Welcome to my world!

My life's been crazy since my Daddy moved in with me immediately after my mother's death in October 2010. My one and only kiddo headed to college at Carolina at the end of August. So...I lived on my own, for the first time in my life, for a total of a blissful six weeks. Then, I started the parenting gig with my dad. He's a combination of a grouchy old man, a surly teenager and a temperamental toddler. Needless to say, I get very close to the brink of insanity sometimes. I get through life by finding the humor in difficult circumstances. And for some reason, I wind up in the weirdest situations. I couldn't make this stuff up. So I wind up having lots and lots crazy adventures which make great stories to share with my friends. Writing about my life is so therapeutic. My ramblings range from funny to sad to angry (full of cuss words) to sweet. While my focus is dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a parent to my Daddy, I have lots of random, totally unrelated posts. Whatever's on my mind. I love to make people laugh, and I'm happy to think my readers will get my strange sense of humor. And maybe, people who are in my situation will be encouraged. That's all I can hope for...

Tuesday, October 30, 2012


...is ever easy.  The latest calamity is my non-functioning furnace.  The same furnace for which I paid dearly this summer.  I'll try not to make this into a saga, so here's my attempt at the executive summary.  Cliff Notes?

Yesterday, I noticed that it was kinda cold downstairs.  Not intolerable for me, but the Daddler started bitching.  I fiddled with my fancy, new-fangled electronic thermostat.  I managed to make the heat come on.  Miraculously, the house warmed up.  The D was still complaining about how cold it was in the back of the house (his senior suite, specifically), and I explained that his faux-fireplace-space heater warmed up the living and dining rooms (where the thermostat was located), and consequently, the thermostat thought it was warm enough, so it stopped the furnace when it touched its target temp.  And that since we have to hermetically seal the rear of the house with a series of doors (to keep Lucy from running roughshod through it,) the heat wasn't distributed democratically.  That seemed to appease (confuse?) him.  It probably didn't hurt that I'd schlepped him to early voting and Picadilly that morning.  Talk about a dutiful daughter.  I'm sorry, but DillyPic (his pet name for it,) isn't my fav.  I love salt, but they go overboard, even for me.  I suppose all those old people with impaired taste buds appreciate surplus salinity.

Ok, back to the frigid furnace fiasco...  This morning, I came downstairs bright and early.  I noticed a chill in the air.  Yup.  The thermostat read 60 degrees.  I checked the pilot light.  Still lit.  I worked on the thermostat.  Went around the house and felt the air near the vents.  Listened for the fan to kick on.  Nothing.  Nada.  Nyet. Negatory.

I cranked up The D's little fireplace.  Prepared my speech.  When I heard him shuffling around, slamming doors, I made my pre-emptive strike.  I explained that I'd checked the pilot light.  It was fine.  I had a call in to the HVAC man.  That seemed to appease him.  Not too much grumbling.  Glory be to God.

When I called Mr. HVAC, his lackey answered and explained to me that it's impossible for the pilot light to go out.  I explained that it did, indeed, go out.  I was promised a service call, but I'm not holding my breath.  I am, however, about to check the prices for faux fireplaces on Amazon.  Path of least resistance.  Pathetic, I know...

Oh, well.  I'm tired of all this.  I give up.  I've given it my best shot.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Honey, Vinegar, or Arsenic

I've tried honey.  I've tried vinegar.  I'm about to resort to arsenic.  For me.  Not for the flies (maggots) who are poor excuses for customer service representatives. I won't go into details.  Suffice it to say that, once again, I've been thwarted in my never-ending attempt to navigate "the system." Even if I succumbed to my murderous impulses, said invertebrates are safer than any snitch in the witness protection program.  Not that they're particularly safe, come to think of it.  Given the debacle in Benghazi.  But I won't even get started on that.

One of these days, I'm going to read Don Quixote.  I have a feeling I'll be able to identify.  Because no one could be more Quixotic than I am.  Just call me Alonso. 

Why in the hell do I keep trying?  I wish I knew the answer.

I know better than trying to figure it out.  It's nonsensical.  Illogical.  Stupid.  Talk about tilting at windmills...

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Two Years Ago

Today is the second anniversary of Mother's death.  Deb is at the cemetery with The Daddler.  So sad.  On top of that, three days ago was my brother's birthday.

Instead of grieving my losses, I'm going to count my blessings.  Because my sweet sister's birthdays is six days from today.  I want to do something special for her.  She deserves it.  In spades.

Well, I'm on the verge of being maudlin, so I'll close. 

Friday, October 19, 2012

The Land of the Living

I'm back in it.  After fighting the flu for a week and a half, I finally had enough energy to get a little exercise in with my girl, JoJo, this morning.  An hour and twenty minutes of running and walking, to be precise.  The weather's beautiful, so in spite of my coughing and snottiness, I made it.  I'm hoping the exertion will alleviate some of the OCD symptoms with which I've presented over the last few days.  I have no idea where that's coming from.  But the way I understand it, OCD is a coping mechanism for anxiety.  And I'm flush with that.  So I need to focus on reducing it.  It's kinda like insomnia, though.  Thinking about it just exacerbates the problem.

That reminds me.  I have vivid memories of Kiddo standing on the pitcher's mound (or in the batter's box), with a fucking-miscreant excuse for a coach hollering, "Just relax, Eight!"  That was his jersy number.  You might think that would sound like encouragement, but you'd have to hear it.  Think about a marine drill seargent trying to get his grunts to ring the bell.  You know what they say...  Winning isn't everything.  It's the only thing.

Oops.  My timer is buzzing.  Which means it's time to put my canned goods in alphabetical order.  Then my spices.


Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Something to Look Forward to...

...I have it.  My BFF Mel, and I finally figured out the logistics for my visit to Hagerstown for Thanksgiving.  I booked the flight last night.  We are both so excited.  She has a million fun things planned, but I have a feeling we'll wind up just curling up on the huge sectional, watching trashy reality TV, with Shane (the second sweetest dog in the world) protecting us from the cold, cruel world.  And Roger.

Speaking of Roger, we're gonna throw a huge 60th birthday party for him.  A casino party.  We've outsourced the gambling part, but we'll handle the rest.  Mel is the Hostess with the Mostess.  I'm a good worker bee. 

Even though November seems eons away, I just realized that it's one day more than a month from today.  Wow.  Cool.  Rad.  Groovy.

Better run.  Lots to do between now and then.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

What a difference...

...a day makes.  Or, Getting the Hell Out of Dodge.

I escaped.  After two weekends without Baby Sister's usual Saturday Daddler Ministrations (he was getting extra grouchy) and my near-death experience with Fungal Meningitis/West Nile Flu (contrary to my Quack-Doc's diagnosis of sinus infection.), I went to visit a friend who lives 90 miles from here.  I don't think I've ever before thrown up forcefully and repeatedly enough to break blood vessels in my eye.  I came very close to calling 9-1-1 that night.  I was afraid that I'd die, naked, in a pool of sweat and vomit.  That The Daddler wouldn't miss me for a week or so.  And by then, Beulah, The Bulemic Cat, would've run out of food and (justifiably) feasted on my festering carcass.

I haven't felt that forlorn in a long time.  See, there's something about throwing up that makes me cry for my mother.  Unlike The D, who could sleep through a nuclear attack, nothing got past Mother's parabolic-sound-amplifier-ears.  Like when I skulked in at 5:00 a.m. after a decadent night of collegiate decadence.  The upside is that after I married and left home, I knew I could call her anytime - day or night - and she'd be there.  I couldn't have made it through giving birth and being a young mother without her.

It's a mom thing.  Toward the end, I assumed the mom role with her.  I was the one she clung to when she was sick and afraid.  When she was helpless, I rose to the occasion.  I was scared shitless, too, but I was strangely imbued with an uncanny ability to do for her the things she'd done for me for so many years.  The night before she went into the hospital for the last time, a week and a half before she died, she cried in my arms that she didn't want to be a burden to me.  I can still hear myself reply, "Burden?  Just think of all those shitty diapers you changed!"  In other words, I channeled her strength and fortitude.  I will take great comfort in knowing that.

Even though I miss her desperately sometimes, I will be forever grateful for the legacy she left me.  Fierce independence.  And fiercely protective of the ones we love.  Which is why I manage to put The Daddler ahead of my own wants and needs.  I promised her I'd take care of him.  And more than the legacy of independence and strength, she taught me to be honest, no matter what.  To keep my promises.  Come hell or high water.  So, even though I've failed her many times, I know I've honored her with the big things.  And I firmly believe that she'd be so very proud of me.

And even though The Daddler is incapable of expressing gratitude or affirmation for my selfless martyrdom (is that redundant?), I know that I'm his favorite.  Mother would never admit it, but I know she loved me best.  What more could a daughter want?

Back to my great escape.  We ate.  Slept.  Watched a goofy Chick Flick.  Talked.  Laughed.  Cooked, and then ate some more.  Rubbed each other's feet.  Lounged on the sofa and read the paper.

I needed this.  It was healing.  I'm slowly, but surely, recovering from a horrible case of PTSD.  I'm not sure I'll ever be completely cured, but I've come a long way since I started this blog.  And I'm looking forward to brighter days ahead.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Speed Post

Here's what's on my mind, in case anyone cares:

  • Monday - the final extended tax return due date
  • Tonight - Veep debate
  • My leaking roof
  • The Daddler's Din-Din
  • My bangs (they're getting too long)
I was on death's door just 48 hours ago.  I survived.  And now, I must face reality.  It's grim.  But less grim than the reaper...

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Symbolic Pigs

Forget it.  I'm wasting my breath.  Say what you may, but I'm not a victim of group-think.  I don't drink the Kool-Aid.  Because I think.  For myself.

I hate the party system.  I hate the electoral college.  My disdain for the latter made me embrace the former.  In the whole scheme of things, I'd probably classify myself as a libertarian (can we say Tucker Carlson?).  Except I don't even fit into that box.  I do believe in the necessity of government regulations, with limits. 

The current state of affairs reminds me of a book I read in freshman english.  Animal Farm.  The pigs are the smartest.

But I also read Lord of the Flies.  The pig didn't fare so well.

Wow.  Am I sounding like an anarchist?

Think about that.  I need to run.  My anarchy meet-up group convenes at 5:30...

Black or White?

Left or Right?

I'm leaning right.  In fact, I'm sick and fucking tired of the left.  I'm proclaiming myself as right.  Red.  Right.  Republican.  Romney/Ryan.

I'm so sick and fucking tired of left-wing liberals.  I waxed splenetic (vented my spleen) today.  I won't go into details.  Except to say that I was quite combative.  With a loyal friend.  We'll see how loyal he can be...

But I will say that this political vitriol was the straw that broke the camel's back for my quasi-LDR with an anarchist asshole.  I forbade him to read my blog.  But I have a feeling he disregarded my decree.  If that's the case, I'll say two words to him...Susan Rice.  Actually.  Let's add a third word.  Liar.

Susan.  Rice. Liar.


...it's too much.  I've had a bad cold the last few days.  Started out as allergies.  Now it's settled into my chest.

I hoped The D would cut me some slack.  I made a point of moaning and groaning, coughing and sneezing, and maybe whining a little, within his limited range of hearing.  To no avail.  When I had my face-plant on the sidewalk this past spring, he displayed compassion.  I guess he exhausted his limited supply. 

As a matter of fact, he's been incredibly grouchy and demanding. 

I could go on and on, but I just realized that I don't have anything for his din-din.  My cupboard is bare.  As if that weren't bad enough, I'm out of Q-tips.  Since I've been sequestered in this minimum security facility for the last four days, I'm going to be reckless and drive to the nearest retailer, despite the fact that I'm under the influence of Cheratussin AC (the C stands for codeine.)

Hopefully, I'll post an update soon.  In the meantime, if you get a collect call from a correctional facility, please answer it.  It will be me.  Asking for a cake with a file baked into it. 

I'll reimburse you for the collect call charges, and I'll give you a cut of my expose of our corrupt prison system.