A Call From the Trailer Park

28 09 2014

Doris Funkybunk, one of mama’s bosom buddies from the trailer court where she and Kenny lived during their 14 attempts at bliss, called me this afternoon because she was worried. She thinks the family ought to have Mama committed and some electroshock therapy done to “reset her brain”. (Her words…do they even still do shock therapy?)

According to her, and I have to confess that I was only half paying attention, Mama has been behaving in an unladylike fashion. It was Doris who introduced Mama to the gentleman selling a trailer for $5,000. And according to Doris, within five minutes of meeting him, Mama offered him a blowjob while getting a tour of the property. A day or two later, after that tragic collision with the mailbox, this gentleman (I didn’t get his name, so let’s just call him Bobby Ray, because it’s probably something like that.) took Deloris to the hospital to visit Mama while she was having her sprained prostate, whipped lash, and multiple contusions seen about. Apparently, Bobby Ray was standing next to Mama’s hospital bed, and she grabbed his hand, put it in her crotch, and told him she had a few Cialis in her purse that he was welcome to use if he wanted to see “how she could rock his world.”

I had just eaten lunch, so I tuned out even more. But the crux of it is that Mama has shown up at Bobby Ray’s unannounced, left many unseemly messages on his phone offering up her feminine wiles, and basically made a complete ass of herself with Bobby Ray and several other residents of the trailer park. (Including some kind of kerfuffle between Mama and someone who gave one of my cousins a tattoo.) If you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about, so am I.

I told Doris I appreciated the call, but that Mama had been in and out of hospitals, and that several local therapists had installed revolving doors for her, but she was dishonest with the people charged with helping her, so it was very difficult to make any progress. I relayed the story from a year or so back that one of mama’s therapists had called me wanting more details about “my sister’s murder” (Mama had told this doc that sis was murdered by her fiance, and that the stress of the trial was getting to her.) Doris was shocked, because apparently Mama has stuck to this story over the years, and it’s how Doris thought she’d passed too. She’s gone as far as telling Doris that the incarcerated fiance had harassed her over the years through smuggled cell phones and letters sent from the pen.

I’m not sure shock therapy would do anything, but perhaps a full lobotomy?


How Y’all Doin?

24 09 2014

Today is my birthday. Woo hoo! I have crossed the line into my late 30s and for some reason that sounds really damn old to me. Like I ought to be a real full fledged adult now. I think I’ll put that off for a few more years.

Not much new to report here in the six months since my last post. Work has thankfully stayed busy. I left the chaos of the new “day job” I took last summer, enjoyed some time off, and returned to my old day job a month or so back. It’s a good thing. More time to spend doing things besides work, fewer headaches, and fewer nights spent chasing impossible deadlines.

Did I mention we did some renovating this winter? We’ve long been planning an extensive outdoor living area addition that will eventually include a huge screened porch, patio, outdoor kitchen, and pond. We did the first two phases this year…the patio and foundation work, and the outdoor kitchen. As with any renovation, there were bumps along the way. The brick on the house was no longer available locally, so had to be sourced halfway up the coast. The rigs that delivered it drove through the yard the day after the snow from our biggest winter storm melted, leaving three foot deep ruts behind. And the original builder of the house held up work for two months (the length of time it took to have them come re-side the back of the house on a warranty issue.) But, these phases are done, my savings account is done, and now we pinch in a penny here and a penny there to do the next phase, hopefully early next year.

When I last left you, I believe mama was shacked up at her mama’s house. After three overdoses in as many days, my aunt and uncles had enough, got power of attorney from my ailing grandmother, and had mom removed. She went on to a few weeks stay at the Medicaid Spa she checks into once or twice a year, and upon discharge was placed into some sort of program that would have fast tracked her into an income based apartment. (Long time readers will know that Mama’s own home, left abandoned these last four of five years, has been repeatedly burgled, rendered unlivable, and now must be moved off the land it is on. You’ll also recall she had the means to do this two years ago and frittered it away on a new car, a lawnmower, and a storage building.) Whatever this program was must have been too much like work for mama, so she left it, along with any chance of being in an apartment anytime soon. She shacked up for a few months with a man named Phillip, who had been widowed less than a month before mama brought her Kroger bags full of hair doodles to his trailer. Shock of shocks, that didn’t work out, so she and Kenny patched things up for the 14th time (literally.) The 14th time wasn’t the charm, and Kenny told Mama to get to steppin. She didn’t. Kenny hired a lawyer, and she was given 30 days to vacate. Most recently, she’s been staying with a new female friend.

This morning, I got a call from Mama. “Happy Birthday! This time 37 years ago I was in labor with you for 37 hours. Can you give me $5000?” That’s almost a direct quote. Turns out, someone in Kenny’s trailer court is selling a single wide for that sum that is “just gorgeous”. Having recently gotten an estimate for more than that just to paint my kitchen cabinets, I’m thinking her idea of gorgeous and mine differ somewhat, but to each her own. She had to have fifty percent down by the end of the month, and was hoping everyone could “pitch in”. I told her to go ahead and raise whatever she could and I’d see what I could do to help, but warned her that my ability and willingness to help was going to be minimal.

“Well your aunt and uncle say I ought to sell my car.”

“I agree. That would probably get you enough to pay for it altogether.”

I am NOT gonna do it!”

“How long’s it been now that you haven’t driven it? Two years?”

“I’m gonna get it back on the road!” (readers will recall that mama physically lost her license two years ago and has YET to have it replaced. She’s let it go so long now that it expired and she will have to retake the written and driving tests.)

“You’ve gotten by without it this long.”

“I am NOT selling my car!”

“Well, you’re making a conscious decision that its more important than having a home.”

“if everybody would pitch in a little…”

“Now why should anyone reach into their own pocket to bail you out AGAIN when you have the means to do it yourself?”

“I’m not gonna do it!”

“Then live in the damn thing.”

“Alright I gotta go, someones gonna take me out to get some cigarettes.”

Fast forward a few hours, and a tearful Mama calls again.

“I’ve been in a bad wreck! My neck is twisted, my backs hurting, I’m bruised all over! They’re gonna take me up to the hospital in an ambulance.”

“What happened?”

“Hit and run accident! I was in Kevin Whatchercallits truck and he ran into a concrete wall and just left the scene!”

“Slow down…who? what?”

A few more details and we can suss out that Kevin, who was taking mom to get her cigarettes, hit a concrete block that was holding up a mailbox. Now, I guess in Mama’s mind such a tragedy should be attended by the police, a firetruck, and a slew of ambulances, and since it wasn’t, its a hit and run (that sounds more dramatic anyway!) Would anyone like to take a bet that she has already called some ambulance chaser lawyer and poor Kevin will get slapped with a lawsuit for her injuries?

Ooo…I almost forgot. I had to delete Mama’s Facebook account. For the third time this year, a married woman tracked me down wanting to know if I knew anything about Mama and her husband sending each other nekkid pictures. The woman and her husband appeared to be about my age from their Facebook pictures, so I doubted any such thing was going on. So I logged into Mama’s account to see what was happening, and saw a few messages from this man to mama, of a generally friendly, perhaps slightly flirtacious nature. Then there were messages from Mama to this man’s wife, this man’s mother, and some other woman, all saying that she had pictures of his penis that she would be happy to show them. There was also the usual warning from Facebook about sending friend requests to people she didn’t know. So I looked at her pending requests and was shocked to see, literally, about 100 of them, including many people from my own friends , clients included. Once the account was disabled, I got a call from her, and I said her account was gone because she was sending friend requests to people she didn’t know. “It was mostly people on your list!” she protested. When I explained that my friends list is made up of clients, coworkers and colleagues, along with the usual social acquaintances, she seemed completely perplexed as to why it would be inappropriate for her to bother them.

Buckle Up Puppies, This Ones Bumpy

19 03 2014

I know its been months since I have graced the interwebs with the goings on of my life. I won’t bother to offer apologies…the truth is, I am busier than a one armed paper hanger these days. Seriously. In addition to the work I have coming through the door at the company I own, my duties at my “day job” are more than any two people can truly handle. I am pooped, stressed, and more than a little tempted to say “screw it” and go get some stress free job that ends at 5 PM that I don’t have to think about til 9 the next morning.

Darling and I are entering month two of the first phase of our outdoor living renovation. Eight hundred square feet of concrete suspended over steel decking that will eventually be a screened porch, outdoor kitchen, and patio. Between Mother Nature, special order brick, and subcontractors who are either too busy or too lazy to show up, what we thought would be a two week project is now looking like it will qualify for the Historical Registry before we get to enjoy it.

But what you really want to know about is Mama, right? Well, buckle up puppies, because girlfriend has lost it.

About a month ago, I got a message from a woman asking if I had a sister, that she thought she might know her. I explained that my sister had passed some years back, and after apologizing for approaching me under false pretenses, the woman explained that my mother had messaged her on Facebook and claimed to have a love child named Michelle with this woman’s husband who was desperate to finally meet her father. Anyone who has read more than two posts here knows Mama is nuttier than squirrel shit, but that was crazy even for her. So I logged onto Mama’s Facebook account, and sure enough, that was pretty much what had happened! I called Mama out on it, telling her I didn’t appreciate being disturbed with such juvenile nonsense. “Oh I was just playing a joke on her.”  Neither myself, nor the victim, found the humor in it.

Around the same time, Mama’s sometime bosom buddy from the trailer park messaged me to say that ambulances and police cars were stationed at Kenny’s place, and wondered if I knew what was going on. I didn’t, but later learned that Kenny had gotten drunk and fired a gun several times, AT mama, depending on which time she told the story. He was hauled off to the drunk tank, evicted from his lot at the Doy Mobile Court, and he and Mama are, for the 15th and “Final” time, DONE with each other.

So back Mama went to my poor Grandmother’s house, where she plays the martyred caretaker when she and Kenny are on the outs. And there she has been, having similarly been evicted from the land she has kept her own trailer parked on for 30-odd years. (that’s a whole other post–but the jist is that she literally lost everything, a paid for trailer and all it’s contents, because she did AB SO LUTE LY nothing to sell it, move it, or arrange for an extension of her lease.)  Mama apparently sits at Granny’s house and does nothing but sext with men on Facebook (men who believe she is a 45 year old ICU nurse), and sneak into the basement to smoke cigarettes. She still has done nothing to replace her driver’s license, and feigns outrage that she has worn through the generosity of everyone she knows “Can you believe he said this is the last time he would bring me cigarettes?”.

A few days back, one of Granny’s neighbors phoned my aunt, saying that she was worried about the situation there. Apparently, Mama had stumbled up to her house, high on pills, seven or eight times in one day because she couldn’t figure out how to turn her cell phone on. The neighbor was also concerned that several people known to be sketchy characters were dropping by for quick visits, leading the neighbor to wonder whether some sort of drug exchange was going on.

The day after this call, Granny phoned one of my uncles to say that Mama was passed out on the stairway. He came over, carried her into bed, and when he returned a few hours later to check on the situation, Mom supposedly had no memory of it, but opined that “this new medicine they got me on has me all messed up, I think I’ll just flush it down the toilet.”

Well, apparently “toilet” is a euphemism for her mouth, because she was passed out again the next day, and last night, my uncles had enough of it, and phoned the sheriff to help when Granny called to say she was passed out again. EMTs came to find an unconscious Mama, pills from four different doctors lying about the room. One bottle, for a narcotic painkiller, had been filled less than a week ago. Of 120 pills originally in the bottle, only 42 remained.

So, off she was hauled to the ICU, perhaps to have her stomach pumped or soaked up with charcoal. My uncles swore out a Mental Health Petition, and as soon as Mama is roused to alertness, a hearing will be held and hopefully she will be hauled off to the mental ward–a place she’s checked herself into at least four times in the last two years, but hopefully it will do some good since she won’t be able to sign herself out the moment she starts itching for a nerve pill.

We shall see.

And how have YOU been?

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

3 12 2013

A short post just because I haven’t written anything in ages. Its start to looking like Christmas around here. We’ve got our usual Christmas extravaganza up…eight trees this year, 2000 lights on the front of the house, and pine boughs tied to anything that would sit still. Usually by this point I’ve bought a few gifts and at least have an idea on how I will finish up my shopping, but this year I am clueless and the clock is ticking!

We had the pooch neutered about a month ago. That was an adventure. The doctors orders were to keep him calm for ten days, with no jumping or running. How does one get a six month old puppy to stay calm? Well, for us, the answer was drugs. At least we hoped it was. They would  knock him out for a ten minute nap and then he would resume his normal activities. (ie: running laps around the house, eating Christmas decorations, and hiding my socks.) Fortunately, he did no damage to himself in the process.

Then Darling had wisdom tooth surgery. An infection, over a week of pain, and lingering facial numbness were the after effects. It was little comfort when I pointed out that we have friends who spend good money to have their faces paralyzed.

My dad turns 60 today. I really think 60 (or for that matter, 50) is a lot different now than it was a generation ago. My grandparents were in their 50s when I was born, and when I see pictures from then, they LOOKED like grandparents. (And probably acted like them too) But today’s 50+ folks look and act younger. I’m hoping that by the time I get there, 80 is the new 50.  We’re planning to load up a rented SUV and take the little furbaby up to the mountains to celebrate this milestone this coming weekend.

And Mama has finally been served with notice to vacate her property. Anyone with a brain saw this coming long before she stopped paying for it and maintaining it. But she didn’t tell me about it, one of my aunts did after seeing the certified letter at my grandmother’s house. Mama, true to form, has two weeks to get out and has done ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to pack, find a new home, or make any arrangements for the sale or moving of her double wide. I suppose she will just lose all of it, and all I want to do is slap the stupid out of her.


And What’s Mama Been Up To?

12 10 2013

I’m sure my readers are wondering what Mama has been  up to.

Well let’s talk about her cell phone first. She has one of those pre-paid plans. This is really perfect for her…no contract, no credit check (she couldn’t pass that anyway—because of her divorce 20 some years ago, you know.) And for $50 a month she gets unlimited talk and text. (Less than half of what I am paying for similar service!)

But, the phone itself is garbage. She tries to Facebook on it, and ends up sharing a photo of marijuana with a prayer group, or sending messages to the wrong person. No less than six phone calls came from Mama asking what phone she ought to get. My simple answer of an iPhone or an Android weren’t good enough.

“I dont know if they have those with this prepaid service.”

“Then find out.”

“Where do I find out?”

“Online, or wherever it is you got the first one.”


“Then thats a start.”

Later that same day….

“Maybe next time you’re in walmart  you can see what kind of phone I can get.”

“I dont even know what kind of plan you are talking about. What company do you use?”

“I buy these recharge cards…”

“From what company?”

“I get ’em at gas stations or walmart.”

“But what BRAND are they?”

“Its a Kyocera.”

“Not the damn phone, who provides the service?? Is it Verizon, or AT and T?”

“No thats who I need to be on, Verizon. They got them friends and family plans.”

(Long time readers might recall a year or two ago I got a call from Verizon because Mama was trying to add herself a line to my plan.)

“Verizon would be a lot more expensive than what you’re paying now.”

“No it costs me 50 bucks a month!”

“Mine is over $100 for practically the same thing! $50 is a helluva deal for unlimited.”

“But this phone sucks.”

“Then get a new one!”

“But what kind?”

“Jesus Christ. I told you, an android or an iPhone would be good.”

“I don’t know what kind I can get on this plan. Maybe you could look for me the next time you go to Wal Mart.”

“I don’t have time to deal with your damn phone or for talking in circles about it. Go down to Wal Mart and find out what your options are, and if you need some advice then call me.”

“Well maybe you could look on your computer…”

“No. I couldn’t.”


“I can’t log you on from here! Turn off your caps lock, your Facebook password is lowercase.”


“You are typing in all capital letters. Your password is lowercase. Your caps lock is on.”


“I don’t know where it is on your phone.”




“Just turn the fucking phone off and back on again.”

A few minutes later….

“that worked must a needed to be restarted.”



A few days later, a phone call came from Mama. She was in a panic, nearly in tears. “They broke into the trailer again.”

This would be at least the fifth time her abandoned, overgrown double wide has been broken into. Its a puzzle to her why people keep breaking into a trailer with grass four feet tall that is clearly unlived in. “They took the living room suit, and that dining table that I bought when you were two with money I got from a car wreck!” (the woman has never had a dime she worked for.)

“Well what do you expect?”

“I went to the police but they can’t do nothing. They said a single disabled woman ought not live out there by herself.”

“You haven’t lived there in years.”

“It’s too much work. I don’t have anything to prove to anybody. And they’re gonna take that land for commercial use.”

“Well there’s not much left for you to move then.”

It is kind of sad. She had a perfectly nice little home and through her own stupidity is basically left with nothing now. I can’t feel sorry for her though. Does that make me awful?



Tales From the Showhouse

12 10 2013

I’ve neglected my posting of late. The truth is, I am absolutely swamped with work. I started a new job over the summer…going full time with a company I had done some consulting work with. It’s a good opportunity, a lot more money, but its taken a lot of time away from my home life, my sleep schedule, and the company I own. One of the “plusses” to this job is that the company is genius at marketing. Tie ins with national magazines, lots of PR events, lots of press. And once or twice a  year, they do a major showhouse that is tied to a national magazine. One such house is open now at a beautiful community in the middle of nowhere, just west of Bumfuck, Georgia.

The house opened a few weeks ago with an event that hosted over 400 people. The driveway, naturally, did not hold that many cars, so we used the country clubs golf carts to bring guests to the house.

And that proved to be a mistake for one poor guest. Bless her heart, she suffered from vertigo, and the drive from the parking lot to the house set her spinning. She did her best to soldier on, but as she made her way onto the rear terrace, the contents of her stomach emptied onto the newly laid flagstone. Embarassed, she struggled through the shoulder-to-shoulder mass of guests trying to escape, only to find herself pinned in the foyer by people coming in. Wave number two came, and whatever was left in her digestive system came flying, loudly, out onto the floor.

We hired a part time girl to help out at the showhouse…shes on hand to help answer questions, tidy up, or whatever else needs doing while it is open for tours. She grew up in one of the suburbs of Bumfuck in a conservative, deeply religious household, and attends an equally conservative, deeply religious university.  One morning, I mentioned that I was starving, and that I’d hoped to find a restaurant on the way in to grab a quick breakfast, but was disappointed that all I passed was a Captain D’s. “You should have turned by the new Home Depot.” she offered, “There are a lot of really good restaurants back there.”

“Oh? I didn’t see the signs.”

“Yeah, well they’re nice places, its not fast food. There’s a Steak N Shake and an Applebees.”

Bless her heart.

And finally, a couple of well dressed ladies came through the house today, and one of my coworkers was making small talk with them. When they mentioned the small town they were from, my coworker said she knew the town well, that a good friend from college grew up there. One of the ladies asked for the friend’s name, and when she realized it was a common acquaintance, launched into a 20 minute gossip session in which this person’s ex husband was revealed to be a gun smuggler, that person’s stepson was into meth, and this man’s first wife “was, is, and always will be bat shit crazy!”  I was a little shocked that someone would dish so unashamedly to perfect strangers, and my coworker seemed to be as well. She asked how it was that she knew the mutual friend.

“Oh, I’m her Sunday School teacher.”



Lord, my Load is Heavy

7 08 2013

Buckle up puppies, its been a busy few weeks.

Let’s see…

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:

cooperCan 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.”