Sometimes I have a hard time coming up with a good title for my posts. Not this time. I had a really good alternate: The Summer Avenue Believe It or Not Experience.
I blogged earlier in the week about getting T-Boned by an old man in a motorized grocery cart. Well, today, my little sis, Deb, did her usual Saturday thing with The D. It's like I'm the custodial parent and she's the Weekend Divorced Dad who just has fun with his kids every other weekend. Today's outing was lunch at The Cottage (old southern meat & three kinda place), a trip to the old-fashioned barber shop on Summer Avenue, and an assessment of progress on the new house. No wonder she's his favorite. Today she said he told her that I talk on the phone all the time. She brought her week's worth of coffee grounds for him to use for fertilizer (it's supposed to be good for gardenias and azaleas) and he said he was taking them to the "Good House." Not this here substandard place. And to think he didn't like the new house at first.
So, after my 1:00 client meeting, I met them at the Good House and when I walked in the door, they were tromping around in their dirty shoes on my very light beige carpet, marveling at my lack of organization (Deb tells me all the time that I'm a hoarder), and in general, happily discussing all my shortcomings. Deb was bitching that it was hot in there. Oh, she said it was hot in Old House, too. Then she whips out a phone number of a firefighter who moonlights as a handyman. She'd given him my name, address and phone number. I asked her if Steve was a patient at her clinic and she said, "No, he had a sign on the wall at the barber shop." I replied, "Oh, great, you don't even know him." She retorted, "No, he could be a serial killer for all I know." Then she proceeds to tell me that I MUST get the gutters cleaned out. The D jumped in and said I need to get covers on them. Then she told me I needed Serial Killer Steve to rake the leaves and trim the dead limbs and clean up my yard in general. And that I needed to get him to clean out my gutters. Again. I told her that I could climb out my upstairs bedroom window onto the roof and do it myself. She then told me that I'd get bitten by a brown recluse spider.
Same with raking the leaves. I swear, in the coarse of two hours, she talked about the dangers of brown recluse spiders no fewer than a dozen times. Then I had her take The D and me to his and Mother's house to fetch some things. She insisted on getting the half-dozen bottles of Old Spice he had there. Never mind that she got him a great big bottle for Christmas and that these were 20 years old. Then he remembered the king-sized sheets he's told me about 15 times this week. I went into his tool shed and looked at all the great, old things he had in there. My favorite was a metal file with a corn cob for a handle. Oh, back to the bathroom closet - there were five kinds of foot powders and potions. All ancient. I think my OCD tendencies are genetic. Fortunately, I don't have enough time or energy or focus for them to bloom.
Then we headed to the yard barn. I found some useful things there. Decorative wall hooks, a great plastic kitchen garbage can, my brother's old Air Force metal case (lunch box or something) with our last name stenciled on it. Meanwhile, Deb started pitching stuff into the garbage. I told her to stop - I wanted to see everything first. She told me I was a hoarder. Then The D grabbed up a bunch of old extension cords and wanted to take them and Deb told him they were fire hazards and he didn't talk back. Oh, in the yard barn, there were all kinds of creepy things, including, but not limited to, rat poop, those fuzzy spider egg things and wasps. And I'm sure lots of brown recluse spiders.
Oh, get this. I asked Daddy to go get us any of his roses that might be in bloom. Deb said he'd already looked and there weren't any. So I looked around and found a little red one in the front. I took it to The D and told him to give it to Deb and he said he'd already given her one. That little piss-ant.
Finally, I got in the van and said I was leaving and if Daddy didn't come with, Deb could bring him home. She had me blocked in, so that was an empty threat. He finally materialized in the front seat and I shouted at him to turn on the air conditioner. See, he starts barking that command at me before I even start the engine. Then I said I hoped we didn't get stopped because Deb hadn't put the registration or insurance card in the van (Daddy had given her the van). Like usual, he didn't believe me and he opened the glove box and whipped out Mother's neatly organized folder and showed me the registration which expired on December 31, 2010. I told him it was expired. He didn't reply. So I called Deb and told her that The D said she'd better get that damn registration and that damn insurance card into the damn van right away. He started hollering, "I didn't say that! She said that! That girl's crazy!" Not the first time I've been accused of that. I'm beginning to take it as a compliment.
Back to the spiders. When I finally hung up the phone, I felt a brown recluse spider on my face. I was swerving all over the road. I told The D to get the spider. He said there "wasn't no spider." I said yes there was. I almost pulled over and stripped, but tricked myself into thinking it was just my hair being blown against my neck by the blasting A/C.
Oh Fuck. At this very moment, bulimic cat is vomiting. Great. I don't know what I'm going to do about her. The D said we're keeping her. I'll figure it out after tax season. Maybe if he wants to pay hundreds of dollars for a bunch of diagnostic tests and expensive medicine, I'll take her to get checked out. But since it's bulimia, we'd probably need to take her to a cat psychologist. Wonder how much that runs? I'll figure it out after tax day.
Oh, speaking of tax day and Deb's harping, she launched in about my ancient thermostats in the Good House and I told her I'd figure it out later, when I had more time. She said I needed electronic thermostats and she'd take care of it. I'm sure Steve the Serial Killer Handyman could do it. Fuck, she'll probably give him a freakin' key to my house.
I made The D tell her about the man who was super-glued to the WalMart toilet seat and she said she'd sue their asses. I asked her how they'd be at fault and she said, "I don't know but I'd figure something out." God help us all. I told her I'd blogged about her Twat on Pot email and she was mad. I told her that I'd called her my friend, not my sister, and that I'd changed her doc's name to Dr. Shrink. But here ya go, Deb (not that you ever read my blog), I'm outing you. So sue me.
OMG, I just glanced at the title of my post and I realized I'm so off course. Kroger.
After taking The D to lunch and the barbershop, she went to the Kroger on Summer Avenue. Scene of my T-Bone incident. Here's the text she sent me: Strange people at kroger on summer. One man looked like Elvis and another man had an old woman riding on his lap in an electric cart and she had no teeth.
Ok, I think I've said enough. I hate to be repetitive, and I'm sure you know how I'm going to close: I couldn't make this stuff up.
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