I've probably lost my entire reading audience which I was proud to say was a not-to-shabby 36 people willing to read this here blog and here I am neglecting it.
My sincerest apologies but my sense of humor got up and left. And it hasn't really returned.
It has been nothing but a rollercoaster ride of visits to doctors and dealing with my momma for the last few weeks and I don't think that I have to you, blog reader, that I'm about 3 ticks shy of a full blown apoplectic fit.
Daily I talk myself out of maiming a relative. Sometimes multiple times in a day. Tuesday of this past week we, my mother and I, were asked to leave the physician's office and take our 'conversation' into the parking lot as we were screaming at each other at the top of our lungs in the middle of the waiting room. That was a little embarrassing but we bounced right back to re-have the same fight, the very same fight that we've been having for weeks now, again 30 minutes later. That ladies and gentleman requires talent.
What fight is this you ask? The fight in which my mother declares that she's going to die reasonably 'soon' and that, drum roll please, she's ready to 'GO'. The problem with this being mostly that SHE ISN'T DYING; she's not even reasonably close. Sure her wound won't close and her kidney function isn't great but not one doctor, and we've seen at least 5 different ones, has looked at her and said 'You know, this isn't looking good.' Mostly they roll their eyes, look at me with empathy and give me the name of yet another specialist I need to drag her to. Because they're trained to do that. And they're glad they don't see her everyday to put up with this melodramatic bullshit. So I do the normal thing and threaten to haul her punk ass to the ER because if she really feels THAT BAD then she shouldn't be at home. Of course that provokes an entirely different fight about how she's not doing anything she doesn't want to do. (Boy I'm gonna feel like a jackass if she kicks the bucket soon; I still maintain she'll outlive us all just for spite. She'd seriously do that. If only to piss me off.) Then I play the guilt card and she finally shuts up and we move on to the next topic.
There are bugs in her bed. Sometimes they even crawl in her ears.
Now, this is a genuine fear of mine (Especially when my bff's husband told m a story of his crazy friend Bob White who actually had a cockroach eat his ear drum. I went into convulsions in the middle of her floor and scared her dogs into peeing themselves.) so when that started I raced her to the doctor to have her ears examined for the presence of bugs, and maybe a brain. I then drug her memory foam mattress (Which is heavy as a mother-fucker.) into the yard and beat it with a stick. I then sanitized her sheets and bedding and still there are bugs in her bed.
There are no bugs in her bed. I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb. I've called the exterminator and personally directed him to spray every nook and cranny in and around that house. The dog hasn't been quite right since.
But that may be the steroids.
Yes, not only am I arguing with my mother to take her pills, I am now responsible for coaxing the dog to take HER pills. Hot dogs, I tell you. Dogs love raw hot dogs.
Do you know why I'll be forever single? Because my fingers smell like raw hot dogs.
And I have to talk to myself, out loud mind you, to not dis-member people in public. I saw this crazy woman in the CVS the other day and I asked the clerk if he'd like me to remove her from the premises and he looked at me like I was the one playing house with the gummy bears in the middle of the incontinence aisle. Whatever dude.
Anyways the point of all this being I'm not dead and I'm sorry for not posting and reading your blogs. I'm lame. I know. But if you'd like to arrange for me to be put in a vegetative-like coma for a few weeks I could totally get down with that. Or you could just come kill me and put me out of my misery.
But totally freeze me so I can come back once the woman has calmed down. What? I'm not suicidal. That's just plain morbid.