Super Moon

Gramma,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.