An Act of Kindness

Today, there was a wasp walking around on the living room floor. Before someone stepped on it, I carefully scooped it up with a piece of paper and set it free outside. It felt good doing this simple act of kindness.

An hour later, as I sat here typing away, the bottom of my foot started to burn--REALLY burn. "What the f@#$!" I blurted out. I looked down I to see the wasp stinging the bottom of my foot. It evidently came back in when the social worker arrived.

I set him free, he comes back and stings me. How is that for irony? I wonder what would have befallen me if I had squashed the little bugger....

Devil Dog

MIL has a dog named Peanut. As you can see in this picture, she is aptly named, as she is a tiny little dog. She is a Yorkie, but in her current hairstyle, looks more like a chihuahua. She even acts like a chihuahua, shaking for no reason and acting pitiful.

I woke up this morning at 8:30am after being up until 2 frickin' thirty doing homework (which, by the way, is still not complete). Bud and MIL must have left real early, as I appeared to be the only one home.

I took three steps, and then, *squish* right between the toes. The little bugger had left a wet turd right outside the bedroom door. I of course said some choice words and hop-hobbled to the bathroom to wash my foot. On the way, I encountered a turd in the dining room, a turd under the table this laptop sits on, a turd in the kitchen (using "turd" lightly here, as it was more of a liquid mass), a semi-formed turd in the hallway, and a turd in the bathroom. That is an awful lot of turds from one tiny little dog!

After cleaning up all the messes, and after not hearing from hubby or MIL, I decided to call and find out where they were to make sure everything was alright. They were fine, but Bud confirmed that he, too, had cleaned up no less then two piles from the little poop machine.

I must say, I am quite impressed that that much excretion came out of her. I guess I shouldn't be, as she is literally a little shit. I named this post Devil Dog aptly, because I am certain she is a minion of Satan.

She can be the cutest, sweetest dog around. But then, when you least expect it, she becomes evil. It reminds me of the movie Gremlins. Remember those cute little furballs? And what happened when they got wet? Peanut is like a cute little Gizmo, until she gets a wild hair up her butt. Then, watch out. Here are the before and after:

I have taken to calling her queenie,

As she is the queen of the house. She dictates when MIL gets up,
goes to bed, when she will eat, when she wants to be picked up, and her position on MIL's lap. She allows one of the other dogs, Suzie, to get up in the chair with MIL, but she will growl and glare at her to get off of MILs lap and move to the side so she can have the coveted lap position. Look at that evil glow in her eye--possessed, I tell ya. Mind you, our dog, Ghost, could chomp her in one bite. Don't think the thought hasn't crossed her mind, as I have seen the look in Ghost's eye many a time: "I could swallow you whole, you little hefer. Don't mess with me!"

As we speak, she is growling and fussing because I will not take the gate down so she can go into the living room. Sorry, poopy dog, but there is no way I am giving you access to furniture right now...

Yard Sale Hell

MIL had the great idea to do a yard sale this weekend. It has been in the 90's for a week, and the humidity is through the roof. PERFECT! My ultra pale, burns in minutes skin will LOVE being exposed for two days...

In preparation, she dragged out bags and boxes, or rather, my nephew and SIL dragged out bags and boxes, from the shed. Most had mouse turds or mouse pee, and they reeked. Special! We are putting more time in to cleaning the sh-- I mean treasures up than they are worth. Seriously, she has so many chotchkies it is ridiculous. Oh, for those who have never heard of a chotchkie, Urban Dictionary defines it as the following:
"A small piece of worthless crap, a decorative knick knack with little or no purpose. Side note: Chotchkie can be pretty, sentimental, or even occasionally useful though it usually breaks easily if useful. If you are having trouble identifying Chotchkie just look around your house or someone else's and whatever you see that a burglar wouldn't steal is probably Chotchkie.
Fake fruit, a ceramic frog containing candy, pretty much anything purchased at a dollar store, costume jewelry, etc."

Amen, Urban Dictionary. Amen. Worthless crap indeed. Heck, the mouse turds have more value than some of the sh-- I mean, treasures, she is trying to sell. We spent hours pricing all that crap, and the whole while I am thinking, "Put it all on the front lawn with a giant "FREE" sign and be done with it." Dang, can you tell this is getting on my last nerve?

Don't get me wrong. I do love my MIL. She just comes up with "great ideas" that translate into lots and lots of pointless work. She will sell a few things, I am sure. Like the motorcycle leather coat, pants, and chaps, and the motorcycle intercom system. The rest? She should have just rented a dumpster. I'm just sayin'...

I have a ton of homework to do, and I have been spending more time lugging, washing, labeling, and cussing than I care to admit. On a positive note, my hubby is taking one for the Gipper, as they say. He is going with MIL to Amish Acres tomorrow morning. Acres and acres of vendors, set up in an open field on a hot, humid day. She really wants to go, but Bud knew that I had all this homework to get done, so he is going with her and leaving me home in the peace and quiet. Oh, how I love that man!

If there is a Hell, and I end up there, I will probably be stuck labeling chotchkies...

T-Minus One Week and Counting...

The exodus to the North is in one week. While I am glad to get out from underneath of the menial servitude of Ms. C., I am bittersweet about returning to Michigan. The moms' are there; the sisterwives are there; and that is about it. I guess the Fates want me to die in the ice and the cold instead of the swealtering heat. Whatevah...

On another note, I have had diarrhea for a week straight, and have been on the pot no less than 5 times in the last 6 hours. Your welcome.

School is getting ready to start back up as well, and I have got to say, this break was much needed this time around. I needed to declutter my head. Of course, that means the novel gets shelved for another 6 months...I may have it done before my Social Security kicks in--wait--what Social Security? I am certain that by the time I hit 68, there will be no Social Security. Whooo Hoooo, can't WAIT!

Hmmmmm, I think I am in a bit of a mood today. Sick of shitting, sick of shit, sick, sick, sick. Blah!

Double Hernia--or, My Guts are Falling Out

I recently developed a hernia. Not uncommon for over-weight individuals, and not uncommon for persons who have undergone surgery. But lucky me, I have two! I had a bikini line incision for my c-section back in '87. I had the zipper for my hysterectomy in 2010. Where the two incision lines meet, a weakness developed, and before I knew it, I had an egg-sized protrusion.

I shouldn't be surprised. With all the lifting and transferring of Mr. M, it was bound to happen. That for sure weakened the area. But when did it happen? Embarrassingly, on the toilet, straining with diarrhea. (This blog is not for the weak of stomach; I swear, I will talk about anything!).

The second hernia is a belly button hernia, at the top of my hysterectomy incision. I had one in the same spot before, and had it repaired. This one is on the other side of my belly button.

Sooooo, my guts are spilling out in two places. Yippee. It doesn't hurt at all, but it is disconcerting, as now I can't do anything for Mr. M and Ms. C. That means that we are moving out soon. No point staying here if I can't be of help.

This will be move number 5 in 18 months. We are heading back to my MIL's home, which is the first move we made 18 months ago. We have come full circle. I guess I am just not meant to live in Alabama, because we keep ending up in Michigan. Peachy.

School will start back up for me the day after we get back, so I will not even get a rest before I have to start hitting the books again. And I am taking three classes in a compressed 8 week semester--should be a blast.

Man, do I like to bitch or what? Count your blessings, Miss Whineypants...

Full Moon

Last night was the full moon, and it was perported to be the largest full moon in 19 years. The full moon I saw last night was not.

I walked out of the kitchen yesterday to find Ms. C lathering butt balm on Mr. M's behind. His boney arse was sticking toward the heavens as she slathered it on, its whiteness only surpassed by that of the zinc oxide that covered it in a thick layer.

This poor man has lost every shred of dignity. We have seen every nook and cranny of this man; we have wiped his ass after he takes a dump, we have held his shriveled up pecker while he pees to assure he hits the urinal. We have bathed him, dressed him/undressed him 300 times; we have wiped food off his face that has drippled out the bad side of his mouth. We have cleaned him up and bandaged him after he has fallen and knocked half the skin off of his arm, knee, finger, head....

I feel horrible for him. He is only 61, but when you look at him, you see an old man. Even though he can out-eat us all due to his appetite-inducing pills, he is still a stick-figure.

The chemo turned his hair white--what is left of it. He has a little left, and a few indignant long, stray strands. He still brushes his hair before we go out--really no need, but we silently let him skim the brush over his mostly-bald head.

The stroke has left him limited. He has very little control over his left hand. We often must fish his hand out of gravy, peas, soup, and pancake syrup. Yesterday he gently murmured: "that gravy is hot."

We have watched him drink himself into a stupor. I will not begrudge the man. I would most likely drink myself into a stupor everyday if I had to bear the indignities he has to each morning. He is usually soaked to the bone. He prefers Bud strip him and the bed, get him dressed, get him decent and get him a hot cup of coffee. We do not belittle him for being so wet. Ms. C., on the other hand, delights, I think, in being disgusted with him. She has zero patience with him. Hubby and I fear that when we leave--and it will be soon--she will not be very nice to him.

Mr. M wants to be independent. He stubbornly drove his stick-shift truck, backing it into a junker car in the yard and busting out the headlight. He almost put it in the swamp/pond out front. Every time I turn around, the old/not really old fellow is tottering somewhere, fetching himself a drink, heading out to smoke, or getting an itch to fish.

Fishing was his "thing". Being retired, there really isn't a whole lot to do that doesn't cost a lot of money. Since the strokes and the cancer, Mr. M hasn't been able to do what he loves. Ms. C got a wild hair a few weeks ago because she was sick of seeing Mr. M just sitting there. She said it was nice out and we were going fishing. At first, Mr. M objected, but with her prodding, he agreed to it. What an ordeal that was! It took half the morning to get Mr. M around and loaded into the truck. It is only a little 2-seater, so Ms. C and I followed in her car.

The lake ended up only being accessible by 4-wheel trucks and deer, but Mr. M insisted we could make it up the deeply-rutted (read "canyon-ed") dirt road access. The only option was to throw Ms. C and I in the bed of the truck and go for it. The tailgate doesn't go up, so Ms. C, with her two bad legs, sat on the tailgate and held on to the walker in her lap. (Do you see impending disaster?)

I climbed well into the truck, as I didn't want to be a part of that impending disaster. When we were all loaded, Hubby asked if we were all loaded, and I said yes. He gunned it, and I watched Ms. C being launched out the back of the truck helplessly as I screamed for Bud to stop. There was no stopping, as the access road was over a 40 degree angle, and we had to Baja just to get up to the lake. I screamed to Ms. C that wI would send Bud back for her.

When we got to the lake at the top, it was only then that Bud found out that he had bounced Ms. C out of the back of the truck. He went back down the hill to get her--a good 1/2 mile that seemed a lot longer from the bed of the truck. She had managed to walk about 500 feet up the hillside with her walker. Can you picture it?

Bud got her loaded and brought her up the hill. It wasn't over yet. Mr. M pointed to the cabin and a bank around the opposite side of the lake. "That is where we want to be," he said matter-of-factly. It is here that I must note that neither Bud nor I swim. I am afraid of water of my head. This is a man-made lake. It doesn't gradually get deep; it instantly gets deep. There are signs posted all over "no swimming" and "very deep lake". Special.

Now comes the fun part. To get to the opposite side of the lake, there is a narrow isthmus of land separating the lake from a 300-foot drop-off. Lake of Death on one side; Valley of Death on the other. Perfect!

There is a gate on the other side, and we couldn't tell if it was open or closed. Mr. M said it didn't matter. If it was closed, we would just park at the end and fish, and and then back out. NO. FUCKING. WAY. I volunteered to go walk the 1/4 mile and visually affirm whether or not the gate was open. I kept my eyes on the road or the lake--I didn't want to see the drop on the other side, or I would have been immobilized.

After confirming the gate was open, Bud drove across. I could not watch, nor could I get in the truck. I was paralyzed with fear. Bud obviously made it across in one piece, and we got all the chairs, poles, beers, bait and tackle out of the truck. We moved Mr. M three times before he found a place he felt confident that he could sit and not fall in, yet get a good cast in.

Mr. M could cast just fine, but realized that without use of his left hand, he couldn't hold the pole and reel it in. he did his best by holding the pole between his knees, though. After one cast, he declared he was just going to watch. So, the rest of of grabbed poles and cast out. After 10 minutes, Mr. M says: "We have to go. I have to pee."

Yes, yes, I know, he could have peed right there. I believe it was his way of saying he wasn't having fun and therefore fishing day was over. It took more time to load and unload the truck than was actually spent fishing. It was a beautiful lake. I was actually enjoying myself, once the terror of getting there was behind us. Sigh.

Mike got a wild hair yesterday and wanted to run to town and get Bream hooks, sinkers and fish feed. Good Lord, save us all.