There and Back

The trip was a success. Aside from the orchard that we wanted to visit not being open and Mary’s nose getting a nasty scratch (thanks to my stupidity) that wouldn’t stop bleeding and Angie and Mom watching everything I ate like a hawk (so that I wouldn’t blow my diet too much), everything went well. There were three little lap dogs and Mitch’s medium-sized dog, so Mary was in seventh heaven. Unfortunately, I was holding one down to her to see when, unbeknownst to me, one of my nephews’ girlfriends came in with another dog. The doggie I was holding saw it though and went ballistic, which I just attributed to being excited about being held by a stranger. It was one of those instances when you know just a split second beforehand that you shouldn’t do something but you do it anyway and then have to pay for the consequences. I’m always hearing this little voice telling me what’s going to happen. I ignored it a few times and had to pay the piper, so I usually listen, but this time… so often it seems like the times I don’t listen are with Mary. Why?! Well, she was a really good sport, but we about went crazy with her picking on it and asking what had happened.

Yes, I managed to not gain any weight—albeit I downed two huge cinnamon rolls (with icing) on Sunday and half of one on Monday and I ate almost a whole bag of (reduced fat) potato chips, plus some other junk food that I’m having amnesia about (I know I ate it, just not what I ate). Ange and Mom kept their eyes on me like vultures the whole time. Yeah, diet vultures. Mom really secretly wanted some of what I was having. I handed her back one chip :-) Angie was just finding a convenient venue for her bitchiness. One time I walked into the living room with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. She gave me her deadpan, thousand-year-old turtle look (the result of glasses that enlarge her eyes and the wrinkliest crocodile skin you’ve ever seen) and lobed a shot, “That’s going to kill you. You’re clogging your arteries.” Just because she’s made it to 87, she thinks she can tell all of us younger people how to live. Ha! Thank God Mary is just “live and let live.” She doesn’t much care what you do as long as you don’t tell her what to do, because, since she’s made it this far doing what she wants, you really don’t have any right telling her what’s good for and what’s not. And believe me, I did try to tell her at first what was good for her. I still do. But I learned to pick my battles. She’s absolutely right that she doesn’t need to eat her potato skins, and she can have as much coffee whenever she wants to have it. But she cannot stay alone and she must take the medicine the doctor prescribes. Anyway, don’t you just love people who feel not only that it is their right but their frigging duty to tell you what to eat and not eat when you’re on a diet?! I mean, hello! It’s my life!

Oh, yeah, this was supposed to be about Mary! Uh… let’s see… You know, I couldn’t believe it—she only woke me up once on Saturday night to use the potty. At home it’s gotten to be every two hours. Man, that is a drag. Literally. I drag the whole next day. I would take her to get her urine checked but, actually, I always have to use the potty, too, so from my standpoint, it’s not that abnormal. But I know it’s not normal for Mary. But, then, she is getting old… O je. I do not want to take her to the doctor’s again… I love her doctor, but we’ve seen way too much of her in the past few months. I don’t think her urine looks particularly cloudy nor is it especially odiferous, so I’m going to keep the jury out on this for a while longer. The bad thing is that Mary never feels anything wrong when she’s got a UTI. No burning. And she may not even have to pee a lot. Well, during the day. But at night… Those bells! I will never be able to hear a jingle bell the same way again. Just like the sound that an alarm clock makes instantly evokes a putrid sensation, so do not those jolly bells.

During the first trip to the potty last night, Mary started the “Whose house is this?” business. I hate that. Especially in the middle of the night. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Like I’m suddenly in the Twilight Zone. I reacted awfully, telling her in a no-nonsense tone of voice to cut it out, that I didn’t like it when she started that. Of course, I know that she has no idea, but I hope that she’ll at least pretend for my sake that she does. She didn’t. “Well, I tell you one thing, when I get home…” “You are home, Mary! Look around. You’ve lived here for eight years.” “Well, I don’t know, honey. I don’t know where I am.” The next thing I know, she’s asleep, booby-trap in place, and I’m lying awake wondering what I’m doing and where I am. And where I’m going to be when this is all over.