Bad Gramma,
I thought the last day of the month was yesterday. It's today. The rent is due the last day of the month, not the first. I called the renter and left a message that the rent was due. He is in the apartment, but not answering the door and the blinds are drawn. I send him a text to leave the rent in his entryway or on the counter in my house. No response. I have knocked three different times today. He's only been here a month. I take a sleeping pill with my other meds so I'm not obsessing about this all night.
In the morning I call and he hangs up on me three times. I text him that the rent is now past due and when is he going to pay it. He says, maybe next week. I ask him how soon he can get his stuff out of the apartment. Storage units are readily available. He says he is not moving. I say, you violated the rental agreement with the late rent. Put your stuff in a storage unit and couch surf. He says, no. I say I will start the eviction process. He says, let me know when the court date is.
I am online all morning trying to figure out how to proceed. I call help numbers. There are forms and forms and tenant rights that make it sound like he can live here forever. He can bring the late rent to court and then continue to live here and do it again the next month. Dave tries to call him and he doesn't answer. Dave texts him and says, answer your phone. The guy responds, who is this? I call my brother, who also has rental property.
We agree that renters are mostly assholes. He has done some pretty crazy shit to his bad renters. He says we will load up this guys shit and take it to his work place and drop it off. Or, we will leave it outside the gates and change the code and the locks on the rental unit. None of his suggestions are legal and I don't want to be in court. He says to call him back in a few hours and he will have a plan.
I search online for the renter's wife. I come up with a name and the name of the last realty company she worked for. I call and she is no longer there. I call my friend in real estate and ask her if she can help. She gets me this woman's phone number. I call and tell her what a douche her ex has been. I ask if he is at all violent. She says none of this sounds like her husband. She will call him and find out what's going on.
The renter calls me back and asks what's going on? He has received none of my calls or texts. He tells me today is the last day of the month and he was planning to pay me cash again at the end of the day. He is all concerned and apologetic. He wants to know what number I have been calling. It is not his number. I apologize profusely. He is relieved that there is not a problem. He thinks he shorted me $50.00 last month, so he will add it this month.
He asks if my friend is still moving in when the lease is up. No, I have told her she is too picky and it would ruin our friendship. I tell him the rent will be $50.00 more and to let me know if he is interested. I text his wife and thank her for helping me out. She says anytime. I am glad I didn't tell her about all the women he has over, which wouldn't be true, but I would go out of my way to make his life difficult. I am relieved, but my stomach is still in knots and I feel sick.
I was worried about my dogs, that they would be used for retaliation. I had a renter who took my cat for a ride. I found out what a miserable life Frank had suffered as a result. I was afraid my dogs would be poisoned, run over by this guy going too fast in the driveway, or let out of the gates and get hit by a car. They could be dropped off somewhere and I would never see them again or they would die a cruel death. I hate the idea of supervised outside time and keeping them inside if I am gone all day. They love being outside as much as I do. My dogs are my Xanax. My dogs are my people.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Friday, May 27, 2016
Swearing in Court
Gramma,
Apparently, the judge believed the renter's lies in court. I received notice that liability and damages were not proven by a preponderance of evidence, This was scrawled on the judgment by the judge. Someone got bad grades in penmanship. All my pictures were neatly labeled on the backs as to what the damage was and how it occurred. It is a rare occurrence for the court to actually do anything about perjury. There should be a swear jar.
I spent half the day trying to figure out how to file a simple Demand for Removal/Appeal From Conciliation Court to District Court, and an Affidavit of Good Faith. There was a $325.00 filing fee. I put it in the mail today, one copy went to the renter and one to the court.
The happygram should reach her tomorrow. I even put a pretty seal on the back to make it look like a candy. It will upset her weekend. She will be frazzled and indignant and complain to all of her family. I debated whether to file this paperwork, but I live to annoy and bitch needs annoying, especially after all the years she annoyed me.
I suspect that this case will be scheduled sometime far into the future, as the District Court is usually backed up like the cesspool that it is. In the process of finding filing information, I found the info necessary to file for garnishment of wages or disclosure of financial accounts. I'm glad it was raining today. I don't have the patience to spend a nice day doing this kind of thing.
I know of one female judge who hates having to take her turn in Small Claims Court. She is notoriously ill tempered, randomly making judgments without hearing the evidence. If a meeting of the minds is not hammered out in the mediation process, you will suffer her ire. Everyone in the courthouse is wary of the wrath of Atilla the Hun. Nobody dares enough to address the situation. Fear of retaliation or lack of give a shit?
For years, my observation is that the court is a fickle place, a crapshoot. In some fields of work, there is that whole code of not outing offenders--doctors, lawyers and police in particular. It's that not shitting in your own sandbox thing. In the ledger of favors owed and owing, one doesn't burn bridges. For many years, I have said there is only one thing I fear in this country, and that is the legal system.
Apparently, the judge believed the renter's lies in court. I received notice that liability and damages were not proven by a preponderance of evidence, This was scrawled on the judgment by the judge. Someone got bad grades in penmanship. All my pictures were neatly labeled on the backs as to what the damage was and how it occurred. It is a rare occurrence for the court to actually do anything about perjury. There should be a swear jar.
I spent half the day trying to figure out how to file a simple Demand for Removal/Appeal From Conciliation Court to District Court, and an Affidavit of Good Faith. There was a $325.00 filing fee. I put it in the mail today, one copy went to the renter and one to the court.
The happygram should reach her tomorrow. I even put a pretty seal on the back to make it look like a candy. It will upset her weekend. She will be frazzled and indignant and complain to all of her family. I debated whether to file this paperwork, but I live to annoy and bitch needs annoying, especially after all the years she annoyed me.
I suspect that this case will be scheduled sometime far into the future, as the District Court is usually backed up like the cesspool that it is. In the process of finding filing information, I found the info necessary to file for garnishment of wages or disclosure of financial accounts. I'm glad it was raining today. I don't have the patience to spend a nice day doing this kind of thing.
I know of one female judge who hates having to take her turn in Small Claims Court. She is notoriously ill tempered, randomly making judgments without hearing the evidence. If a meeting of the minds is not hammered out in the mediation process, you will suffer her ire. Everyone in the courthouse is wary of the wrath of Atilla the Hun. Nobody dares enough to address the situation. Fear of retaliation or lack of give a shit?
For years, my observation is that the court is a fickle place, a crapshoot. In some fields of work, there is that whole code of not outing offenders--doctors, lawyers and police in particular. It's that not shitting in your own sandbox thing. In the ledger of favors owed and owing, one doesn't burn bridges. For many years, I have said there is only one thing I fear in this country, and that is the legal system.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Windows 10 Went Rogue on Me
Gramma,
Windows 10 went rogue on me yesterday, installing itself on my computer without permission. So now I can't find an effing thing and will have to get the computer repair people to find my shit. This is why I haven't written on my blog. I don't like games, especially those that don't come with the rules.
Last night girlfriend stopped over for drinks. Neither of us felt well this morning. She didn't make it to work, again, because of her blood sugar levels crashing. I had to get it off my plate that I wouldn't be renting to her and why. She's too picky. The washer and dryer are old and mismatched. She wants all kinds of things changed. There will be no dog door installed.
She argued and I stood my ground. I said it would ruin our friendship. She nit picked at the weeds in the flower bed in front of the rental. A crew of Mexicans couldn't keep up with my yard. She will be finding a place of her own soon enough and I will have to find another decent renter. New rule here, no friends or family or those related to friends and family.
I like the invisible guy that lives there now. He said he didn't care if I repainted over the odd colors the last renter left behind. I'm sure he is not concerned that I have not yet weed whacked his yard. He comes and goes in the dark. Weeds are not a priority. There's no drama. Hopefully, he will pay the rent on time and I can tell him he can stay.
Windows 10 went rogue on me yesterday, installing itself on my computer without permission. So now I can't find an effing thing and will have to get the computer repair people to find my shit. This is why I haven't written on my blog. I don't like games, especially those that don't come with the rules.
Last night girlfriend stopped over for drinks. Neither of us felt well this morning. She didn't make it to work, again, because of her blood sugar levels crashing. I had to get it off my plate that I wouldn't be renting to her and why. She's too picky. The washer and dryer are old and mismatched. She wants all kinds of things changed. There will be no dog door installed.
She argued and I stood my ground. I said it would ruin our friendship. She nit picked at the weeds in the flower bed in front of the rental. A crew of Mexicans couldn't keep up with my yard. She will be finding a place of her own soon enough and I will have to find another decent renter. New rule here, no friends or family or those related to friends and family.
I like the invisible guy that lives there now. He said he didn't care if I repainted over the odd colors the last renter left behind. I'm sure he is not concerned that I have not yet weed whacked his yard. He comes and goes in the dark. Weeds are not a priority. There's no drama. Hopefully, he will pay the rent on time and I can tell him he can stay.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Hooker Pay on Hot Bench
Bad Gramma,
Spent the afternoon in small claims court. Dave and I took advantage of the mediation option, which of course went nowhere, but Dave got to rant. I asked Jody why she couldn't have taken the Hot Bench offer. She said she just doesn't have time for that. I say, you work four days a week, two of which are on the weekend and you couldn't fit this into your busy schedule. She lives with her mother now and has no other obligations. She could have made hooker pay on Hot Bench.
In court, Jody insisted that the screens and window cranks were missing when she moved in. In her mind, I helped her remove the doors and blinds. According to her, the place was a dump until she made many improvements. The "improvements" were not relevant to the damages.
She blamed my puppy for knocking over a burning candle and ruining the carpet. She makes up these kinds of stories all the time. I submitted pictures of damage and documentation to support my claim. I stated that most of what Jody said was fabricated. But, the lies sounded plausible.
We were the last case of the day. The Judge told one of the people in court that this wasn't court tv, so quit acting like it was. On the way home, Dave and I debated how the other rulings would go down. We didn't always agree. Now, we wait for a ruling to come in the mail.
Collection of the debt will be another pain in my ass. Usually, renters like to file bankruptcy, or think they can get by with not paying a judgement. I will have to figure out the process for garnishing wages. Now, I am hooked on watching the stupidity showcased on Hot Bench.
Spent the afternoon in small claims court. Dave and I took advantage of the mediation option, which of course went nowhere, but Dave got to rant. I asked Jody why she couldn't have taken the Hot Bench offer. She said she just doesn't have time for that. I say, you work four days a week, two of which are on the weekend and you couldn't fit this into your busy schedule. She lives with her mother now and has no other obligations. She could have made hooker pay on Hot Bench.
In court, Jody insisted that the screens and window cranks were missing when she moved in. In her mind, I helped her remove the doors and blinds. According to her, the place was a dump until she made many improvements. The "improvements" were not relevant to the damages.
She blamed my puppy for knocking over a burning candle and ruining the carpet. She makes up these kinds of stories all the time. I submitted pictures of damage and documentation to support my claim. I stated that most of what Jody said was fabricated. But, the lies sounded plausible.
We were the last case of the day. The Judge told one of the people in court that this wasn't court tv, so quit acting like it was. On the way home, Dave and I debated how the other rulings would go down. We didn't always agree. Now, we wait for a ruling to come in the mail.
Collection of the debt will be another pain in my ass. Usually, renters like to file bankruptcy, or think they can get by with not paying a judgement. I will have to figure out the process for garnishing wages. Now, I am hooked on watching the stupidity showcased on Hot Bench.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
The Nut Hut
Bad Gramma,
My son's girlfriend is in the nut hut. (And, yes, I can use the term nut hut through appropriation from my personal experience there, and having family who also have been guests in the funhouse.) She and my son are both bi-polar. She decided not to take her meds. This is not uncommon to this segment of society. They think they are doing fine, so they don't need medication.
Girlfriend will be in the nut hut awhile. She had a "nervous breakdown" at work. My son lives on disability, supplemented by his job as a custodian at the YMCA. He tried taking computer classes with the idea of getting a decent paying full time job. It was too stressful for him. At least he tried.
When you are bi-polar, keeping things on an even keel is as important as taking your meds. So the current situation is causing duress. My son does not know how he will be able to pay the extra $500.00 in rent that girlfriend won't be able to contribute. Or pay for her food and other necessities. He is overwhelmed. Girlfriend's adult daughter is also living with them, and not paying her share.
Girlfriend has worked a rash of jobs. She doesn't seem to be able to keep one for very long. There is always some obstacle that can't be overcome. She bought a second-hand car using one of those scam places that gives payday loans. Yay. She will not be able to make the payments, and her bad decision will be repossessed. Bad financial choices are common to bi-polar people. My son is not good with money either.
I advised my son to make a list of things that need to change in this relationship. Then make a list of the positive things and the negative things. What can you not tolerate? This will make a clearer path to what needs to happen. His impulse is to call it a day with her, but they are good for each other. The dating scene for my forty-something son has been grim. I'm not sure trading for someone else is the answer.
I suggest that girlfriend move back in with her evil parents until she can get her shit in a pile. But, they already have a full house of nieces and nephews. I have to wonder what kind of money this is bringing in for them. They are users and abusers to their own children, which likely contributed to the onset of her mental illness. The streets are full of homeless people who didn't take their meds.
My son's girlfriend is in the nut hut. (And, yes, I can use the term nut hut through appropriation from my personal experience there, and having family who also have been guests in the funhouse.) She and my son are both bi-polar. She decided not to take her meds. This is not uncommon to this segment of society. They think they are doing fine, so they don't need medication.
Girlfriend will be in the nut hut awhile. She had a "nervous breakdown" at work. My son lives on disability, supplemented by his job as a custodian at the YMCA. He tried taking computer classes with the idea of getting a decent paying full time job. It was too stressful for him. At least he tried.
When you are bi-polar, keeping things on an even keel is as important as taking your meds. So the current situation is causing duress. My son does not know how he will be able to pay the extra $500.00 in rent that girlfriend won't be able to contribute. Or pay for her food and other necessities. He is overwhelmed. Girlfriend's adult daughter is also living with them, and not paying her share.
Girlfriend has worked a rash of jobs. She doesn't seem to be able to keep one for very long. There is always some obstacle that can't be overcome. She bought a second-hand car using one of those scam places that gives payday loans. Yay. She will not be able to make the payments, and her bad decision will be repossessed. Bad financial choices are common to bi-polar people. My son is not good with money either.
I advised my son to make a list of things that need to change in this relationship. Then make a list of the positive things and the negative things. What can you not tolerate? This will make a clearer path to what needs to happen. His impulse is to call it a day with her, but they are good for each other. The dating scene for my forty-something son has been grim. I'm not sure trading for someone else is the answer.
I suggest that girlfriend move back in with her evil parents until she can get her shit in a pile. But, they already have a full house of nieces and nephews. I have to wonder what kind of money this is bringing in for them. They are users and abusers to their own children, which likely contributed to the onset of her mental illness. The streets are full of homeless people who didn't take their meds.
Friday, May 20, 2016
Acme Tattoo
Bad Gramma,
Nolan, my tattoo artist, is well respected by his peers. His studio is full of awards earned since he started inking in the sixties. He is jacking up an old, faded tattoo of peacock feathers on my foot. The initial sting of the gun always makes me jump. After that, I relax and enjoy the distraction of talking about mutual friends and motorcycles.
He shows me his most recent custom design of a full back tat. There are skeletons, skulls, tombstones and attention to detail, like bats. It will take more than a year to install. He has designed a cross tattoo for my lower leg. The climbing rose has thorns.
I ask him to tell me his best motorcycle story. He tells me about how he spent two years in a body cast after a police chase that ended badly. His crime was speeding full throttle. Young and dumb, and back then it was how you got a trip to Nam after recovery. Judges gave miscreants a choice, jail or war.
His bike hit the edge of the road, did a complete flip, landed on the tires and kept going down the road without a rider. Nolan went flying like superman, until a tree got in his way. He is laughing now. Then he tells me about the time he was getting some wind therapy along the oceanfront, He caught a wave and got baptized. About a week later, the bike rusted. He hadn't bothered to rinse off the salt.
Both of us have read all the story books about motorcycling and the biker underworld. Nolan had a couple of ghostwriters attempt to transcribe his lifetime of stories. Neither of them had any experience with motorcycles. That would be like me writing a cookbook. I want to hear his stories. I ask him to excavate his buried material and let me look at it.
Two of my friends have full body tattoos by Nolan. I have decorated both of my feet and there is a "tramp stamp" on my lower back. Tattoos are like potato chips, you can't have just one.
Nolan, my tattoo artist, is well respected by his peers. His studio is full of awards earned since he started inking in the sixties. He is jacking up an old, faded tattoo of peacock feathers on my foot. The initial sting of the gun always makes me jump. After that, I relax and enjoy the distraction of talking about mutual friends and motorcycles.
He shows me his most recent custom design of a full back tat. There are skeletons, skulls, tombstones and attention to detail, like bats. It will take more than a year to install. He has designed a cross tattoo for my lower leg. The climbing rose has thorns.
I ask him to tell me his best motorcycle story. He tells me about how he spent two years in a body cast after a police chase that ended badly. His crime was speeding full throttle. Young and dumb, and back then it was how you got a trip to Nam after recovery. Judges gave miscreants a choice, jail or war.
His bike hit the edge of the road, did a complete flip, landed on the tires and kept going down the road without a rider. Nolan went flying like superman, until a tree got in his way. He is laughing now. Then he tells me about the time he was getting some wind therapy along the oceanfront, He caught a wave and got baptized. About a week later, the bike rusted. He hadn't bothered to rinse off the salt.
Both of us have read all the story books about motorcycling and the biker underworld. Nolan had a couple of ghostwriters attempt to transcribe his lifetime of stories. Neither of them had any experience with motorcycles. That would be like me writing a cookbook. I want to hear his stories. I ask him to excavate his buried material and let me look at it.
Two of my friends have full body tattoos by Nolan. I have decorated both of my feet and there is a "tramp stamp" on my lower back. Tattoos are like potato chips, you can't have just one.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Gordian Knot
Bad Gramma,
Yesterday was my monthly mental health tune up. I didn't have any Gordian knots to work out, so I was happy to hear all about my therapist's intended new direction with her work. I've got ten years on her and am in the gifted spectrum for how to tell someone to fuck off. She took notes. I want to tell these assholes she works for what's what and how.
They have created a hostile work environment with unrealistic productivity expectations. There is such a shortage of professionals in this state that we fly in psychiatrists to help cope with the case loads. This is not conducive to effectively helping the client. There needs to be a connection. Mental health is not an assembly line job.
We practiced the Minnesota Nice passive aggressive method, where you say something sort of pleasant, but twist a barb in there that leaves them with a nice mind fuck. And, NO, do not give them a mission statement for your vision of what their facility should be doing. Send that to the governor of our state, who will appreciate your talents and compensate accordingly when you are chosen for the new mental health task force.
We talk about self worth and the value of our talents. As part of the productivity push, her employer is assigning a nurse and another therapist to sit in on her sessions to see where time can be cut and money saved. The only way productivity will increase is if she wears a diaper all day. I do not want two extra people in the room when I am talking about my shit. This plan is actually a covert training mission for taking over when she is gone.
They will be sorry when she leaves for greener pastures. Dave and I will follow her like groupies wherever she goes. So go forth and create your happiness. Oh, and tell those bitches how much you will miss them. Be sure and leave your business card.
Yesterday was my monthly mental health tune up. I didn't have any Gordian knots to work out, so I was happy to hear all about my therapist's intended new direction with her work. I've got ten years on her and am in the gifted spectrum for how to tell someone to fuck off. She took notes. I want to tell these assholes she works for what's what and how.
They have created a hostile work environment with unrealistic productivity expectations. There is such a shortage of professionals in this state that we fly in psychiatrists to help cope with the case loads. This is not conducive to effectively helping the client. There needs to be a connection. Mental health is not an assembly line job.
We practiced the Minnesota Nice passive aggressive method, where you say something sort of pleasant, but twist a barb in there that leaves them with a nice mind fuck. And, NO, do not give them a mission statement for your vision of what their facility should be doing. Send that to the governor of our state, who will appreciate your talents and compensate accordingly when you are chosen for the new mental health task force.
We talk about self worth and the value of our talents. As part of the productivity push, her employer is assigning a nurse and another therapist to sit in on her sessions to see where time can be cut and money saved. The only way productivity will increase is if she wears a diaper all day. I do not want two extra people in the room when I am talking about my shit. This plan is actually a covert training mission for taking over when she is gone.
They will be sorry when she leaves for greener pastures. Dave and I will follow her like groupies wherever she goes. So go forth and create your happiness. Oh, and tell those bitches how much you will miss them. Be sure and leave your business card.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Aging ungratefully
Gramma
There wasn't much wind today, so I decided to wage war on the weeds using the backpack sprayer. Then I planned to do some weed-wacking. Five hours of spraying and I went in to make dinner. There are more weeds to kill.
I am not a great cook, but I made an effort today. Epic fail with cauliflower, chicken, bacon, portabella mushrooms, sour cream and cheese. Sounds good, but not so much. And, the kitchen is a mess. The dogs will probably get lucky later this week.
Gone are the days when I could work outside for eight hours and still clean up the kitchen. I would go back out after dinner and do some more stuff. Now I shuffle off to bed before dark. If I forget something downstairs, it stays there. Just me and my cat, listening to the frogs and the wind chimes, waiting for death.
There wasn't much wind today, so I decided to wage war on the weeds using the backpack sprayer. Then I planned to do some weed-wacking. Five hours of spraying and I went in to make dinner. There are more weeds to kill.
I am not a great cook, but I made an effort today. Epic fail with cauliflower, chicken, bacon, portabella mushrooms, sour cream and cheese. Sounds good, but not so much. And, the kitchen is a mess. The dogs will probably get lucky later this week.
Gone are the days when I could work outside for eight hours and still clean up the kitchen. I would go back out after dinner and do some more stuff. Now I shuffle off to bed before dark. If I forget something downstairs, it stays there. Just me and my cat, listening to the frogs and the wind chimes, waiting for death.
Monday, May 16, 2016
Making Memories
Gramma
Had the grandkids for the weekend. Started Friday after school with some garage-saling on the way home and a stop at the Dairy Queen for ice cream. Fresh baked bread, which they love, was dinner. They don't get "good" food at grammas. Saturday morning, there were home-made cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Made a trip to town to get provisions for chocolate chip cookies for lunch.
While in town, we scanned the Goodwill and Helping Hand for "stuff." Fee came away with two pairs of new silver sandals, and an insulated water bottle. It's just like the one her best friend has. Bubba found a truck that does one trick. It's just like the one his best friend has. Neither wants anything to do with the stew I made for Dave. Pizza rolls for dinner. Gross.
The kids love bedtime. We read a story, and then another and another. They each have a heated lap warmer on their beds. They let me sleep in while they take turns playing on the I-Pad in bed or watch cartoons and turn on the fireplace to warm up the living room. As soon as I'm up, they want chocolate milk, donuts, and/or sugar based cereal. My offer of eggs is turned down.
Even though it's cold, they want to be outside making parade laps around the driveway with the scooter they got for Christmas. Periodically, they come in to refuel with sugar and warm up in front of the fireplace. While I am seriously cleaning and organizing my shed/she cave, they play with the toy inventory. Meanwhile, mom posts on Facebook that she is bored without the kids. Take a nap already.
Sunday is a short day. I give them their choice of which playhouse to clean. Up to the treehouse we climb with supplies. Bubba loses interest first and plays in the tube slide. Pretty soon I am finishing the job myself. But, it was about involving them in maintenance. One down, two to go. Next time. I send them home with the rest of the bread, sweet rolls, chocolate milk and more than half of the cookies, which I had a hard time resisting for breakfast this morning.
On the forty-minute trip to the halfway meeting place, which is a Dairy Queen, they watch a movie on the car DVD players. I drive a POS mini-van, but the inside is nice. I was a half hour off on the time, so we traipse through the local antique store. It has been a good weekend, no biting and no more than the usual arguing over who's turn it is. When I am old, will they still visit me? The reality is, not so much. I already tell them to bring me beer when I am in the nursing home. I miss them already.
Had the grandkids for the weekend. Started Friday after school with some garage-saling on the way home and a stop at the Dairy Queen for ice cream. Fresh baked bread, which they love, was dinner. They don't get "good" food at grammas. Saturday morning, there were home-made cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Made a trip to town to get provisions for chocolate chip cookies for lunch.
While in town, we scanned the Goodwill and Helping Hand for "stuff." Fee came away with two pairs of new silver sandals, and an insulated water bottle. It's just like the one her best friend has. Bubba found a truck that does one trick. It's just like the one his best friend has. Neither wants anything to do with the stew I made for Dave. Pizza rolls for dinner. Gross.
The kids love bedtime. We read a story, and then another and another. They each have a heated lap warmer on their beds. They let me sleep in while they take turns playing on the I-Pad in bed or watch cartoons and turn on the fireplace to warm up the living room. As soon as I'm up, they want chocolate milk, donuts, and/or sugar based cereal. My offer of eggs is turned down.
Even though it's cold, they want to be outside making parade laps around the driveway with the scooter they got for Christmas. Periodically, they come in to refuel with sugar and warm up in front of the fireplace. While I am seriously cleaning and organizing my shed/she cave, they play with the toy inventory. Meanwhile, mom posts on Facebook that she is bored without the kids. Take a nap already.
Sunday is a short day. I give them their choice of which playhouse to clean. Up to the treehouse we climb with supplies. Bubba loses interest first and plays in the tube slide. Pretty soon I am finishing the job myself. But, it was about involving them in maintenance. One down, two to go. Next time. I send them home with the rest of the bread, sweet rolls, chocolate milk and more than half of the cookies, which I had a hard time resisting for breakfast this morning.
On the forty-minute trip to the halfway meeting place, which is a Dairy Queen, they watch a movie on the car DVD players. I drive a POS mini-van, but the inside is nice. I was a half hour off on the time, so we traipse through the local antique store. It has been a good weekend, no biting and no more than the usual arguing over who's turn it is. When I am old, will they still visit me? The reality is, not so much. I already tell them to bring me beer when I am in the nursing home. I miss them already.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Planting Silk Flowers
Gramma
This year, my mother-in-law asked me to help plant fake flowers in her white square planters along the front of her porch and garage. She's in her eighties. Until now, we always filled the planters with real geraniums and white flowers that hung over the edges. I thought of the plastic flowers that were so popular in the 70's. Those wouldn't fade and look tired after a season. Her silk flowers from the dollar store will be faded by mid-summer. The look real enough from the street.
I admit that, for years, I have stuffed my window boxes with quality silk flowers that are good for two seasons. It's much easier to keep them alive, and there is no dead-heading. If the garden club I belonged to in another lifetime saw this, I would surely be condemned. But, I don't care. These flowers cost less than the real ones and I don't have to water them every day.
After I plant the fake flowers, I have even fluffed the dirt, I spray weed killer. Eleanor has made this from a recipe she found in a magazine. She also bothers to make her own laundry soap. Too much time on her hands. I hope the weed killer works so I can use it in my yard. Because of the birds and pets, I don't like to spray poison.
I am already over my calorie count and don't want Eleanor to make us something to eat. But it is her thing, and I comply. She always tries to pay me for things I do for her, like painting or mending. This time I put the forty dollars under my paper plate. Later, she will call me to complain. If I lived closer, it's a forty minute drive, she wouldn't have to pay for yard work. She tells me how she puts the salt in the water softener a cup at a time, until she can get someone to dump the bag.
If the weather was nice, I would have hurried back home to work in my own yard. Instead, we sit and visit for awhile. She says how lonely it is at night. When Glen was alive, there was another body in the room. Even when they weren't talking, it was a comfortable silence. During the day she is busy with friends, The phone rings often. She says how she hopes to die in her sleep. I tell her I want to be put to sleep when I am ready.
We talk about the old people warehouses. Neither of us want's to be where your room is smaller than a prison cell, it is always noisy and smells of urine. I assure her that she should stay where she is. Even with the maintenance, it is cheaper in the long run. She has decided she needs a new roof more than she needs hearing aids.
The need to make this kind of choice annoys me. My step-mother also needs hearing aids, but can't afford them. I think the hearing aid industry is a scam. How can they be that expensive today. Why haven't they come down in price. Most of all, why doesn't insurance cover the cost. Unacceptable.
Eleanor has updated all her insurances and come out thousands of dollars a year richer. This appalls me. When she cancels the old insurance's, they want to know why and who she has switched to. She tells them it is none of their business and hangs up. She is angry and feels she has been scammed long enough.
She talks about how alienated she feels from some of the family she was once so close to, grandkids in particular. They drive by the house, but don't stop in. I know this is what happens when you are old, especially when you are in the old people warehouse. We swap childhood stories. I didn't know she was mostly raised by her grandmother. When her mother tried to take her for weekends, she would cry to go home and be with her aunts and uncles. I tell her stories. She says I should write a book. I didn't get much done today, but it wasn't wasted time.
This year, my mother-in-law asked me to help plant fake flowers in her white square planters along the front of her porch and garage. She's in her eighties. Until now, we always filled the planters with real geraniums and white flowers that hung over the edges. I thought of the plastic flowers that were so popular in the 70's. Those wouldn't fade and look tired after a season. Her silk flowers from the dollar store will be faded by mid-summer. The look real enough from the street.
I admit that, for years, I have stuffed my window boxes with quality silk flowers that are good for two seasons. It's much easier to keep them alive, and there is no dead-heading. If the garden club I belonged to in another lifetime saw this, I would surely be condemned. But, I don't care. These flowers cost less than the real ones and I don't have to water them every day.
After I plant the fake flowers, I have even fluffed the dirt, I spray weed killer. Eleanor has made this from a recipe she found in a magazine. She also bothers to make her own laundry soap. Too much time on her hands. I hope the weed killer works so I can use it in my yard. Because of the birds and pets, I don't like to spray poison.
I am already over my calorie count and don't want Eleanor to make us something to eat. But it is her thing, and I comply. She always tries to pay me for things I do for her, like painting or mending. This time I put the forty dollars under my paper plate. Later, she will call me to complain. If I lived closer, it's a forty minute drive, she wouldn't have to pay for yard work. She tells me how she puts the salt in the water softener a cup at a time, until she can get someone to dump the bag.
If the weather was nice, I would have hurried back home to work in my own yard. Instead, we sit and visit for awhile. She says how lonely it is at night. When Glen was alive, there was another body in the room. Even when they weren't talking, it was a comfortable silence. During the day she is busy with friends, The phone rings often. She says how she hopes to die in her sleep. I tell her I want to be put to sleep when I am ready.
We talk about the old people warehouses. Neither of us want's to be where your room is smaller than a prison cell, it is always noisy and smells of urine. I assure her that she should stay where she is. Even with the maintenance, it is cheaper in the long run. She has decided she needs a new roof more than she needs hearing aids.
The need to make this kind of choice annoys me. My step-mother also needs hearing aids, but can't afford them. I think the hearing aid industry is a scam. How can they be that expensive today. Why haven't they come down in price. Most of all, why doesn't insurance cover the cost. Unacceptable.
Eleanor has updated all her insurances and come out thousands of dollars a year richer. This appalls me. When she cancels the old insurance's, they want to know why and who she has switched to. She tells them it is none of their business and hangs up. She is angry and feels she has been scammed long enough.
She talks about how alienated she feels from some of the family she was once so close to, grandkids in particular. They drive by the house, but don't stop in. I know this is what happens when you are old, especially when you are in the old people warehouse. We swap childhood stories. I didn't know she was mostly raised by her grandmother. When her mother tried to take her for weekends, she would cry to go home and be with her aunts and uncles. I tell her stories. She says I should write a book. I didn't get much done today, but it wasn't wasted time.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Family Tradition
Gramma.
The other day, Dave was behind an Uber car with "Whiskey" plates on it. The WU prefix is used for drunk plates. A friend of mine just got a DUI. She likes her Jamison and lots of it. Dave has it figured out that by the time you are done paying the ticket, attorney fees, higher insurance and the cost of mandatory classes, it comes out to a good ten-thousand dollars. That buys a lot of beer.
I will admit that I have done my share of drunk driving, but never got caught. Dave doesn't drink a whole lot, as it gives him a headache. I can drink a case of beer and not get a hangover. I like when I can be the designated drunk. Since I do not have a spare ten-thousand dollars, I like that my girlfriends have spare beds in case my alcohol content gets too high.
I love beer, especially craft beers. I like my beer so cold it's just starting to form ice crystals. I'm always looking to broaden my knowledge base on the subject. The first thing I do in a new locale is to ask for a local beer. I have made my own beer, but I drink it so fast that it really doesn't pay, unless you enjoy the process.
My drinking began in utero. One of my earliest memories is of watching the bubbles in my grandfather's beer glass rise to the top. It was mesmerizing to me. As I kid, I toured plenty of Wisconsin breweries with relatives. I was never denied samples.
I remember going to Drive-In movies with my dad. He always brought beer. If he didn't want me to drink it, he shouldn't have left it in the backseat. So I come by my habit honestly. Drinking was a family affair.
Wisconsin tradition is not dead. Not all that long ago, we were in a rural Wisconsin bar when some grade school boys showed up on a snowmobile. They handed a note to the bartender, who sent them home with a paper bag full of beer. Well then.
My brush with a DUI came after a night of drinking in small town Wisconsin. "Why aren't your headlights on?" asked the officer. The streetlights were bright enough that I hadn't noticed they were not on. "Get out of the car," commanded the big, burly woman. I painstakingly pulled crutches from the passenger seat and attempted to get out. I was pathetic, She told me to get back in the car and turn on my headlights. I slowly drove away. They weren't even my crutches.
This is my favorite childhood picture. I think it should be the photo for an ad promoting high achievement.
The other day, Dave was behind an Uber car with "Whiskey" plates on it. The WU prefix is used for drunk plates. A friend of mine just got a DUI. She likes her Jamison and lots of it. Dave has it figured out that by the time you are done paying the ticket, attorney fees, higher insurance and the cost of mandatory classes, it comes out to a good ten-thousand dollars. That buys a lot of beer.
I will admit that I have done my share of drunk driving, but never got caught. Dave doesn't drink a whole lot, as it gives him a headache. I can drink a case of beer and not get a hangover. I like when I can be the designated drunk. Since I do not have a spare ten-thousand dollars, I like that my girlfriends have spare beds in case my alcohol content gets too high.
I love beer, especially craft beers. I like my beer so cold it's just starting to form ice crystals. I'm always looking to broaden my knowledge base on the subject. The first thing I do in a new locale is to ask for a local beer. I have made my own beer, but I drink it so fast that it really doesn't pay, unless you enjoy the process.
My drinking began in utero. One of my earliest memories is of watching the bubbles in my grandfather's beer glass rise to the top. It was mesmerizing to me. As I kid, I toured plenty of Wisconsin breweries with relatives. I was never denied samples.
I remember going to Drive-In movies with my dad. He always brought beer. If he didn't want me to drink it, he shouldn't have left it in the backseat. So I come by my habit honestly. Drinking was a family affair.
Wisconsin tradition is not dead. Not all that long ago, we were in a rural Wisconsin bar when some grade school boys showed up on a snowmobile. They handed a note to the bartender, who sent them home with a paper bag full of beer. Well then.
My brush with a DUI came after a night of drinking in small town Wisconsin. "Why aren't your headlights on?" asked the officer. The streetlights were bright enough that I hadn't noticed they were not on. "Get out of the car," commanded the big, burly woman. I painstakingly pulled crutches from the passenger seat and attempted to get out. I was pathetic, She told me to get back in the car and turn on my headlights. I slowly drove away. They weren't even my crutches.
This is my favorite childhood picture. I think it should be the photo for an ad promoting high achievement.
Be All That You Can Be
Friday, May 13, 2016
There's Disrespect and There's Disrespect
Gramma
Dave and I went riding with the club on Saturday. Just as we were firing up the bikes, a friend called wanting to join us. He just had to brush his teeth and put on his socks, fifteen minutes tops. We ended up a half hour late because of Dawdles, and that was beating ass when he finally showed up.
The guys had their club meeting in a park chalet while the girls sat outside on a picnic table. As Dawdles is not a club member, he had to stay outside with the girls. He pulled out a Swisher Sweets cigar. I said, "You're not going to smoke that by me are you? I have the asthma." He lit up anyway. The smoke got the best of me and I had to go get my inhaler.
Meanwhile, Dawdles sat down in my spot. On the way to the chalet steps I said to the girls, "I don't mean to be anti-social, but I can't breathe." A friend came over to BS with me. There was some loud yelling coming from inside, but nothing discernable.
Pretty soon one of the younger guys came tearing out, yelling to his wife, "Are you ready to go?" as he started the bike. He had been disrespectful to the older guys, calling them pussies for not doing his bidding. Dave told him what for and he left.
Dawdles doesn't know how to group ride. He lags a quarter mile behind the guy in front of him, so all the other guys are in a whole different time zone. Group riding done properly is staggered and looks like a tight unit of bikes moving as one. I'm not OCD, but it drives me nuts when people don't get this. I told Dave later that if Dawdles called to go riding with us again, it would just be the two of them.
It was beautiful riding on the back roads. I was proud of myself for only drinking two beers at the bar stops. The diet is paying off. But not today. It's raining and I have eaten two dough gobs (pastry), half a bag of chocolate chips and an ice cream bar. Dave is bringing home pizza. The fireplace is going and I would like to be binge watching Netflix.
Dave and I went riding with the club on Saturday. Just as we were firing up the bikes, a friend called wanting to join us. He just had to brush his teeth and put on his socks, fifteen minutes tops. We ended up a half hour late because of Dawdles, and that was beating ass when he finally showed up.
The guys had their club meeting in a park chalet while the girls sat outside on a picnic table. As Dawdles is not a club member, he had to stay outside with the girls. He pulled out a Swisher Sweets cigar. I said, "You're not going to smoke that by me are you? I have the asthma." He lit up anyway. The smoke got the best of me and I had to go get my inhaler.
Meanwhile, Dawdles sat down in my spot. On the way to the chalet steps I said to the girls, "I don't mean to be anti-social, but I can't breathe." A friend came over to BS with me. There was some loud yelling coming from inside, but nothing discernable.
Pretty soon one of the younger guys came tearing out, yelling to his wife, "Are you ready to go?" as he started the bike. He had been disrespectful to the older guys, calling them pussies for not doing his bidding. Dave told him what for and he left.
Dawdles doesn't know how to group ride. He lags a quarter mile behind the guy in front of him, so all the other guys are in a whole different time zone. Group riding done properly is staggered and looks like a tight unit of bikes moving as one. I'm not OCD, but it drives me nuts when people don't get this. I told Dave later that if Dawdles called to go riding with us again, it would just be the two of them.
It was beautiful riding on the back roads. I was proud of myself for only drinking two beers at the bar stops. The diet is paying off. But not today. It's raining and I have eaten two dough gobs (pastry), half a bag of chocolate chips and an ice cream bar. Dave is bringing home pizza. The fireplace is going and I would like to be binge watching Netflix.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
The Poisoning of a Dog
Gramma
My daughter texted me that her dog, Petra, had died. She was a sweet brindle pit bull who endured a lot of shit over her eleven years. My daughter got her used. She married a man who had no idea how to treat an animal with dignity, respect and love. The dogs cowered at the non-stop yelling and threat of physical abuse. But every day was a new slate and Petra and her friend Huxley always greeted him with happy tails and barking conversation.
My daughter had cervical cancer and can't have children. Her dogs are her babies. During one abusive tirade, her spousal unit held Petra up over his head and body slammed her on a ceramic tile floor. Then he took my daughter's keys so she couldn't take her to the vet, because he didn't want to get in trouble. Asshole. Petra limped for a long time. Then she came here to stay for awhile.
She really blossomed in a home with no yelling, no beatings, no stress. She would play with my dogs all day, then come inside exhausted and happy. She was so funny, trying to stuff her now fat self into a too small dog bed. She would sleep there curled up, looking like an overfilled muffin. But my neighbor did not like her ferocious barking at him. She had a good sense of character.
So Petra went back to Colorado, where I am sure she was sad because she couldn't run free with her friends. She had put on some weight. When she first came here, I told the grandkids to be nice to her because she had a hard life and needed to be loved. They fawned over her.
Due to some horrid circumstances that left my daughter homeless, Petra had to live with her abuser for awhile. My daughter would pick her up for a day or two on weekends when she could. Petra developed an ear infection that was ignored. By the time my daughter saw it, the ear had partially rotted. The vet had to remove most of it. Really, I could kill this fucker.
My daughter finally got a place of her own and took the dogs back. They were thin and nervous, afraid of their own shadows. They had been pooping in the house and throwing up. It was likely that they had not been taken outside regularly.
I can imagine my daughter's reaction to Petra's death. She was taken to the vet for a tox screen. She had been poisoned with strychnine while at the dog park. A dog belonging to a thirty year veteran of the police department had also been poisoned at the same park. The vet donated the cremation. The police department paid for the tox screening. A neighbor who does dog rescue called the news station to make the public aware.
I am sad for Petra, my daughter and Huxley who is confused by his friend's absence. My daughter reiterated how she hates people. I have the same reaction at the same moment when we exchanged texts. Dogs are family to us. They don't hurt your feelings and are always bringing love. The POS who did this better hope my daughter doesn't find him. I hope she doesn't find him. I don't want to visit her in jail.
My daughter texted me that her dog, Petra, had died. She was a sweet brindle pit bull who endured a lot of shit over her eleven years. My daughter got her used. She married a man who had no idea how to treat an animal with dignity, respect and love. The dogs cowered at the non-stop yelling and threat of physical abuse. But every day was a new slate and Petra and her friend Huxley always greeted him with happy tails and barking conversation.
My daughter had cervical cancer and can't have children. Her dogs are her babies. During one abusive tirade, her spousal unit held Petra up over his head and body slammed her on a ceramic tile floor. Then he took my daughter's keys so she couldn't take her to the vet, because he didn't want to get in trouble. Asshole. Petra limped for a long time. Then she came here to stay for awhile.
She really blossomed in a home with no yelling, no beatings, no stress. She would play with my dogs all day, then come inside exhausted and happy. She was so funny, trying to stuff her now fat self into a too small dog bed. She would sleep there curled up, looking like an overfilled muffin. But my neighbor did not like her ferocious barking at him. She had a good sense of character.
So Petra went back to Colorado, where I am sure she was sad because she couldn't run free with her friends. She had put on some weight. When she first came here, I told the grandkids to be nice to her because she had a hard life and needed to be loved. They fawned over her.
Due to some horrid circumstances that left my daughter homeless, Petra had to live with her abuser for awhile. My daughter would pick her up for a day or two on weekends when she could. Petra developed an ear infection that was ignored. By the time my daughter saw it, the ear had partially rotted. The vet had to remove most of it. Really, I could kill this fucker.
My daughter finally got a place of her own and took the dogs back. They were thin and nervous, afraid of their own shadows. They had been pooping in the house and throwing up. It was likely that they had not been taken outside regularly.
I can imagine my daughter's reaction to Petra's death. She was taken to the vet for a tox screen. She had been poisoned with strychnine while at the dog park. A dog belonging to a thirty year veteran of the police department had also been poisoned at the same park. The vet donated the cremation. The police department paid for the tox screening. A neighbor who does dog rescue called the news station to make the public aware.
I am sad for Petra, my daughter and Huxley who is confused by his friend's absence. My daughter reiterated how she hates people. I have the same reaction at the same moment when we exchanged texts. Dogs are family to us. They don't hurt your feelings and are always bringing love. The POS who did this better hope my daughter doesn't find him. I hope she doesn't find him. I don't want to visit her in jail.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Waiting for Rain
Gramma,
I am waiting for the rain. It's been ten days of beautiful, sunny weather and the yard is under control, except for the weeds. The earth is so dry that they break off instead of pull out. It has been hot, dry and windy so far this season. I worry about fires and stupid people who burn in their fire pits during the burning ban. They don't realize that the wind can gust and carry hot ashes to dry fields and forests. This happened in the nearby Carlos Avery Wildlife Sanctuary.
Some moron didn't put his fire all the way out and it started a massive burn that ate up 6,500 acres of wildlife habitat and houses. He has since moved out of state to get away from death threats and lawsuits. For days, airplanes hauling water flew so low, I thought they would hit our roof.
Dave and I had been out riding our bikes all day. On the way home, we stopped in town to get gas. I could see heavy black smoke coming from the direction of our house four miles away. I skipped the gas and beat ass home to find Dante's Inferno raging at the end of our dead end road, brilliant orange and red flames piercing the sky. The road was clogged with emergency vehicles, which despite protests, I maneuvered around to get home.
People were heading out with boat trailers, animal haulers and other vehicles carrying their possessions. Some had let their horses and livestock loose, hoping they could beat the flames and catch up with them later. Friends of ours pulled up with a bike trailer and hauled our bikes out. Dave threw some of his things in the back of my mini-van. Guns first and some clothes on top. I didn't know where to start.
There were turkeys, tons of them hurrying out of our woods, looking for a safe haven. It was then that I decided not to leave. So much had been lost to me through divorce that I said no. I was going down with my ship of beer. This wasn't just a ninety-year-old house to me. It represented my freedom. I had put all my anger and hostility into making a thing of beauty come alive again.
Since then, I have become more careful about my own fire making. I spray the air above the fire to keep live ashes from floating away. My tractor bucket is ready to push a pile of dirt over the ashes after dousing the flames. But last fall, I was burning leaves and branches on my little island in the pond when the fire crawled up a hole in a large, dead pine.
I called Dave on my cell phone, telling him to bring the fire extinguisher and hurry up about it. Even after I emptied it, a tail of smoke continued to come out of the tree hole. I put it out with beer. After shaking a can, I opened it into the hole. The spray went up the inside of the tree. It is always good to have beer nearby when burning. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I am waiting for the rain. It's been ten days of beautiful, sunny weather and the yard is under control, except for the weeds. The earth is so dry that they break off instead of pull out. It has been hot, dry and windy so far this season. I worry about fires and stupid people who burn in their fire pits during the burning ban. They don't realize that the wind can gust and carry hot ashes to dry fields and forests. This happened in the nearby Carlos Avery Wildlife Sanctuary.
Some moron didn't put his fire all the way out and it started a massive burn that ate up 6,500 acres of wildlife habitat and houses. He has since moved out of state to get away from death threats and lawsuits. For days, airplanes hauling water flew so low, I thought they would hit our roof.
Dave and I had been out riding our bikes all day. On the way home, we stopped in town to get gas. I could see heavy black smoke coming from the direction of our house four miles away. I skipped the gas and beat ass home to find Dante's Inferno raging at the end of our dead end road, brilliant orange and red flames piercing the sky. The road was clogged with emergency vehicles, which despite protests, I maneuvered around to get home.
People were heading out with boat trailers, animal haulers and other vehicles carrying their possessions. Some had let their horses and livestock loose, hoping they could beat the flames and catch up with them later. Friends of ours pulled up with a bike trailer and hauled our bikes out. Dave threw some of his things in the back of my mini-van. Guns first and some clothes on top. I didn't know where to start.
There were turkeys, tons of them hurrying out of our woods, looking for a safe haven. It was then that I decided not to leave. So much had been lost to me through divorce that I said no. I was going down with my ship of beer. This wasn't just a ninety-year-old house to me. It represented my freedom. I had put all my anger and hostility into making a thing of beauty come alive again.
Since then, I have become more careful about my own fire making. I spray the air above the fire to keep live ashes from floating away. My tractor bucket is ready to push a pile of dirt over the ashes after dousing the flames. But last fall, I was burning leaves and branches on my little island in the pond when the fire crawled up a hole in a large, dead pine.
I called Dave on my cell phone, telling him to bring the fire extinguisher and hurry up about it. Even after I emptied it, a tail of smoke continued to come out of the tree hole. I put it out with beer. After shaking a can, I opened it into the hole. The spray went up the inside of the tree. It is always good to have beer nearby when burning. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Mother's Day
Gramma,
My Mother's Day was sunny and warm, a perfect day for being outside. Before Dave left for his mother's, he took the time to take the snow blower and cab off the tractor so I could do my favorite thing, mow lawn. By now the lawn needed baling. It hasn't rained in a while, so there's a huge fire danger and mowing is dusty work, so I don't have a beer in hand. Smoke from the fire in Canada has reached this far south and there is an air quality advisory.
My bonus mom was on her way out the door when I called. We will talk tomorrow. I have talked to my girlfriend, who is having breakfast with her son. She plans to have a talk with him about how something he did hurt her feelings. She is justified. When I asked another girlfriend how her day was, she said, "A good Mother's Day is when they don't show up." So this is how it is for some of us, not a day of pampering, thanks and gifts.
My second eldest son called in the morning. He is not doing anything in particular today, but he is not coming over. I know not to expect a card or gift. But, I hit him up for things I need done as birthday, Mother's Day, or Christmas gifts. This year I asked him to install a new ceiling fan in the rental unit. It will take him less than an hour to swap out the fans, but it is a two person job. The ceiling is vaulted and we need two tall ladders.
I ask him what he got his pregnant wife for Mother's Day. Basically, nothing. He has offered to make her dinner. What a GUY. He is like his father, who told me that I was not his mother, so don't expect a gift. The kids should always go with their father to pick out something from them to her, but my ex has set the standard. I often help the kids make her something, but didn't get to it this year.
My eldest is coming over to cut up a few downed trees that are blocking my trail into the woods. Even though he is pretty dependable, I don't hold my breath. It's an hour drive and I know he will do it another day if necessary. I am used to being alone on holidays, if not physically, emotionally. It's just another day to do laundry, cook, clean and take care of necessary things.
My daughter texted that she would try to call later. "Later today, or later this year?" Dave quipped. Exactly. She did not call. Maybe I will get a late card. Meanwhile, I make a turkey breast, potato salad, and fresh bread for sandwiches in case anybody shows up. I am happy to mow lawn and drink three beers, one for each of my children.
My eldest brought his girlfriend and her daughter. He brought me the gift of his mending. We had a nice visit. As he was leaving I said, "You make me happy twice, when you come and when you go." We laugh because we know it is true and without malice. I spend the rest of the day with my dogs, who never hurt my feelings and are always concerned about how I am doing.
My Mother's Day was sunny and warm, a perfect day for being outside. Before Dave left for his mother's, he took the time to take the snow blower and cab off the tractor so I could do my favorite thing, mow lawn. By now the lawn needed baling. It hasn't rained in a while, so there's a huge fire danger and mowing is dusty work, so I don't have a beer in hand. Smoke from the fire in Canada has reached this far south and there is an air quality advisory.
My bonus mom was on her way out the door when I called. We will talk tomorrow. I have talked to my girlfriend, who is having breakfast with her son. She plans to have a talk with him about how something he did hurt her feelings. She is justified. When I asked another girlfriend how her day was, she said, "A good Mother's Day is when they don't show up." So this is how it is for some of us, not a day of pampering, thanks and gifts.
My second eldest son called in the morning. He is not doing anything in particular today, but he is not coming over. I know not to expect a card or gift. But, I hit him up for things I need done as birthday, Mother's Day, or Christmas gifts. This year I asked him to install a new ceiling fan in the rental unit. It will take him less than an hour to swap out the fans, but it is a two person job. The ceiling is vaulted and we need two tall ladders.
I ask him what he got his pregnant wife for Mother's Day. Basically, nothing. He has offered to make her dinner. What a GUY. He is like his father, who told me that I was not his mother, so don't expect a gift. The kids should always go with their father to pick out something from them to her, but my ex has set the standard. I often help the kids make her something, but didn't get to it this year.
My eldest is coming over to cut up a few downed trees that are blocking my trail into the woods. Even though he is pretty dependable, I don't hold my breath. It's an hour drive and I know he will do it another day if necessary. I am used to being alone on holidays, if not physically, emotionally. It's just another day to do laundry, cook, clean and take care of necessary things.
My daughter texted that she would try to call later. "Later today, or later this year?" Dave quipped. Exactly. She did not call. Maybe I will get a late card. Meanwhile, I make a turkey breast, potato salad, and fresh bread for sandwiches in case anybody shows up. I am happy to mow lawn and drink three beers, one for each of my children.
My eldest brought his girlfriend and her daughter. He brought me the gift of his mending. We had a nice visit. As he was leaving I said, "You make me happy twice, when you come and when you go." We laugh because we know it is true and without malice. I spend the rest of the day with my dogs, who never hurt my feelings and are always concerned about how I am doing.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Happy Estrangement Day
Gramma
It's the day after Mother's Day. My favorite Facebook post included a clip from the movie Mommy Dearest and a toast to all the brave kids who broke up with their toxic moms. After my sisters and I saw the movie, we referred to our mother as Mommy Dearest. There should be a Happy Estrangement Day for us.
Coincidentally, my mother's name was Joan. Late one night, Joan took me for a ride to the Ember's where she worked. We didn't go in. She was probably stalking someone. On the way there, she told me not to call her mother, but to call her Joan. I never called her mother after that. It was meant as a barb on my part, but I don't think she noticed or cared. I was eight and my parent's were divorcing. Joan often said I was just like my father. It was meant to be demeaning.
My birth receptacle died on Cinco de Mayo. I love that beer drinking holiday. When I learned of her death, I called my favorite sister and sang, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. I didn't have to say who had died. We did not attend the funeral. I hadn't seen Joan since the 70's. Until then, we had a relationship based in fear.
Belts hung in all the looped window openers. It was a tacit threat. On the rare occasion that someone was coming over, they were removed. Joan got rid of our Collie dog because Dundee would not let her hit us. I was often grounded to my room for one ridiculous thing or another. This included no TV, no electrical devices, such as a radio or hot curlers.
Thank God for the weekly bookmobile that stopped in front of our house. I would sneak out the window, make a dash and exchange one pile of books for another. Books were my escape to other worlds. I hid them under the bed. One of my favorite series was Little Women. For the life of me, I could not understand why our household was not like that.
I wanted to be Anne of Green Gables, sent to live with kindly people where there was no screaming and yelling, no beer bottles rushed to the floor with one angry swipe of the hand. Joan was always charming and kind to other people. She could turn it on and off like a light switch. When I was eighteen, Joan kicked me out of the house. Until then, I had been college bound.
Joan had kept us so sequestered and isolated that I had no support system. I moved in with my boyfriend at his parent's house, became pregnant and got married. I lost the baby before the wedding. Joan was approached by the county nurse regarding the miscarriage. Joan told all her family and friends that I had an abortion. I walked down the aisle feeling hopeless. It turned into another eighteen years of pain.
Between Joan and my husband, I ended up in therapy. The therapist I saw validated me. He said I should cut ties with my toxic mother. I had spent years poring over phone books looking for my dad. Joan had cut him out of our lives. When I found him, he had married a saint. My dad's wife became the mother and friend I never had. For that, I am eternally grateful,
It's the day after Mother's Day. My favorite Facebook post included a clip from the movie Mommy Dearest and a toast to all the brave kids who broke up with their toxic moms. After my sisters and I saw the movie, we referred to our mother as Mommy Dearest. There should be a Happy Estrangement Day for us.
Coincidentally, my mother's name was Joan. Late one night, Joan took me for a ride to the Ember's where she worked. We didn't go in. She was probably stalking someone. On the way there, she told me not to call her mother, but to call her Joan. I never called her mother after that. It was meant as a barb on my part, but I don't think she noticed or cared. I was eight and my parent's were divorcing. Joan often said I was just like my father. It was meant to be demeaning.
My birth receptacle died on Cinco de Mayo. I love that beer drinking holiday. When I learned of her death, I called my favorite sister and sang, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. I didn't have to say who had died. We did not attend the funeral. I hadn't seen Joan since the 70's. Until then, we had a relationship based in fear.
Belts hung in all the looped window openers. It was a tacit threat. On the rare occasion that someone was coming over, they were removed. Joan got rid of our Collie dog because Dundee would not let her hit us. I was often grounded to my room for one ridiculous thing or another. This included no TV, no electrical devices, such as a radio or hot curlers.
Thank God for the weekly bookmobile that stopped in front of our house. I would sneak out the window, make a dash and exchange one pile of books for another. Books were my escape to other worlds. I hid them under the bed. One of my favorite series was Little Women. For the life of me, I could not understand why our household was not like that.
I wanted to be Anne of Green Gables, sent to live with kindly people where there was no screaming and yelling, no beer bottles rushed to the floor with one angry swipe of the hand. Joan was always charming and kind to other people. She could turn it on and off like a light switch. When I was eighteen, Joan kicked me out of the house. Until then, I had been college bound.
Joan had kept us so sequestered and isolated that I had no support system. I moved in with my boyfriend at his parent's house, became pregnant and got married. I lost the baby before the wedding. Joan was approached by the county nurse regarding the miscarriage. Joan told all her family and friends that I had an abortion. I walked down the aisle feeling hopeless. It turned into another eighteen years of pain.
Between Joan and my husband, I ended up in therapy. The therapist I saw validated me. He said I should cut ties with my toxic mother. I had spent years poring over phone books looking for my dad. Joan had cut him out of our lives. When I found him, he had married a saint. My dad's wife became the mother and friend I never had. For that, I am eternally grateful,
Friday, May 6, 2016
Hot Bench
So I am working in the yard, minding my own business, when the UPS truck shows up. I think, oh good, my sprayer parts are here early. But no, there is an overnight envelope from a Joe Scott at Hot Bench. I don't know this person or what Hot Bench means.
I read the letter twice. Hot Bench is a nationally syndicated court television program where small claims cases are arbitrated. Their field researchers have selected my case against the renter for possible programming. The rest of the day, I am uncontrollably smiling at the hilarity of the opportunity to humiliate the renter nationally.
Hot Bench will pay me if I win the case. They will pay for my airfare and any necessary witnesses, which would be Dave, who is somewhat volatile over the renter's stupidity. Also, my sister lives near LA with my actor nephew, so we would be able to visit them.
Dave reads the letter when he gets home. He too thinks this is funny. So I call the producer and leave a message that I'm in. He calls back the next day to get details. I tell him how she took all the doors off the rooms, that she made off with one of the doors, along with the laundry list of other offenses that are beyond me.
So now we wait for Jody to respond to the call made yesterday. She would be a fool not to take the offer, as she will not have to pay the settlement if she loses. Plus she will get paid something for being on the show.
Then I will file another claim on her when I get back. This will be for the ruined heating unit that she dripped wax into. This too will be another $2,500, a discount of $500, as the cost of the unit and installation is $3000.
Well, it's the end of the day and I haven't heard anything back. Jody is probably getting opinions from all of her siblings and trying to make sense of her dilemma Nobody has ever accused her of being bright.
I read the letter twice. Hot Bench is a nationally syndicated court television program where small claims cases are arbitrated. Their field researchers have selected my case against the renter for possible programming. The rest of the day, I am uncontrollably smiling at the hilarity of the opportunity to humiliate the renter nationally.
Hot Bench will pay me if I win the case. They will pay for my airfare and any necessary witnesses, which would be Dave, who is somewhat volatile over the renter's stupidity. Also, my sister lives near LA with my actor nephew, so we would be able to visit them.
Dave reads the letter when he gets home. He too thinks this is funny. So I call the producer and leave a message that I'm in. He calls back the next day to get details. I tell him how she took all the doors off the rooms, that she made off with one of the doors, along with the laundry list of other offenses that are beyond me.
So now we wait for Jody to respond to the call made yesterday. She would be a fool not to take the offer, as she will not have to pay the settlement if she loses. Plus she will get paid something for being on the show.
Then I will file another claim on her when I get back. This will be for the ruined heating unit that she dripped wax into. This too will be another $2,500, a discount of $500, as the cost of the unit and installation is $3000.
Well, it's the end of the day and I haven't heard anything back. Jody is probably getting opinions from all of her siblings and trying to make sense of her dilemma Nobody has ever accused her of being bright.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Garage Sale Day
Gramma
It's garage sale day, my favorite day of the week. This is my sacred day where I never schedule a house to clean or anything else that will interfere with my mission to find something I didn't know I needed until I saw it. When the grandkids are here, they enjoy treasure hunting with me. They get a set amount to spend, but I have veto power. My pole shed can only hold so much junque.
Dave sometimes calls home during the day to ask what's new. Often, I am so excited about my latest acquisition that I send him a picture before he has a chance to call. I sent him a picture of girlfriend and myself standing next to the coffin I dragged home last winter. Then there is this thing that I don't know what it is, but I needed it for my Opium Room.
Today, my favorite find is a Green Bay Packer's jacket for Bubba, who is almost five. Dave hates the Packers. His favorite team is whoever they are playing. His other team is the Vikings, so when there is a border brawl, we usually have bets on the game. Vikings suck.
I also found some gunny sacks for the kids to use on the three slides in the yard. More faster is more better. Two of the slides come off the top of the playhouse and the other is off the treehouse. I found a one dollar plunger to put in the rental bathroom, just in case. Then there are the four Halloween trick or treat pumpkins that I already have a ton of. I am collecting them to make a doorway arch for my annual Witches Ball..
And, there are three new pillow forms that I will cover with clothing worn by Dave's daughter who died from MS last year. I'm sure her three young girls will like these memory pillows. They will each get a matching memory blanket. That is a winter project. Summer is for garage-saling, motorcycling, digging in the dirt and drinking beer.
It's garage sale day, my favorite day of the week. This is my sacred day where I never schedule a house to clean or anything else that will interfere with my mission to find something I didn't know I needed until I saw it. When the grandkids are here, they enjoy treasure hunting with me. They get a set amount to spend, but I have veto power. My pole shed can only hold so much junque.
Dave sometimes calls home during the day to ask what's new. Often, I am so excited about my latest acquisition that I send him a picture before he has a chance to call. I sent him a picture of girlfriend and myself standing next to the coffin I dragged home last winter. Then there is this thing that I don't know what it is, but I needed it for my Opium Room.
Today, my favorite find is a Green Bay Packer's jacket for Bubba, who is almost five. Dave hates the Packers. His favorite team is whoever they are playing. His other team is the Vikings, so when there is a border brawl, we usually have bets on the game. Vikings suck.
I also found some gunny sacks for the kids to use on the three slides in the yard. More faster is more better. Two of the slides come off the top of the playhouse and the other is off the treehouse. I found a one dollar plunger to put in the rental bathroom, just in case. Then there are the four Halloween trick or treat pumpkins that I already have a ton of. I am collecting them to make a doorway arch for my annual Witches Ball..
And, there are three new pillow forms that I will cover with clothing worn by Dave's daughter who died from MS last year. I'm sure her three young girls will like these memory pillows. They will each get a matching memory blanket. That is a winter project. Summer is for garage-saling, motorcycling, digging in the dirt and drinking beer.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Be Very Very Afraid
Gramma
The new renter is already displaying his weirdness. I have never rented to a guy before. Larry and his wife are not getting along is how he put it. Over twenty-five years, I have rented to three couples. The rest have been victims of domestic violence or divorce.
The guest house is a maze of exercise equipment. There are lots of windows. The views are awesome here, woods, pond, a treehouse, a playhouse and a gypsy wagon for kids to play in. There are no neighbors in sight and the property is fenced and gated. You need a code to get into my sanctuary, but Larry has all the blinds drawn. What is he afraid of.
Larry has a seven-year-old. His wife won't let him visit my wonderland because she doesn't want him to know they are getting a divorce. Dad works road construction and the story is that he will be staying down in the cities for the summer. Yeah right. I have a couple of seven-year-olds. They are not that stupid.
There is the creepy aspect here. It is Halloween all year round. Some of the grandkids do not like my toilet collection of many colors with the skeletons sitting on them. They look like they are laughing and having a good time drinking beer and talking on the phone.. Some have skeleton dogs on a leash.
Then there is the coffin I found for free on Craig's List. I will be planting a daisies around it. The fancy innards are purple satin and lace. The guy had a ton of them. I also took a topless one for an animal water tank. It has molded horses on the sides. Last winter girlfriend and I went on a road trip to pick them up. I expected to be pulled over, but that didn't stop us from smoking weed and laughing our asses off all the way there and back. I think I will put my silver skeleton in it.
My favorite installation is the three large rubber balls made into bloodshot eyes mounted on old fake trees. They are Papa, Momma, and Baby Cyclops. I used Great Stuff foam painted fluorescent green to hold them in place. I am working on a bigger than life mosaic sculpture of the Wizard of Oz witch and a flying monkey. Right now the monkey is holding a super-sized empty bottle of vodka.
A giant gargoyle on top of the tower oversees my utopia. It took about a case of beer for me to haul it over the 12/12 pitch roof and bolt it in. So, maybe in light of all this, the renter is not the weird one, or he is afraid of something. Screaming peacocks? Braying donkeys? A llama looking in the bedroom window? Be afraid, very, very afraid.
The new renter is already displaying his weirdness. I have never rented to a guy before. Larry and his wife are not getting along is how he put it. Over twenty-five years, I have rented to three couples. The rest have been victims of domestic violence or divorce.
The guest house is a maze of exercise equipment. There are lots of windows. The views are awesome here, woods, pond, a treehouse, a playhouse and a gypsy wagon for kids to play in. There are no neighbors in sight and the property is fenced and gated. You need a code to get into my sanctuary, but Larry has all the blinds drawn. What is he afraid of.
Larry has a seven-year-old. His wife won't let him visit my wonderland because she doesn't want him to know they are getting a divorce. Dad works road construction and the story is that he will be staying down in the cities for the summer. Yeah right. I have a couple of seven-year-olds. They are not that stupid.
There is the creepy aspect here. It is Halloween all year round. Some of the grandkids do not like my toilet collection of many colors with the skeletons sitting on them. They look like they are laughing and having a good time drinking beer and talking on the phone.. Some have skeleton dogs on a leash.
Then there is the coffin I found for free on Craig's List. I will be planting a daisies around it. The fancy innards are purple satin and lace. The guy had a ton of them. I also took a topless one for an animal water tank. It has molded horses on the sides. Last winter girlfriend and I went on a road trip to pick them up. I expected to be pulled over, but that didn't stop us from smoking weed and laughing our asses off all the way there and back. I think I will put my silver skeleton in it.
My favorite installation is the three large rubber balls made into bloodshot eyes mounted on old fake trees. They are Papa, Momma, and Baby Cyclops. I used Great Stuff foam painted fluorescent green to hold them in place. I am working on a bigger than life mosaic sculpture of the Wizard of Oz witch and a flying monkey. Right now the monkey is holding a super-sized empty bottle of vodka.
A giant gargoyle on top of the tower oversees my utopia. It took about a case of beer for me to haul it over the 12/12 pitch roof and bolt it in. So, maybe in light of all this, the renter is not the weird one, or he is afraid of something. Screaming peacocks? Braying donkeys? A llama looking in the bedroom window? Be afraid, very, very afraid.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Another Shitty Day in Paradise
Gramma
Getting my yard under control is no easy feat. Once I miss a beat, it goes rogue. Yesterday there was no breeze, a rarity. So I took the opportunity to spray weeds, which are rampant. I especially hate when the grandkids come in contact with itch weed. First I went to empty girlfriends sprayer, which already had some mix in it. The seam on a plastic part broke at the sprayer handle. Went to use my hand sprayer, and it would not hold air when pumping for pressure. Dragged out the big gun, my backpack sprayer once used for spraying weeds in my ginseng operation. The nozzle refused to spray a consistent target. Maddening. I ordered a new nozzle on Amazon. By the time it gets here, the trees will be swaying.
I set to my bi-annual bleaching of the well. Our water stinks like the sulfurous gate to where my ex came from, not what you want to smell first thing in the morning. There is a water filter under the kitchen sink. So I remove the well cover and dump bleach down the sides of the well casing, then spray the hose down the tube until I hear the pump churning up the water. Then it sits all day until I run the hose onto the driveway for an hour to purge the bleach smell. I forgot I was washing clothes, so have aborted the laundry.
I am heading to bed, exhausted from cleaning out garden beds all day. Dave is on the phone for his nightly call to his mother. He asks me if I washed the two shirts he needs for union negotiations. He has other shirts, but these have the union logo on them. So I throw the two shirts in the washer on the quick cycle. I try calling Dave three times to tell him to throw them in the dryer for a half hour. He doesn't answer. His phone does not reflect that I called. WTF, we share the same carrier. I go downstairs to do it myself, instructing him on the rest of the process, emphasizing the importance of removing them before they wrinkle.
This is an average day around here, uneventful, busy with lots of necessary use of plan B, and searching for yard equipment I had just a minute ago. The peacocks are screaming and fanning their feathers. The cardinals are singing birdie birdie birdie. The weather was beautiful, the yard is lush and needs mowing. The tractor still has the snow blower and cab on it.
Getting my yard under control is no easy feat. Once I miss a beat, it goes rogue. Yesterday there was no breeze, a rarity. So I took the opportunity to spray weeds, which are rampant. I especially hate when the grandkids come in contact with itch weed. First I went to empty girlfriends sprayer, which already had some mix in it. The seam on a plastic part broke at the sprayer handle. Went to use my hand sprayer, and it would not hold air when pumping for pressure. Dragged out the big gun, my backpack sprayer once used for spraying weeds in my ginseng operation. The nozzle refused to spray a consistent target. Maddening. I ordered a new nozzle on Amazon. By the time it gets here, the trees will be swaying.
I set to my bi-annual bleaching of the well. Our water stinks like the sulfurous gate to where my ex came from, not what you want to smell first thing in the morning. There is a water filter under the kitchen sink. So I remove the well cover and dump bleach down the sides of the well casing, then spray the hose down the tube until I hear the pump churning up the water. Then it sits all day until I run the hose onto the driveway for an hour to purge the bleach smell. I forgot I was washing clothes, so have aborted the laundry.
I am heading to bed, exhausted from cleaning out garden beds all day. Dave is on the phone for his nightly call to his mother. He asks me if I washed the two shirts he needs for union negotiations. He has other shirts, but these have the union logo on them. So I throw the two shirts in the washer on the quick cycle. I try calling Dave three times to tell him to throw them in the dryer for a half hour. He doesn't answer. His phone does not reflect that I called. WTF, we share the same carrier. I go downstairs to do it myself, instructing him on the rest of the process, emphasizing the importance of removing them before they wrinkle.
This is an average day around here, uneventful, busy with lots of necessary use of plan B, and searching for yard equipment I had just a minute ago. The peacocks are screaming and fanning their feathers. The cardinals are singing birdie birdie birdie. The weather was beautiful, the yard is lush and needs mowing. The tractor still has the snow blower and cab on it.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Gramma Gets Eighty-Sixed
Gramma
Went to an Abate party Saturday night. Abate is a national motorcyclist advocate group. The acoustics are horrid, making it difficult to talk while the band is playing. There are door prizes to bid on. The same group shows up every year. Lots of alcohol is consumed while catching up on a year of history. There are more diehard oldies than newbies.
I laugh as a newbie who manages a gas station tells us her hobby is checking out the male crotch. She does a running commentary of what is coming and going in the nearby vicinity.
During intermission, there was midget bowling. A very long plastic runway is generously coated with baby oil, Two guys pay ten dollars each to play. The midget is on his belly. He tells them to grab him by the shoulders and calves, then send him flying towards the bowling pins.
Dave and I go in on fifteen dollars worth of fifty/fifty tickets. This is a great money maker for the cause. I win the drawing and come away with about three-hundred fifty dollars. As I am pocketing this wad of cash, Dave furrows his brows and asks where his half is.
I whisper sweet nothings in his ear about my planned trip to Menards Sunday morning where I will buy doors to replace the ones the renter took or destroyed. I promise to bring him a bag of his favorite candy from this horrid but necessary evil of a store. It is the local Wal-Mart of home improvement needs.
I don't take Dave along because it raises his blood pressure and he scares the employees with the fumes coming out of his ears. He is irked by the need to forage through wood to find something not warped or crooked. He thinks the man's mall should not sell large appliances and mattresses. However, he is okay with them selling pre-cooked ribs and candy.
My friends are asking what the hell is sitting at the end of the bar. I believe it is a man dressed as a woman. Never good at a biker event in backwoods Wisconsin. I need another beer, so belly up to the bar. I say hi. She says hi and laments that they won't serve her because she used the ladies room.
I tell her I will order for her. The owner is watching from the corner of the kitchen, I am then refused service.
I am pissed off and ask the bartendress what the problem is. "We don't serve that kind," she snots at me. I confront the owner, who backs away like the fat little POS he is. I follow him into the kitchen, telling him what for. He threatens to call the cops. I tell him to go ahead. He is on the phone, claiming that he is afraid of a customer that has him cornered in the kitchen and is pushing and shoving him and his employee, which is actually what they are doing to me.
I go back to my table of friends. I don't need any more beer. Pretty soon an officer is motioning me from the Entrance. I motion him in. Dave and I go outside. I explain the situation. Dave says we were just getting ready to leave. The cop writes my name and birth date on a small notepad. I think he will run a check and throw it away. I go back in and say goodbye. Then we head home.
I have friends who are members of the GBLT community and I think this whole thing about bathroom use is not unlike the days when blacks had separate bathrooms. I do not feel bad about getting eighty-sixed (kicked out of a bar) for this. After midnight I put it on Facebook and go to bed.
Went to an Abate party Saturday night. Abate is a national motorcyclist advocate group. The acoustics are horrid, making it difficult to talk while the band is playing. There are door prizes to bid on. The same group shows up every year. Lots of alcohol is consumed while catching up on a year of history. There are more diehard oldies than newbies.
I laugh as a newbie who manages a gas station tells us her hobby is checking out the male crotch. She does a running commentary of what is coming and going in the nearby vicinity.
During intermission, there was midget bowling. A very long plastic runway is generously coated with baby oil, Two guys pay ten dollars each to play. The midget is on his belly. He tells them to grab him by the shoulders and calves, then send him flying towards the bowling pins.
Dave and I go in on fifteen dollars worth of fifty/fifty tickets. This is a great money maker for the cause. I win the drawing and come away with about three-hundred fifty dollars. As I am pocketing this wad of cash, Dave furrows his brows and asks where his half is.
I whisper sweet nothings in his ear about my planned trip to Menards Sunday morning where I will buy doors to replace the ones the renter took or destroyed. I promise to bring him a bag of his favorite candy from this horrid but necessary evil of a store. It is the local Wal-Mart of home improvement needs.
I don't take Dave along because it raises his blood pressure and he scares the employees with the fumes coming out of his ears. He is irked by the need to forage through wood to find something not warped or crooked. He thinks the man's mall should not sell large appliances and mattresses. However, he is okay with them selling pre-cooked ribs and candy.
My friends are asking what the hell is sitting at the end of the bar. I believe it is a man dressed as a woman. Never good at a biker event in backwoods Wisconsin. I need another beer, so belly up to the bar. I say hi. She says hi and laments that they won't serve her because she used the ladies room.
I tell her I will order for her. The owner is watching from the corner of the kitchen, I am then refused service.
I am pissed off and ask the bartendress what the problem is. "We don't serve that kind," she snots at me. I confront the owner, who backs away like the fat little POS he is. I follow him into the kitchen, telling him what for. He threatens to call the cops. I tell him to go ahead. He is on the phone, claiming that he is afraid of a customer that has him cornered in the kitchen and is pushing and shoving him and his employee, which is actually what they are doing to me.
I go back to my table of friends. I don't need any more beer. Pretty soon an officer is motioning me from the Entrance. I motion him in. Dave and I go outside. I explain the situation. Dave says we were just getting ready to leave. The cop writes my name and birth date on a small notepad. I think he will run a check and throw it away. I go back in and say goodbye. Then we head home.
I have friends who are members of the GBLT community and I think this whole thing about bathroom use is not unlike the days when blacks had separate bathrooms. I do not feel bad about getting eighty-sixed (kicked out of a bar) for this. After midnight I put it on Facebook and go to bed.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
What About Bob
Gramma
Girlfriend's second ex-husband is being buried today. For the benefit of her son, she has been there for the whole end of life thing. Bob died of complications created by his own refusal to take care of himself. He had diabetes and neglected to monitor his blood sugar. For two weeks before Easter, he had been complaining about how he didn't feel well. His son kept asking if he wanted to go to the doctor. No, he would wait awhile longer.
On Easter, Bob decided he wanted to go to the hospital and Jeremy needed to take him. Jeremy already had plans for Easter. Bob, being the selfish, self-absorbed person he is, never gave it a second thought. A few days later, Jeremy took him home. Bob began having diarrhea. Instead of calling the doctor, he called Jeremy to help him clean himself and his bedding. That would be the day when I expect my kids to take care of my shit. Just kill me now. Jeremy lives forty minutes away. This turned into a week long shit storm. Soon, Jeremy's wife was playing Nancy nurse.
Bob's liver shut down. Attempts at dialysis caused fainting from uncontrollable blood pressure. After the third attempt, the doctors said he should get his final wishes in order. They assured Jeremy that none of this was his fault.
Bob was referred to as "What About Bob," the character in the movie by that name. Girlfriend divorced him when she began to have obsessive thoughts about killing him. He refused to unhusband, ingratiating himself with girlfriends third husband. Bob bought a tiller and grew a massive garden on their property. He would show up and let himself in the house to do whatever. They would come home and there would be Bob, sitting in Scott's chair watching tv. Bob watched the house when they went on vacation. Refusing to sleep in the spare room, he slept in their bed.
Girlfriend and I got together after everything was said and done. When my ex husband dies, I will be pissing on his grave. We drank to Bob, laughing fondly over Bob's idiosyncrasies. Bob could weld. I would bring broken yard furniture over and he would fix it. When I needed an animal put down, Bob was happy to come over and plug it. So, here's to you Bob, the husband that finally went away. We lament that it wasn't husband number three, also being divorced because of persistent thoughts of killing him.
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