New Lives

Gramma,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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