Seven Week Shit Show

Gramma, 

It's been a seven week shit show since I last posted.  My daughter-in-law is raging hormone pregnant with number three and ornery as a billygoat kept from his harem.  She has been punishing the five-year-old and the eight-year-old for their age appropriate transgressions by not letting them visit gramma.  They are driving her nuts.  Way to shoot yourself in the foot.  I would have jumped at the chance to be rid of them.  We had it out.  I called her a very bad word and she heard about it.  It was accurate, but for the sake of the grandkids, I apologized to make nice. 

Then I had a bike accident.  A friend in our bike club rear-ended me when we were taking off from a stop sign.  Both our bikes went down.  My right foot was trapped under the floorboard with about 800 pounds of weight on it.  My bike was weighted down by the bike that ran into me.  There were two riders on it, so more weight.  The other bike, which was stuck on my tailpipes,  had to come up first. 

When my bike was lifted off me, I had to lay on the road while the pain subsided.  We were about seventy miles from home.  I asked Dave and the other guy to help me up by grabbing me under the armpits so I didn't put weight on it.  I didn't take my boot off for fear that I wouldn't be able to get it back on.  It hurt, but I rode my bike home anyway, stopping for a few beers on the way. 

Two weeks later, I had ex-rays done.  With two fractured toes and a fractured ankle, I went home with a mechanical walking brace.  It is man-sized, and I hate it.  Feels like I'm dragging a log around.  I don't wear it consistently, but I wore it through the airport on an emergency trip to Denver.  It got me better seats on the way there and back. 

My daughter's boyfriend put her in the hospital.  She had a black eye, concussion, dislocated jaw and he had pulled out plenty of hair.  The doctor gave her the name of a good plastic surgeon. 

Her boyfriend called before I found out about this.  He was distraught and told me my daughter was on meth and seeing a Mexican guy with tattoos on his neck.  She wasn't making her condo payments and hadn't been to work in awhile.  My heart sunk to the pit of my stomach.  He didn't know why she was doing this and he wanted to get her some help.  He wanted to work things out.  He had been crying non-stop over their broken relationship.  He didn't understand.  He had done so much to help her.  Then he says, "I shouldn't have done it, but I hit her." 

After a long, pregnant pause, I asked "Why did you hit my daughter?"  Because she just kept pushing me and pushing me and pushing me.  And he was crying.  After I hung up, I called my daughter. Reluctantly, she admitted that she was in the hospital.  She didn't want me to come out.  She sent a picture to her brother.  I asked him to send it to me.  She was the face of domestic violence.  Ashkahn had made it sound like he had hit her once.

He kept frantically calling and texting both of us while we were on the phone.  He wanted to know if I knew anything, if I had heard from her.  I said I had not and that she rarely responds to my calls or texts.  He knew that was true.  He just wanted her to get help.  I said, I will be out to get her some help." 

to be continued....

Wicket the Corgi Drives the Car

Gramma

It is pouring out and I have a vet appointment for all three dogs.  They do not like to ride in the car.  Leashes only mean one thing--a ride to the place of pain and confusion.  There will be mud and dog hair all over in my freshly cleaned vehicle.  Wicket won't get in the car.  She is an overweight super-size Corgi.  When I lift her up, she starts squeeling like the pig that she is. 

On the way to town, Wicket, also known as the sea cow, tries to crawl around the console to hide under my feet.  I keep pushing her back, rattling a large bag of scary bubble gum at her as a further deterrent.  

I leave the dogs in the car while I run in to Office Max to pick up some estimate forms for small claims court.  "Don't chew up too much stuff," I mutter, locking the doors.  Minutes later, I return.  Princess, the mini-Aussie, is sitting in my seat, paws on the steering wheel.  Wicket has gotten stuck trying to get where she wants to go.  Eddie, the mini Corgi, has his leash hung up on an arm rest.  So things are good. 

Wicket won't get out of the car.  I pull on the lead and her collar comes off.  I tighten it and try again.  Eddie is also refusing.  They are stubborn, like cats.  By the time I get them in the clinic, we are all soaked.  They heartily shake off the wet.  There are no places to sit.  I shorten the leashes and wait while they try to make sense of dogs they see as an affront to their ownership of me.  There is much growling.  Then they turn on each other.  I am yanking them apart and yelling, "Princess bitch, knock it off."

Wicket weighs nearly as much as the other two dogs combined.  I get the lecture about her weight and promise to give it another go.  While I wait for the bill, I put the dogs in the car.  The grand total is $580.02. 

As I am backing up, Wicket succeeds at getting to my side of the floor.  Her weight is suddenly on my driving foot, which accelerates the gas.  Then there is this Oh Shit crunch.  I go back inside to announce that I have backed into a nice new black SUV.  It belongs to some older woman wearing nice clothes.  She gives her poodle to the vet tech while she comes out to take pictures.  She is nice about what has happened to her tail light. 

My rusty tailgate is dented, but still opens.  Now I will look like one of those old people who backs into things without looking.  Ugh.  But I will suck it up, because my tires are new and I am determined to drive this thing into the ground.  I have more pressing things to spend my money on.  Meanwhile, I pretend I am really rich, but driving an old piece of shit as a cover for my wealth.