She’s done nothing but rap on the table and tell us all that this is her house for days now. She tried to throw Dad out yesterday. I’m going to guess that was because Cleetus wasn’t available. When my father went into the kitchen she smiled at me and confided that she might just take off her shoe and sneak up and hit him with it. Once again, I reminded her that she’d better keep those shoes on her feet if she’d liked to keep them. She took umbrage, oh yes, deep umbrage at that. Like that bothers me, heh!
I had to go out yesterday, and while she will usually nap in the afternoon, it was as if she knew and got a sudden burst of energy. I had to wake my poor father to come downstairs and sit with her while Cleetus and I went to Dan’s school for a meeting. I thought for sure he would have gotten her to lay down by the time we had returned, but no dice. How the hell does she keep going? She’s up by five or six every morning. She allows Cleetus to get her coffee and light her a smoke–then she begins to spew venom at him. Just part of her daily routine. He’s always sweet to her, but the ’40’s style gun moll that lives inside her sometimes can’t wait to let him know that she’ll fix him, all right. I think we all know by now that she “knows a guy.”
This morning after an hour of the table slamming and carrying on I said, “Ma, for Christ’s sake, we know it’s your house, could you please stop pounding the table?” She was outraged. “Why? Why should I?”–say it with me now–“THIS IS MY HOUSE!!!” Oh boy. “Yeah, Ma, I know, but my head is killing me, I got a headache, could you tell me it’s your house without pounding for a bit?” No….no, apparently not. In fact, I could go to hell. Well- shit, Mom, some days feels like I’m already there. But that’s just the bad pain days.
There’s been too many bad days in a row lately. I need a break. It doesn’t look like I’m likely to get one, but poker night is coming, so at least there’s that.
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it is what it is. Sometimes it feels like I’m hanging on for dear life, sometimes I go upstairs and cry, for her, for me, for what we’ve lost. I know why they call it the long goodbye.
and yeah, in my experience, and according to my pop who is almost 82, older folks need less sleep…. i assume that is to torture us for our past transgressions… sigh…
hang in there… poker night… coming… 😀