No kidding. Go for a morning walk, and all the morons on the planet come bounding out of their homes, there to make trouble for the passers-by.
Idiot and his unleashed dobe were standing out in their unfenced front yard this morning. Naturally, his dog came charging after Ruby, who weighs all of about 25 pounds. Sheeee-ut!
Now here we are, unwinding at home over breakfast…uhhhhm… DREAM ON!
Bing bong!!!
Former cleaning lady: now the woman my son has hired to babysit me all day.
DamNAYshun!
What I do NOT need is some dear soul underfoot all day, watching my every move.
Clearly my son fears that in my dotage I’m no longer competent to live in my home unmolested.
And what THAT means is that pretty soon I’ll have to move into the old-folkerie called The Beatitudes — or else into Orangewood, the one my father consigned himself to — so as at least to get one room without some intruder underfoot.
….And…THAT is not something I want to do. Not for love nor money.
Godlmighty, but this dear woman is a nuisance. GO AWAY, dearie! Leave me ALONE!
😀 😀 😀 😀 😀
If this is what I’m gonna have to contend with in my own home, day in and day out, I might as well move into one of those old-folkeries.
Godlmighty. Now she’s turned her phone on and is listening to some sort of yammer. Even though she’s got the volume turned way low, I can hear the yak yak yakity blah blah where I’m sitting, clear across the room.
* * *
Get up. Trudge to the office, in the back of the house. Make the bed on the way.
Fire up the desktop. Fiddle around.
Y’know… If this sh!t is what I’m going to have to contend with, day in and day out, in my own home, I might as well move into one of those prisons for old folks.
Pick up the dog’s Rx bottle, while she watches, watches, watches. Check to be sure that yes, I did give Ruby her morning dose, while our dear lady watches, watches, watches.
Realize there’s no way I can slip out the back way without this broad spotting me.
Well…maybe. But it would be tricky. And one way or the other, when I come back to the house, she’ll know it. And she’ll blab to my son.
Well. Y’know…. If he’s going to treat me like this — as a non compos mentis inmate — then I might as well sell the house and move into one of those horrible prisons for old folks. They gouge you, gouge you, and gouge you some more. And because women in my family are spectacularly long-lived, that means effectively nothing will remain of my estate to leave to my son.
One of those places has set up a tour for me and the young man. Just got an email from one of their hustlers telling me not to worry, it’s not “institutional living.”
Give.
Me.
A.
Break!
As if I at this age I don’t have friends who have lived there and in places like it. How fukkin’ STUPID do these people think their customers are???????