I wish there were an interesting story to go along with the injury. A rough landing while skydiving. A Memorial Day cruise on a private yacht with a slippery teak deck. Or even a few too many drinks and an ill-conceived attempt at reviving break dancing. But the truth is I simply opened the door to check on the steaks I was grilling, and the next thing I knew I was face down on the patio, having scraped my knees and hands raw as I tumbled down the steps. It’s a clean, relatively minor fracture. I may need some physical therapy to loosen up the elbow once the cast comes off, but no lasting evidence of my clumsiness.

The inconvenience of it all shows itself every few minutes. Try buttoning your pants with only one hand. Or tying your shoe. Or even blowing your nose. Ive not worked out how I will drive these next weeks. I ordered my own car with a manual transmission, so driving it is out of the question. This pains me…I do love my car. Darling will, of course, grudgingly trade cars with me, but the thought of making hard turns one handed doesn’t seem too safe, and fastening a seat belt over my injured arm presents difficulties.

Getting dressed is another issue. I can’t manage buttons at all, not a problem at home, where I can laze around in sweats or gym shorts, but I can’t very well have a coworker button my fly every time I have to answer nature’s call, now can I? The sleeves of my usual work clothes don’t go over my cast. So, today I set aside my one rule of fashion “never purchase clothing from a store that also sells produce“, and bought a stock of $7 polo shirts from Wal Mart, a store whose size Medium shirts could, in a pinch, be altered into shower curtains.

I also can’t shower. Today, we cut off the t shirt I’d been wearing since my accident, and I did take a bath. Darling had to help me in and out, and sit on the side to double as an arm rest,  but we made it work.

And how has Mama reacted to this unfortunate incident? Well, in typical fashion, naturally. She’s never more “on” than when someone is injured, ill, or suffering. The phone rings every two hours or so. Usually, just as Ive managed to get comfortable or finally nodded off for some hard-to-come-by sleep. And it’s always the same conversation. “what drugs did they give ya?”, “how many milligrams?” “how’d you do it again?”, “was ya drinking?”. “I’ll come down and help if you need me to.” (I’d rather be put in a medically induced coma, thanks.)

Now, regular readers have probably gathered that mama is prone to hypochondria. A TV ad for a new illness will result in her being tested for it within the week. Mention your allergies, your stomach bug, or your headache, and she’ll have one of her own before the conversation ends. Darling wondered how long it might be before Mama broke her arm, and sure enough the phone rang this morning with a message saying “my arm is just about to kill me. must be sympathy pains I reckon.” As she chattered on, asking the same questions over and over, she wondered if I’d thought of my sister today.

“Not really, why?”

“It’s memorial day!”

“She wasn’t a veteran.”

“so!”

“Memorial day is for our veterans who’ve lost their lives.”

“It is not, its for remembering your lost loved ones.”

“Well, technically, its for veterans…” She turned to Kenny to see if I was right.

“Well, that ain’t right. Ain’t right at all! They ought to make it fer everybody!”

And a few minutes later…”I cain’t believe you broke yer arm. You ain’t never broken nothing but your thumb. Then you move to South Carolina and break your arm.” This comment is funny on several levels. I broke a finger as a child, never my thumb. I broke my nose swimming, and my other arm in a car accident. And I have lived in South Carolina for over 12 years now…it’s not as if I fell off the steps of a bus as I came to a new town.

“It was my pinky, not my thumb.” I don’t know why I bothered.

“no, it was yer thumb. And your daddy took ya to the beach and got it wet.”

“I’m certain it was my pinky.”

“Well, Im gonna have to pull out those x ray films and prove you wrong.”

“You have the xrays from when I broke my finger in 4th grade?”

“yeah somewhere.”

“Why?”

“I guess I ought to get rid of ‘em, huh?”

“Yes!”

“you sure it wasn’t yer thumb?”

“Yes!”

“well, gitcha some rest youngin’. I always see things like this as the good Lord’s way of tellin’ us to slow down.”

Sigh. If she “slowed down” any further, they’d check for a “do not resuscitate” order.

Anyway…

I think the wind has been knocked from Mama’s Mary Kay sales. I should have seen it coming. Whether its a job (yes, she has had a few over the years, never for very long.), schooling (she started and dropped out of nursing school three or four times when I was a kid, but has never let it get beyond “talking” about it since.), or a hobby, Mama just doesn’t stick with anything (other than an unhealthy relationship) for very long.

Regulars will recall that I ordered a few items from Mama about two and a half months ago. I’ve still not received them. The excuses have been, in  no particular order, 1. people mowing their grass at the trailer park have made her a prisoner in Kennys home, as leaving the trailer will apparently result in fatal allergy attacks. 2. A change in one of her many medications laid her flat for the better part of two weeks., 3. A kidney stone paralyzed her for another two weeks, 4. a headache prevented her going to the post office for 5 or 6 more days, and finally, 5. taking my grandmother to the grocery store requires three or 4 days rest. You’ll note that, while she has been unable between all these unfortunate incidents to find her way to the post office, she has been able to make it to about a dozen doctors visits provided by Senor Taxpayer, and no doubt has cashed all three checks the gubment has sent her for disability since my order. When I suggested that she join the rest of us in the real world, where a sniffle and a headache were not cause to stay home for weeks, she started crying (the emotional sting of my words no doubt put her to bed for a weekend.

I’d planned to make a visit to WV for Mothers Day weekend, but work obligations prevented it. So Mama woke up on Mothers Day (which fell on her birthday this year) without any gifts. I’ll get around to sending one, but does anyone blame me if its a little late?

A little catch up, though:

In my last post, done more than two weeks ago, I was waiting on the delivery of some Mary Kay products from my crazy mama. And I’m still waiting. First, she was down for the count because the grass mowing activities of the trailer court had wrecked her allergies to the point she wasn’t able to pull herself to the post office. And in the weeks since, one illness after another has befallen her, making it nigh on impossible to drive the mile to mail the parcel. Fortunately for her, she has not cashed the check I sent for the items,  because if she had found the strength to go to the bank, I’m almost to the point I would have had her arrested for theft.

Mama and Kenny, thought “DONE” two weeks ago, are apparently not quite through with one another. I’ll pause while you recover from the shock of hearing they are back together…

OK. Yeah, she is still laid up at Casa Kenny. Maybe once she has her strength back, she can start “cleaning up” her house and return there.

My grandmother, crazy mama’s mama, is in the hospital. At Thanksgiving, I thought something was wrong with her…while she is in her late 80′s, she has always been sharp as a tack, and she just seemed tired and disoriented. (Repeating herself multiple times over the course of just a few minutes.) I voiced some concern, but everyone seemed to think it was just old age. Had the change been more gradual, I would have agreed, but it just seemed to fast. Well this week, her doctor had reason to suspect that she has had one, or a series, of small strokes in the past months. Tests are being run to determine what happened, and what treatment there may be, but even before this diagnosis, some of us in the family had begun to discuss the possibility that Granny shouldn’t live alone anymore.  Several family members have homes that are laid out with spare bedrooms arranged such that Granny could move in and not have to worry with stairs, and any one of them would be happy to have  her. Im sure Granny’s preference would be to live alone in her own house for as long as she has on this earth, but none of us know what her choice is beyond that. But Crazy Mama has already declared that she is gonna pack her bags and move in with Granny once she is back from the hospital. I have little doubt that Granny would rather go to a nursing home. Granny’s house is small…and while she has spent her entire adult life there, it is not laid out such that more than one person could be comfortable there for more than a week or two. Poor Granny would have Mama up in her face day in and day out. I’ve no doubt that whatever happens where Granny is concerned will be cause for high drama where Mama is concerned.

Should she, through some turn of lunacy, move in to “care” for Granny…none of us will ever hear the end of her “sacrifice”. Get the cross and the nails, ready kids, Mama plays the martyr when she has no reason…if she’s helping out at Granny’s, we may as well prepare the Pope that mom will be asking for sainthood. And if common sense prevails, and some other arrangements are made, it will be equal cause for hysterics on her part.

Anyhoodles, poodles. My better half and I just got back from vacation–a fantastic cruise to the Southern Caribbean, with stops in Aruba, Curacao, and the Bahamas, and many restful and glorious days at sea on a luxurious boat filled with delicious food. It was a much needed vacation, as this year has been incredibly busy for work so far.I’ve wrapped up three new custom homes, three pool  houses, two  renovations, and done the design portion on three more custom homes. Plus a handful of interior design projects. Plus my day job. Prior to vacation, there was a period of six weeks where I literally came  home from work, had dinner, then stayed up working til the wee hours. I’m not complaining–after the slow few years that came before this one, it’s kind of nice to be swamped again.

You might remember that Mama had embarked on a career as a Mary Kay consultant. Now, I use a few Mary Kay products myself, as their moisturizer and face wash are about the only ones I have found that don’t break out my rather temperamental  skin. I normally order from our office manager, who has whatever I need to me in a couple of days. But, wanting to give Mama a shot, I ordered a fresh supply from her three weeks ago.

Now, the other half and I are climbing aboard a cruise ship tomorrow for our annual vacation, so when I placed that order THREE WEEKS AGO, I told mama she had to assure me that it would arrive in time for my trip. No problem! She assured me that Wednesday…she had a shipment coming the beginning of the next week and she could mail my items right out to me. The following Tuesday, six days after my order, the shipment arrived to her. And today, 22 days after I ordered the items, and 16 days after they showed up at her house, I still have not gotten them.

“Im so sorry, I didnt get em mailed til yesterdee.”

“Why??”

“they been cuttin the grass up here…”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Her grass allergy has prevented her from going to the post office. But not over to some man’s house for an evening of enchanted banjo music?

Such is the world she lives in.

God bless her.

Well, let me tell ya.

Mama is now a certified Mary Kay consultant. I wish her the best with it, and applaud her efforts to do SOMETHING other than sit at home and look for government programs to bilk. (Speaking of which, she plans to use her gubment provided cell phone for “business purposes”. Don’t get me started on those free cell phones…)

Now, despite the fact that this time last year Mama was told her days on her property were numbered, not only has she done NOTHING toward moving her modular mansion off the property, but she has ordered herself a storage building to be delivered there–adding a second structure that will need to be moved in the foreseeable future.

Mama says she “is going home” once the building is delivered and she can “clean this place up.” I’ve told her a dozen times that she doesnt need to move her crap into storage, she needs to throw it away or donate it. Why move a pile of clothes that you havent worn in a decade into a building where they will just mildew? It baffles the mind.

In light of last years traumatic and expensive break-in, the good folks at the insurance company did themselves a solid and declined to re-insure mama. Subsequent insurers have required she install a burglar alarm, so her new building and her 3-bedroom garbage bin are all being fitted with the finest system ADT can offer. Let’s place wagers on how many false alarms there are.

Mama also adopted a dog. But she left it at her house. Where she hasn’t lived in well over a year. She and Kenny would go out there every day or two and feed the pooch, but otherwise it was just on its own. And she sounded genuinely shocked when the dog ran away. “Dogs is just like men–when they get horny, they leave.” No use explaining to her that dogs are pack animals and don’t like being alone–the dog left because it was  horny.

But the kicker is that Mama, as usual, is down for the count. Saturday night, she and Kenny stopped off on the way back to the mobile home court and got a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Being that “there aint nothin better than cold chicken” Mama got up in the middle of the night for a little snack. And promptly choked “near to death” on a chicken bone. And now, three days later, the experience has left her so sore and tired that she didn’t think she’d be able to get a thing done today–THREE days after the choking experience. It would almost seem ridiculous until you remind yourself that this is the woman who needs two days to rest after going to the grocery store.

It reminded me of something from my childhood that has always stuck out for me. I was young, maybe 8 or 9, and had saved for what seemed an eternity for some toy that I wanted. What the toy was is lost to history, though it runs in my mind that it was some sort of race track for Hot Wheels. When I finally  had the money to buy it, mom (in her  not so crazy days) drove me to the store and waited outside with my toddler sister while I ran in to buy it.

Only, I had forgotten to calculate in the sales tax. I was 50 cents short of being able to get whatever the toy was. I remember being more embarassed than disappointed as I told the clerk that I would have to wait until I got my next allowance. Then she reached into the pocket of her smock and took out the two quarters I needed, and with a wink said “No you don’t honey.”  Even at that young age, I found that small act of kindness even more remarkable than finally getting my toy.

It’s  been said so often that it’s cliche,  but the random acts of kindness really can make a difference. Don’t forget to practice them.