pull over to clarify that I was the one driving. She didn't talk after that, an amazing feat for her. That was the last time I invited her to go anywhere. Her worst problem is not diarrhea of the mouth.
Deena's worst problem is a constant need to be near a bathroom. If I was her, I would not even leave the house. I would be a recluse. One time she asked me if I had ever thought about going to Scotland, which is her dream trip. No. When I told Dave about it, he said, "So you would tour the toilets of Scotland?"
Her husband is a prepper. Their food and alcohol stores are vast. He has an arsenal of artillery, along with military trucks meant for moving troops. He wants her to drive one of these monstrosities. They won't get far, stopping every twenty minutes for toilet breaks. Then there's the necessary toilet paper inventory along with the pharmacy of drugs Deena needs. Exactly where he thinks they are going is beyond me. Mexico is not going to welcome them with open arms, especially after Trump's Border Barricade is built.
I, on the other hand, will go down valiantly with my ship of beer. It is the first thing I would loot for. Then fifty pound bags of dog food. Who else will get that? Keeps you regular and doesn't go bad, plus almost no chance of binging. I will sit around the fire, pulling beers from the snowbank or from the cool waters of the pond. No more three toilet days, no more red and itchy ears, plus her mirrors always make me look fat.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Friday, April 29, 2016
Everybody Has Something
Bad Gramma
I have a brain scan today. This is not what I want to do on the only nice day all week. I need to clean out a garden bed at the end of the driveway. I need to kill weeds and till up the dirt, maybe bleach the well. But no, I have a brain tumor that we are tracking for size and attitude. I threatened Dave that I wasn't going to do this if he put off having his knee replacement surgery again. "I'll do it next year," he says, again.
I don't like having to take off all my jewelry so the big magnet doesn't suck it off. When Dave said all my bracelets looked ridiculous, I added more. I look like a gypsy. More is better. Too much is just right.
I kind of enjoy the weirdness of the head banging machine. The noise is reminiscent of industrial music, which I don't mind. I put on the headphones and listen to some background music. I breathe deep and go into a meditative state. I could have had the tumor taken out six months ago when it had doubled in size, but I didn't want to cut my hair.
It is benign, or I would be dead by now. It was discovered when I had an MRI done for a neck injury. The doctor didn't call back and didn't call back. So I called his office to ask what gives, I need my results. The nurse said she would have the doctor call me. He didn't. I called again and the nurse said she would give me the results. I waited on hold. She came back and said that she would have the doctor call me. WTF.
The doctor called one evening. He tells me that I have a brain tumor. "What?" I say.
"You have a brain tumor and ....." I didn't hear any words after that and then my shitty Verizon phone dropped the call. I couldn't call back. I sat there stunned. Nice bedside manner. Who delivers that kind of news over the phone?
"Who was that?" Dave asked. He always wants to know who called. I tell him.
"Now? What did he want?
"I have a brain tumor."
Now we are both stunned.
The next day I call the office for an appointment to find out WTF. The doctor shows me the images. He tells me not to be worried, that it is a meningioma and they are usually not cancerous in women. But, I should have brain scans every six months for a while.
That was six years ago. Sometimes I have balance issues, but then I drink and there's the bi-polar meds. Sometimes I have trouble accessing words, but, there's old age approaching and then there's the meds, and stress. Could be stress related. I like when I can't access a simple word and something extravagant comes out. I think my brain is re-circuiting. I have headaches, but who doesn't. Everybody has something.
I have a brain scan today. This is not what I want to do on the only nice day all week. I need to clean out a garden bed at the end of the driveway. I need to kill weeds and till up the dirt, maybe bleach the well. But no, I have a brain tumor that we are tracking for size and attitude. I threatened Dave that I wasn't going to do this if he put off having his knee replacement surgery again. "I'll do it next year," he says, again.
I don't like having to take off all my jewelry so the big magnet doesn't suck it off. When Dave said all my bracelets looked ridiculous, I added more. I look like a gypsy. More is better. Too much is just right.
I kind of enjoy the weirdness of the head banging machine. The noise is reminiscent of industrial music, which I don't mind. I put on the headphones and listen to some background music. I breathe deep and go into a meditative state. I could have had the tumor taken out six months ago when it had doubled in size, but I didn't want to cut my hair.
It is benign, or I would be dead by now. It was discovered when I had an MRI done for a neck injury. The doctor didn't call back and didn't call back. So I called his office to ask what gives, I need my results. The nurse said she would have the doctor call me. He didn't. I called again and the nurse said she would give me the results. I waited on hold. She came back and said that she would have the doctor call me. WTF.
The doctor called one evening. He tells me that I have a brain tumor. "What?" I say.
"You have a brain tumor and ....." I didn't hear any words after that and then my shitty Verizon phone dropped the call. I couldn't call back. I sat there stunned. Nice bedside manner. Who delivers that kind of news over the phone?
"Who was that?" Dave asked. He always wants to know who called. I tell him.
"Now? What did he want?
"I have a brain tumor."
Now we are both stunned.
The next day I call the office for an appointment to find out WTF. The doctor shows me the images. He tells me not to be worried, that it is a meningioma and they are usually not cancerous in women. But, I should have brain scans every six months for a while.
That was six years ago. Sometimes I have balance issues, but then I drink and there's the bi-polar meds. Sometimes I have trouble accessing words, but, there's old age approaching and then there's the meds, and stress. Could be stress related. I like when I can't access a simple word and something extravagant comes out. I think my brain is re-circuiting. I have headaches, but who doesn't. Everybody has something.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Wicket the Corgi Drives the Car
Gramma
It is pouring out and I have a vet appointment for all three dogs. They do not like to ride in the car. Leashes only mean one thing--a ride to the place of pain and confusion. There will be mud and dog hair all over in my freshly cleaned vehicle. Wicket won't get in the car. She is an overweight super-size Corgi. When I lift her up, she starts squeeling like the pig that she is.
On the way to town, Wicket, also known as the sea cow, tries to crawl around the console to hide under my feet. I keep pushing her back, rattling a large bag of scary bubble gum at her as a further deterrent.
I leave the dogs in the car while I run in to Office Max to pick up some estimate forms for small claims court. "Don't chew up too much stuff," I mutter, locking the doors. Minutes later, I return. Princess, the mini-Aussie, is sitting in my seat, paws on the steering wheel. Wicket has gotten stuck trying to get where she wants to go. Eddie, the mini Corgi, has his leash hung up on an arm rest. So things are good.
Wicket won't get out of the car. I pull on the lead and her collar comes off. I tighten it and try again. Eddie is also refusing. They are stubborn, like cats. By the time I get them in the clinic, we are all soaked. They heartily shake off the wet. There are no places to sit. I shorten the leashes and wait while they try to make sense of dogs they see as an affront to their ownership of me. There is much growling. Then they turn on each other. I am yanking them apart and yelling, "Princess bitch, knock it off."
Wicket weighs nearly as much as the other two dogs combined. I get the lecture about her weight and promise to give it another go. While I wait for the bill, I put the dogs in the car. The grand total is $580.02.
As I am backing up, Wicket succeeds at getting to my side of the floor. Her weight is suddenly on my driving foot, which accelerates the gas. Then there is this Oh Shit crunch. I go back inside to announce that I have backed into a nice new black SUV. It belongs to some older woman wearing nice clothes. She gives her poodle to the vet tech while she comes out to take pictures. She is nice about what has happened to her tail light.
My rusty tailgate is dented, but still opens. Now I will look like one of those old people who backs into things without looking. Ugh. But I will suck it up, because my tires are new and I am determined to drive this thing into the ground. I have more pressing things to spend my money on. Meanwhile, I pretend I am really rich, but driving an old piece of shit as a cover for my wealth.
It is pouring out and I have a vet appointment for all three dogs. They do not like to ride in the car. Leashes only mean one thing--a ride to the place of pain and confusion. There will be mud and dog hair all over in my freshly cleaned vehicle. Wicket won't get in the car. She is an overweight super-size Corgi. When I lift her up, she starts squeeling like the pig that she is.
On the way to town, Wicket, also known as the sea cow, tries to crawl around the console to hide under my feet. I keep pushing her back, rattling a large bag of scary bubble gum at her as a further deterrent.
I leave the dogs in the car while I run in to Office Max to pick up some estimate forms for small claims court. "Don't chew up too much stuff," I mutter, locking the doors. Minutes later, I return. Princess, the mini-Aussie, is sitting in my seat, paws on the steering wheel. Wicket has gotten stuck trying to get where she wants to go. Eddie, the mini Corgi, has his leash hung up on an arm rest. So things are good.
Wicket won't get out of the car. I pull on the lead and her collar comes off. I tighten it and try again. Eddie is also refusing. They are stubborn, like cats. By the time I get them in the clinic, we are all soaked. They heartily shake off the wet. There are no places to sit. I shorten the leashes and wait while they try to make sense of dogs they see as an affront to their ownership of me. There is much growling. Then they turn on each other. I am yanking them apart and yelling, "Princess bitch, knock it off."
Wicket weighs nearly as much as the other two dogs combined. I get the lecture about her weight and promise to give it another go. While I wait for the bill, I put the dogs in the car. The grand total is $580.02.
As I am backing up, Wicket succeeds at getting to my side of the floor. Her weight is suddenly on my driving foot, which accelerates the gas. Then there is this Oh Shit crunch. I go back inside to announce that I have backed into a nice new black SUV. It belongs to some older woman wearing nice clothes. She gives her poodle to the vet tech while she comes out to take pictures. She is nice about what has happened to her tail light.
My rusty tailgate is dented, but still opens. Now I will look like one of those old people who backs into things without looking. Ugh. But I will suck it up, because my tires are new and I am determined to drive this thing into the ground. I have more pressing things to spend my money on. Meanwhile, I pretend I am really rich, but driving an old piece of shit as a cover for my wealth.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Divorce Continued...
Bad Gramma
I am coaching girlfriend in the fine art of divorce. She has been divorced twice already, but never with any assets. I have been divorced once and ended up in prison because he needed killing. But that's a story for another day.
Scott's all smug and happy because his attorney told him that he could get a good chunk of change in spousal maintenance. She makes six figures while he sits home on his sorry ass drinking in front of the blaring tv. He is on disability for a back injury at work. He has refused to return to a good paying job where his limitations will be accommodated. He has offered girlfriend a deal. If she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance.
Either way, there is no way he can afford to stay there, especially with the adjoining acreage. He doesn't know it yet, but the "family land" has both their names on it. I estimate the value to be around $100,000. It is wooded and overlooks the river, perfect for housing lots. Scott isn't going to know what hit him until the for sale sign is up.
With only an eighth grade education, he is not too bright. In the past he has always gotten his way, but that is about to change. He should have taken the offer she made for $125,000. When it's over, he will have to go live with mommy in the little house he grew up in. Mommy is not well in the body or the head. The house is stuck in the sixties. There will be no space for all his toys. I'll drink to that.
Jo hasn't worked a full week in six months. I can't believe she hasn't been fired. She is off to the doctor for one thing and another all the time. She had her pancreas and some other stuff removed a few years back and the resulting chronic problems have worsened. Sometimes she has to leave work because she has "greased" herself as she calls it. Off to the store to buy new underwear and pants on work time.
Girlfriend also needs knee surgery again. It's a good thing she can work from home when she is short on hours. Her pancreas doctor has advised her to file for Social Security Disability. Her attorney says this will put an end to his "Child Support" claim. Also, there is a subpoena for all Scott's work records, which will reveal that he has the option to go back to work.
Scott has filled out the assets request with four items: his Harley, his big red truck, his Spyder, and his new red Mustang convertible. It cost $47,000 three months ago. He has listed it as worth $17,000. He cashed in more of his 401K, which he does frequently, to soothe his need for instant gratification. This toy was a gift to himself for staying sober one month.
He forgot to claim the two tractors and a myriad of other expensive items. He is so busted.
While he was away on a motorcycle ride, girlfriend took lots of pictures of unclaimed things, but couldn't get into the garage or shed.
When she asked me to go with her to pick up some gardening equipment and plants from her yard, I did not want to go. I am afraid Scott will kill us both when he is in pissed off mode. She asked him for the keys to the garage and shed so she could look for a missing fountain pump. He gave them to her. So she took lots of pictures of hidden assets.
She brought the keys back to the house. Scott started in about the attorney expenses. "You are just wasting money by asking for mediation." It is required by law, but again, he is stupid. "I will get you an offer next week and that should take care of it." I don't think so. Can't wait to hear it. Then he says, "I'm here and your not."
She says, "For how long?" smiles and turns to leave. She has poked the bear.
"Remember what happened last time?" he yells after her.
I am standing outside as things escalate. I am pulling my phone out of my pocket when she comes out. The "last time" he has referred to is when he poured gasoline on her and the kitchen floor, then threatened to throw a match. She has decided we will not be going back again.
I am coaching girlfriend in the fine art of divorce. She has been divorced twice already, but never with any assets. I have been divorced once and ended up in prison because he needed killing. But that's a story for another day.
Scott's all smug and happy because his attorney told him that he could get a good chunk of change in spousal maintenance. She makes six figures while he sits home on his sorry ass drinking in front of the blaring tv. He is on disability for a back injury at work. He has refused to return to a good paying job where his limitations will be accommodated. He has offered girlfriend a deal. If she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance.
Either way, there is no way he can afford to stay there, especially with the adjoining acreage. He doesn't know it yet, but the "family land" has both their names on it. I estimate the value to be around $100,000. It is wooded and overlooks the river, perfect for housing lots. Scott isn't going to know what hit him until the for sale sign is up.
With only an eighth grade education, he is not too bright. In the past he has always gotten his way, but that is about to change. He should have taken the offer she made for $125,000. When it's over, he will have to go live with mommy in the little house he grew up in. Mommy is not well in the body or the head. The house is stuck in the sixties. There will be no space for all his toys. I'll drink to that.
Jo hasn't worked a full week in six months. I can't believe she hasn't been fired. She is off to the doctor for one thing and another all the time. She had her pancreas and some other stuff removed a few years back and the resulting chronic problems have worsened. Sometimes she has to leave work because she has "greased" herself as she calls it. Off to the store to buy new underwear and pants on work time.
Girlfriend also needs knee surgery again. It's a good thing she can work from home when she is short on hours. Her pancreas doctor has advised her to file for Social Security Disability. Her attorney says this will put an end to his "Child Support" claim. Also, there is a subpoena for all Scott's work records, which will reveal that he has the option to go back to work.
Scott has filled out the assets request with four items: his Harley, his big red truck, his Spyder, and his new red Mustang convertible. It cost $47,000 three months ago. He has listed it as worth $17,000. He cashed in more of his 401K, which he does frequently, to soothe his need for instant gratification. This toy was a gift to himself for staying sober one month.
He forgot to claim the two tractors and a myriad of other expensive items. He is so busted.
While he was away on a motorcycle ride, girlfriend took lots of pictures of unclaimed things, but couldn't get into the garage or shed.
When she asked me to go with her to pick up some gardening equipment and plants from her yard, I did not want to go. I am afraid Scott will kill us both when he is in pissed off mode. She asked him for the keys to the garage and shed so she could look for a missing fountain pump. He gave them to her. So she took lots of pictures of hidden assets.
She brought the keys back to the house. Scott started in about the attorney expenses. "You are just wasting money by asking for mediation." It is required by law, but again, he is stupid. "I will get you an offer next week and that should take care of it." I don't think so. Can't wait to hear it. Then he says, "I'm here and your not."
She says, "For how long?" smiles and turns to leave. She has poked the bear.
"Remember what happened last time?" he yells after her.
I am standing outside as things escalate. I am pulling my phone out of my pocket when she comes out. The "last time" he has referred to is when he poured gasoline on her and the kitchen floor, then threatened to throw a match. She has decided we will not be going back again.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Girlfriend's Divorce
Bad Gramma
My girlfriend's long time marriage is dissolving. The end began at Thanksgiving when she came to stay with us, again. For Christmas she drove home a few states away. Scott followed her in his big red truck, begging forgiveness and promising to sign a notarized agreement on how the divorce division will go down if he fails to keep his end of the bargain. Conditions are that he will quit drinking, quit controlling the money that mostly she earns, quit with the verbal assaults and let her pound nails in the walls to hang art.
She went back home, but didn't take all the things we had spirited out of her house and brought here while Scott was either at a meeting or a doctor appointment. She had an informant that let her know when it was safe, She would leave work early and we would rush over and fill the cars with clothes, jewelry, bottles of wine and anything else that he wouldn't miss. It was gratifying work.
Girlfriend had gone to pick up some things while he was home and to discuss the divorce agreement where she asked for a mere $125,000 pittance to go away. He has reneged and says if she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance. She was there too long for my liking and not answering her phone, so I did what any good friend would do. I called the cops.
Several squads showed up with guns drawn. I had told them that Scott is likely drinking, has lots of guns and that he has on occasion threatened to lock her in a closet and not let her have her insulin. He thinks this is the same thing as denying him his alcohol, because he is dependent on it. He is very charming to the police and claims there is no problem as he falls down the steps to the front door. He spills his drink and laughs. Jo comes home to us where she is safe. We have iron gates and you need a code to get in. Also, Dave is big, has lots of guns, and doesn't like Scott.
We like when Jo stays with us because she is an awesome cook and I suck at it. I make spaghetti, stew, homemade soup, or meat. My meals are one dish, not three, no bread, rarely a salad. I put a plate of meat and a yam in front of Dave and call it dinner. I am good at fudge, bread and lasagna. My stove gets so little use that I have to dust it off every week. Dave cooks once a week, which means he brings home two pizzas--pickle bacon cheeseburger for me and anchovy of garbage for him. Our favorite part of all the times Jo has stayed with us is when Dave went to work and bragged to Scott about the fantastic dinner she made us the night before.
I am coaching girlfriend in the fine art of divorce.
Scott's all smug and happy because his attorney told him that he could get a good chunk of change in spousal maintenance. She makes six figures while he sits home on his sorry ass and drinks in front of the tv. He is on disability for a back injury. He has refused to go back to a good paying job where his limitations will be accommodated. He has offered girlfriend a deal. If she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance.
There is no way he can afford to stay there either way, especially with the adjoining acreage. He doesn't know it yet, but the "Family" land has both their names on it. I estimate the value at around $100,000. It is wooded and overlooks the river, perfect for housing lots.
He doesn't know what is really happening. Jo has not worked a full week in six months. I can't believe they haven't fired her. She is off to the doctor for one thing and another all the time. Her diabetes is worse. She had her pancreas and some other stuff removed a few years back and the chronic symptoms have worsened. Sometimes she has to leave work because she has "greased" herself as she calls it. Off to the store to buy new underwear and pants on work time.
Girlfriend also needs knee surgery. It's a good thing she can work from home when she is short on hours. Her doctor has advised her to file for Social Security Disability. Her attorney says this will put and end to his "Child Support" claim.
Scott has filled out the assets request with four items: His Harley, the big red truck, his Spyder, and a new red Mustang. The convertible is new. It cost $47,000 out the door. He cashed in more of his retirement, which he does frequently to soothe his need for instant gratification. This toy was a gift to himself for staying sober for a month. He has claimed the value at $17,000. He forgot the two tractors and a myriad of other expensive items. He is so busted.
She has been to the house in the last week while Scott was off on a motorcycle ride with friends, one of which is a mole for girlfriend. She took lots of pictures of unclaimed items, but couldn't get into the garages or shop space.
Recently, she asked me to go with her to gather some gardening equipment and plants from her yard. I did not want to go. I am afraid that Scott will kill us both when he is in pissed off mode. She asked Scott for the keys to the garage and shed to look for a fountain pump. He gave them to her. So she took lots of pictures of the forgotten assets.
When she brought the keys back in the house, Scott started in about the attorney expenses. "You are just wasting money by asking for mediation," he said. It is required by law. "I will get you an offer next week and that should take care of it." I don't think so. Can't wait to hear it. Then he says, "I'm still here and you're not."
"But for how long?" she smiles.
"Remember what happened last time?"
I am standing outside as things escalate. I am pulling my phone out of my pocket when she comes out. The "last time" he has referred to is when he poured gasoline on her and all over in the house, then threatened to light a match. She has decided we will not be going back again.
My girlfriend's long time marriage is dissolving. The end began at Thanksgiving when she came to stay with us, again. For Christmas she drove home a few states away. Scott followed her in his big red truck, begging forgiveness and promising to sign a notarized agreement on how the divorce division will go down if he fails to keep his end of the bargain. Conditions are that he will quit drinking, quit controlling the money that mostly she earns, quit with the verbal assaults and let her pound nails in the walls to hang art.
She went back home, but didn't take all the things we had spirited out of her house and brought here while Scott was either at a meeting or a doctor appointment. She had an informant that let her know when it was safe, She would leave work early and we would rush over and fill the cars with clothes, jewelry, bottles of wine and anything else that he wouldn't miss. It was gratifying work.
Girlfriend had gone to pick up some things while he was home and to discuss the divorce agreement where she asked for a mere $125,000 pittance to go away. He has reneged and says if she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance. She was there too long for my liking and not answering her phone, so I did what any good friend would do. I called the cops.
Several squads showed up with guns drawn. I had told them that Scott is likely drinking, has lots of guns and that he has on occasion threatened to lock her in a closet and not let her have her insulin. He thinks this is the same thing as denying him his alcohol, because he is dependent on it. He is very charming to the police and claims there is no problem as he falls down the steps to the front door. He spills his drink and laughs. Jo comes home to us where she is safe. We have iron gates and you need a code to get in. Also, Dave is big, has lots of guns, and doesn't like Scott.
We like when Jo stays with us because she is an awesome cook and I suck at it. I make spaghetti, stew, homemade soup, or meat. My meals are one dish, not three, no bread, rarely a salad. I put a plate of meat and a yam in front of Dave and call it dinner. I am good at fudge, bread and lasagna. My stove gets so little use that I have to dust it off every week. Dave cooks once a week, which means he brings home two pizzas--pickle bacon cheeseburger for me and anchovy of garbage for him. Our favorite part of all the times Jo has stayed with us is when Dave went to work and bragged to Scott about the fantastic dinner she made us the night before.
I am coaching girlfriend in the fine art of divorce.
Scott's all smug and happy because his attorney told him that he could get a good chunk of change in spousal maintenance. She makes six figures while he sits home on his sorry ass and drinks in front of the tv. He is on disability for a back injury. He has refused to go back to a good paying job where his limitations will be accommodated. He has offered girlfriend a deal. If she walks away from everything, he will not ask for spousal maintenance.
There is no way he can afford to stay there either way, especially with the adjoining acreage. He doesn't know it yet, but the "Family" land has both their names on it. I estimate the value at around $100,000. It is wooded and overlooks the river, perfect for housing lots.
He doesn't know what is really happening. Jo has not worked a full week in six months. I can't believe they haven't fired her. She is off to the doctor for one thing and another all the time. Her diabetes is worse. She had her pancreas and some other stuff removed a few years back and the chronic symptoms have worsened. Sometimes she has to leave work because she has "greased" herself as she calls it. Off to the store to buy new underwear and pants on work time.
Girlfriend also needs knee surgery. It's a good thing she can work from home when she is short on hours. Her doctor has advised her to file for Social Security Disability. Her attorney says this will put and end to his "Child Support" claim.
Scott has filled out the assets request with four items: His Harley, the big red truck, his Spyder, and a new red Mustang. The convertible is new. It cost $47,000 out the door. He cashed in more of his retirement, which he does frequently to soothe his need for instant gratification. This toy was a gift to himself for staying sober for a month. He has claimed the value at $17,000. He forgot the two tractors and a myriad of other expensive items. He is so busted.
She has been to the house in the last week while Scott was off on a motorcycle ride with friends, one of which is a mole for girlfriend. She took lots of pictures of unclaimed items, but couldn't get into the garages or shop space.
Recently, she asked me to go with her to gather some gardening equipment and plants from her yard. I did not want to go. I am afraid that Scott will kill us both when he is in pissed off mode. She asked Scott for the keys to the garage and shed to look for a fountain pump. He gave them to her. So she took lots of pictures of the forgotten assets.
When she brought the keys back in the house, Scott started in about the attorney expenses. "You are just wasting money by asking for mediation," he said. It is required by law. "I will get you an offer next week and that should take care of it." I don't think so. Can't wait to hear it. Then he says, "I'm still here and you're not."
"But for how long?" she smiles.
"Remember what happened last time?"
I am standing outside as things escalate. I am pulling my phone out of my pocket when she comes out. The "last time" he has referred to is when he poured gasoline on her and all over in the house, then threatened to light a match. She has decided we will not be going back again.
Monday, April 25, 2016
Small Claims for My Face Contouring
Gramma
It has been eight weeks since the lower face lift. My chin/neck waddle is shrinking. Unfortunately, I had to have my drivers license picture taken without the final result. I am waiting on my passport. I still have a few months left on that.
I can sleep on my ears again without pain. Until now, the stitches behind them pulled and pinched. I think all the stitches have dissolved. My face is thinning. I go back to Dr. Jess in six weeks. She will use an injectable to soften the lines around my eyes, what is left of the jowls and the lines on the sides of my nose. I don't have money for this, but I will find it somewhere.
I am taking the renter to small claims court. For the two-thousand five hundred limit on the expressway to small claims I will file there. It will take less time to get in and time is of the essence. I could claim enough damage to go to the next level of fifteen thousand, but this will be a longer wait and more difficult to collect.
She has removed the shades, the crank-outs for the windows, painted rooms without permission and not returned them to a neutral color, There is damage to the carpet where she tried to iron out a large puddle of candle wax and it smells like cat. She had this obese woodtick looking cat that dropped poop whenever it walked, There is wax dripped into the four-thousand dollar Steffes heat storage unit. It will need to be replaced. Then there are the doors and the pantry shelves.
She has left a piano behind. I have a good mind to have it dropped in her mother's driveway. I wish I had known the Sherriff was in the yard to facilitate picking up the pod. I would have reported the stolen door all the way in the back of it. Lucky for me I was dressed so I could follow Jodi to her mother's house and get the address for filing.
The basic replacements and repairs will easily reach the first limit. Jodi will probably lose her job at the hospital or quit after the call I made to report her marijuana use. So I will offer her another reduction of five-hundred dollars if she will pay up before court. She can borrow the money from her mother or sister. I will do the repairs myself and use the rest for my face. I hope the stolen door is worth it to her.
Meanwhile, I am working on my gunt, the gut that hangs over the girl stuff. My diet includes hard boiled eggs, fruits and vegetables, mostly celery. I keep the sugar down, but it is necessary for my sanity. I had a steak and two eggs yesterday, along with a Snickers bar. I am down another two pounds overnight for a total of eight pounds. I am halfway to where I thought I was fat before. I gave birth at lower weights. I am shooting for one size down, a ten. The tough part is doing without beer.
It has been eight weeks since the lower face lift. My chin/neck waddle is shrinking. Unfortunately, I had to have my drivers license picture taken without the final result. I am waiting on my passport. I still have a few months left on that.
I can sleep on my ears again without pain. Until now, the stitches behind them pulled and pinched. I think all the stitches have dissolved. My face is thinning. I go back to Dr. Jess in six weeks. She will use an injectable to soften the lines around my eyes, what is left of the jowls and the lines on the sides of my nose. I don't have money for this, but I will find it somewhere.
I am taking the renter to small claims court. For the two-thousand five hundred limit on the expressway to small claims I will file there. It will take less time to get in and time is of the essence. I could claim enough damage to go to the next level of fifteen thousand, but this will be a longer wait and more difficult to collect.
She has removed the shades, the crank-outs for the windows, painted rooms without permission and not returned them to a neutral color, There is damage to the carpet where she tried to iron out a large puddle of candle wax and it smells like cat. She had this obese woodtick looking cat that dropped poop whenever it walked, There is wax dripped into the four-thousand dollar Steffes heat storage unit. It will need to be replaced. Then there are the doors and the pantry shelves.
She has left a piano behind. I have a good mind to have it dropped in her mother's driveway. I wish I had known the Sherriff was in the yard to facilitate picking up the pod. I would have reported the stolen door all the way in the back of it. Lucky for me I was dressed so I could follow Jodi to her mother's house and get the address for filing.
The basic replacements and repairs will easily reach the first limit. Jodi will probably lose her job at the hospital or quit after the call I made to report her marijuana use. So I will offer her another reduction of five-hundred dollars if she will pay up before court. She can borrow the money from her mother or sister. I will do the repairs myself and use the rest for my face. I hope the stolen door is worth it to her.
Meanwhile, I am working on my gunt, the gut that hangs over the girl stuff. My diet includes hard boiled eggs, fruits and vegetables, mostly celery. I keep the sugar down, but it is necessary for my sanity. I had a steak and two eggs yesterday, along with a Snickers bar. I am down another two pounds overnight for a total of eight pounds. I am halfway to where I thought I was fat before. I gave birth at lower weights. I am shooting for one size down, a ten. The tough part is doing without beer.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Woodtick Theatre
Gramma
Took the grandkids to The Children's Theatre to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid. My girlfriend followed me with her car full of grandkids. The blind leading the blind, but I have a carbitch. Actually, I have two carbitches in case one pisses me off. Lynn drives like the old woman that she is. For the love of God, NOT ON THE FREEWAY. She just wouldn't go the speed limit and I am pissing people off trying to go slow enough for her. Good thing we left early in case of road construction.
So we get there almost an hour early. Her kids are way brattier than mine and have never been to such a civilized event. I know they will cause trouble, so we stay outside, Lynn and I sitting on benches while the kids run wild. Her kids are running inside the roped off area where grass and flowers have just been planted. They do not respond to any cease and desist orders. I think I will not invite them again. A couple and their child glare at us and go inside. It's usually me doing the glaring.
Her granddaughter has mud all over her legs and new white sandals. She has decided she needs to sing loudly. She has a serious lisp and can't carry a tune, but Lynn thinks she has talent. My four-year-old grandson has found a sharpened pencil and is running with it while everyone else tries to get it away from him. The older grandkids are cheering him on, "Fall, fall, fall," as he tries to climb a wall to the newly planted area. I am waiting for a grandson who has not been dropped off yet. It's picture day for his ball team.
After everyone is seated, I go outside to wait for the late grandchild. During the ten minute wait, a woman in a wheelchair asks if I could do her a kindness and put her Twins ball cap on her head. It is bright and sunny, She is waiting for Metro Mobility. She asks me to connect her camelback hose with her lips. Then she wants me to unwrap her gum and put it in her mouth, I asked what happened to her. MS. Dave's daughter, my step-daughter died from MS last fall. This lady has a positive attitude and is giving me her platitudes. I tell her that she is brave, that I wouldn't be. I have this recurrent dream that I have a gun and can't pull the trigger because I am disabled like this.
Baseball boy shows up and we go in ten minutes late. Lynn's two boys are hitting each other and annoying the nice father with wife and kids sitting next to them, I want to bash their heads together. Lynn split them up. When intermission comes, my granddaughter informs me that she has found three woodticks on her during the play. She has thrown them over the balcony so city kids can enjoy them too. Awesome. When the play is over and the lights are up, Bubba is the only one who listens when I tell the kids to pick up all the dropped pretzels and M&M's. Snacks are not allowed in the theatre.
Lynn splits off from us on the way home to a shorter route for her. Now I can go fastly towards the beer and the kids can continue to collect woodticks. They make me happy twice, when they come and when they go.
Took the grandkids to The Children's Theatre to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid. My girlfriend followed me with her car full of grandkids. The blind leading the blind, but I have a carbitch. Actually, I have two carbitches in case one pisses me off. Lynn drives like the old woman that she is. For the love of God, NOT ON THE FREEWAY. She just wouldn't go the speed limit and I am pissing people off trying to go slow enough for her. Good thing we left early in case of road construction.
So we get there almost an hour early. Her kids are way brattier than mine and have never been to such a civilized event. I know they will cause trouble, so we stay outside, Lynn and I sitting on benches while the kids run wild. Her kids are running inside the roped off area where grass and flowers have just been planted. They do not respond to any cease and desist orders. I think I will not invite them again. A couple and their child glare at us and go inside. It's usually me doing the glaring.
Her granddaughter has mud all over her legs and new white sandals. She has decided she needs to sing loudly. She has a serious lisp and can't carry a tune, but Lynn thinks she has talent. My four-year-old grandson has found a sharpened pencil and is running with it while everyone else tries to get it away from him. The older grandkids are cheering him on, "Fall, fall, fall," as he tries to climb a wall to the newly planted area. I am waiting for a grandson who has not been dropped off yet. It's picture day for his ball team.
After everyone is seated, I go outside to wait for the late grandchild. During the ten minute wait, a woman in a wheelchair asks if I could do her a kindness and put her Twins ball cap on her head. It is bright and sunny, She is waiting for Metro Mobility. She asks me to connect her camelback hose with her lips. Then she wants me to unwrap her gum and put it in her mouth, I asked what happened to her. MS. Dave's daughter, my step-daughter died from MS last fall. This lady has a positive attitude and is giving me her platitudes. I tell her that she is brave, that I wouldn't be. I have this recurrent dream that I have a gun and can't pull the trigger because I am disabled like this.
Baseball boy shows up and we go in ten minutes late. Lynn's two boys are hitting each other and annoying the nice father with wife and kids sitting next to them, I want to bash their heads together. Lynn split them up. When intermission comes, my granddaughter informs me that she has found three woodticks on her during the play. She has thrown them over the balcony so city kids can enjoy them too. Awesome. When the play is over and the lights are up, Bubba is the only one who listens when I tell the kids to pick up all the dropped pretzels and M&M's. Snacks are not allowed in the theatre.
Lynn splits off from us on the way home to a shorter route for her. Now I can go fastly towards the beer and the kids can continue to collect woodticks. They make me happy twice, when they come and when they go.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
The Hmong's Next Door
Gramma
I was glad when Steve moved in next door. The Hmong's on our road had all been foreclosed on and Steve had bought a foreclosure. I could often hear him talking loudly on his phone while outside, which didn't bother me. His rooster and my rooster called back and forth from the ass crack of dawn till dark..
The Hmong's had spray painted the walls in Steve's house with bad and angry words aimed at the bank. They left enough garbage behind to fill two dumpsters. The blinds were all bent and disheveled, the carpet destroyed and filth everywhere.
Dave and I had come home from Bike Week in Sturgis to find them moved in. There were hoards of Hmong's there. The field was full of cars. A volleyball net had been set up. Somebody was sitting on a tall ladder in the center calling the shots. The din was awful. One of my peacocks was hopping around the yard with a snare trap on it's foot. The high pitched ying ying of their language had no volume control.
Every weekend the Hmong volleyball team showed up for playoffs. During the week, there were screaming brats and older boys hitting a basketball backboard non-stop. The kids were unsupervised. The man of the house would sometimes be outside at dawn running a chainsaw. There was no peace. I cried.
Meanwhile, my animals were disappearing. Elvis, the pot-belly pig went first. Peacocks and Guinea hens were caught and put in a pen down the road at another Hmong residence. To no avail, I left a large cage by the pen and asked them to put my birds in there and return them. There was an attempt made on the alpacas. The fence was torn open and they were running loose in the area.
In the off-season they poached deer from the DNR land down our dead end road, leaving behind the guts and heads. Neighbors had them on trail cam cutting through their land to hunt. The Hmong's had cockfighting rings in nearby areas and were regularly in the news for being shut down.
I forwarded the house phone to my cell phone. It was unnerving to get unidentified numbers with no message or a hang up when I answered. Reverse lookup revealed numbers in the twin cities area. When I called, angry sounding Hmong's answered in their language. They always sounded angry when talking. I knew they were casing the house, but I have iron gates and you need a code to get in. They frequently drove up and down the road slowly. I guessed that they had garage's and sheds full of other people's things.
I reported the suspicious activity. None of the police would help. The city cops said my area was not in their jurisdiction. The county cops said they had no jurisdiction over people in the cities. Eventually, I began looking for a new place to live.
I was glad when Steve moved in next door. The Hmong's on our road had all been foreclosed on and Steve had bought a foreclosure. I could often hear him talking loudly on his phone while outside, which didn't bother me. His rooster and my rooster called back and forth from the ass crack of dawn till dark..
The Hmong's had spray painted the walls in Steve's house with bad and angry words aimed at the bank. They left enough garbage behind to fill two dumpsters. The blinds were all bent and disheveled, the carpet destroyed and filth everywhere.
Dave and I had come home from Bike Week in Sturgis to find them moved in. There were hoards of Hmong's there. The field was full of cars. A volleyball net had been set up. Somebody was sitting on a tall ladder in the center calling the shots. The din was awful. One of my peacocks was hopping around the yard with a snare trap on it's foot. The high pitched ying ying of their language had no volume control.
Every weekend the Hmong volleyball team showed up for playoffs. During the week, there were screaming brats and older boys hitting a basketball backboard non-stop. The kids were unsupervised. The man of the house would sometimes be outside at dawn running a chainsaw. There was no peace. I cried.
Meanwhile, my animals were disappearing. Elvis, the pot-belly pig went first. Peacocks and Guinea hens were caught and put in a pen down the road at another Hmong residence. To no avail, I left a large cage by the pen and asked them to put my birds in there and return them. There was an attempt made on the alpacas. The fence was torn open and they were running loose in the area.
In the off-season they poached deer from the DNR land down our dead end road, leaving behind the guts and heads. Neighbors had them on trail cam cutting through their land to hunt. The Hmong's had cockfighting rings in nearby areas and were regularly in the news for being shut down.
I forwarded the house phone to my cell phone. It was unnerving to get unidentified numbers with no message or a hang up when I answered. Reverse lookup revealed numbers in the twin cities area. When I called, angry sounding Hmong's answered in their language. They always sounded angry when talking. I knew they were casing the house, but I have iron gates and you need a code to get in. They frequently drove up and down the road slowly. I guessed that they had garage's and sheds full of other people's things.
I reported the suspicious activity. None of the police would help. The city cops said my area was not in their jurisdiction. The county cops said they had no jurisdiction over people in the cities. Eventually, I began looking for a new place to live.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Steve Stories
Gramma
Ben and I ended up sitting in the driveway/patio telling Steve stories.
"Ask Steve about setting the prison gym on fire. He gets teased about that a lot. Fire trucks from two departments showed up. It wasn't his fault. Turned out to be electrical. Caused a lockdown though."
When Steve first moved in, he bought lambs. Thought he'd make some money selling them in the fall. They took up residence under his deck and shit all over the yard. So he decides to put up a fence to keep them away from the house.
Early one morning I hear him pounding in fence posts. He has not put up a straight line first, so the fence weaves back and forth like a drunken sailor. I sit up on the roof deck with my coffee watching this fiasco. I don't know where he got the used fence, but when it was unrolled the stuff was about three feet high. It had looked more like five feet when it was rolled up. So Steve decides to put a layer of fence above the other stuff. WTF. He was raised on a farm.
I asked Steve what his co-workers said about him having sheep. He hung his head and shook it slowly. "I never should have told them." he drawled. I could just hear it. "Bo Peep, how's the sheep? Which one is the prettiest? Baa, baa."
I told Ben the story about when I had sheep and had dressed them up in lingerie because a guy from Dave's work was coming to borrow something. The guy went back to work and never said a word about it. He figured it would be like saying you'd seen a UFO.
I had planned to dress Steve's sheep up and take pictures to send to the warden, but they wouldn't have reached his co-workers, which defeated the purpose. It would still have been fun to do it for Steve's benefit alone.
Then there was the time I watched from across the pond while Steve set to starting a huge brush pile on fire with a can of gasoline. I figured I would be calling an ambulance, but he jumped back just in time. I went over with my beer and said, "Only start a brush pile with used oil or diesel fuel." Steve raised his beer, as if to say "right." It got to be a late night drinking. I knew Steve would have a hangover, but not me.
Dave does not have any appreciation for bonfires and would only come outside if I called his phone yelling, "Bring a rake," or "Bring a fire extinguisher, and hurry up." Dave has two speeds, not so fast and stop. At work he says, "If you don't like this speed, you won't like my other one." I have never seen Dave run. He was snoring when I got home.
Ben and I ended up sitting in the driveway/patio telling Steve stories.
"Ask Steve about setting the prison gym on fire. He gets teased about that a lot. Fire trucks from two departments showed up. It wasn't his fault. Turned out to be electrical. Caused a lockdown though."
When Steve first moved in, he bought lambs. Thought he'd make some money selling them in the fall. They took up residence under his deck and shit all over the yard. So he decides to put up a fence to keep them away from the house.
Early one morning I hear him pounding in fence posts. He has not put up a straight line first, so the fence weaves back and forth like a drunken sailor. I sit up on the roof deck with my coffee watching this fiasco. I don't know where he got the used fence, but when it was unrolled the stuff was about three feet high. It had looked more like five feet when it was rolled up. So Steve decides to put a layer of fence above the other stuff. WTF. He was raised on a farm.
I asked Steve what his co-workers said about him having sheep. He hung his head and shook it slowly. "I never should have told them." he drawled. I could just hear it. "Bo Peep, how's the sheep? Which one is the prettiest? Baa, baa."
I told Ben the story about when I had sheep and had dressed them up in lingerie because a guy from Dave's work was coming to borrow something. The guy went back to work and never said a word about it. He figured it would be like saying you'd seen a UFO.
I had planned to dress Steve's sheep up and take pictures to send to the warden, but they wouldn't have reached his co-workers, which defeated the purpose. It would still have been fun to do it for Steve's benefit alone.
Then there was the time I watched from across the pond while Steve set to starting a huge brush pile on fire with a can of gasoline. I figured I would be calling an ambulance, but he jumped back just in time. I went over with my beer and said, "Only start a brush pile with used oil or diesel fuel." Steve raised his beer, as if to say "right." It got to be a late night drinking. I knew Steve would have a hangover, but not me.
Dave does not have any appreciation for bonfires and would only come outside if I called his phone yelling, "Bring a rake," or "Bring a fire extinguisher, and hurry up." Dave has two speeds, not so fast and stop. At work he says, "If you don't like this speed, you won't like my other one." I have never seen Dave run. He was snoring when I got home.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Chillin' with Bengay
Gramma
Then the neighbor and I got to talking over the fence. He was drinking rum. I was working on a case of Stella. Ben was young enough to be my son. He worked as a guard at the prison and lived with the Steve, also a prison guard. Ben was a gym rat and played baseball. In the summer, the donkey's, alpaca's and llama's kept the grass down in Steve's fenced field. Ben and I proceeded to get drunk.
"So are you guy's a couple?" I asked. Dave and I thought so. The summer before, they had been painting Steve's fence along the road. Ben was working in short shorts with no shirt. It looked pretty condemning.
"Hell no. I am not gay." Dave and I referred to him as Bengay.
"Don't the guys at work give you shit about living together?"
"Not really." Maybe not to their faces. "Steve is real weird about me having girls over. I have to go to their places."
"He brought a girl here once."
"No way. What did she look like? I've never seen him with a girl."
"She was a little cross-eyed, a little stocky, dishwater hair. She was wearing a button down shirt with puffy sleeves, like in the 70's. I think she was a co-worker. She was into the donkey's and asked Steve if she could come and see them. She seemed to really like Steve, in spite of his habits."
"You mean the constant spitting?"
"And he's always adjusting his junk and has a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. We had him over for dinner one time. He had his arm around the plate, his face near the food, shoveling it in." Steve is the youngest of twelve. It was likely a survival tactic.
Steve was like a stealth. I would be doing something outside or in the shed, turn around, and there he was. When I was plowing his driveway he hopped up on the back of tractor. Scared the shit out of me. He reminded me of Lurch, a prison guard where I had been a guest of the state.
Lurch liked to sneak around and catch women having sex. Before sending them to the hole, he would let them finish. One night I was in the basement doing my laundry and stitching a voodoo doll. He comes up behind me and says to me in his deep voice, "Very good work" then disappeared back into the dark.
Then the neighbor and I got to talking over the fence. He was drinking rum. I was working on a case of Stella. Ben was young enough to be my son. He worked as a guard at the prison and lived with the Steve, also a prison guard. Ben was a gym rat and played baseball. In the summer, the donkey's, alpaca's and llama's kept the grass down in Steve's fenced field. Ben and I proceeded to get drunk.
"So are you guy's a couple?" I asked. Dave and I thought so. The summer before, they had been painting Steve's fence along the road. Ben was working in short shorts with no shirt. It looked pretty condemning.
"Hell no. I am not gay." Dave and I referred to him as Bengay.
"Don't the guys at work give you shit about living together?"
"Not really." Maybe not to their faces. "Steve is real weird about me having girls over. I have to go to their places."
"He brought a girl here once."
"No way. What did she look like? I've never seen him with a girl."
"She was a little cross-eyed, a little stocky, dishwater hair. She was wearing a button down shirt with puffy sleeves, like in the 70's. I think she was a co-worker. She was into the donkey's and asked Steve if she could come and see them. She seemed to really like Steve, in spite of his habits."
"You mean the constant spitting?"
"And he's always adjusting his junk and has a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. We had him over for dinner one time. He had his arm around the plate, his face near the food, shoveling it in." Steve is the youngest of twelve. It was likely a survival tactic.
Steve was like a stealth. I would be doing something outside or in the shed, turn around, and there he was. When I was plowing his driveway he hopped up on the back of tractor. Scared the shit out of me. He reminded me of Lurch, a prison guard where I had been a guest of the state.
Lurch liked to sneak around and catch women having sex. Before sending them to the hole, he would let them finish. One night I was in the basement doing my laundry and stitching a voodoo doll. He comes up behind me and says to me in his deep voice, "Very good work" then disappeared back into the dark.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Facelift Update
Gramma
Less than two weeks into recovery the weather began to vacillate forty degrees in a twenty-four hour period, warm and sunny and then snowing. I like to go outside in the spring and come back in when the snow flies in late fall. My peacocks were screaming "Help, help." The males were fanning their tails and rattling them at the girls to say "You want me, you want me." I was anxious to get outside and do yard work. I asked Dr. Jess when I could start picking up dog bombs and sticks.
"Try a half hour, then wait a few hours and see how it feels." It did not feel good the first half hour. The blood rushed to my face, the stitches pulled. My face was still swelled and tight. It would have to wait. Meanwhile, I worked on finishing an ugly crazy quilt my friend Jo wanted for her son. I was using purple Crown Royale bags he had saved up from his drink of choice, In exchange, Jo would crochet me a peacock design afghan.
On a visit to Dr. Jess, I asked when the wattle under my chin would go away. "You have to be patient. It will go away eventually. If not, there is a fat dissolving injectable we can use." Then she injected some filler into my cheeks. "Come back in two weeks and we will see if more is needed." She liked to err on the side of caution about not putting too much in at once.
The swelling continued going down. My face was less numb. I obsessed about the wattle. I thought my face was starting to look like Bruce Jenner's. My social calendar was getting busy with a granddaughter's birthday party, Easter, a club meeting, my birthday and the Defrost your Nuts Run. I was taking the grandkids for the week of spring break.
The Nutz run was a no go, as it was cold and threatening to snow. Even Dave stayed home and he is a diehard. The following Saturday was the Flood Run. The weather was in the 80's. I was looking forward to taking the P-cnt out. My license plate is the punch line to "What do you call a female peacock?" A peacunt of course. It is custom painted with peacock feathers all over it. When I applied for the plates I was riding a police bike. I told the DMV That the letters stood for Police, can not ticket. That bike was also custom painted like a peacock tail. I had easily transferred the plate to the next bike, and FLH, another full dress Harley.
I could not go on the run. We had gone out with friends the night before and I had the fish fry. Greasy food does not agree with me and I paid the price by being in the bathroom all night. Riding tired and needing a bathroom handy were not ride options. There were thousands of people on the run, parking was impossible and I could imagine the bathroom lines. I took some anti-diarrheal tablets and went back to bed. About noon the dogs and I went outside to enjoy the day.
The water in the pond glistened, the birds were singing, the peacocks screamed all day and the yard was greening up. It was a perfect day for drinking beer. The neighbor across the pond held up his drink and I held up my beer. Cheers.
Less than two weeks into recovery the weather began to vacillate forty degrees in a twenty-four hour period, warm and sunny and then snowing. I like to go outside in the spring and come back in when the snow flies in late fall. My peacocks were screaming "Help, help." The males were fanning their tails and rattling them at the girls to say "You want me, you want me." I was anxious to get outside and do yard work. I asked Dr. Jess when I could start picking up dog bombs and sticks.
"Try a half hour, then wait a few hours and see how it feels." It did not feel good the first half hour. The blood rushed to my face, the stitches pulled. My face was still swelled and tight. It would have to wait. Meanwhile, I worked on finishing an ugly crazy quilt my friend Jo wanted for her son. I was using purple Crown Royale bags he had saved up from his drink of choice, In exchange, Jo would crochet me a peacock design afghan.
On a visit to Dr. Jess, I asked when the wattle under my chin would go away. "You have to be patient. It will go away eventually. If not, there is a fat dissolving injectable we can use." Then she injected some filler into my cheeks. "Come back in two weeks and we will see if more is needed." She liked to err on the side of caution about not putting too much in at once.
The swelling continued going down. My face was less numb. I obsessed about the wattle. I thought my face was starting to look like Bruce Jenner's. My social calendar was getting busy with a granddaughter's birthday party, Easter, a club meeting, my birthday and the Defrost your Nuts Run. I was taking the grandkids for the week of spring break.
The Nutz run was a no go, as it was cold and threatening to snow. Even Dave stayed home and he is a diehard. The following Saturday was the Flood Run. The weather was in the 80's. I was looking forward to taking the P-cnt out. My license plate is the punch line to "What do you call a female peacock?" A peacunt of course. It is custom painted with peacock feathers all over it. When I applied for the plates I was riding a police bike. I told the DMV That the letters stood for Police, can not ticket. That bike was also custom painted like a peacock tail. I had easily transferred the plate to the next bike, and FLH, another full dress Harley.
I could not go on the run. We had gone out with friends the night before and I had the fish fry. Greasy food does not agree with me and I paid the price by being in the bathroom all night. Riding tired and needing a bathroom handy were not ride options. There were thousands of people on the run, parking was impossible and I could imagine the bathroom lines. I took some anti-diarrheal tablets and went back to bed. About noon the dogs and I went outside to enjoy the day.
The water in the pond glistened, the birds were singing, the peacocks screamed all day and the yard was greening up. It was a perfect day for drinking beer. The neighbor across the pond held up his drink and I held up my beer. Cheers.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Friendship Out the Door
Gramma
Jodi decided she would move to Florida to live with her sister Judi. This had been her long term plan after retirement. Judi has a good government job and Jodi could continue to sponge off her. Judi was always giving her money. I suspect she was subsidizing the rent. She had just paid for Jodi and her son to accompany her on a trip to Hawaii.
A pod showed up in front of the rental. A bench she had taken of mine was in the way. I found it upside down in the nearby flower bed. It was the beginning of another tantrum. Over the years, she had claimed that I was her best friend. I was her only friend and I didn't like her much, but took pity.
Judi helped her pack up. She gave me a big hug and said how much she would miss visiting me. More sisters showed up to help. I poked my head in every now and then to see how things were going.
"Why is the door to the bedroom missing?"
"It's mine. I'm taking it with me."
"No. You need to reinstall it."
"No. I paid for it and I paid your son to install it."
"That was not the agreement, or I would never have let you install it. You said that you did not mind paying for it because the rent was so low. Put it back."
The door was nice. It was a French door she had found at a garage sale. I knew she would not listen to me, as this had been her habit over the years. When Dave got home, he blew a nut and went out to set her straight. This would not be good.
"We have always bent over backwards to accommodate you. I've had rental property and this is not how things are done. Put it back," he ordered in no uncertain terms. Her sisters all sat there silent.
"Jodi, I have given you around $25,000 in rent subsidies over the years you have been here and this is how you repay my generosity? You need to put all the doors back in--the bedroom, bathroom, laundry room and pantry," I said. "And put the shelves back in the pantry." She had put a bookshelf full of nick-nacks in the pantry..
Like so many other things she had done without permission, she had removed the doors and put them in the pole shed for storage. Why anyone would not want a bathroom door is beyond me. She had hung a curtain in it's place. Maybe she was afraid of the boogeyman hiding behind the doors.
The next day the entire extended family showed up to fill the pod. They all gave me the cold shoulder--over a door. The yard was a parking lot. I worked outside all day raking garden beds.
Dave and I returned home after an evening out. All was quiet and dark with no cars around. The door was gone and the one in it's place did not shut properly. There was still no bathroom door. A new white bi-fold door was leaning against the wall. Who puts a bi-fold door in a bathroom? Jodi.
Jodi decided she would move to Florida to live with her sister Judi. This had been her long term plan after retirement. Judi has a good government job and Jodi could continue to sponge off her. Judi was always giving her money. I suspect she was subsidizing the rent. She had just paid for Jodi and her son to accompany her on a trip to Hawaii.
A pod showed up in front of the rental. A bench she had taken of mine was in the way. I found it upside down in the nearby flower bed. It was the beginning of another tantrum. Over the years, she had claimed that I was her best friend. I was her only friend and I didn't like her much, but took pity.
Judi helped her pack up. She gave me a big hug and said how much she would miss visiting me. More sisters showed up to help. I poked my head in every now and then to see how things were going.
"Why is the door to the bedroom missing?"
"It's mine. I'm taking it with me."
"No. You need to reinstall it."
"No. I paid for it and I paid your son to install it."
"That was not the agreement, or I would never have let you install it. You said that you did not mind paying for it because the rent was so low. Put it back."
The door was nice. It was a French door she had found at a garage sale. I knew she would not listen to me, as this had been her habit over the years. When Dave got home, he blew a nut and went out to set her straight. This would not be good.
"We have always bent over backwards to accommodate you. I've had rental property and this is not how things are done. Put it back," he ordered in no uncertain terms. Her sisters all sat there silent.
"Jodi, I have given you around $25,000 in rent subsidies over the years you have been here and this is how you repay my generosity? You need to put all the doors back in--the bedroom, bathroom, laundry room and pantry," I said. "And put the shelves back in the pantry." She had put a bookshelf full of nick-nacks in the pantry..
Like so many other things she had done without permission, she had removed the doors and put them in the pole shed for storage. Why anyone would not want a bathroom door is beyond me. She had hung a curtain in it's place. Maybe she was afraid of the boogeyman hiding behind the doors.
The next day the entire extended family showed up to fill the pod. They all gave me the cold shoulder--over a door. The yard was a parking lot. I worked outside all day raking garden beds.
Dave and I returned home after an evening out. All was quiet and dark with no cars around. The door was gone and the one in it's place did not shut properly. There was still no bathroom door. A new white bi-fold door was leaning against the wall. Who puts a bi-fold door in a bathroom? Jodi.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Raising the Rent
Gramma
Raising the rent needed to happen. I have only raised the rent twice since Jodi has been here. Both times she has thrown tantrums. Last time I had to call her sister because she was having a breakdown. The rent is very reasonable. And, she has rarely helped with anything. Dave, the financial advisor, and a friend who wanted to rent it were all for a hundred dollar minimum increase. So I decided on fifty dollars.
All attempts to deliver the news in person were thwarted by her need to be pot infused and in bed enjoying the effects. I opted to write her a nice notecard stating the increase and offering my apologies for not delivering the news in person, as she was never available. I get a text asking me to come out and talk to her. Again, always in bed, never available. She could come up to the house. I was usually home.
She left me a notecard saying she couldn't afford the increase and would be moving. I rejoiced. A girlfriend wanted to rent it in the fall when her lease was up. The reality was that Jodi could afford the increase if she picked up a few extra hours at work. She hadn't worked a forty hour week in years. But, alas, too stubborn and lazy, she would move in with her aged mother. They did not get along well. The pot would be a problem, as the penchant for the supine position.
I put an ad on Craig's List for a summer rental option, The first call was from a bubbly cleaning lady. She planned to move to Florida in the fall to live with her son. The place she was renting had been sold. She would get me some money to hold it for her. A few days later, she texted to say she was moving to Florida early. Turns out I had dodged a bullet. Friends new who she was and that she liked meth and other drugs, including a constant flow of younger men picked up at the bar.
Meanwhile, I had turned down others who were interested. The next caller claimed to be a grad student at a college over a hundred miles away. He was studying something that made me think of bomb making. His foreign accent was difficult to understand and I had to keep asking him to repeat himself. He had a job lined up about four miles away, which he would get to on his bicycle. I was glad when he didn't call back. I didn't want to have to call the FBI about all the incendiary devices I had imagined would be under construction.
Caller number three was a harness racer. He wanted something for the summer that would be close to the racing casino. As he was four hours into Wisconsin, he would send his girlfriend's mother to look at it. Then he texted to ask if he could bring his dog, I interviewed the dog. Cujo was a neutered mastiff, got along with other animals, including cats, and wasn't a barker. He would go to work with his owner. His person agreed to pick up the dog bombs.
The mother came in her Cadillac SUV to look at the place. She was impressed. Then I get a text from the girlfriend. "Can I bring a couple friends to live with us." What next. the horses and the goat and the pig they had? "No. There is not enough parking and it would be too much traffic. It would be too chaotic for us."
"We will have to pass then."
Good. I had envisioned the parties with her friends drinking and drugging and thinking our stuff was theirs. We considered leaving the guesthouse unrented for the summer.
Raising the rent needed to happen. I have only raised the rent twice since Jodi has been here. Both times she has thrown tantrums. Last time I had to call her sister because she was having a breakdown. The rent is very reasonable. And, she has rarely helped with anything. Dave, the financial advisor, and a friend who wanted to rent it were all for a hundred dollar minimum increase. So I decided on fifty dollars.
All attempts to deliver the news in person were thwarted by her need to be pot infused and in bed enjoying the effects. I opted to write her a nice notecard stating the increase and offering my apologies for not delivering the news in person, as she was never available. I get a text asking me to come out and talk to her. Again, always in bed, never available. She could come up to the house. I was usually home.
She left me a notecard saying she couldn't afford the increase and would be moving. I rejoiced. A girlfriend wanted to rent it in the fall when her lease was up. The reality was that Jodi could afford the increase if she picked up a few extra hours at work. She hadn't worked a forty hour week in years. But, alas, too stubborn and lazy, she would move in with her aged mother. They did not get along well. The pot would be a problem, as the penchant for the supine position.
I put an ad on Craig's List for a summer rental option, The first call was from a bubbly cleaning lady. She planned to move to Florida in the fall to live with her son. The place she was renting had been sold. She would get me some money to hold it for her. A few days later, she texted to say she was moving to Florida early. Turns out I had dodged a bullet. Friends new who she was and that she liked meth and other drugs, including a constant flow of younger men picked up at the bar.
Meanwhile, I had turned down others who were interested. The next caller claimed to be a grad student at a college over a hundred miles away. He was studying something that made me think of bomb making. His foreign accent was difficult to understand and I had to keep asking him to repeat himself. He had a job lined up about four miles away, which he would get to on his bicycle. I was glad when he didn't call back. I didn't want to have to call the FBI about all the incendiary devices I had imagined would be under construction.
Caller number three was a harness racer. He wanted something for the summer that would be close to the racing casino. As he was four hours into Wisconsin, he would send his girlfriend's mother to look at it. Then he texted to ask if he could bring his dog, I interviewed the dog. Cujo was a neutered mastiff, got along with other animals, including cats, and wasn't a barker. He would go to work with his owner. His person agreed to pick up the dog bombs.
The mother came in her Cadillac SUV to look at the place. She was impressed. Then I get a text from the girlfriend. "Can I bring a couple friends to live with us." What next. the horses and the goat and the pig they had? "No. There is not enough parking and it would be too much traffic. It would be too chaotic for us."
"We will have to pass then."
Good. I had envisioned the parties with her friends drinking and drugging and thinking our stuff was theirs. We considered leaving the guesthouse unrented for the summer.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
The Guest House
Gramma
To get dressed or not to get dressed. That is the question of the day. I'm not going anywhere so I don't see the point of it. The heating guy is coming this morning to give an estimate on the replacement of a heat storage unit in the "guest house." The apartment is inside the pole shed. It is beautiful and spacious with a cathedral ceiling, stained glass fixtures, and wheelchair accessibility. I could live there when I am old and need one level.
The current renter has been there ten years. She makes me batshit crazy. Dumber than a box of rocks, couldn't figure out recycling, easily flustered, and liked to take my stuff for her own use. The apartment is full of things that were stored in the pole shed. I would find disappeared yard furniture or decorations I was looking for on her porch or in her fenced yard. This is all without permission.
Jodi brought her extended family along when she first came to look at the place. She was divorced and had two grown children. Her family vouched for her excessive cleanliness, keen decorating expertise and dependability. She asked if there was any way I could lower the rent so she wouldn't be "Pour." I was put off by this, but after careful consideration of the rash of very bad tenants we had endured, she seemed like a less troublesome sort. She had worked at the local hospital for years and would be living alone with her cat. Peace and quiet was worth something.
With the understanding that she would help with the animals and yard work, I gave her a monthly discount of a hundred dollars. She was very quiet and kept to herself. She also made no effort to help with anything. This is because she is a pothead. When she wasn't working, she was mostly laying on the couch deadheading with the cat. This was okay. I like the smell of pot and the sound of quiet. Sometimes she played jazz music loudly, but that was alright too.
There was low traffic and she drove really slow, everywhere, so another dog or chicken not being killed by a fast moving tenant or their friends and family was a good thing. But, she "borrowed" things.
Wearing my bathrobe, I would take my coffee outside to check on animals and look for new blooms in the gardens. Sometimes I dropped in on Jodi. I left my handmade cup out there one day. She would not give it back. It was the mate to one Dave had brought when he moved in.
"There's where I left my cup," I said one morning.
"No, my brother gave that to me as a gift," she claimed. I went so far as to ask if I could buy it from her. She said no, her mother had given it to her.
The estimate for the new heater was nearly $3000.00. I'm sure the candle wax melted in the vent contributed to it's demise. There was also candle wax melted into the carpet, which she tried to remove unsuccessfully. Good thing the weather was warming up. The other heater could keep up for now. Jodi liked to keep the apartment at nursing home temperature. The best thing I ever did out there was to make the electric separate. I knew I would have to raise the rent.
To get dressed or not to get dressed. That is the question of the day. I'm not going anywhere so I don't see the point of it. The heating guy is coming this morning to give an estimate on the replacement of a heat storage unit in the "guest house." The apartment is inside the pole shed. It is beautiful and spacious with a cathedral ceiling, stained glass fixtures, and wheelchair accessibility. I could live there when I am old and need one level.
The current renter has been there ten years. She makes me batshit crazy. Dumber than a box of rocks, couldn't figure out recycling, easily flustered, and liked to take my stuff for her own use. The apartment is full of things that were stored in the pole shed. I would find disappeared yard furniture or decorations I was looking for on her porch or in her fenced yard. This is all without permission.
Jodi brought her extended family along when she first came to look at the place. She was divorced and had two grown children. Her family vouched for her excessive cleanliness, keen decorating expertise and dependability. She asked if there was any way I could lower the rent so she wouldn't be "Pour." I was put off by this, but after careful consideration of the rash of very bad tenants we had endured, she seemed like a less troublesome sort. She had worked at the local hospital for years and would be living alone with her cat. Peace and quiet was worth something.
With the understanding that she would help with the animals and yard work, I gave her a monthly discount of a hundred dollars. She was very quiet and kept to herself. She also made no effort to help with anything. This is because she is a pothead. When she wasn't working, she was mostly laying on the couch deadheading with the cat. This was okay. I like the smell of pot and the sound of quiet. Sometimes she played jazz music loudly, but that was alright too.
There was low traffic and she drove really slow, everywhere, so another dog or chicken not being killed by a fast moving tenant or their friends and family was a good thing. But, she "borrowed" things.
Wearing my bathrobe, I would take my coffee outside to check on animals and look for new blooms in the gardens. Sometimes I dropped in on Jodi. I left my handmade cup out there one day. She would not give it back. It was the mate to one Dave had brought when he moved in.
"There's where I left my cup," I said one morning.
"No, my brother gave that to me as a gift," she claimed. I went so far as to ask if I could buy it from her. She said no, her mother had given it to her.
The estimate for the new heater was nearly $3000.00. I'm sure the candle wax melted in the vent contributed to it's demise. There was also candle wax melted into the carpet, which she tried to remove unsuccessfully. Good thing the weather was warming up. The other heater could keep up for now. Jodi liked to keep the apartment at nursing home temperature. The best thing I ever did out there was to make the electric separate. I knew I would have to raise the rent.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Sunday
Gramma
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
Friday, April 15, 2016
Home Alone II
Gramma
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Home Alone
Gramma
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
How Much Was That Gun
Gramma
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
The Day After
Gramma
As a side sleeper, laying on my back for three weeks with my head elevated was not to my liking. The body wants what it wants. Painkillers and sleeping pills were my friends for now. Every few hours I washed the sutures with hydrogen peroxide followed by a coating of Bacitracin.
My face felt every pothole on the way to the unveiling appointment. There was a miscommunication with the appointment time. After waiting twenty minutes in the community entryway, I called Dr. Jess's cell phone to see where she was. I could have used the extra half hour of sleep.
She carefully removed the bandages. I was relieved to have the stabbing pain of the drainage tubes gone. My face was swollen, but bruising was minimal. Nothing like the black eyes I had after an eye lift done in Mexico ten years back.
Dr. Jess bantered with Dave about how well things looked. Dave couldn't see any of the stitches and staples that pinched and hurt. Everything felt tight, stiff, not unlike plastic. I tried not to smile. Excessive smiling and laughing were frowned upon in the aftercare instructions. Inside I was ecstatic to be crossing this off my bucket list.
"I will see you in three days," chirped the ever-smiling Dr. Jess. I wrapped a scarf over my matted red hair. Putting on sunglasses was a no go. I hated squinting. It makes wrinkles.
The original plan was to drive myself to appointments, but I was not allowed to turn my head without turning my shoulders at the same time. This was an accident waiting to happen and the reason I needed to be healed by the start of bike season. Four weeks of this robotic movement was indicated. Dave could take me on Saturday. Then I was on my own.
As a side sleeper, laying on my back for three weeks with my head elevated was not to my liking. The body wants what it wants. Painkillers and sleeping pills were my friends for now. Every few hours I washed the sutures with hydrogen peroxide followed by a coating of Bacitracin.
My face felt every pothole on the way to the unveiling appointment. There was a miscommunication with the appointment time. After waiting twenty minutes in the community entryway, I called Dr. Jess's cell phone to see where she was. I could have used the extra half hour of sleep.
She carefully removed the bandages. I was relieved to have the stabbing pain of the drainage tubes gone. My face was swollen, but bruising was minimal. Nothing like the black eyes I had after an eye lift done in Mexico ten years back.
Dr. Jess bantered with Dave about how well things looked. Dave couldn't see any of the stitches and staples that pinched and hurt. Everything felt tight, stiff, not unlike plastic. I tried not to smile. Excessive smiling and laughing were frowned upon in the aftercare instructions. Inside I was ecstatic to be crossing this off my bucket list.
"I will see you in three days," chirped the ever-smiling Dr. Jess. I wrapped a scarf over my matted red hair. Putting on sunglasses was a no go. I hated squinting. It makes wrinkles.
The original plan was to drive myself to appointments, but I was not allowed to turn my head without turning my shoulders at the same time. This was an accident waiting to happen and the reason I needed to be healed by the start of bike season. Four weeks of this robotic movement was indicated. Dave could take me on Saturday. Then I was on my own.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Don't Make Me Look Fast
Gramma
Dave was just getting up as I was leaving. "See you later," I said, sounding as if I would be back good as new in a couple hours. Check-in was at 6:30. Bleary eyed, I read through several documents requiring my signature.
Two anesthesiologists introduced themselves. They would be tag teaming during the five hour surgery. Procedures were explained. It would have been nice to know in advance that I was going to be cathed. I would have prepped for this. At least it would be done while I was under.
Girlfriend was interested in having a lift and sat with me while I waited for the doctor to arrive. She watched as Dr. Jess parted my hair into little sections secured with rubber bands. "Incisions will be made in the hair line, behind the ears and under the chin," she explained. Drain tubes would be inserted behind my ears.
"I didn't know this was going to take five hours," I said. "I thought I would be home by early afternoon."
"No. It takes time to make hundreds of tiny stitches. It's not unusual to go over five hours." Good thing Dave was working late. "Don't make me look fast," I said, pulling my face back as if I was in a wind tunnel.
Surgery did go long. In the recovery room, Dr. Jess held a mirror up to my swollen face. "Everything went well," she smiled. Mummy bandages framed my face. Blood drained from the tubes behind my ears, staining the gown. Zombies had nothing over on me. My first thought was that I should be in bed when Dave got home. My release was complicated by high blood pressure. By the time we headed home, the sun was setting.
Dave took one look at me laying on the couch and said, "I hope you didn't do this for me."
"Nope, I did it for myself."
Dave was just getting up as I was leaving. "See you later," I said, sounding as if I would be back good as new in a couple hours. Check-in was at 6:30. Bleary eyed, I read through several documents requiring my signature.
Two anesthesiologists introduced themselves. They would be tag teaming during the five hour surgery. Procedures were explained. It would have been nice to know in advance that I was going to be cathed. I would have prepped for this. At least it would be done while I was under.
Girlfriend was interested in having a lift and sat with me while I waited for the doctor to arrive. She watched as Dr. Jess parted my hair into little sections secured with rubber bands. "Incisions will be made in the hair line, behind the ears and under the chin," she explained. Drain tubes would be inserted behind my ears.
"I didn't know this was going to take five hours," I said. "I thought I would be home by early afternoon."
"No. It takes time to make hundreds of tiny stitches. It's not unusual to go over five hours." Good thing Dave was working late. "Don't make me look fast," I said, pulling my face back as if I was in a wind tunnel.
Surgery did go long. In the recovery room, Dr. Jess held a mirror up to my swollen face. "Everything went well," she smiled. Mummy bandages framed my face. Blood drained from the tubes behind my ears, staining the gown. Zombies had nothing over on me. My first thought was that I should be in bed when Dave got home. My release was complicated by high blood pressure. By the time we headed home, the sun was setting.
Dave took one look at me laying on the couch and said, "I hope you didn't do this for me."
"Nope, I did it for myself."
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Countdown 2
It's the day before my facelift. Soon I can cross this off my bucket list. Hopefully it will be good for about ten years. I am planning to be off this planet by then. I will be seventy-two and I don't see the point in hanging out much past that.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Guessing Game
Two days before surgery Dave continued badgering me about what the surprise was. "No, I'm not getting my stomach flattened. No, we are not getting another animal."
"Will I like it?" he asked doubtfully.
"Probably not. But I don't care."
"Is it a pedicure?" On our anniversary one year, I had dragged him along with me to get pedicures. As there was free beer involved, he somewhat enjoyed it.
"Are you doing something to your face?"
"OKAY. YES, "I relented.
He seemed relieved. I pulled my neck skin up towards my ears. "I'm getting a neck lift," I said minimizing this by not giving any details.
He returned to watching garbage TV while looking at guns on his laptop.
I could now get a good night's sleep without feeling panicky over invented scenarios involving his reaction to my endeavors.
"Will I like it?" he asked doubtfully.
"Probably not. But I don't care."
"Is it a pedicure?" On our anniversary one year, I had dragged him along with me to get pedicures. As there was free beer involved, he somewhat enjoyed it.
"Are you doing something to your face?"
"OKAY. YES, "I relented.
He seemed relieved. I pulled my neck skin up towards my ears. "I'm getting a neck lift," I said minimizing this by not giving any details.
He returned to watching garbage TV while looking at guns on his laptop.
I could now get a good night's sleep without feeling panicky over invented scenarios involving his reaction to my endeavors.
Friday, April 8, 2016
Countdown 1
Gramma
I answered a rash of questions from by Dr. Jess. "Yes, I have been to the ER for faux heart attacks." My symptoms generally manifested after doing some particularly heavy activity, such as pulling a camper trailer uphill by myself or rearranging railroad ties by hand. My pulled muscle pain mimicked heart attack symptoms. Now I needed to get a pre-op that included an EKG. This could stall out the whole process. I was panicky that I would not get to check "face-lift" off my bucket list.
I had been planning this event for years and in earnest for several months. I did not realize how far out these things are scheduled. I needed this surgery to be healed before motorcycle season began and it wasn't looking good. During the recovery I would be unable to move my neck back and forth without using my entire upper body to turn in a robotic motion. I could not drive with this loss of visual acuity. Housework would be suspended for at least two weeks. Lounging is not something I do well. But, there would be pain meds to create the necessary condition of not giving a shit. And, there was always pot.
A chance cancellation allowed me the desired time frame for healing. I would only miss the Defrost Your Nutz Run in early April. It was usually cold and rainy, or snowy, or icy. There would still be road salt and grime. My bike is nice. I do not want this slop on it anyways.
A friend planned to drive me to the surgery center at five in the morning. The problem with this was that I would have to leave before my love left for work. He would therefore know something was up. I could tell him I was taking girlfriend for a procedure. She always has something going on with her health. She urged me to just tell him the truth. Dr. Jess also strongly suggested I tell him, as the surgery would be five hours long and things can happen.
A few weeks prior, I told Dave that he needed to take off work the day after surgery because there was going to be a surprise. As girlfriend had to work, I needed him to drive me to the post-op the following morning. Dave doesn't like surprises. He badgered girlfriend relentlessly while I was on vacation. She is having an extended stay with us, as her husband is a fucking cock-sucking bastard dick-faced prick.
I answered a rash of questions from by Dr. Jess. "Yes, I have been to the ER for faux heart attacks." My symptoms generally manifested after doing some particularly heavy activity, such as pulling a camper trailer uphill by myself or rearranging railroad ties by hand. My pulled muscle pain mimicked heart attack symptoms. Now I needed to get a pre-op that included an EKG. This could stall out the whole process. I was panicky that I would not get to check "face-lift" off my bucket list.
I had been planning this event for years and in earnest for several months. I did not realize how far out these things are scheduled. I needed this surgery to be healed before motorcycle season began and it wasn't looking good. During the recovery I would be unable to move my neck back and forth without using my entire upper body to turn in a robotic motion. I could not drive with this loss of visual acuity. Housework would be suspended for at least two weeks. Lounging is not something I do well. But, there would be pain meds to create the necessary condition of not giving a shit. And, there was always pot.
A chance cancellation allowed me the desired time frame for healing. I would only miss the Defrost Your Nutz Run in early April. It was usually cold and rainy, or snowy, or icy. There would still be road salt and grime. My bike is nice. I do not want this slop on it anyways.
A friend planned to drive me to the surgery center at five in the morning. The problem with this was that I would have to leave before my love left for work. He would therefore know something was up. I could tell him I was taking girlfriend for a procedure. She always has something going on with her health. She urged me to just tell him the truth. Dr. Jess also strongly suggested I tell him, as the surgery would be five hours long and things can happen.
A few weeks prior, I told Dave that he needed to take off work the day after surgery because there was going to be a surprise. As girlfriend had to work, I needed him to drive me to the post-op the following morning. Dave doesn't like surprises. He badgered girlfriend relentlessly while I was on vacation. She is having an extended stay with us, as her husband is a fucking cock-sucking bastard dick-faced prick.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Fountain of Vanity
Gramma
Upon return from California, I hit the ground running towards the Fountain of Vanity. Less than a week left before the big incision revision. Two years past, I found this highly esteemed lady plastic surgeon on the internet. She was plastic surgeon of the year in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine Best Of issue. So that you don't end up looking like a Picasso, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of doing your homework before you let someone rearrange your face.
As I spend all summer riding motorcycle and digging in the dirt, I had eons of sun damage, including some precancerous spots. Dr. Jess suggested I do a laser burn on my face. "You'll look ten years younger," she said. "It can be done in my office," she said. "It will be painful, but you will save a couple thousand dollars by not using a hospital," she said. "You will probably hate me for a little while, but the results will be worth it."
Dr. Jess showed me some before and after photos of clients who had experienced this procedure. "It will be painful and you will hate me for awhile," she said. Ten years younger was the hook.
"You can't hurt me. I have given birth and gotten divorced," I replied.
I cannot emphasize enough how painful this was. As I was screaming at one point, Dr. Jess opted not to laser my nose. Afterwards, my face looked like it had come into close contact with a UFO. It hurt worse than road rash. Afterwards, you must have a fairly sterile environment to come home to. Every few hours there is face cleaning of debris (dead skin), and reapplication of Aquaphor, which gets goo in and on everything. Unless you are into sado-masochism, I highly don't recommend it. At one point, I could not quit throwing up. Poor Dr. Jess was on the phone 40 miles away listening in horror as I re-enacted scenes from The Exorcist.
Dr. Jess assured me that a lower face lift would be a walk in the park compared to the laser treatment. And so it was that two years later I had enough money in my "Emergency Facelift Fund" to go through with it. The sagging of my neck and lack of definition in my jawline was a constant source of psychological torture for me. I played with my face nearly every day, pulling the wrinkles tight in perverse ways that made me look "Fast". Yes, I am pathetically vain and make no secret of it. I often referenced my "Emergency Facelift Fund" in relation to whatever catastrophe depleted it or a Craig's List sale that added to it.
Upon return from California, I hit the ground running towards the Fountain of Vanity. Less than a week left before the big incision revision. Two years past, I found this highly esteemed lady plastic surgeon on the internet. She was plastic surgeon of the year in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine Best Of issue. So that you don't end up looking like a Picasso, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of doing your homework before you let someone rearrange your face.
As I spend all summer riding motorcycle and digging in the dirt, I had eons of sun damage, including some precancerous spots. Dr. Jess suggested I do a laser burn on my face. "You'll look ten years younger," she said. "It can be done in my office," she said. "It will be painful, but you will save a couple thousand dollars by not using a hospital," she said. "You will probably hate me for a little while, but the results will be worth it."
Dr. Jess showed me some before and after photos of clients who had experienced this procedure. "It will be painful and you will hate me for awhile," she said. Ten years younger was the hook.
"You can't hurt me. I have given birth and gotten divorced," I replied.
I cannot emphasize enough how painful this was. As I was screaming at one point, Dr. Jess opted not to laser my nose. Afterwards, my face looked like it had come into close contact with a UFO. It hurt worse than road rash. Afterwards, you must have a fairly sterile environment to come home to. Every few hours there is face cleaning of debris (dead skin), and reapplication of Aquaphor, which gets goo in and on everything. Unless you are into sado-masochism, I highly don't recommend it. At one point, I could not quit throwing up. Poor Dr. Jess was on the phone 40 miles away listening in horror as I re-enacted scenes from The Exorcist.
Dr. Jess assured me that a lower face lift would be a walk in the park compared to the laser treatment. And so it was that two years later I had enough money in my "Emergency Facelift Fund" to go through with it. The sagging of my neck and lack of definition in my jawline was a constant source of psychological torture for me. I played with my face nearly every day, pulling the wrinkles tight in perverse ways that made me look "Fast". Yes, I am pathetically vain and make no secret of it. I often referenced my "Emergency Facelift Fund" in relation to whatever catastrophe depleted it or a Craig's List sale that added to it.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
San Francisco
Gramma
Back from a week of debauchery in colorful San Francisco. Drank much, ate much and laughed much. Hiked up and down the hilly streets and stairways until I yelled "Biatch Stop all-fuckin-ready," Biatch is a former cheerleader turned personal trainer. "Look, there's a nice tour bus," I pointed out hopefully. "The upper level is open. You can still get the fantastic views." The voice of sanity fell on deaf ears.
It was disturbing that I couldn't keep up. I had resurrected my elliptical trainer, exercise ball and hand weights nearly three months prior. Yet, the steep streets of San Francisco defeated me. Every ten feet I stopped to catch my breath and rally for the next uphill battle. I felt old.
Moonshine and I waited at the bottom of Ziggy Zaggy Street as Biatch bounced up and down the stairway of many pains to get a "better view" of the city. I prefer a better view of beer. A source of alcohol was found six blocks downhill.
After the brewhaus, we stumbled into our first Uber experience, The driver was happy to share the details of his job. Raul was a college student driving a shiny new car Uber had financed. He could choose his own hours. We were on a tight budget and happy to be instructed as to how we could get our first ride free.
Upon return to a home base we had found on Craig's List, more spirits were had. It wasn't long before I excused myself for bed. Within minutes, loud snoring was coming from my room.
Back from a week of debauchery in colorful San Francisco. Drank much, ate much and laughed much. Hiked up and down the hilly streets and stairways until I yelled "Biatch Stop all-fuckin-ready," Biatch is a former cheerleader turned personal trainer. "Look, there's a nice tour bus," I pointed out hopefully. "The upper level is open. You can still get the fantastic views." The voice of sanity fell on deaf ears.
It was disturbing that I couldn't keep up. I had resurrected my elliptical trainer, exercise ball and hand weights nearly three months prior. Yet, the steep streets of San Francisco defeated me. Every ten feet I stopped to catch my breath and rally for the next uphill battle. I felt old.
Moonshine and I waited at the bottom of Ziggy Zaggy Street as Biatch bounced up and down the stairway of many pains to get a "better view" of the city. I prefer a better view of beer. A source of alcohol was found six blocks downhill.
After the brewhaus, we stumbled into our first Uber experience, The driver was happy to share the details of his job. Raul was a college student driving a shiny new car Uber had financed. He could choose his own hours. We were on a tight budget and happy to be instructed as to how we could get our first ride free.
Upon return to a home base we had found on Craig's List, more spirits were had. It wasn't long before I excused myself for bed. Within minutes, loud snoring was coming from my room.
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