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. 

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.