My rabble is fully roused!  We moved mother into her new apartment on Thursday.  It is a cute little apartment and will be perfect for her once we get her moved in.  It is much smaller than the one she had before and so we are having to do a lot of “weeding”.  My mother has never been particularly emotional about things.  She is about people, but not things.  I thought this weeding process would be simple.  I thought wrong.

When my grandmother died, mother had several quilts that my great-grandmother had made and some granny had made and they all were in my grandmother’s possession.  Mother decided she would just sell those at a yard sale.  It never occurred to her that her daughters might be interested in them.  I don’t know if my sisters said anything or not, but I told her that I would pay her for two of them and ended up having them gifted to me.  Anyway, my dear ones wait until you hear this…my husband (the genius) decided that it would be easier to move mother’s monster television in the stand it was in rather than move both the heavy cherry stand and then the t.v. as well.  I was talking to mother and I see Einstein and his friend rolling the pair of items (intact) out on the furniture dolly.  I commented to mom that I really didn’t see how that was safe and she said that surely they would remove the t.v. and set it in the floor once they got it in the truck.  We debated for a while over just how stupid they were, and decided that they just had to be smart enough to figure that out, after all they had dressed themselves so we left it alone.  Sure enough, they broke the television.  My mother is all cool about it “don’t you worry.  I’ve got two other televisions.  It will be fine.  I’m not mad.”  This went on for the rest of the day.  I was much more upset than she was.  Well, the next day I was helping her unpack and I was taking the bubble wrap off a ceramic pig that wears a chef’s hat and holds a chalk board.  The chalk board slipped and hit the pig’s feet and broke the base.  I got reamed!  “Oh no!  Not my pig!  I loved that pig.  I was so careful to wrap it just right.  I can’t believe you broke my pig!”  The really crappy part is I had gotten her the pig and it cost like $10.  She got me some super glue and I tried for the better part of an hour to super glue the hooves back on Sir Frances Bacon to no avail.  I glued my fingers.  I glued my pants.  I waited until she was out of the room and I sent him to the sty in the sky.  I’m just wondering on what scale of justice do you weigh a 32″ Sony television and a ceramic kitchen pig (from Hobby Lobby) and come out that the pig was the bigger loss?  She would have sucked at Let’s Make a Deal!  After I pointed out to her that this seemed like I was really getting the sharp end of the stick she said “don’t feel bad.  I still love you.”  What the hell is that supposed to mean?  Was there ever a question?  Was it on the line for a heartbeat there?  - She broke my pig…do I still love her?  I guess so.  She’s married to the guy that breaks televisions that I love like a son.  I think I’ll forgive her. - WTF? 

It’s the wee hours of Sunday morning and I have spent every waking hour at her apartment helping her unpack and get organized and try to find places for the thousands of pictures she owns of everyone and their dog.  I mean that literally…their dogs, cats, cousins, roadkill, and game.  I creak when I move more than usual.  I have bruises on top of bruises from trying to make sure I do the heaviest part of the lifting.  I look like someone has stuffed my thighs and upper arms with blackberries (just under the skin).  My own home is somewhat of a disaster.  I need to do at least three loads of laundry and I need to unload the dishwasher just so I can reload and run it again.  I have a feeling that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.  I haven’t seen the Precious in over a week.  THINGS ARE GOING TO HELL IN A HANDBASKET!! 

Okay, I think I’m through.  I know that I am the designated daughter.  I am here and I don’t work outside the home.  My mom is almost eighty and needs the help.  I get all that, no problem.  Here’s the rub, I also have to help my husband with his work which is due Monday morning and could have been done well before mother’s move if Captain Procrastination would ever do anything before the last minute.  Instead, I am with him here in the family room listening to him curse and complain and run his fingers through his hair because he has a deadline looming before him that he can no longer avoid.  When we were in college together we had a project that was due in a week.  I was working on mine in class and he was playing with stuff in the room and bugging me.  I asked him why he wasn’t working on his assignment.  He said that he might die in the next week and he would hate to think that he had wasted valuable time on an assignment that could otherwise have been spent doing something he enjoyed.  I, on the other hand, did the assignment and then didn’t have to worry about it later.  That, dear ones, is the major difference between the love of my life and myself.  It is also a major point of contention.  Neither of us gets why the other doesn’t do it our way.  However; if he had done it my way this time, he would be enjoying watching Tiger play golf tomorrow and I would be helping mother finish organizing the mess that we hope she will someday call her kitchen.  Instead he is going to get to enjoy my sunny disposition…All day!  I really think my way would have been better.  Again.

1 Comment »

1. 

   Condolences on the Sony and Chef Peeg.

   Comment by pms — May 3, 2009 @ 7:37 am

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