Cranberries

So.

The Beast, resident doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s
lawn, had been acting odd for a good long while. Being the good resident of the interwebs and Ace Dr. Googler (having misdiagnosed myself with everything from cancer to the Bubonic Plague) that I am, I did the same for the mutt.

My initial diagnosis, when taking into consideration her age etc?? The Dreaded Doggie Dementia.

What fun.

Not only do I have a family chock full of eejits, but now I’ve got a dog
with friggin’ Alzheimer’s?? She’d had a good chunk of the symptoms. And
she’s the same age as Wednesday. Which is fourteen. Except in dog
years. And I would do the math but I failed math too many times to
embarrass myself here and now. I could get the calculator, but it’s always fun reminding half the free world (read: the 3 or 4 of you that might read this) that when it comes to math I SUCK.

She seemed to have her good days and her bad days. I told Trash, though, that when her bad days started to outnumber her good days, we’d probably have to do the humane thing. It just wasn’t fair to see her turn into a basket case every time I left the house, whether it was for two minutes, or two hours. And frankly, it was doing my head in, as well. I was planning on how to leave the house while leaving her alone for the least amount of time (ie: coinciding with Trash’s arrival home from work) or cutting deals with him to OH MY GOD STAY HOME for ONE bloody night with her so Icould go out. Because you see, when left alone, she howls like she’s out on the lonesome prairie. And you can bet your sweet bippie the landlord would leave hour-long messages on the voicemail complaining about the very same. I could see her side of it, but to be honest, the dog could yap for five seconds and she’d say it went on for three and a half weeks.

Whatever.

Anyway!

Last week. Another thing happened with said Beast. And I told Trash we
MUST bring the Beast to the vet. And I prepared him for the worst. I
spent three days previous to her appointment crying. Feeling guilty that I was doing this for my convenience–my sanity, really. Even though it wasn’t any good for the dog, either, the way she was behaving–the way she was living. Glued to my side, going batshit the second I was out of sight. Trying to dig in a closet where there was A) no dirt and B) no bloody room for her to sit. And numerous other things that turned her into a barking loony.

Yes. I was fully prepared to tell the vet it was her time, as I was sure this was what the vet would tell me. Especially when I told him about the Dreaded Doggie Dementia, along with the other Major Issue she was having.

So there’s me, Trash and Annie (who had come along for moral support and also, was our ride there, because most major transportation systems frown on taking a 75lb shepherd-akita-whatever-else-was-at-the-docks-that- day mixes on their buses) in the waiting room.

Annie is semi-ok.

Trash is being manly-man, but misty-eyed.

I am a fucking basket case.

Racked with guilt. Feel awful for the dog. Wondering if I’m doing this more for her or me. Because yes, I love the dog terribly, but I know things would be a lot easier once she’s gone to the Big Boneyard in the Sky. For instance, I can actually start saving for a new apartment now (try getting an apartment on NYC with a dog–HA!! Ma and Trash took this place mainly because EFL said ok to the Beast and no one else would). I could leave the house and NOT have to worry about what time I got back because the mental case will go fruity otherwise. And Trash is rather braindead when it comes to sharing dog-care duty, babysitting wise, thinking the landlord is exaggerating and should zip it. I, however, am slightly more considerate, and far more paranoid of losing my domicile.

We go into the examination room and everything went so fast–it was just a blur. The minute I said something the vet explained no it’s actually THIS. The other thing?? No it’s actually THAT!!

‘You see, the thing is, Babs, she loves you too much. She wants to be with you all the time’

(Talk about guilt fucking OVERLOAD)

So. The Major Issue?? Solved by a week-long regimen of pills and prescription dog food.

The Dreaded Doggie Dementia??

Isn’t dementia at all. And is instead Separation Fucking Anxiety.

And he’s put the Beast on Crazy Meds to try and sort it!!

Leave it to us to have the only dog on the block thats just as medicated as the rest of the family.

I cannot begin to explain the joys of trying to hide a capsule of Clomipramine twice a day in the sneaky cow’s dog food.

If her behavior continues, however, I may well just explain the joys of sneaking it into MY food.

Because I might just need it.

Oh Noes!!

To Whom it May Concern,

 

If anyone could please help me remember the difference between Ozzy’s cell phone number and Herself’s, I’d be most obliged*. Especially since I’ve been stuck on the phone with her for forty-five minutes straight. Halp!!

 

* As would my eardrums.

 

Hugs and Kisses,

Babs

Something Blue

Did I tell you lot my exciting news back a few months ago??

I don’t think I did–and allow me to shout it from the rooftops–I have moved into the 21st century!!

All I need is a space-age tinfoil suit and a hovercraft now. Like, totally.

Yea verily, no longer am I stopped from playing online games, downloading various applications, or SURFING THE BLOODY INTERNET by snarky little signs, blips, and pop-ups that shout ‘Dude. Windows 98?? Are you SHITTING me?? You are SO not allowed to use this firewall/game/relevant update to every other puter system known to mankind EXCEPT YOURS’

I am only just now getting used to the bizarre new-fangledness of Weendows Veesta.

I can watch all the silly movies the neph and the niece have you-tubed. WITHOUT IT SKIPPING!!

I surfed, scanned, and chatted all at once. WITH NARY A LAG!!

I mean, for gods sake people, I can now wheel-scroll down through notepad.

(Although I was quite perturbed to discover that Word isn’t part of the package and god DAMMIT that’s what I use for proper writing. Not that I’ve done any in the past god knows when. Because my brain no longer works. I mean, sure, I can use Works instead, but I’ve been using Word for HOW long?? Bastards)

We shall not speak of Spider Solitaire. Or Mah Jong Titans. Or various other games on Social Websites that may or may not end with Wars and such as I SWORE were ridiculous and what was the point?? I mean you click to attack someone?? That’s ALL?? And buy a few things?? This is nothing like Toejam and Earl!! I am not going to play these games.

And I am totally not addicted. Ahem.

By the by, the flat panel screen thingie?? Wicked sweet. Because now my vikings and penguins once again have a home on my dresser/desk. Because my old monitor, which was roughly the size of Rhode Island, has vacated the premises.

(And by ‘vacated’ I mean ’sits in the corner of the living room waiting for me to find the proper hook-ups to get some stuff off of the Ancient Puter and onto this Magical Machine’)

Oh. And because I can watch DVDs on here–and who needs cable when one can go to Hulu and Joost?! And every other channel known to mankind. Except the BBC whom, apparently, are veryfuckingsnotty about people outside of the UK watching their precious TV shows.

(Having said that I do so sincerely hope the sites I mentioned aren’t equally as snotty because, well, then I’ll just look like an idiot, won’t I??)

Anyway–behold!!–the new nerve center of Spaztardicus Wrecks*

*One snide remark about my Colin Firth wallpaper and death shall ensue. Consider yourself warned.

So

Let’s try this again, shall we??

Maybe THIS time I can manage to post within a century of my last post.

Meanie

A busted loo and Saint Patrick’s Day.

You would think that one has nothing to do with the other, yes??

Well!! You haven’t been reading here very long then. Obviously.

Now. You might remember that I mentioned in the post previous that Trash was going to fix the loo. Last Sunday he said ‘OH MY GOD I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE I’M GOING TO FIX THE LOO!!’

And I rejoiced. REJOICED!!

No longer would there be the turning on and off the water every frickin’ time one had to, well, you know. Nay!! In a few mere hours the melodious noise of a proper flush would be ringing  throughout the house.

Huzzah!!

Except.

And isn’t there always an except??

Trash, as most of you may know, is no plumber. He knows how to follow directions though, so how could this possibly go wrong??

Wrong it went, as it turns out. No matter how he sorted it the end result was always more fucking water on the floor than in the tank. Says Trash to me, ‘I give up. Tell her to call a fucking plumber’

As if this wasn’t bad enough, since the tank was now leaking like a sieve the minute one fucking ounce of water got in there, we were forced to revert back to the ‘dump a pot of water in the pot’ system, which, HELLO, IS GROSS AND MESSY AND EW EW EW!!

I was not a happy camper.

I was further shocked by EFL’s getting right on the ball to find someone to fix the loo, rather than ask why Trash hadn’t sorted it fifty times straight. The deal had been IF he could fix it he would–and let me tell you, no one was more shocked than I when she acquiesced straightaway.

(You know, on thinking, I should have just told EFL three weeks back that he’d tried to sort it and couldn’t and HELLO, all of this would have been dead and done. But NO!!–I am a moron what attempts to live up to their word. God DAMMIT)

The next morning I was down at EFL’s on an unrelated matter (read: she couldn’t find her glasses so she rang me for help) when lo!!–the handyman type that her friend recommended rang.

Perfect!! Will just sort when he can come by to fix the throne.

‘Tell him to come by tomorrow’

I start hemming and hawing and mention that, REALLY, I’m supposed to go to the parade. And OH MY GOD IT IS TRADITION AND I CANNOT MISS THIS.

Handyman hears my exchange with EFL and very helpfully says ‘You know, I can drop by on Wednesday instead–it’s no problem’

I agree that Wednesday is fine, because while, yes, the pot-slosh flush is highly erratic and sometimes messy if your aim is off by one iota, I am willing to suffer it for one extra day for good ol’ Saint Pat. He asks me what the problem is so I start to explain it to him when EFL starts babbling ‘Oh no!! It can’t be Wednesday!! I have a doctors appointment then’

GAWD.

Ok. Fine. I will even suffer one EXTRA day for the sake of Tradition Familial (even though there was no familial going to the parade with me, or anyone else for that matter).

I start to tell him Thursday is ok when EFL starts yapping, hissing, and shaking her head no vigorously. ‘It CANNOT be Thursday. It will have to be tomorrow’

‘But we’ll be here on Thursday’

‘No, no, no, no, Babs, it’s got to be tomorrow!!’

(And really, it doesn’t matter if EFL is afoot or not, she isn’t going to come up here, so what the fuck does it matter?? He can give her the bill the day after or whatever)

She is adamant in spite of my protests and keeps saying ‘You can watch the parade on TV, can’t you??’

So with a heavy sigh I tell him tomorrow will be fine and even he says ‘Well at least you can watch the parade on TV’

WHY DOES NO ONE GET THAT IT’S NOT THE SAME?!

Off the phone I get, and EFL tells me that the reason Thursday was unacceptable was because the friend who recommended this fellow happened to mention that said fellow is a ‘true alcoholic’ and often disappears for a week at a time. ‘And tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day, Babs!! He’s libel to go on a week-long bender and not show on Thursday!! So it’s tomorrow or nothing’

We will forego the obvious question of just WHY EFL would hire someone with such a glowing reputation etc etc (not that I’m criticizing–hell, half my family would give the Betty Ford clinic a run for the money)–but, you know, one would THINK this might put her off. What’s REALLY pissing me off is that I KNOW chances are really fucking high that EFL will cancel her appointment on Wednesday anyway. Saint Patrick’s Day is my ONE big holiday–the one day of the year I always make sure I take off–and I know I’m getting fucked out of it for things what WILL NOT HAPPEN.

Pardon my French, but you know what?? She’s such a fucking twat.

Saint Patrick’s Day. Handyman arrives noon-ish. Looks over the loo. Tries this. Tries that. Informs me that it’s missing a few bits (some extra washers that hadn’t come with the kit, as we have a Fancy Terlet apparently). Also informs me that he’d been drinking over the weekend, didn’t feel well, and had debated whether to even come over. He’s going to go get the parts and he’ll be back, whens that kids??

Oh yea–fucking Thursday!! Which EFL seems to have no problem with NOW. It’s 1:30–so there’s no way I’d be able to get to Manhattan on time. So I missed my National Holiday so he could drop by, fiddle with the loo for five fucking minutes, and tell me he’s not really into working today.

And, of course, she cancels her fucking appointment on Wednesday. As I knew she would.

He comes back Thursday, sorts the loo (and it was established, much to Trash’s good cheer, that he’d done everything right except one tiny bit that he couldn’t help), and we can flush the loo like normal people again.

(Note I didn’t mention how kitchen sink managed to go exactly then and flood the entire room as I was running water over eggs. Because the god damned bottom pipe decided to fucking detach itself at that very moment)

I go downstairs to fetch his money from EFL (who is not receiving visitors because Madam does not feel well) and she says ‘Tell him I said God sent him!!’

It took all my strength to stop myself from mumbling ‘Well St. Patrick sure as fuck didn’t. You stupid cow’

Fin.

Queens

So. The toilet is bust. AGAIN. First there was the mysterious Phantom Flushing that seemed to happen every half hour on the nose—it’s kind of like having a poltergeist with the trots—very annoying especially when EFL calls to complain about it. Because, HELLO, is it not your job as landlord to sort out any Issues Plumberial?? But no, EFL would ring and say, and oh yes, I quote ‘ You know, Babs, I have to pay for water and that can’t be good. My water bill has gone up, you know!’

Incredulous was I.

Well, not as incredulous as when EFL first noticed this Phantom Flushing, oh no. She took the cake with that one. I’d gone out one day to the shops, and EFL was aware that I’d gone because if she doesn’t have her door open to hear every single thing that goes in and out of the front door she cannot possibly live a whole and decent life. Her very being hangs in the balance if she is not aware of my every move, as well as Trash’s every move. Anyway. In the door I came one bright day, trot up the stairs and Bob’s yer uncle, my fucking phone rings (read: a highly annoying habit EFL has picked up—the MOMENT either of us walk in there goes the phone). I answer it because if I don’t?? It’s another twenty minutes of ringing OR the rat-tat-fucking-tat of her fingernails on the glass of our hall door. AND THAT CANNOT BE FOR I WILL BECOME VIOLENT!!

Babs: Hello?

EFL (excitedly): Babs!! You won’t believe this!!

Babs: What’s the matter??

EFL: You’ve been gone ALL day, right??

Babs: Er, Yea.

EFL: I think your dog is smarter than she’s letting on!!

Babs: Huh?? What’s she done now??

EFL: She knows how to flush the toilet!!

Babs: *dumbfounded*Wha–huh?? No she doesn’t.

EFL: I’m serious!! I heard the toilet flush while you were gone!!

The penny drops, and I explain the mysterious Poltergeist Potty Problem. EFL has a hard time believing this, though, and insists for the next few days that it MUST be the dog (or, even more amusingly, one of the cats) flushing the loo, and OH MY GOD THEY ARE SO CLEVER, BABS!!

A few days later I finally convinced her that it was not a carbon-based life form laying waste to the water closet, but in fact a faulty frickin’ throne. And when this notion DOES get through her noggin, she lets me know it will have to wait until the end of the month to get fixed–she hasn’t the money to pay a plumber.

(Mostly because she has had the plumber over three or four times to sort her loo since November, and oh sweet Jesus you cannot HEAR any more frightening a sentence than ‘Babs, I have an emergency down here. Halp!!’ Because then you run down, thinking she’s having a sugar attack, but NO!!–her toilet is clogged and she doesn’t have the arm strength to plunge and my god I will have nightmares til the end of TIME, thanks very much. Because asking me to plunge the loo isn‘t bad enough, NO!! She has to describe what she‘d been doing right previous, and it has naught to do with numero uno, but a number that, oh yes, follows it directly!! And now she doesn‘t talk to the plumber anymore anyway, because they had the unmitigated GALL to suggest the best thing for her would be to replace the fifty year old bowl that‘s in there. Shock!! Horror!!)

Oog. Got sidetracked a bit there, didn’t I??

Right!!

As luck would have it, the MOMENT EFL mentioned that she wouldn’t be able to have our loo repaired until the beginning of March, the fucking thing broke further. To wit: Now the tank won’t fill up after each flush-the water runs but at a trickle that wouldn‘t fill a thimble in a days time, let alone right after a flush. Which, as you can imagine is a joy unparalleled to any other. Because who DOESN’Tenjoy lugging a pot of water to the loo to get it to work?? And ones aim must be true, lest they want a thoroughly disgusting mess on the bathroom floor due to splashback.

We went through a day and a half of pot-lugging when Trash asked me what, exactly, was the problem. So I turned the water back on, yelled, ’Behold, Trash, the loo will not fill up!!’ and lo–the fucking thing filled up toot-sweet, making me look like some sort of Pathological Potty Prevaricator. But!! After the initial fill of water and the subsequent flush it failed to fill again. Justification was mine!!

As well as the Stupidest Person on the Planet Award. Because when everything first went to pot (as it were), Trash said, ‘Oh pshaw, I can fix that–tell her not to worry about paying a plumber–go buy the parts and I will sort it out’

I went and bought the parts, three weeks ago exactly, and he hasn’t fixed the fucking thing yet.

Why?? Because as Trash says, ‘I’ll get to it soon, and we can DEAL with turning the water on and off right after using the loo, yea?? It’s better than dumping a pot of water down there, you know’

The only consolation in all of this is the bastard nearly chokes to death when turning it on and off after German sausage and Guinness night.

Yo

Ha!!

Yes, We Have No Bananas

I went to see a new neuro of sorts last week–an Alleged Epileptologist. Why?? Because I am special and have my fancy-pants three types of seizures. I am nothing if not an attention hog, epileptically speaking.

{What?? You only have grand mal?? Pah!!–amateur}

So she is running the gamut of basic tests (stand on one leg, walk with one foot in front of the other, touch your nose with your eyes closed, touch the doctors fingers, do a handstand while humming God Save the Queen and juggling three Valencia oranges). She also had me give a fifteen minute soliloquy on my History Epileptical. I rattled on about this that and the other and answered all her inquiries with good cheer and not ONE IOTA OF SMARTASSEDNESS. I swear. Ahem.

Anyway. In the middle of all this (and this my friends is what sets apart your basic neuro from your high-falutin’ Epileptologist because my previous neuros have NEVER done this–yes THIS is why they get the big bucks) she says ‘Remember these three words, Babs. Apple, table, penny’

‘Oog!! Is this some sort of memory test?!’

{I was wondering seeing as she’d asked me about my attention span and I told her that these days it is bloody non-exis–oog!! Must do dishes later. And isn’t Frasier on right now??}

‘Why yes. Yes it is. Remember those words we’ll come back to that later’

‘Apple, table, penny. Apple, table, penny. Apple, table, penny. Apple, table, penny–sorry I don’t mean to sound like a nutjob, but if I don’t repeat in constantly RIGHT NOW I will never remember it’

‘Oh that’s ok, Babs’

She rattles off more questions, talks to me about possible tests they might run and so on and so forth. She even frightens the life out of me by mentioning something called an ‘Intracranial EEG’. And let me tell you I sorted rather quickly that part of that word is ‘In’, the other part was ‘cranial’ and knew that I wanted NOTHING to do with it. But luckily she was only mentioning it in the course of things, not as something she wanted me to undergo (I think. I hope. Oh dear god, I fucking PRAY). Which is good. Because–and call me fussy if you like–I am SO not a fan of Holes in My Skull. Nor of being wired up like a 1976 Dodge Charger. And think of what it would do to my do!?!

No one fucks with the hair, people. NO ONE.

‘Ok, Babs. Let me go confer with my colleagues’

‘Righto. I’ll just sit here bored shitless’

I looked out the window into the city. Because I am a Fancy Bitch now and this doctor is in Manhattan. So I watched the peons trotting from here and there while I sat in the room of the free clinic I had to trick my way into because, actually?? My insurance isn’t accepted by ANY epi-frickin-lepsy centers in the Greater NYC area. So I’ve got to back-door my way into this one–if they see me at the clinic (where my insurance IS accepted) they can then assess my situation and bump me into the eppo center who is then forced to accept my insurance because this doctor will demand certain testing that only they can do. And doesn’t all that rigamarole just make so much more sense than going to the eppo center straightaway??

That’s what I thought.

Sitting there I thought to myself ‘Oog!! She forgot to ask me about the apple table ummm what was it?? thingie. Fuck fuck fuck. What was it??’ I finally remembered and rattled off the answer to myself again over and over in case she DID remember to ask me.

About fifteen minutes later she toddles back in and says ‘Oh Babs, I forgot something…’

I cut her off and shouted gleefully (and with a smattering of know-it-all tude, for that matter) ‘Aha!! Apple, table, banana!! Apple, table, banana!! Ha!! I KNEW I’d remember!!’

*does smug epileptical victory dance*

‘Well no, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you–well I was but I was going to ask you *question I cannot remember now because I have the attention span of a god damned sea-monkey* this first. And, um. It wasn’t banana’

‘Wasn’t it??’

‘No. It was penny’

‘FUCK’

I am doomed.

..But Made for a Psychopath

If there is one beauty to Certain Party and her revisionist history it is this: it can be about an event ten years gone by now, or it can be about something that happened just this past weekend.

Manson et al came up here for Christmas. I’d like to think that Certain Party was gracious enough to drive up here with the clan for the holiday so that myself and Trash might not be stuck on our own for the festivities (which, actually, we wouldn’t have been, as Trash II had invited Trash to his house for the day, and then myself when Trash told him he couldn’t leave his eldest and only sister alone for the holiday), but no, Certain Party only made the trip as it fit her own agenda. This, of course, is not a surprise to anyone who has been reading here for more than five minutes.

Oh wait. WAIT. Before I even dare to tread on the shoes of Certain Party and their idea of ‘Facts–How I Can Make Them Up to Suit My Own Needs’ let me address THIS. You all remember how Ma got hijacked Down Souf when Certain Party’s Parental Unit became ever sicker, yes?? She had got the cancer and been battling it for years and our Ma was down there helping them til the inevitable sad end. All very nice and I’m sure you’ll agree that any sane person would be eternally grateful for an ex-mother-in-law who was kind and gracious enough to do such a deed.

No. Not quite. First of all, Certain Party is nowhere NEAR sane. Ma is quite prone to bouts of bronchitis. It’s a known fact that, even the non-smokers in her family (of which Ma is one, having never partaken of a cigarette save once when she was 12 and Nana, subsequently, made her eat it or something) are a bunch of weak-lunged bastards. Every winter, without fail, Ma comes down with a hideous cough and the Phlegm Circus comes to town. And a fever sometimes, too, for added fun. The only thing that can stave this off is a trip to Ye Olde Doctor and a Z-pack. There is no way around this. So. There was Ma last December, in the throes of yet another Bronchitial Malfunction. Certain Party’s Parental Unit, meanwhile, was in and out of the hospital with the doctors giving her ever-worsening news every day. Certain Party went off on anyone within a five-mile radius who Dared to Get Sick. Her reasoning being ‘If my Parental Unit catches your cold/flu/hangnail she could die because she has no resistance!! If something happens it will be YOUR fault!!’

(Even the kids)

And yet. When Ma came down with the bronchitis Certain Party accused her of trying to steal sympathy for her Parental Unit and lambasted her for daring to go to a doctor. Now this is not a shocking statement when one knows Certain Party–in fact one would rather be surprised if she DIDN’T say something to this effect. This, though, isn’t the corker, my dears. Not in the least. When Certain Party mentioned Ma and her sympathy stealing ways to her Parental Unit they didn’t say ‘Och, well she can’t help being sick. And she’s driving me from doctor to doctor, hospital to hospital etc. And people DO get sick’. No. The Parental Unit agreed that yes, Ma was sympathy stealing. Whats more, it was in very poor taste for Ma to go to the doctor while she was busy dying.

I. ASK. YOU.

Have I missed a meeting here?? Or is their family completely and utterly psychopathic??

Anyway. Revisionist history.

Certain Party and I are in the car and driving to the shops. At 3 bloody AM. Because she HAD to find an open fast food restaurant and no one else would drive with her. And she could not POSSIBLY do what most other adults would do–to wit: go by her bloody self. I was using this as an opportunity to fetch something for Manson from the store, because Certain Party REFUSES to allow Manson the luxury of getting ANYTHING from the shops as far as her car goes–even if she’s going right by the place. No. They are divorced now and she owes him nothing!! One can’t argue that ‘Hey, you sort of forced him to come up here even though he was broke and really, what’s the harm in dropping by the 7-11 seeing as you’re going to a shop RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO IT??’ No. This logic, nay, common decency even, is beyind Certain Party’s grasp. No matter how many times I’ve tried to argue it. Even if I’m fetching something for ME there will be eyes rolled if I happen to get Manson a coffee while I’m in there. God. You know what?? She’s such a fucking twat.
 
ANYWAY. Certain Party has been itching to tell me a Big Secret. It’s not really a Big Secret considering I’ve known about it since late June. And it really isn’t a Big Secret to anyone else because she’s been dropping subtle hints about it since god was a boy. And by ’subtle hints’ I mean as subtle as Tammy Faye Baker’s makeup in the 80s. And 90s, for that matter. EVERYONE KNOWS. We are pretending we DON’T know, though, because the only reason she’s bandying this little secret about is that she hopes to tear apart the family with it.

Par Exampluh: ‘Well I don’t know, Babs. I know some things and if I were to tell?? It would rip the family apart and change the dynamics entirely. If I ever told….well, none of y’all would be the same again’

We have all agreed, however, that A) we don’t care what the secret is and B ) we refuse to get sucked in to her Drama Fest. So we pretend as if if this secret doesn’t exist. And once it’s all out that we DO know, we will Not Care. Which pisses her off even MORE.

So. Me and her in the car. She drops a hint. I say nothing. She drops another hint. I mention that we ought to go to this store. She drops an even bigger and better hint. A hint that, frankly, a person with the IQ of a bran muffin could decipher. I still say nothing, save for mentioning the fact that I have cramps. Finally after dawdling and beating around the bush, she tells me the Big Secret in it’s entirety. The Big Secret which I’ve known all along. Let me mention here that it was all I could do to hold my tongue–I wanted to punch her in the fucking face. I wanted to rip her to fucking shreds verbally–but I remembered the Plan of Action Familial. Say nothing–give her nothing. I sat there and wittered on about the next best shop that might be opened while she continued to talk about the Big Secret hoping to get a rise out of me. Didn’t work. I barely acknowleged it. And yet when she got back home she took Manson aside and said ‘Uh oh. Babs is going to start talking shit now. Be warned’

{Manson has known the Big Secret too, but only had it confirmed the night previous, when Certain Party felt the need to confess it to her 13 year old when she thought everyone was asleep. And he wasn’t}

They get back Down Souf and Certain Party is talking to Ma about the Big Secret–but not SAYING what the Big Secret is (yet, in the car ride confessional, Certain Party told me that Ma already knew and I was the only one in the dark. And Ma does know, but was playing the hand as I was–saying NOTHING. Ma knew on her own, NOT because of Certain Party telling her) just that it would tear the family to bits. And, Certain Party informs her that, while she was up here, I pumped her for information during that car ride. And she was forced to tell. And that we’ve been bumping heads ever since.

‘You know, me and Babs aren’t as close as we once were. I don’t know why that is’

Oh, golly. I don’t know why either. Maybe it’s because you’re a raging fucking psychopath?? And a lunatic?? And you keep track of everything from how much food my mother eats to her toilet paper usage while she’s down there helping your stupid, sorry ass out??

I have not laughed so hard in ages.

Wooly Bully

Normally when I’m cleaning for Birdie, babysitting for Annie, or round at my new cleaning gig I don’t tell EFL.

Why, you ask??

Because when EFL rings wanting me to vacuum (and yet again wanting me to ignore the one-hundred-fifty fucking plates on her wall that haven’t been dusted since the Great Depression and are a danger to any asthmatics within a nine mile radius) her immediate reply upon my telling her I am otherwise occupied is ‘Well, can’t you call them and change the date??’

She cannot grasp the concept of ‘They asked first and thus, you will have to wait until it’s your turn for Babs Magical Floormopping Tour’

Nor will she take the answer of ‘No. I am too busy to do this today’ lying down, no. She will ring. And ring. And insist. Until I make up fake doctors appointments or last minute trips to various tropical locales. ‘Yes, frightfully sorry, EFL. Amoebic dysentary test today. Then I’m off to Tortuga for a bit of scuba diving. I’ll pop round, tomorrow, ok??’

EFL also continually fails to grasp the concept of ‘Just because you hear Babs upstairs, this is not an invitation to call her to clean. She has her own bloody housework to do, thankyouverymuch’ Which is very similiar to the ‘Just because you’ve heard Babs run into the loo at 7 AM does NOT mean she isn’t going back to bed, nor is this an invitation to call her at same’ A habit which has caused me to take evasive measures. Such as filling the tea kettle for my morning cup of tea the night before; if she hears the faucet turn on the minute there is sunlight–BOOM!!–let’s call Babs.

{Quite similar to the ‘Do NOT call me the minute I turn the vacuum on. You KNOW I’m in the middle of something. And if I don’t answer the fucking phone?? It is NOT an invitation to come pounding on my door until I cave and talk to you just to get you to stop that godawful rat-a-tat-tatting on the glass of the door and to shut my dog up because the sound is driving her fucking batshit’ clause}

Pain. In. The. Fucking. Arse.

EFL wants me to straighten out her side storage room yet again. It’s a tiny expanse–not much bigger than my room–yet holds enough clothes to keep a gaggle of Bingo Grannies warm for three winters. If this weren’t bad enough the dressers, wardrobes and various furniture are arranged in such a way that one can only open the door a few inches. She is wobbly and can’t walk in there. Instead she opens the door, throws various things on the floor when she’s feeling cluttered in the rest of the house. Then bloody well rings me whn she needs something. I then toddle downstairs, hire an exploration party, and climb up the 70ft Mount Paperwork Upon Sweaters with Random Vase Perched Atop It to get into the fucking room.

I’d arranged to sort the mess out again last week. She rang, said she didn’t feel well and that we’d have to make it another day. Which I don’t understand, honestly. All she has to do is lie in bed while I trot in and out of the room and query ‘Is this still good??’ ‘This the outfit you’re looking for??’ ‘Why on gods green earth do you have three windbreakers with wolves/Native American schemes which will only make you look like a walking 5th grade history diorama??’

Oh yes, so VERY taxing for her. Lie there and look at the stuff I’m schlepping out of the room. Say yes or no. Decide where it goes. Agony!!

{I mean, yes, I realize is elderly. And I realize she pays me for all this work but, god–it is SO NOT WORTH IT sometimes. Most of the time, really}

She wants me to do it again this week. But I am booked solid, cleaning-for-other-people wise.

(And let us but for a moment pause here and allow Babs to reflect on her life. O joy!! Cleaning up other peoples loos and dealing with their nasty ass habits. ‘Nay, peasant, I shan’t clean up my own pubes!! Get out thine dustpan and scrubbing bubbles!! This is what you get for dropping out of college!!’ Me auld Da would be so proud–his eldest and only daughter saving the world from the horror cleaning out their own bloody toilets. Ahem)

Sunday night: EFL rings.

‘Babs, I want to get into that room this week’

‘I can’t really do anything this week–I’m busy straight through to Friday. I can sort something for you on Saturday, though’

‘Ok. I’ll ring you tomorrow morning and see if you can come down then’

‘!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Monday night: EFL rings.

‘Babs, I really REALLY want to get that room done this week. How’s tomorrow look??’

‘EFL, I already told you I’m booked straight through til Friday. It’s a very busy week for me. Everyone needs stuff done!!’

‘So?? Who doesn’t?? I’ll call you tomorrow morning to see if you can come down’

‘!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Tuesday night:

‘Babs I HAVE to get that room sorted tomorrow. I think the outfit I want to wear on Christmas Day is down there’

‘Ok. We can get that outfit out for you on Saturday, when I clean that room out. Since Christmas isn’t until a week from Thursday’

‘But I need it for Christmas Day!! Besides, you said you’d take me to the hairdresser on Saturday. I can’t do both. I will be too tired!!’

‘NO. Am!! busy!! I. Can’t. Do. It. Until. Saturday!!’

‘Ok. I’ll ring you tomorrow, you can be down here at 10 AM, yes??’

‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!’

‘Ok. See you at 10 AM then’

‘!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Oops–already 3 AM.

Will go and fill kettle just now.