tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32554821088098696872024-03-05T23:10:52.940-05:00The Granny Diariesbrontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-74905671287922512352010-03-09T20:23:00.001-05:002010-03-10T00:21:51.168-05:00That's All Folks!Well, this seems like a natural endpoint. Granny is under professional care. I could go on with "Granny's Greatest Hits" but that would leave no fresh stories for the screenplay. I will be moving out of Granny's within the next two weeks. <br />
<br />
To the 99.9999% of my readers who encouraged, laughed, cried, or just plain couldn't get enough, I send my everlasting thanks. Your kind words have led me to the (not in the end so stunning) revelation that this might just be my calling.<br />
<br />
To anyone else, I leave you the immortal words of Bill Shakespeare:<br />
<br />
<i>Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow,</i><br />
<i> Creeps in this petty pace from day to day</i><br />
<i> To the last syllable of recorded time,</i><br />
<i> And all our yesterdays have lighted fools</i><br />
<i> The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!</i><br />
<i> Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player</i><br />
<i> That struts and frets his hour upon the stage</i><br />
<i> And then is heard no more: it is a tale</i><br />
<i> Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,</i><br />
<i> Signifying nothing.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<object height="405" width="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_hZrXdJ-ibo&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_hZrXdJ-ibo&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-14918619626584660922010-02-24T19:33:00.002-05:002010-02-24T19:33:31.654-05:00How Can I Resist?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvUrSfVmrNEeqK04qFYkV0bkRY3jVUk0WyKtphj40d5hg1Dm4mjZK7ohee4iXQibCW2NquBpXmna9jWGHXQbsCc350oOo-ZrO7OiWML5IlMe0jR1tBfO9zjl4Pl1ZvPOw3r2LMrS5j9Xf/s1600-h/340x_killercat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvUrSfVmrNEeqK04qFYkV0bkRY3jVUk0WyKtphj40d5hg1Dm4mjZK7ohee4iXQibCW2NquBpXmna9jWGHXQbsCc350oOo-ZrO7OiWML5IlMe0jR1tBfO9zjl4Pl1ZvPOw3r2LMrS5j9Xf/s320/340x_killercat.jpeg" /></a></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-1352098216696387852010-02-10T01:24:00.014-05:002010-02-10T01:32:55.857-05:00Not the Beginning of the End, But the End of the Beginning<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's time to take the weight off and down my calcium supplements. The extra pounds can't be good for my joints, and my only dietary calcium intake comes from ice cream. Why?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because I refuse to end up like my grandmother.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She was taken to the hospital yesterday. Her hip and T-12 vertebra is broken. She didn't fall...but arthritis and osteoporosis have eaten away at her bones. They're like Swiss cheese. There is literally nothing left of her hip to repair. She probably broke both by just trying to get up out of a chair. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stubbornness is a trait that runs on both my mother's and father's sides of the family, and it can be a good thing sometimes. But my grandmother has taken it to ridiculous extremes. She has refused these last three weeks to take any of the Lortab that was prescribed for her </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">even though she was in excruciating pain</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. She has insisted these last three weeks that she could go home and take care of herself, even though she could not lift a glass of water to drink. Three years ago her doctor told her her bones were fragile, that she should be using a walker and not going up and down flights of stairs. I moved in two and a half years ago. No walker until about six weeks ago. Still going down to the basement to do her laundry. When I moved in, I offered my help with these things, but all I got was an insistent N.O. I stopped asking. It was a frustrating waste of breath to try.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But NOW she wants my help. Because, you see, she believes that her hip and back will be fixed, she'll get some rehab, and she will come back home where </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am going to care for her for the rest of her life</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. She has told all the nurses at the hospital this. I should make it clear that this is not expected of me by anyone except her. She wouldn't let me dust the lamps in the living room but she wants me to do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">this</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Me. A woman who doesn't have or want kids because of that whole cleaning up after their bodily fluids situation. A woman who can't do that fake nice, sing-songy thing that nurses do with old people, as if they were toddlers ("And </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">how</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> are </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">you</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> today </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Adele</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">?" Gross.). I can't even do that with toddlers. A woman who's own back hurts enough because of the ginormous boobs her cursed genetics passed down to me. A woman who should have left Buffalo ten years ago. A woman on he cusp of a much needed life change.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We're all dying. But in Western New York it just seems like everyone is doing it right this second. Outside of a few blocks in the Elmwood Village the city is aging and cranky and set in it's ways. I will not join them. I will take my calcium. I will take the weight off. I will do what I can to be that 90 year-old who goes skydiving for the first time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I will finally come up for air. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-72141772879493504142010-01-21T00:43:00.007-05:002010-02-10T01:29:47.735-05:00I'm So _____ We Had This Time Together<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So...yeah.</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny is currently staying with my aunt. After her foray to the ER almost two weeks ago, she needs around the clock care. My aunt had been trying to get Granny to come live with her for some time, and thank God someone is looking after her. She can not stand for any length of time, even to take a shower, and, well, bladder control is a thing of the past.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of course, for the first few days, she insisted she could get by on her own. Now it is setting in that she does need full time help. It is getting to the point that she may have to be strapped into a wheelchair soon because she very well may tumble forward out of it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, I have the house to myself. I'll be honest, it's nice. But it is eye opening as well. I have ranted in the past about how the house is falling apart...a diagnosis that isn't too far off base. As I type, the wind is rattling the ancient, flimsy windows, and it is especially loud downstairs, where you can hear it blow through the old broken Jalousies on the porch. The floor in Granny's bedroom is like ice, partly due to the fact that her closet is not insulated, just like mine upstairs. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Over time, things had gone badly downhill. You could see through her bath towels. Her nightgowns were like rags, even though several new ones sat, tags still attached, in her drawer. I had bought some of them for her as Christmas gifts over the last few years. The throw rugs in her bedroom were filthy. A pail full of dirty adult diapers sat in the corner of her room. Several years ago (1992 maybe?), my mother had given her some barely worn sweatshirts of mine. Before Christmas, I came downstairs to find her wearing the very same sweatshirt I had worn to my first day at Aurora Middle School, September 1986. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since she hasn't been able to really clean in some time, everything is coated with a thick layer of sticky dust, especially in the kitchen. I washed the cabinets with Murphy's oil soap, replaced the blind over the sink (it </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">used </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to be white), and polished the burnished copper door pulls. Still, I feel like I'm arranging the deck chairs on the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Titanic</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. With the exception of the basement, there are no three-pronged electrical plugs in the house. The plumbing is laughable, having been put together from scraps of pipes my grandfather found while building the house. The furnace is from the mid-Fifties. The windows are falling apart. And then, the little things, like the gorgeous pink </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">plastic</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> tiles in the kitchen. Plastic!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I really hope she left me some Lortab.<br />
</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br />
</span></div></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-27489614888748358102010-01-15T16:32:00.005-05:002010-01-16T16:22:17.796-05:00Stubborn, With a Capital S-T-U-B-B-O-R-N<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny refuses to take her pain medication.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She was prescribed Anaprox (high dosage naproxen sodium) for swelling and Lortab (hydrocodone, nice) for pain. I was to pick up the prescriptions for her yesterday morning, but she stopped me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny: I don't think you'll be able to get my prescriptions.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: Why not?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny: Huh?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: Why don't you think I can get your prescriptions?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny: I can do without them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: Granny, you really should take them...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny: I don't know what they're for, and that second one is nothing but dope.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: You say that like it's a bad thing. Aren't you in pain?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Granny: I heard the doctor saying I only should take them if I really need them. I can do without them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: Fine, then suffer.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Turns out she overheard the doctor at the hospital questioning one of the prescriptions she takes on a daily basis, which it turns out is a drug for Parkinson's disease. Granny shakes badly but does not actually have Parkinson's. The doctor was asking why Granny's primary care physician keeps prescribing it when she doesn't have the disease.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So she called my mother, and after informing her that my mother is the one who looks terrible and belongs in a hospital, not her, my mother explained to her that she really needs to take the anti-inflammatory and pain medication so her body will relax enough to heal. She let me go get her medication but my mother told me this morning that she hasn't taken any of it. Uncle Sonny dropped off a wheelchair he had, and she's wheeling herself around the bottom floor in a flannel nightgown as we speak. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I just hope she leaves me some Lortab...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-66332983367577075692010-01-14T00:02:00.006-05:002010-01-14T00:18:35.771-05:00You Chose...Wisely: The Holy Grail of Weird Things Around The House (#7)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAlmEChnT9VJveD7oYgtVW4TczMaQeXJMKORz7LdQ4YN-ynrpTvu_uC7T6Q5sdNDcCWqZKje5z0wHdiji65IxkE2JCKrhSQ6ZobIclFzVn07ex0sHDY4Tjxxp3njUlgak1mo_WZ5RxGoF/s1600-h/DSCF0735.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAlmEChnT9VJveD7oYgtVW4TczMaQeXJMKORz7LdQ4YN-ynrpTvu_uC7T6Q5sdNDcCWqZKje5z0wHdiji65IxkE2JCKrhSQ6ZobIclFzVn07ex0sHDY4Tjxxp3njUlgak1mo_WZ5RxGoF/s320/DSCF0735.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426456662190490434" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Kathleen, look what I found!<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Friends, I can not hide my enthusiasm for our next entry, which I thought had been lost to the ages.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This here lamp, this </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">wonderful lamp</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, a true kitsch classic, holds so many great memories for our family. I have been on the hunt for it since I moved in, and was under the impression it had been knocked over and broken. It used to reside on the bar in the basement. Yes, what you are seeing is a drunk holding on to a lamp post with one hand and a bottle of booze with another. The lamp at the top used to say "BAR" and I think this may have been what got broken, as the frosted glass globe on tops looks like it has been replaced.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The best part? The ABSOLUTELY BEST PART? The "You're kidding me, right?" part?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It has a music box in the base that plays "How Dry I Am". It still works, too.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And where did I find this treasure? Well, it had been under our noses the whole time. While Granny was in the ER today, we had to fetch some items from her bedroom. Now, I never go into her bedroom, and was unaware the the ceiling lamp didn't work. So we turned on the lamp on her nightstand...this was the lamp on her nightstand! She claimed she didn't know where this lamp had gone. Old woman, it's the lamp right next to your bed! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-53122922983504924002010-01-13T18:04:00.004-05:002010-01-13T18:15:55.750-05:00They're Sending Her Home. Seriously.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And again...*facedesk*.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I don't know how my mother, who can barely walk and suffers from vertigo, and her 73 year-old sister, who suffers from various ailments herself, are expected to care for this woman. <br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A few weeks ago, my mother told her, "You had your kids too young and you've lived too long. We're all to old and decrepit to really care for you".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Hopefully this incident will ring a bell in Granny's mind that she needs some kind of assisted living situation. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-71506910233969407302010-01-13T17:39:00.003-05:002010-01-13T17:45:35.848-05:00Famous Last Words<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well folks, it happened today.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She did NOT look good this morning. "My back hurts so bad, I don't know how I got out of bed. And every time I move this leg I hear a crack. I don't know what to do". I called my Mom, who came over with my Aunt Rose. They called 911.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The pain was in her lower back. The EMT said her hip might be broken. She admitted to the EMT that she fell on Saturday. Had she told any of us? No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the way out the door, she was yelling, "Does Kimberly know how to lock up the house?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*facedesk*</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-18637320337841385842010-01-12T15:05:00.006-05:002010-01-13T00:31:25.665-05:00The Mother Of All Rosaries: Weird Things Around The House #6<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrEmn7vDxhqUQaweWZIzRszZ_WdLk0UpPZ-Okc0wAntEnu4rpxv0bdmei4WMfvqPcdaUraVpwdEgXWr1TWzjsJEe0Jn2Y74injcb9W04S-DTIV7tzhLXbECSClmOKLW99KoZ-CuO5btNk/s1600-h/DSCF0731.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrEmn7vDxhqUQaweWZIzRszZ_WdLk0UpPZ-Okc0wAntEnu4rpxv0bdmei4WMfvqPcdaUraVpwdEgXWr1TWzjsJEe0Jn2Y74injcb9W04S-DTIV7tzhLXbECSClmOKLW99KoZ-CuO5btNk/s320/DSCF0731.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425947153025259250" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJGC1IOZYl1x24OObFuFGfaL7K9nttRYeiYhGASzUM8bQH6aSOPoqWH4t-uinVaYDyQEU0jajI9LW80b87nc_W2wkpClOX7vJWTMXv1-pNDA2RinHxOdcqQqOrZgrQ7NjwijBe7cyTu-4/s1600-h/DSCF0705.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJGC1IOZYl1x24OObFuFGfaL7K9nttRYeiYhGASzUM8bQH6aSOPoqWH4t-uinVaYDyQEU0jajI9LW80b87nc_W2wkpClOX7vJWTMXv1-pNDA2RinHxOdcqQqOrZgrQ7NjwijBe7cyTu-4/s320/DSCF0705.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425947149234894994" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When I moved in, it was hanging on the wall in the space over my bed. It had been hanging there so long that when I pulled it down a light outline of it was left, Shroud of Turin-style. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is The Mother Of All Rosaries.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't know where it came from. Perhaps it just appeared one day, the same way God supposedly just suddenly </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">was</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. There is only one indicator on the back of the cross at the bottom - "Italy". No shit.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's absolutely gigantic, at least six feet long, and plastic. As you can see, I had to double it up to wear it and we still couldn't fit the whole thing in the picture. Each bead has a weeping Christ and Mary embossed onto it, as shown in the closeup. It's incredibly depressing to look at, and why you would want it hanging above a bed was a mystery, until my mother informed me that this kind of rosary was supposed to protect you from thunderstorms and lightning strikes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So, I guess I'll be struck by lightning soon, which will be hardly surprising, considering:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A.) My "luck" lately and,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">B.) That I tried to wear it as a statement piece.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-54703178867759091992010-01-06T00:52:00.015-05:002010-01-06T01:58:11.142-05:00Paradise (Wherever You Are)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">So I was hanging out with my sort of ex the last few days. This happens every week - I stay over a night or so. This is embarassing to me - not that I'm there but that I have to explain it to Granny. I don't see how it's anyone's business, but there I am running out the door saying "GrannyI'mgoingtoex's-bebacktomorrowkthnxbye". Well, I told her I'd be home Monday but decided to stay one more night because I just didn't feel like driving back home. And this is when the problems begin, because if I don't come home when I'm expected, suddenly, as they said in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The Hangover</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, my corpse is being "fucked in a ditch by a meth addict". </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Compare this to my mother, who basically stopped worrying about my personal safety sometime after I turned 21, because she figured, rightly so, that I was an adult who could take care of myself.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">She called my mother at 10:15 pm, utterly terrified. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: Where's Kimberly?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: You know where she is.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">What Mom Wanted To Say: None of your effing business.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: But she said she'd be back today</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: So she's probably staying another night. She </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">is</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> 36.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: What if she's stuck out in the snow?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: She has a cellphone. And roadside assistance.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: Well, who's going to take out the garbage?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: Is there a lot of garbage?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: ...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: Well, aren't you going to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">call her</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: You have to call her! Where is she? Call ex's house! Or call his grandmother!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: I don't have his phone number, let alone his grandmother's!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: How can you not have his phone number?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">It is at this point that, against her better judgement, my mother whipped out her cellphone and called me, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">while still on the phone with Granny</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. I didn't hear it ringing in my purse, so it went to voicemail.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: Did she pick up?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: No.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Granny: I'll call you if she comes home.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Mom: Uh, don't do that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">This in turn drives my mother nuts, because then she starts thinking, "What if her corpse </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">is</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> in a ditch being fucked by a meth addict?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">P.S. Granny does have my cellphone number in her possession. She has never called it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-21678132412391435102010-01-02T13:06:00.004-05:002010-01-02T23:44:20.465-05:00Diversion Time: Movies I Loved When I Was A Kid<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >1.) The original <span style="font-style: italic;">Star Wars</span> trilogy</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">2.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Raiders of the Lost Ark</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">,</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">the sequels less so.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">3.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Clash of the Titans - </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">the remake comes out this spring. It looks just like </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >300</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. Sigh.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">4.)</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Gremlins<br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">5.)</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Airplane! </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">and </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Airplane II</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">6.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Every Which Way But Loose<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">7.)</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> The Cannonball Run </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">and </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >The Cannonball Run II </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">(though not as much as the first one).</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">8.) The first three Muppet movies</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > - The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, The Muppets Take Manhattan<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> 9.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Poltergeist </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">- don't ask me why, it still scares the living shit out of me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">10.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Back To The Future</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">11.) </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Close Encounters of the Third Kind</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Honorable Mention: </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Dune<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I didn't get around to reading the books until I was a teenager, but those giant worms always fascinated me</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Notably Missing</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">: E.T.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> - never understood what the big deal was.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-11922403334017194262010-01-01T17:19:00.004-05:002010-01-01T17:23:49.206-05:00Happy New Year!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmktjhXZue9lSDvgJE3k9QULAXjUp2ufHZHBKKphnqTF6M4-mGpP_-vrxYQyK0f5oa2kuCCj6mGEn7yZo5zUUKLHf_HEsZ6_bsObF6qJzAxPa_ZHU5M1vdzemcB94CkCu44-Ry_0F8QVwJ/s1600-h/funny-pictures-cat-went-crazy-at-party.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmktjhXZue9lSDvgJE3k9QULAXjUp2ufHZHBKKphnqTF6M4-mGpP_-vrxYQyK0f5oa2kuCCj6mGEn7yZo5zUUKLHf_HEsZ6_bsObF6qJzAxPa_ZHU5M1vdzemcB94CkCu44-Ry_0F8QVwJ/s320/funny-pictures-cat-went-crazy-at-party.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421900486827385650" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Well, for what it's worth, happy new year everyone!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >If, by January 1st, 2011 I am still living with Granny, I hearby give anyone reading this permission to put out a hit on me. Seriously, put me out of my misery. Just make it quick and painless and leave my car out of it...Nigel's been through enough.</span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-39988297114586817382009-12-29T22:45:00.015-05:002009-12-30T23:13:08.653-05:00The Tale of the Christmas Cookies, or, Anything You Can Do I Used To Do Better<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3trLR4xI4eX1ILb6pS2sFMPZOG9AKybhELijgkVWibegBoMIiWYWqCPkxuWXPFrl2_VLI1VX6Mh7vc6ZXsC2iIXyl0bJuIQnysIiZX_UGMVb-IwyPxyyimVT4H-oeDYpL07eRv7BlVYeC/s1600-h/brokenleg.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3trLR4xI4eX1ILb6pS2sFMPZOG9AKybhELijgkVWibegBoMIiWYWqCPkxuWXPFrl2_VLI1VX6Mh7vc6ZXsC2iIXyl0bJuIQnysIiZX_UGMVb-IwyPxyyimVT4H-oeDYpL07eRv7BlVYeC/s320/brokenleg.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420873139993608450" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ah, Christmas.<br /><br />It's my favorite time of year. No, really. As a Christmas baby (Dec. 22nd), Christmas is my middle name (Kimberly </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Noel</span><span style="font-size:100%;">). And nothing warms my heart more than combining my two great loves - Christmas and baking. Hence, Christmas cookies. I tend to bake twelve or so dozen of them, sticking to a basic three (cut-outs, chocolate chip, and raspberry turnovers) and then picking a few interesting things for variety. This year it was <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2007/11/rugelach-pinwheels/">rugelach pinwheels</a>, <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Flourless-Chocolate-Walnut-Cookies-350890">flourless chocolate walnut</a>, and <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/linzer-sandwiches">Linzer cookies</a>. I take this seriously. I start preparations weeks in advance, and bake with the mental focus of a professional chess player.<br /><br />Granny used to bake. Used To. And she won't let me forget it. And I am a captive prisoner to her baking stories while I use her kitchen to make cookies.<br /><br />Did you hear the one about how, when my Aunt Rose moved to California something like twenty-seven years ago, my grandmother baked some kind of Italian chocolate-grape jelly concoction and sent them to her? Like three hundred of them? You didn't hear that one? Because I have. Ten times.<br /><br />Did you hear the one about Minnie down the street, you know Minnie, her husband still has the diarrhea, how she bakes all those Italian cookies? No?<br /><br />How Granny always carried her cookies in a specific basket when taking them anywhere? And I should really use it, since she still has it? Haven't heard that one?<br /><br />And how they used to have tasting parties at Home Bureau, and there were like sixty ladies there, but no more because the fire department wouldn't let any more in the building?<br /><br />My professional chess player concentration is faltering. <span style="font-style: italic;">AND THAT WAS HER EVIL PLAN ALL ALONG.</span><br /><br />Because you see, she can't stand that I can do it and she can't. And that I don't do it exactly like she did. Nevermind that there is a fifty-five year age difference between us. This is a competition folks, one I never asked to be in. Granny is the very definition of frenemy.<br /><br />Eventually she will take a different tack. "Why are you baking all those cookies?" she will ask in a stricken voice. "Who's going to eat them?" She will do the same thing on the morning of Christmas Eve, when I make a broccoli casserole. "Who's going tho eat that?" she just about screams at me. Now, I can assure you that my family has never thrown away a Christmas cookie or leftovers, so, again, the competitor is back.<br /><br />But the funniest part is this: She won't eat the cookies, <span style="font-style: italic;">even though she desperately wants to eat the cookies</span>. Now if Minnie down the street (George still has the diarrhea, BTW) brings her a plate of cookies, I never hear the end of it, about how incredibly tasty they were. For days, hundreds of cookies resided in her kitchen, untouched. I took them to my mother's for Christmas Eve. When my Aunt El showed up with my grandmother, she pulled me aside and said "She was panicked over what happened to the cookies".<br /><br />"Well, they're all here..."<br /><br />"I know. She brought her own container to take some back home in."<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-53886520564214517222009-12-29T11:34:00.010-05:002009-12-31T01:44:45.225-05:00I Don't Want To Get Old and Afraid<span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Ask anyone how long they want to live and how they want to die and most will give you the same answer. "Until I'm 100 and I want to die at home". I think these people had grandparents that dropped dead at 40 or so, because if you see what 91 looks like up close I think you would reconsider. Oh sure, you always get that 95 year old on the news who just swam the English Channel, but that's the big exception to the rule. Just this Sunday, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/27/health/27sedation.html?em">the New York Times outlined</a> how most elderly and some terminally ill people die - hooked up to Lorazepam, sedated to the gills, unaware of the fact that they're not dying at home and immune to their loved ones' goodbyes. Everyone assumes that dementia, Alzheimer's, emphysema, cancer and adult diapers will happen to someone else.<br /><br />Granny has undergone a precipitous physical decline in the last two months. In October, she was getting around the house just fine, if slowly. Then the cane came out. Now its the walker, and it's all the time. She still insists on doing what she thinks she can do for herself, like still getting down into the cellar to do her laundry, but she really shouldn't </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >have</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> to be doing these things anymore. Last week Monday, I came home to find her attempting to make soup. She said to me, "I couldn't carry the soup" which I guess was her way of saying "I dropped the soup". She has lost the strength in her hands, and last week her sister had to put the sheets on her bed for her. She can not go to bed without taking copious amounts of Tylenol to dull her aches. Because of the loud ass walker (and my constant state of night-owlishness), I know just how many times a night she gets up to use the bathroom. Tying a garbage bag closed is becoming a production.<br /><br />She can no longer even walk to the mailbox to get her mail or Sunday newspaper, nor can she really make it around a supermarket anymore. Which means she no longer really leaves the house. My aunt got her to my parent's house for Christmas Eve, but she couldn't really stay long. Then she yelled at me for buying her Christmas presents. And "making all those cookies". But that's a story for another post.<br /><br />The physical decline is sad, but even sadder to me is the near constant state of fear and worry she lives in. This is a woman who lived through the Great Depression, World War II, raised five kids (two of which weren't technically hers), and yet she could beat Woody Allen in a game of neuroses. For instance, once it gets dark outside she wants to have the house all locked up for the night. Now that works in July, but in December it gets dark so early, so, ya know, I might still need to get into the garage for something after 4:15 pm. And that drives her </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >crazy</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br /><br />Here is a partial list of things Granny fears or worries about:<br />The placement and amount of the garbage can and "recycles", when it gets picked up and who will bring the can back to the house. That I might get run over/kidnapped/shot in a drive-by by random thugs when taking the garbage to the curb or getting the mail. That I may drop dead of a heart attack/stroke while shoveling snow. The amount of snow in the driveway despite it getting plowed and whether or not my car will get through it. Where I am when I am not in the house, and when I am coming home. That those damn kids will trash her new mailbox/steal her mail/steal her newspaper while walking to or from the high school down the block. That I am not using the proper rolling technique while making Christmas cookies. That I will drop or ruin said cookies or desserts while transporting them because I do not transport them like she used to. That I am not putting enough of something in the hamburgers. That the house is too cold. That the house is too hot. That the guy ringing the doorbell the other night at 7:15 was here to murder us (it was UPS).<br /><br />Though I am not her caretaker, she has become spoiled by the fact that I have been unemployed since June and am usually home. But come the new year I really have to find a new job, and hopefully an apartment of my own. Who will get her mail? Her newspaper? Take her garbage out? Find her if she falls down the stairs?<br /><br />I think I wanna check out at 70 or 75. That seems like a nice round number.<br /><br /></span><br /></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-80267403885127140272009-11-28T15:38:00.034-05:002009-11-28T23:05:08.661-05:00Groceries Again<span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">First of all, I apologize for the lack of posts lately, things have not been all that calm on the homefront.<br /><br />Secondly, she's at it with the groceries again.<br /><br />Granny really can't be taken to the grocery store anymore. She really can't walk or stand for any length of time, and her recent bladder control issues make anyone unwilling to put her in their car. So she depends on the family to fetch her groceries for her.<br /><br />The problem is this...she waits until she is completely out of food to inform any of us that she has no food. In short, I think she likes creating emergencies so that someone, anyone, has to rush around to do her bidding.<br /><br />Now I live here, but I don't really feel it is my place to keep a tab on her food consumption. She is an adult and still in her right mind (theoretically), and to do something like that is akin to infantalizing her, in my mind at least. However, if she continues to insist acting like a child, we're going to have to start treating her like one.</span></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-79084126469490186922009-10-08T15:13:00.006-04:002009-10-08T15:22:55.117-04:00And The Hits Just Keep On Comin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nhw1dT0IRfvFt_p3RNFhIqTjcc4V7n2dN7xH-5LOweZsBZ9AxEAaEMWe4L9gIm97b4Hr2NgwmLjaVgQvOBBdt_gAeC4LKc5rZlfSEDVvbiV5lV2WGth2QRe7LxayH02h4B7HffmgVsp5/s1600-h/DSCF0714.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1nhw1dT0IRfvFt_p3RNFhIqTjcc4V7n2dN7xH-5LOweZsBZ9AxEAaEMWe4L9gIm97b4Hr2NgwmLjaVgQvOBBdt_gAeC4LKc5rZlfSEDVvbiV5lV2WGth2QRe7LxayH02h4B7HffmgVsp5/s320/DSCF0714.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390311498538975202" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Making sure the top of the window was totally closed this afternoon...they have a tendency to fall when you open the bottom. Pushed on it a bit and... CRACK!<br /><br />The house is very slowly falling down.</span><br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-29649015135669669582009-10-07T00:06:00.005-04:002009-10-07T00:38:47.881-04:00To All My Haters. All One Of You.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DIGH6OD5a-vXpW6CdiDUr1UTV8K4WczsDQZ_x1cWMalLb6wX3n1b-1INU9EbcHeXAZZHZvqbtX9bSfk3szM1EhIFZgbO1GAJltAbmGFfOxEmzHrtl9wuhsgmX2k76b5d6HUmpaUoUvqh/s1600-h/180px-Mr_Yuk.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DIGH6OD5a-vXpW6CdiDUr1UTV8K4WczsDQZ_x1cWMalLb6wX3n1b-1INU9EbcHeXAZZHZvqbtX9bSfk3szM1EhIFZgbO1GAJltAbmGFfOxEmzHrtl9wuhsgmX2k76b5d6HUmpaUoUvqh/s320/180px-Mr_Yuk.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389711929861766946" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">I was reminded recently, by someone out of my past, that I used to be a better person. This is most likely true. Weren't we all? I was thinking over the weekend that I'm becoming a mixture of Larry David, Frances McDormand's character in <span style="font-style: italic;">Friends With Money</span> (rent it), and Liz Lemon when she bought all the hot dogs out of spite after some guy cut the line in front of her at the cart. So, no I'm not perfect. I have been a good daughter and a bad friend. I've been the best girlfriend in the world and a total bitch. I've been the life of the party and the sucking black hole that's killing the room.<br /><br />I must be good at this though, because even my haters still read my blog.<br /><br />Call me any name in the book, but please do not take joy in my misfortune, no matter how much you may dislike me or my actions. I'm not Hitler for eff's sake. I don't go around trolling on your blog.<br />It's not that my feelings are hurt, it's just that you have NO CLASS.<br />If it wasn't my dog that had died, but my father, would you have said "what goes around comes around"? If I had been badly hurt or killed in one of those car accidents (and I got hit hard, the rental was totaled), would you show up at my funeral to tell my parents "Good riddance"? Done a jig at my hospital bedside?<br /><br />No class. None.<br /><br />Any future <span style="font-weight: bold;">anonymous</span> troll comments will be trashed.<br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-82962359019430402102009-10-06T23:19:00.003-04:002009-10-06T23:24:53.345-04:00Drop The Puck<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Hockey season started a few days ago, bringing with it Buffalo's renewed, neverending, useless hope for Lord Stanley's Cup.<br />Two years ago I returned from a late work meeting to the sound of a Sabres game turned up to ear splitting volume. That's odd, I thought, because Granny rarely watches television, and when she does she usually sets it on mute so she can read the captions. This is it, she's gonna be dead in the middle of the living room floor, having breathed her last to the sounds of ice skates.<br /><br />But no, there she was, standing less than a foot from the television, fervently praying her rosary.<br /><br />The Sabres won that night.<br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-65085392716079518472009-09-30T12:40:00.009-04:002009-09-30T13:12:27.565-04:00Cooking Vicariously<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kl-NN1BsUqceXUyyXF4Hcr_zwP00Ro6tuC6gj19MBgH_v0RxtCAw-gUe0mrPmVvOdY3uZyVJP2INmFQ9JM1KdmcQbi0L6TV28G3ev10ON_62p-ohtpunYQS6qovykjJnia_nBrNzRkED/s1600-h/DSCF0713.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kl-NN1BsUqceXUyyXF4Hcr_zwP00Ro6tuC6gj19MBgH_v0RxtCAw-gUe0mrPmVvOdY3uZyVJP2INmFQ9JM1KdmcQbi0L6TV28G3ev10ON_62p-ohtpunYQS6qovykjJnia_nBrNzRkED/s320/DSCF0713.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387303768964230498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">One of the hardest things about living with Granny is that the kitchen is not really "mine". I love to cook and bake, and I hate having people hover over me when I do so. Granny is bored, and likes things done her way, so when I try to cook I get, "Do you need a pan? I have this pan. Do you need salt? The salt is over there." She has set aside a small amount of space in the kitchen for some of my cooking stuff, but it's nowhere near enough - there are boxes and boxes of kitchen things in the cellar. So when I cook, I'm going up and down two flights of stairs, unless I super organize ahead of time.<br />She just bought a new refrigerator which ended up being smaller than the last, so God forbid I take up too much room. Not that I want to keep tons of stuff in there, as she'll just end up washing it all again. (P.S. If I live to 91, God forbid, I'm blowing all my money on expensive appliances. Stainless steel, French door refrigerators, Viking ranges, front loading washer dryers with nano-steam technology, one of those dishwashers that will wash a plate even if it has an entire piece of cake on it...)<br />Anyhoo, yesterday I bought a bookcase for my cookbooks, which is already nearly full. And I didn't even include what we referred to at the bookstore as "food narratives", books of people writing about cooking. I guess I'm cooking vicariously through my books for now.<br /><a href="file:///Users/bojo/Desktop/deliciouslibrary/index.html"><br /></a><a href="file:///Users/bojo/Desktop/Downloads/deliciouslibrary/index.html"></a><br /></span></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-30090139455168298882009-09-26T02:33:00.006-04:002009-09-26T02:35:59.588-04:00And Then...<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >I got rear ended driving my loaner Friday afternoon.<br /><br />I am beyond being upset or angry. I'm about 80% to sheer catatonia.</span><br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-84503391790468147032009-09-24T22:45:00.010-04:002009-09-24T23:12:39.749-04:00Worst. Day. Ever.<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;" >It all started with the television. I had been willing it to off itself last November, so I could take advantage of the Black Friday specials on flat screens, but no, it waited until I had been unemployed for three and a half months to go. So I spent $400 of money I don't actually have, but man, does Food Network look glorious in HD.<br />That was Monday.<br /><br />One a.m. Wednesday, and Chloe breathed her last. Chloe was my ex's dog, who for the length of our relationship I considered ours, and well, never really stopped considering ours even though we were living apart. She was eleven and had been suffering from diabetes for two years, and for the last two weeks she had been on a steady decline, which is also why I have not posted anything. Still, we are heartbroken.<br /><br />Can it get worse? Yep.<br /><br />Aunt Maisy decided to take Granny for lunch Wednesday afternoon. I didn't hear her come, since it's hard to hear anything over the roar of the Thruway, and when I went to get the mail, I locked the front doors behind me, as she would normally do. Well, it turns out she doesn't have a key to the screen door (as I do), and when they came back, couldn't open it. I was upstairs listening to really loud music with my headphones, so I didn't hear them pounding on the door.<br />Oh, it gets better.<br />Maisy ended up dropping Granny off at my Aunt Rose's, about a mile and a half away. My mother called and said I had to go pick her up.<br />Now I never usually park in Rose's driveway, as there is an electrical pole literally a half an inch away from it, and virtually everyone in the family has hit the damn thing when pulling in or out. But I didn't want Granny to have to walk across the street, so I pulled in, thought to myself, "I really need to be careful with that pole" and went inside to get her.<br />You see where this is going right?<br />Yeah, I hit the pole, turning while backing out. Peeled off the entire front end of the Mini.<br /><br />And this is the point where I really LOST MY SHIT. Because, you see, there are two things I absolutely, unhesitatingly love in my life...my dog and my car. The dog was dead and the car lay in ruins. I can't have anything nice, can I?<br /><br />It's amazing really, when bad things pile on, how sympathetic total strangers can be. When I called State Farm, I burst into tears to the poor guy on the other end. He was very kind, told me how he had lost his dog two months ago, and when things like this happen, he puts on a funny movie to try and take his mind off of things. When I dropped the Mini off at the repair shop, the kid working the counter for the loaner cars asked me what had happened. I said, "OK, let me tell you about the worst day of my life." He said, "Jeez, it really piled on there didn't it?" Then when taking my info, he asked for my current employer. I told him I was unemployed. He looked at me, aghast. I said, "Yeah, everything's coming up roses for Kim Bojanowski!".<br /><br />I can't help but think they're sympathetic because they're thanking God it's not them.<br /><br />I know I would.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></span></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-69681223193976333202009-09-12T21:39:00.005-04:002009-09-13T00:07:02.462-04:00Put Down The Remote<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-weight: normal; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; font-size:13px;"><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">If you watch any TV, you may have seen an ad for a new NBC show called "Flash Forward" in which everyone on Earth blacks out for two and a half minutes and sees what their future will be in six months. </span></span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-weight: normal; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></span></h3><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message" ft="{"type":"msg"}" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-weight: normal; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; font-size:13px;"><span class="UIStory_Message"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">My grandmother thinks its real.</span></span></span></h3><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">As in, there will be some kind of electrical black out lasting two and a half minutes sometime in the near future. Then again, she handed me a coupon for Cesar dog food the other day thinking it was for people food, so I think the long, slow slippery slope has suddenly tilted aggressively downward.</span></span></div></span>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-19984621787702386552009-09-05T12:20:00.003-04:002009-09-13T00:06:26.322-04:00Strangulation Conversation<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny: Your mother said you hit your leg.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: My leg?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny: On the bed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: Oh yeah. I was hitting it, like, every day. So I put the bed back the way it was</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny: You should have kept it the way it was.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: I did. I put it back on the floor.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny: Uh huh. What?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: I PUT IT BACK ON THE FLOOR. No more scars.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granny: hahahaha</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-56928939218308210042009-08-26T16:24:00.004-04:002009-08-26T23:19:57.094-04:00Ten Days...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">...and still no word from Granny about the bed. Must be a record.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yesterday she wanted to eat some leftovers I had left in the fridge. I had been meaning to throw them out but kept forgetting. They had been in there for eleven days. She kept insisting they would still be good. No Granny, I really don't think those two slices of barbecue beef will still be good. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I really hope she threw it out.</span></span></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3255482108809869687.post-63129999499239665522009-08-16T17:15:00.004-04:002009-08-16T17:28:21.917-04:00The Burning Bed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That's it, as of today, I had finally HAD IT.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I moved in two years ago, we could not fit the box spring for my wonderful Simmons Beautyrest Olympic Queen bed up either of the two staircases in the house. We </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">were</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> able to squeeze the mattress up the stairs, just barely. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So the mattress rested on the floor, Japanese style, in a way I actually liked. I enjoy being close to the ground, and the box spring had actually made the bed too tall for my tastes. I feel I slept better this way.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Needless to say, Granny wasn't having it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"You can't have your mattress on the floor!" she despaired.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Why not? I like it there." was my reply.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Because!" was her answer.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She also insisted on me re-installing the mouldering lacy curtains that had been hanging there. Never told her I had dumped them in the garbage.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This went on until fall, when my mother called to say, "We have to do something about your bed. I know you like it there but I'm tired of listening to her complain every single time she calls."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And so we trekked to Lowe's, bought some wood and jerry-rigged a base for the bed, laying it on top of the bed frame. And a day later I started banging my shins on the corners of this thing. This GOD-DAMNED thing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At least twice a day for nearly two years I have scraped or hit my legs on the wooden corners of this damned thing. I have constellations of scars to prove it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today was the last straw.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After putting a particularly ugly scratch into my calf, I swore, loudly, and then pictured myself having one of those freak accidents (did I mention I'm a total klutz?) where the entire wooden corner ends up in the soft tissue of my leg, requiring skin grafts, fearing sepsis, etc.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And it was then, despite the 89 degrees in the air, that I picked the mattress up off this jerry-rigged monstrosity, moved the damn thing into the attic, and put my mattress back on the floor, where it belongs.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Countdown to how long Granny notices, and starts bitching again.</span></span></div>brontebrathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06445104260691265016noreply@blogger.com0