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.
Showing posts with label Aging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Aging. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
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.
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.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Cleaning Lady
Gramma
I have a neighbor I clean for. She is a pain in my ass. She tries to tell me how to do my job. I haven't been there for five months, but today is the day. I only schedule on rainy days. Sometimes I make up excuses why I can't come, like "I have a hairline fracture in my foot from when I slipped on the ice." That worked for two months.
It's a marathon for me, good exercise and some garage sale money. While I'm working, I usually get at least one phone call asking me what I'm doing. "It's a three toilet day," I answer. I don't take any breaks, but I'm physically useless the next day. I hate coming home exhausted to my own dirty house. I also don't like leaving the dogs home all day.
Usually, Deena has a doctor appointment and errands that save my ears for part of the time. Truly, she will not put her earplugs in because it is of no consequence to her that she can't hear me. She just keeps yammering away.
She is like an old person, going on and on ad nauseum about her laundry list of ailments. Her other favorite topic is her mother, who is justifiably a pain in her ass. Deena mimics her controlling mother, who complains incessantly about her own health issues and favors her brother with money and attention. Ironically, she has become her mother.
On one occasion, Deena and I went to a play at the Guthrie. The back seat driving got so bad that I had to pull over to clarify that I was the one driving. She didn't talk after that, an amazing feat for her. That was the last time I invited her to go anywhere. Her worst problem is not diarrhea of the mouth.
Deena's worst problem is a constant need to be near a bathroom. If I was her, I would not even leave the house. I would be a recluse. One time she asked me if I had ever thought about going to Scotland, which is her dream trip. No. When I told Dave about it, he said, "So you would tour the toilets of Scotland?"
Her husband is a prepper. Their food and alcohol stores are vast. He has an arsenal of artillery, along with military trucks meant for moving troops. He wants her to drive one of these monstrosities. They won't get far, stopping every twenty minutes for toilet breaks. Then there's the necessary toilet paper inventory along with the pharmacy of drugs Deena needs. Exactly where he thinks they are going is beyond me. Mexico is not going to welcome them with open arms, especially after Trump's Border Barricade is built.
I, on the other hand, will go down valiantly with my ship of beer. It is the first thing I would loot for. Then fifty pound bags of dog food. Who else will get that? Keeps you regular and doesn't go bad, plus almost no chance of binging. I will sit around the fire, pulling beers from the snowbank or from the cool waters of the pond. No more three toilet days, no more red and itchy ears, plus her mirrors always make me look fat.
I have a neighbor I clean for. She is a pain in my ass. She tries to tell me how to do my job. I haven't been there for five months, but today is the day. I only schedule on rainy days. Sometimes I make up excuses why I can't come, like "I have a hairline fracture in my foot from when I slipped on the ice." That worked for two months.
It's a marathon for me, good exercise and some garage sale money. While I'm working, I usually get at least one phone call asking me what I'm doing. "It's a three toilet day," I answer. I don't take any breaks, but I'm physically useless the next day. I hate coming home exhausted to my own dirty house. I also don't like leaving the dogs home all day.
Usually, Deena has a doctor appointment and errands that save my ears for part of the time. Truly, she will not put her earplugs in because it is of no consequence to her that she can't hear me. She just keeps yammering away.
She is like an old person, going on and on ad nauseum about her laundry list of ailments. Her other favorite topic is her mother, who is justifiably a pain in her ass. Deena mimics her controlling mother, who complains incessantly about her own health issues and favors her brother with money and attention. Ironically, she has become her mother.
On one occasion, Deena and I went to a play at the Guthrie. The back seat driving got so bad that I had to pull over to clarify that I was the one driving. She didn't talk after that, an amazing feat for her. That was the last time I invited her to go anywhere. Her worst problem is not diarrhea of the mouth.
Deena's worst problem is a constant need to be near a bathroom. If I was her, I would not even leave the house. I would be a recluse. One time she asked me if I had ever thought about going to Scotland, which is her dream trip. No. When I told Dave about it, he said, "So you would tour the toilets of Scotland?"
Her husband is a prepper. Their food and alcohol stores are vast. He has an arsenal of artillery, along with military trucks meant for moving troops. He wants her to drive one of these monstrosities. They won't get far, stopping every twenty minutes for toilet breaks. Then there's the necessary toilet paper inventory along with the pharmacy of drugs Deena needs. Exactly where he thinks they are going is beyond me. Mexico is not going to welcome them with open arms, especially after Trump's Border Barricade is built.
I, on the other hand, will go down valiantly with my ship of beer. It is the first thing I would loot for. Then fifty pound bags of dog food. Who else will get that? Keeps you regular and doesn't go bad, plus almost no chance of binging. I will sit around the fire, pulling beers from the snowbank or from the cool waters of the pond. No more three toilet days, no more red and itchy ears, plus her mirrors always make me look fat.
Monday, April 25, 2016
Small Claims for My Face Contouring
Gramma
It has been eight weeks since the lower face lift. My chin/neck waddle is shrinking. Unfortunately, I had to have my drivers license picture taken without the final result. I am waiting on my passport. I still have a few months left on that.
I can sleep on my ears again without pain. Until now, the stitches behind them pulled and pinched. I think all the stitches have dissolved. My face is thinning. I go back to Dr. Jess in six weeks. She will use an injectable to soften the lines around my eyes, what is left of the jowls and the lines on the sides of my nose. I don't have money for this, but I will find it somewhere.
I am taking the renter to small claims court. For the two-thousand five hundred limit on the expressway to small claims I will file there. It will take less time to get in and time is of the essence. I could claim enough damage to go to the next level of fifteen thousand, but this will be a longer wait and more difficult to collect.
She has removed the shades, the crank-outs for the windows, painted rooms without permission and not returned them to a neutral color, There is damage to the carpet where she tried to iron out a large puddle of candle wax and it smells like cat. She had this obese woodtick looking cat that dropped poop whenever it walked, There is wax dripped into the four-thousand dollar Steffes heat storage unit. It will need to be replaced. Then there are the doors and the pantry shelves.
She has left a piano behind. I have a good mind to have it dropped in her mother's driveway. I wish I had known the Sherriff was in the yard to facilitate picking up the pod. I would have reported the stolen door all the way in the back of it. Lucky for me I was dressed so I could follow Jodi to her mother's house and get the address for filing.
The basic replacements and repairs will easily reach the first limit. Jodi will probably lose her job at the hospital or quit after the call I made to report her marijuana use. So I will offer her another reduction of five-hundred dollars if she will pay up before court. She can borrow the money from her mother or sister. I will do the repairs myself and use the rest for my face. I hope the stolen door is worth it to her.
Meanwhile, I am working on my gunt, the gut that hangs over the girl stuff. My diet includes hard boiled eggs, fruits and vegetables, mostly celery. I keep the sugar down, but it is necessary for my sanity. I had a steak and two eggs yesterday, along with a Snickers bar. I am down another two pounds overnight for a total of eight pounds. I am halfway to where I thought I was fat before. I gave birth at lower weights. I am shooting for one size down, a ten. The tough part is doing without beer.
It has been eight weeks since the lower face lift. My chin/neck waddle is shrinking. Unfortunately, I had to have my drivers license picture taken without the final result. I am waiting on my passport. I still have a few months left on that.
I can sleep on my ears again without pain. Until now, the stitches behind them pulled and pinched. I think all the stitches have dissolved. My face is thinning. I go back to Dr. Jess in six weeks. She will use an injectable to soften the lines around my eyes, what is left of the jowls and the lines on the sides of my nose. I don't have money for this, but I will find it somewhere.
I am taking the renter to small claims court. For the two-thousand five hundred limit on the expressway to small claims I will file there. It will take less time to get in and time is of the essence. I could claim enough damage to go to the next level of fifteen thousand, but this will be a longer wait and more difficult to collect.
She has removed the shades, the crank-outs for the windows, painted rooms without permission and not returned them to a neutral color, There is damage to the carpet where she tried to iron out a large puddle of candle wax and it smells like cat. She had this obese woodtick looking cat that dropped poop whenever it walked, There is wax dripped into the four-thousand dollar Steffes heat storage unit. It will need to be replaced. Then there are the doors and the pantry shelves.
She has left a piano behind. I have a good mind to have it dropped in her mother's driveway. I wish I had known the Sherriff was in the yard to facilitate picking up the pod. I would have reported the stolen door all the way in the back of it. Lucky for me I was dressed so I could follow Jodi to her mother's house and get the address for filing.
The basic replacements and repairs will easily reach the first limit. Jodi will probably lose her job at the hospital or quit after the call I made to report her marijuana use. So I will offer her another reduction of five-hundred dollars if she will pay up before court. She can borrow the money from her mother or sister. I will do the repairs myself and use the rest for my face. I hope the stolen door is worth it to her.
Meanwhile, I am working on my gunt, the gut that hangs over the girl stuff. My diet includes hard boiled eggs, fruits and vegetables, mostly celery. I keep the sugar down, but it is necessary for my sanity. I had a steak and two eggs yesterday, along with a Snickers bar. I am down another two pounds overnight for a total of eight pounds. I am halfway to where I thought I was fat before. I gave birth at lower weights. I am shooting for one size down, a ten. The tough part is doing without beer.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Sunday
Gramma
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
It's a new day, a new page, a new me. I've gotten a good night's sleep with the Quetapine boost. I only take this when I need to sleep without ruminating half the night. Taken on a daily basis, it will cause weight gain, which is my first consideration when I am prescribed anything. My eldest son takes Quetapine as part of the cocktail of meds that keep him somewhat stabile. He calls himself a fat, jolly man and then laughs. I do not want to add to my fat battle. Jolly is nowhere in my repertoire of emotions.
I let the herd of barking dogs out. The cold air feels good on my swollen face. I manage egg Mc Muffin knock-offs for Dave, then retire to the couch for a day of dozing in front of the TV. The aquarium is more interesting than what's on 2000 channels of shit. I miss football season. Go Pack Go. Dave is a Vikings fan.
Dog hair is building up on the floor. Dave is not accustomed to doing much around the house. He works. I take care of most everything else inside and out. I ask him to vacuum. He "forgets." "Can I get a Haircut?" he asks. I forget.
Dave calls his mother every day. It used to drive me nuts, but now I get it. There is always gossip of family or the senior center oldies she hangs with. Eleanor is on Facebook keeping up with city gossip and extended family. She is opinionated and has her nose in everybody's business. The family used to call her Marie, as in What About Raymond.
Eleanor is in her 80's and lives on her own in the house the three boys were raised in. Glen has been gone for some years now. She drives one of those shiny new old people cars. They always have dents in them. This one is no different. It mostly goes to church, the grocery store, and the senior center, so maybe 30 miles a week.
She said to me one time that she wished she would die in her sleep. It wasn't meant as sometime in the future, she meant it as in sooner is better than later. I appreciated the honesty of it. She doesn't talk that way to the rest of the family. Over the years, I have made no secret of my Emergency Facelift Fund. She says, "You wouldn't do that would you?" I don't think she would put anything past me.
Friday, April 15, 2016
Home Alone II
Gramma
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Before surgery, I knew I wouldn't be attending the monthly bike club meeting. There had to be an excuse for not showing up, so I decided to have slipped on the ice, hurting my ankle. I needed to stay on the couch until I got in to see the doctor. Dave went alone. I'd seen enough of the club last month. There had been a pool tournament, a regular meeting, and an Abate party.
I got a call from my eldest son.
"Did you have surgery?"
"No, why?"
"I saw the picture."
"I fell off the donkey."
"Yeah, right," but he knew it was possible.
"Did you have your tumor taken out?"
"No." I have a brain tumor, so it was possible.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "But how are you doing."
"Fine. Nice she could call you and not me."
"Yeah, you know how she is." She kept us all at a distance.
"Can I talk to my grandson?" It was a good ploy for getting off the phone.
"Sure."
We banter briefly about nothing, exchange I love you's and are done.
I'm angry, upset, hurt and baffled by my daughter not calling me. Is her boyfriend isolating her? Is she overwhelmed by life, curled up in a ball under the covers. Is she mad at me? I can't help but think she is. This situation is a constant source of distress.
She said she doesn't like calling with bad news all the time, so I have to think things are not good. Is she living out of her car again? She rarely answers when I call her. When she does call, if I don't answer, she leaves a message to call her back, but does not pick up.
I see a therapist once a month, for more years than I can remember. I used to see her twice a month. I suffer from a plethora of issues complicated by a family tree full of bipolar, including myself. So I worry incessantly about the welfare of my daughter. Our symptoms are alike--severe bouts of debilitating depression being the most prevalent.
My heart aches. Having a beer is not recommended with the pain meds or the healing process. I'm trying not to cry. I take a knock-out pill and go to bed.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Home Alone
Gramma
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
I'm not good at lounging, but I was doing my best. The snow was almost gone and I wanted to be outside, even if it was picking up dog bombs and sticks. Housework was banned for two weeks. Bending over, all the blood rushed to my face. I couldn't mine the cat litter box.
I stayed on the couch, burning up all my crappy Dish internet allocation watching Netflix while eating cookies. There was little else I could do. Talking hurt, so I stayed off the phone. Mistakenly, I thought I would feel better than this.
Not including Dave, I'd told three people about my surgery. Three can keep a secret if two are dead. I didn't want to be judged. I told two friends and my sister. During a visit to see my daughter, she made the comment that she hoped I wasn't going to do any more stupid plastic surgery.
She should talk. She said her boob job was the best thing she ever did. After two kids, I'd had mine done in the 70's. In the 90's, I'd opted to have them swapped out for a new set. It was cheaper in Mexico. An Australian surgeon there could do my eyes and implants for the price of the implant settlement I had received.
This third child breaks my heart every day. She doesn't call, text, or come home. So I just couldn't resist texting a picture of my head wrapped in bandages captioned, "I'm wonderfully fine for the shape that I'm in."
"What happened?" she responded.
"I fell off the donkey."
It was not a well thought out response, yet it was plausible. I had a donkey. I drink. I do stupid things when I drink.
"I'm at the car dealership," she texted. I'll call you when I'm done."
She didn't call back.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
How Much Was That Gun
Gramma
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
At home, I reclaimed the couch, ice packs, and assortment of pills. Just telling the dogs to go lay down was an effort. Dave sat in his big man's chair flipping channels, surfing gun sites and playing solitaire on his laptop. I wanted to crack my neck to relieve the pain caused by an old fender bender. Some stupid old woman had mistaken her gas pedal for the brake pedal in a grocery parking lot. I settled for a muscle relaxer chased with a pain killer.
I dozed in front of the fireplace. It hurt to open my mouth enough to get food in. Chewing wasn't an option. Good, maybe I would lose some weight. Girlfriend brought cookies. I'm a sugar addict. I made it work.
Later, I shuffled to the computer to check my usual sites--Craig's List, Facebook, e-mail and the mirror on my desk. I swiveled the chair to see the TV. "It looks good," Dave said. "How much was it?"
I didn't want to answer that. My usual reply to financial questions were, "I'd rather not say," or "How much was that gun you bought last week?" I needed to get this over with. "I took some money out of my retirement account and some money out of my life insurance policy," I said. He didn't press for an actual figure. Guys don't have a clue how much shit costs. I'd spent just under ten-thousand on the surgery alone.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Countdown 2
It's the day before my facelift. Soon I can cross this off my bucket list. Hopefully it will be good for about ten years. I am planning to be off this planet by then. I will be seventy-two and I don't see the point in hanging out much past that.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
Old people drive stupid. They shuffle along the crosswalk to Wal-Mart, the grocery store and the pharmacy. I do not want to be like that. Their outings are events for them. They hold up the check-out lines by painstakingly writing a check, engaging the clerk in extended unnecessary banter and they refuse to move before carefully looking over their receipt. Then there are the store go-carts. I don't want to live in the old people warehouse that smells of urine. Nobody wants to visit you there. Just kill me now.
I am too busy to be nervous. I haven't had time to clean. My three dogs have shed enough fur on the floor to create a fourth dog. The plants are thirsty. The outside water tanks need filling. The donkeys, alpacas and llamas need fresh bedding. The peacocks require attention. I hope it doesn't snow while I am out of commission. Who will do the plowing and shoveling? I don't like to let other people use my tractor.
There are seven pages of post operative instructions to review. Prescriptions for pain, vomiting and antibiotics are filled. There will be no chewing. I have stocked up on soup, yogurt and oatmeal. As per Dr. Jess, I haven't had a drink since San Francisco. I feel for pregnant mothers.
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