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. 

Gordian Knot

Bad Gramma,

Yesterday was my monthly mental health tune up.  I didn't have any Gordian knots to work out, so I was happy to hear all about my therapist's intended new direction with her work.  I've got ten years on her and am in the gifted spectrum for how to tell someone to fuck off.   She took notes.  I want to tell these assholes she works for what's what and how. 

They have created a hostile work environment with unrealistic productivity expectations. There is such a shortage of professionals in this state that we fly in psychiatrists to help cope with the case loads.  This is not conducive to effectively helping the client.  There needs to be a connection.  Mental health is not an assembly line job.  

We practiced the Minnesota Nice passive aggressive method, where you say something sort of pleasant, but twist a barb in there that leaves them with a nice mind fuck.  And, NO, do not give them a mission statement for your vision of what their facility should be doing.  Send that to the governor of our state, who will appreciate your talents and compensate accordingly when you are chosen for the new mental health task force. 

We talk about self worth and the value of our talents.  As part of the productivity push, her employer is assigning a nurse and another therapist to sit in on her sessions to see where time can be cut and money saved.  The only way productivity will increase is if she wears a diaper all day.  I do not want two extra people in the room when I am talking about my shit.   This plan is actually a covert training mission for taking over when she is gone. 

They will be sorry when she leaves for greener pastures.  Dave and I will follow her like groupies wherever she goes.   So go forth and create your happiness.  Oh, and tell those bitches how much you will miss them.  Be sure and leave your business card.