Buckle up puppies, its been a busy few weeks.
My crazy mama got released from the nursing home/rehab facility where, near as we can make out, she was just taking a taxpayer funded vacation. There was much drama, phone calls, and ballyhooing about where mama would go upon her release. Social workers called family members, attempted to place her in apartments, and basically fretted themselves to death over nothing, because as I told one of the social workers, within a week she will be back at Kenny’s trailer.
And much as I hate to say I told you so, I pegged it. Mama was released, spent a few days at Grannys house then hightailed it back to the mobile manor.
Then grandma got released. You might recall she spent over a month in rehabilitation herself following a stroke. Now, during the dozens of phone calls and impassioned pleas made during MAMA’s stay at the Medicaid Spa and Resort, mama insisted that she needed to be allowed to go back to Grannys to help her out. But, naturally, when Granny got released, Mama was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, Mama had the only set of keys to Granny’s house, so anytime there was a doctors appointment, outing, etc, Granny had to leave her house unlocked. This despite dozens of phone calls trying to get the damned keys returned. Finally, we’d all had enough. Granny’s house is old…the back door, front door, and deadbolts all require separate keys. The front door lock is so old it can be picked by anyone who could jimmy a credit card into the jamb, and over the years several sets have been lost. So we (several sane family members and myself) decided to just have the house re-keyed, putting all the locks on ONE key. I called and arranged a locksmith, called Granny to let her know he was coming, and arranged with a local cousin to be there at the same time.
This was all to happen the same day that the part-time home health aid was to start. It was a situation ripe with drama. Mama felt SHE should have been hired as the health aide. (Yep, kids, she wanted her brothers and sisters to pay her for shacking up at her own mother’s house.) Despite the obvious reasons why this would be a horrible idea, Mama has been on the dole for decades, “disabled” you know. So not only did she want to be paid, but she wanted everyone involved to commit fraud by doing it “under the table.” I think they should have entertained the idea just long enough to run a background and drug test so we could all have a good laugh at the next reunion.
And Granny did not want this health aid, seeing it as a blow to her independence. (Bless her, the string of medications she is now on boggles MY mind, so its asking for disaster to expect someone recovering from multiple strokes to keep them straight.)
Now, wouldn’t you know that the day the aid starts, Mama would show back up at Grannys? Yep, after leaving the poor dear there alone for two weeks, she shows back up just in time to take her roll in the latest drama. The poor aid lasted a half an hour.
The locksmith was cancelled for reasons still not clear to anyone, and now just to get some kind of control over the situation, it looks like lawyers are going to have to get involved.
In the midst of all of this, Darling and I adopted a puppy. I bring this up only to pass on a couple of laughs. The poor dog can not get the hang of potty training. He’s slowly doing better, but five minutes after going outside for a potty break, he will make a mad dash for the formal dining room and leave a stinking pile twice his size behind. I’ve complained about this on Facebook, and Mama called, offering to “have that pup trained in two weeks time if you’ll send me a plane, train, or bus ticket.” Her previous suggestion to the puppies high energy level was to soak a pacifier in peach schnapps until he went to sleep, so when I asked her what experience she had training a dog, she pointed out that she’d had “Honey Bunny” and “Sassy Lassie” before. Both of these were outdoor dogs that she kept chained to a pine tree. Her biggest success with either of those was that if you told Honey Bunny to “jump” and happened to be holding food over top of her, she would, in fact, jump.
Needless to say, I will not be putting my puppy through that. But, here’s another laugh. This dog is seriously cute. Really. Don’t believe me? Here he is:
Can the congregation say “Awwwwww!”? Yes. God made this dog so cute because otherwise I would have killed him weeks ago. Anyhoo…Mama calls a few days ago and tells me she has an idea that is going to make me rich. (The last time she had a million dollar idea, it was for a device that would measure how many words per minute a person spoke, because she thought there was a big call for that information.)
“You need to get a patent on the color of that dog.”
“He’s tan. I don’t think you can patent tan.”
“Yeah you can. And use that color for carpet or hardwood floors, or blankets.”
“I’m pretty sure tan carpet has been invented.” (In fact, one “plus” for this dog is that he is the same color as our carpets were before he pissed and shit on every one of them.)
“Well look into it, you’d make a fortune.”