We didn’t intend to be gone so long, as either I would be admitted and T would go back to the house and take care of Jez, or I would be treated quickly and return home.
Actually none of the above happened. My neighbor picked me up around 3 pm, and after we got everything packed up, Jez went into her crate with food, water, treats, and toys. I couldn’t even leave, “calm the doggie while you are away” music from YouTube as I wanted to take my laptop. Yes, I have low-level technology somewhere in the closet but didn’t feel like hunting for it. I hope she won’t be too sad, but at least she will be safe, along with a lot of other things.
And let’s just say she seemed rather traumatized when we returned around 11 pm and didn’t as usual, jump out of her crate and on me and try to get into something new and interesting, but sat there looking rather dazed, like she was saying, “What the #$#%#$ did I do to merit 8 hours in prison. I couldn’t have done anything that bad. Mom abandoned me and now she is back with that neighbor I don’t like. You know why I don’t like her? Don’t think I didn’t hear her call me, “ugly cute,” and it is very rude to comment on the appearance of even a lowly non-Sapien in their presence, and then she had the audacity to diss my puggy-whatever mix people by saying I looked like I was an alien, although I might accept it as a compliment that the kid who came home from university said I looked like Dobie the House Elf from Harry Potter, as I acknowledge a bit of resemblance, but it doesn’t apply to the personality of that sniveling submissive to humans thing.
So, while driving down the 15: “Claire, do you know how to get to the hospital?”
Me: “I thought you had GPS? I would have looked it up?”
T: “It doesn’t have wifi, you have to have a hotspot”
Me: It didn’t occur to me that T didn’t know how to get there. “I know it is on Genesee.”
T: I know how to get to UCSD
Me: Kid said the hospital is less than two miles from the university.
This is low-tech driving. We drive to the university, and T stops a student and asks how to get to the hospital. (Hooray for vintage driving direction methods.) It is a couple turns and we see the signs.
After two previous increasingly traumatic experiences, T parks and picks up a wheelchair from a lined up group. We go in. Immediately I am triaged and then with no wait I am in a comfy room. “Is there anything else I can do to help you,” asks the first of many hunky, young residents?
I am shaking. “I am kind of cold.”
“Here, let’s try this.” He wraps me up in a blanket. Wow, this is a five-star hospital. Dare I look to see if there is a Godiva chocolate under my pillow? After I am warmed up, hunky, young resident helps me change. A nurse comes in and asks permission to draw my blood. Do you mean you are not just going to stab me?
Everything is just done so bang-up top notch here, I will have to go home and write a bang-up review on Yelp. I may not be good at a lot of things, but one thing I can do is write scintillatingly glowing reviews on Yelp, and likewise write devastatingly critical reviews everywhere, and this is with the crust over my eyes from this pinkeye obscuring my vision. There is something to be said about perseverance as a character trait. This is not like those one-star reviews that say, “I only gave this one star because there was no zero star option, no negative =100 star option and they block profanity.”
And for a certain person who for whatever convoluted reason does not seem to respect the requirement of clinical pharmacology for certain subsets of the population (vague enough?) and fails to follow through on reasonable medical advice or even make said appointment, I assume making a public spectacle of satirical mockery of some of our apparently esteemed establishments until one enters these denizens of multiple code violations, without even mentioning codes of sanity and common sense must be evidence of paranoia because they are just doing their jobs (doing their jobs mean the patient leaves alive, at least 87% of the time.)
Such very Ashkenazi Jewish style kvetching about anything and everything is clear and uncontroverted evidence that the described author must be having a steroid psychosis like your mom did in the hospital at the age of 90 and that people are laughing at the stuff you write so you must be in a state of bipolar mania, doesn’t get that little kiddie ditty that when you point a finger at someone else you are pointing three at yourself? You didn’t learn that on the playground? What were YOU doing on the playground; I don’t think I want to know.
Thank you to my caregiver (the great one, not the sheltered workshop candidate who couldn’t even comprehend that when you knock on the door of a person having health problems, you wait a minute, not leave them to arrive at the door and think it must be Amazon but fail to see a package, and then 2 minutes later you hear a knock that must be coming from the garage (when has anyone ever knocked on my garage) and you explain that the door was left unlocked for the very purpose that I may not be able to arrive at such door and left that message with your agency that the door was left unlocked for that very reason and just please come in and don’t make me try to get out of bed and struggle with my walker to the door? You said the door was locked? Well, did the agency ever bother to include in its training program that you turn the handle?
Jez, I’m sorry. I know we should not make fun of people who can’t help their limitations. I have nothing against these brave souls. My beef is with their bosses who should know better than to attempt to pull one over on me, clearly being aware of my needs and their employees’ stringent limitations, and not think they can charge me top dollar (rather than pay me) to train and supervise their employees with, um, special requirements, like hand-holding, constant direction and encouragement and the ultimate in sensitivity to their delicate emotional state. If someone were to expect me to train, supervise, hand-hold and provide emotional support to one of their employees, I would be the one doing the billing, and that is not even my thing so I would refer to someone who would find this line of work more fulfilling and have the skills to accomplish. I know you are aware I am not some kind of stupid, but you might think I would be too polite and compassionate to complain. I rarely do polite, but can at times do compassionate, but not at $24 an hour. Do you think I am joking? The minute she finally manages to get in the house, she makes a bee-line for my bathroom.
Nobody uses my bathroom. My bathroom must be left open like a fire lane, with dire consequences for blockage, and often it isn’t exactly guest friendly. Okay, at times Jez sneaks in to unravel the tp or try to find and chew shampoo bottles that I might have forgotten I now have to only put on the upper shelf, and now our lower-shelf is non-functional, unless you want every item covered with teeth marks, if indeed it doesn’t get absconded away for dining at a nicer location; my bed. I tell her to use the other bathroom, and she asks me how to flush the toilet? Yes, the handle is a bit busted until we can find the time to replace it, but tape and a rubber band on a toilet handle doesn’t alter the method of use. In addition, I would rather she not even bother to flush the toilet, which some more competent person could easily do, in fact, I have seen dogs trained to flush, so that may be Jezzie’s next training goal.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am massively supportive of providing employment opportunities for persons with limitations and disabilities. I read about a restaurant in Jerusalem run entirely by a staff of persons with Down Syndrome. They are so genuinely proud of their products and joyful in serving customers that customers leave them humongous tips, and would never dream of complaining, but joyfully welcome every wrong order, mix up and slightly imperfect entree. But this is a restaurant where customers know what they are getting.
Dinner is one thing and one doesn’t risk life and limb even by having a bad meal, but you wouldn’t send these enthusiastic employees to the house of a seriously ill person with the understanding they would provide high-level professional care that the customer is paying for. And she didn’t even exhibit the personable qualities of these waiters, cooks, and hosts/hostesses with Downs. She came in looking like a frightened toddler that had lost her mother in the Walmart, or a scared rabbit that got separated from the pack in the county park, and was quite nasty and sullen when I perceived she couldn’t understand me and asked what language she spoke. “English,” she said with an extremely nasty snarl at my lack of political correctness to dare to ask such a question as she didn’t appear to comprehend simple instructions in the language.
The next thing she did was ask where to put her food. It was an endless list of questions, and I should have just called to agency to come remove her right away, but I had this fixation that I had to get to a professionally run medical establishment today for both my physical and mental health, and had some deluded idea that she could at least drive and arrive at our destination safely. Thank you, Ter, for offering to take me, when all I did was ask if you could make sure puppy survives if I was admitted. That still would have been a disaster, as I doubt she could have completed the basic tasks of driving 30 miles, parking the car at the hospital, finding a wheelchair for me and getting me inside without a 2-year course of instruction that my critical situation lacked the time to provide. You may have heard jokes about people who can’t find their tuches with both hands and a compass? Well, I know a number who we could add to that list continually and detailed instruction and correction. Don’t they have an app for that yet? As you may have noted, patience isn’t my virtue.
You know that your reward for such kindness is hubby is buying you a new laptop since your old one went phooey. Oh, he doesn’t know it, at least not yet. He never reads my stuff on FB although he has said, “Send it to me,” just to shut me up when I have sought to share something I found brilliant and humorous which of course I think so because I wrote it.
Now Jez, hubby thinks the reason mom is a bit more high strung than usual is that she has been off her meds, her legal CA medical cannabis meds that is. Well, given my respiratory problems with asthma due to cold from hell were sufficient to put me on that nasty Prednisone, I don’t think vaping would be okay; I never smoke. While not eating, I don’t think even the tiniest bit of medical cannabis chocolate bar – and they make them really good you can’t even taste it if you buy the high-end stuff and we always buy high-end weed, what kind of family do you think we are, low class? So he wanted me to call our local delivery guy and purchase something that I could use given all my conditions, like a liquid or gummy edible. The local guys who deliver weed like pizza, with the only difference is that their minimum is usually around $60, so hubby would need to bring me $60 in cash, which he was happy to do, so happy, or so eager to keep me comatose that he brought back $200 in cash and presented it to me, strongly pressuring me, “When are you going to call the weed guy, I suggest you do it now.”
But I thought the better of it, as with all my ailments and meds, I don’t need to take a chance on creating more problems than I have, especially with any interactions with that nasty but life-saving drug Prednisone, that the doc at UCSD insisted I stop tapering and remain at 20 mg at least until my specialist appointment on Tue. In addition, I think all I need to validate Mr. Inconsistent’s narrative that I am the crazy one is for me to have some nasty interaction, and then he has proof; mommy is not only crazy, she is a substance abuser, albeit one legal in progressive CA. So I gave Ter the $200 to care for the dog, and said she gets to keep it even though I wasn’t admitted to the hospital. Buy yourself a new laptop, and she said she would like one like mine, and we will keep it between us where the $$$ came from.
I asked, “So, how am I going to deal with this insomnia?” I asked the shortish but CA surfer cute doc that was likely in his mid-thirties, and of course, quite buff. I don’t know if the US Dept. of Labor is aware that the tony community of La Jolla has a secret, “gentlemen’s agreement,” (you really ought to look up that other nasty scandal if you have time) which requires all hires to be a 9/10 in appearance. This has been repeatedly supported via longitudinal studies and has been published in respected journals.
He told me he would write me a prescription for a controlled substance, really a pain in the tuches as I learned from the nurse all the stringencies required for those meds. They cannot phone it in so it is ready, you have to take the prescription in yourself. And she didn’t think I could send my caregiver in to pick it up for me, although I recall hubby was able to pick up my Schedule whatever meds when I was released from the hospital. It turned out my caregiver was able to pick everything up for me.
“Can I get it here?” I was told no, the hospital pharmacy was not open on Sunday. That is because the state religion is beach volleyball and frisbee, and it is the dominant local sect that one disses at one’s peril.
He was also going to provide me with a prescription for the nasty Prednisone as I wouldn’t have enough if I stop tapering, but 20 appears easier on the body than the 40 that royally snafued and balaganed (know this is not the correct Hebrew verb form) it.
I was told that my wonderful caregiver who could only spend 4 wonderful hours with me because she already had plans with her husband, and sadly wasn’t available the day they sent the walking disaster instead (she could walk, I will give that to her, which is more than I can do at times) was their, “rock-star.” I suspect by, “rock-star,” you mean that she is perhaps your ONLY employee that is both competent, self-motivated, has excellent interpersonal skills and is genuinely a fun person to be around, for me at least. No, it is not just a matter of a good fit. A good employee is a good fit no matter what, and it is the person being paid that becomes the fit, not the paying customer. Maybe they don’t teach this in business school, but I would think it common knowledge.
And it is a crime that you likely pay someone like this minimum wage, so you can profit off her extraordinary skills (hey, if she is your, “rock-star,” how about you pay her like one?)) My parents pay their part-time caregiver for my mother with Alzheimer’s $15 an hour, which is the going rate in the DC/Metro area, and I suspect about the same here, but CA tends to be a bit more.
See, I have already offered rock star my one digit size clothes which I doubt I will ever get into despite the fact that I haven’t eaten for more than a month and have lost 25 pounds. No please, do not try this diet plan at home. I have this closet full of stuff I haven’t worn in ages because I have been too lazy, even when well, and it hurts me to give away some really nice stuff, including business attire which I will never wear again as I plan to never work in that environment again. I will only work in an environment where I don’t need to even get dressed or brush my teeth until I feel like it, and can lounge around in comfy gowns.
Not only that, when I feel better and can eat I will take her out for sushi. There really is a connection to find a Mexican who doesn’t really like Mexican food because she likes healthy food. Well, guacamole is pretty good, and some of the fish dishes. I know my kid likes Mexican food, even after choking on a burrito led to a quick trip to the ER – the same one I went to. I shudder at what might have transpired had darling son gone to zero stars third-world shithole hospital ER. I am so proud of my courageous son, who informed me he ate his first post-endoscopy aided digested burrito.
Sorry, forgot, rock star finds sushi disgusting. Okay, there is a place called, “Pita Guys,” nearby that serves this excellent, inexpensive fresh and healthy Mideastern themed fare. My husband loves the place, their sport tv thing, and the staff, even though we are Jewish and they are Arab terrorists. One thing I admire about crazy husband is he has this ability to get along with anyone, which I sorely lack. And he doesn’t like me to call them, “Arab terrorists,” because they are assimilated Americans. But some brilliant idiots are not aware that the little necklace they wear around their necks is not a demonstration of a history lesson, it means we want to drive every Jew in their Palestine into the sea because poor and starving fish deserve their dinner just like everyone else.
I doubt they know that both mom and older son are ardent advocates for Zionism, and we don’t mean those nutcases going around doing violent stuff, and they do it to us too. They don’t know that (umm, I may get in trouble for this, because my kids have informed me that I may write about stuff they did when they were kids, but not current stuff) but I think this is pretty common knowledge, so need to know applies here.
My older son was in serious negotiations to enter the IDF and he wanted to join an elite unit after graduating university. If he spoke Hebrew, and the lazy little twerp refused to learn, even basic stuff, he would have been an officer and m’faked. See, the word in Hebrew for commander is m’faked. I bet English-speaking recruits recognize what that sounds like. What a great language Hebrew is, that you get to call your military commander a F@@@head! But lazy kid told me everyone speaks English, and during his two months in Israel following Birthright, he learned only two Hebrew phrases, “Ma shlomcha,” which means, “How are you,” or literally, “how is your peace,” and, “ben zonah,” and the latter term is found in the bible describing Rahab’s profession with the phrase translated as, “son of a whore,” and is heard commonly in the streets, which is probably how my son picked up these two phrases that one might commonly find heard equally and often one following the other.
I even asked my parent’s assistant rabbi, who I have had numerous wonderful dealings with if he would write a letter saying my son is Jewish on synagogue letterhead, despite the fact that he has never met my son, who could be a Hari Krishna for all he knew. Rabbi Safra graciously agreed, saying he had done this many times. The rabbis at my son’s university refused, directing him to find an Orthodox rabbi in San Diego, but we don’t know any. I knew a few nice guys online, but that doesn’t exactly fit the bill, for me to ask them, no matter how good FB buds we are, to write a letter on their letterhead claiming my son who they have never met is Jewish because that would require that his mother who they have never met is Jewish.
We don’t even belong to a synagogue, and I might have attended High Holiday Services at the local Chabad, not because I am into their culture and halacha, but because the rabbi and his wife are so nice and his wife is an incredible cook and their kids are so sweet and smart, even if they pull the succot lights requiring the services of the friendly neighborhood Shabbos goy lest we spend the rest of the dinner in darkness. I tactfully explained that I have an extreme anxiety disorder, due to my UC, of finding myself in a packed environment where there is any chance of a bathroom line. He noted he understood and didn’t ask any further questions.
However, the fact that we have little formal connection to the San Diego Jewish community, I am very active online, and hubby faithfully davens every Shabbat at Beth Golf or with the doctors from work, including lots of Jewish ones, so I think that might be something akin to synagogue membership.
Back to the IDF. (I am sooo going to get in trouble with this, with demands that mom delete it right now. Freedom of speech son, includes the rights of moms to write about the shit their kids do and say at any age, although you know I, just out of courtesy, omit issues of sex, drugs and accidentally allowing your cell phone and cash to fall out of your pocket in a taxi and then said taxi driver you hunt down acts like he doesn’t recognize you, and I will take your word that you only had two beers when this occurred.
Darling son had the brilliant idea of finding a doctor near his university who had no access to his medical records and thus wouldn’t be aware of his Rheumatoid Arthritis to do a physical because this is mild for him and I doubt a typical physical would discover this. How did I manage to raise such a brilliant son that didn’t imagine that week one of Basic Training, when he is on a 25-mile hike carrying a 50-pound pack, he and everyone else wouldn’t notice something out of the ordinary? “I can get in shape,” doesn’t cut it I think, even if that means those hard two workouts at the gym daily. IDF training is probably the toughest in the world, and it doesn’t consist of working out at some swanky gym with a juice bar.
Although new IDF recruits sign a document that recognizes that false information on the intake form is criminal, fibs about physical stuff might just get the person kicked out, or transfer to a jobnik unit, which means one’s tasks are limited to packing parachutes or driving some local macher around town.
But here is where you can get into a real balagan. Lying about psychiatric illness can create a risk of prison, but perhaps for political reasons, I doubt it often happens to Americans. See, I know things have changed a bit, but stigma and practices regarding mental health issues and even garden-variety neurosis and relationship issues are recognized differently in the two societies. In Israel, seeing a therapist, a psychologist or God forbid a psychiatrist is viewed as a person being potentially a danger with a gun and uniform. In that culture, rabbis hold to that role and it doesn’t preempt you from military service, or your bartender, with equal results.
I wonder if Israelis get that in the US, probably at least half, and potentially more Americans who have decent health coverage will see some sort of mental health professional at some time in their lives. In many cases, the reason is not mental illness of the serious variety, but because they desire a paid for friend they see weekly to help de-stress, find support, validation, and encouragement, (often for their own bullshit narrative, relationship advice where your treating professional will agree how horrible your spouse/kids/parents/siblings, friends/coworkers/bosses/plumbers treat you, and of course it is all their fault and not yours. They will spin to your pleasure and the only way to get this paid by for by insurance, this 50 minutes of verbal prostitution service is to make it fit into some DSM code, vague stuff like anxiety, depression, maladjustment – everyone is anxious, depressed, maladjusted or has some personality trait that could be spun as pathological, so why not just dump that large book, it takes up too much space?
Getting back to eating establishments with subtle expressions of support for registered terrorist groups, I wonder if they are unaware, or at least pretend to be unaware, that my ardent Zionist son’s car has several pro-Israel bumper stickers on it. Once I was driving his car to one of their other establishments, and bought a large amount of food to take home for the family. When the polite partner – it is a family owned business, offered to help me carry all this stuff to the car, I had to say no although I really wanted to say yes, due to the bumper stickers that once got my son’s car keyed and tire slit. That was actually dangerous, as his tire blew just as he was about to turn out of his campus lot onto a busy street and could have led to an accident. The community college said they would charge this as a hate crime if the culprit was discovered, likely impossible because there are no cameras in student lots as students don’t count for shit, unlike staff lots that are well lighted and camera-ed.
I figured the culprit must be Palestinian or someone who knows Hebrew, as while there is a Star of David and a small Israeli insignia, the bumper sticker is written in Hebrew, and says, “Kol hakavod L’ Tzehal,” or something like, “Way to go (high five) Israeli military.” “Kavod,” literally means, “glory.”
Now, I got rid of my own car because it would cost more to meet smog than it is worth, plus the air conditioning was busted and would cost $500 to fix for hot CA summers. So I sadly (not really) parted with a very old car that still ran well for $1500 from a government program to get old cars off the road and am currently driving dear son’s college crappy but running car with the offensive to some bumper stickers. I should threaten to sell such car if the kid does not return to at least pay mom a visit and wanted to buy a more adult car, like a Nissan, Toyota, Kia, all at least mid-price and preferably used higher end model. I loved my gas guzzling Avalon that I bought at a great deal for like 10K a long time ago and it was stolen when our house was robbed around 2007.
So, rather than buy a car of equal value with the insurance money which was more than I paid for it, my wonderful neighbor Teresa who is so talented at this sort of stuff saw the old Nissan for like 4K in the neighborhood, but it was all freeway miles by a stewardess for American Airlines who drove it regularly to LA. Tell you a secret, well a sort of open one: I used the balance of the money, plus more milked from my dad to have an abdominoplasty, not covered by insurance, along with an incisional hernia repair which was covered by insurance that went all the way back to my C-section when my second son was born. This was more than cosmetic, as who wants to have their belly hanging down despite all the exercise and diet in the world due to muscle separation from two pregnancies where I sort of gained too much weight, 38 pounds with first and 40 pounds with second, and much of that never came off, at least the second time around, no matter what they tell you.
In addition, if you are from an upper-middle class background, you are as likely to have some form of insurance paid mental health care regularly that is really an opportunity to have someone agree enthusiastically with your views on the biggies of politics, sex, religion and that his kids are ingrates as you are to pick up coffee at the Starbucks drive-thru.
Once I had a psychologist suggest that I not use such hot-button terms like, “crazy,” or even the more medical or scientific term, “irrational,” when referring to our nearest and dearest that clearly exhibit such traits. What, pray tell, did the brilliant doctor think I should use in place of these terms. “Inconsistent,” he said. That is rather weak and innocuous sounding. But I guess it can accurately describe a person who is inconsistent in getting their head out of their tuches, at least enough to consider the needs and requirements of others, so inconsistent with telling the truth that one must make the assumption that everything is a lie and then be pleasantly surprised to discover one or two truths, and completely inconsistent in dependability that what one said yesterday holds true today, because they no longer feel it.
I am so good at rabbit /rabbi trails, so back to the rock star. Yes, you know she is a JW and believes honesty and integrity is critical, not like my Chicago Jewish big macher doctor boss and all-around great guy who left us too soon, who told the agency he got me from after two weeks that he no longer required my services, and then promptly hired me for double what those shitheads were paying me. To me, that is an example of integrity, which includes putting the needs of poor, debt-ridden recent college graduates above the legal maneuvers of corporate slaveholders.
Now the rock-star, and I hope she doesn’t mind me speaking of her on my page, I think was somewhat reticent about letting me know she was a JW. When I asked if she could (please, please, please) come on Sunday, she explained she was going to church. “What church,” I asked, out of curiosity, not to pry. She told me rather circumspectly that she attended a church in Oceanside. When I queried, “What church,” she noted quietly that she was a JW.
I really don’t care what religious beliefs or non-beliefs a person has, I only care about their integrity and character; how they behave. Well, that might be as long as none of her friends show up knocking at my door, especially if I am sleeping. We discussed what I am well aware of regarding JW’s which few other brands of Christians and some idiot Ortho Jews appeared to be unaware of when they crashed a JW convention in Israel because some other jerk rabbi spread a false rumor that the convention planned to publicly baptize hundreds of Jews, leading to a near-riot, that the JW’s were the only religious group as an organization to refuse to capitulate to the Nazis and many died in concentration camps along with my people.
I don’t agree with much of their stuff, but I believe what they have right is the concept that patriotism and nationalism is akin to idolatry, and we are not referring to active and good citizenship. I am talking flag waving, we are better than others, we are the greatest country in the world bullshit, and we can bomb the you know what out of anyone who doesn’t agree. Greatest? Greatest at what? The dumbest math students with the highest esteem regarding their math abilities? The largest percentage of citizens incarcerated in the free world?
I bet most in other major denominations (I know you don’t consider JW’s Christians, but this is not my battle, not my circus not my monkeys,” are blissfully unaware that their great Nazi era sages Bonhoeffer, Niemoller and Barth supported the Nuremberg Laws. In case some of you need a history lesson, these laws prohibited Jews from the professions and fired any so employed, forbid Christians from frequenting Jewish establishments, marrying or cohabiting with Jews and demanded churches turn over any evidence of Jewish background found in their marriage and church membership rolls. Bonhoeffer begged to differ that the only item he would excise from the plan would be interactions between Christians and Jews for the purpose of sharing the love of Jesus like they did such a good job at that? It did take major US Lutheran bodies until the 1980’s to apologize for and denounce their Martin Luther’s famous violently antisemitic tome often used as fodder for Nazi propaganda, “The Jews and Their Lies.”
Look it up sometime. Funny you don’t find that info in any books written by any of their pundits, and I doubt this is taught in any religious seminary (I don’t mean academic religious seminaries.)
Excuse the interruption. When I am writing something, I would rather not interrupt the flow of ideas. But Jez had a flow of something else and the smell was overpowering. Now, while offenses like pottying in inappropriate places that can be easily cleaned up, like tile or floor, are against house rules but mostly ignored like a bad parking job, pottying on mommy’s carpet is a crateable offense, especially as she then had the audacity, to not bother to clean up after herself (okay my kids to this too) but proceeded to go from bad to worse and commence to return to that old substance abuse habit of hers – power cords. Okay, it is only 7:30, but early nap time it is.
I decided I would try to save my life and preserve my sanity by using the money I had saved to buy a nicer, more age appropriate car, as I am too sick to drive now anyway. Thanks Teresa for finding that used Lexis for 10K and you know I could bargain them down, or I would leave that to Ter, who is the most Jewishly talented, in that area, for a first-generation Italian American I know. And Italians, especially my friend who is Sicilian, are often more effective at negotiation than Jews because Jews will be lawyered up and file lawsuits, but Sicilians will make such expensive and time-consuming activities unnecessary. I recall Ter was at my home and chopping onions or something with a very sharp knife, and one guy sitting at my table dared to disagree with one of her opinions about, I don’t recall, I just remember how she held the knife, and sternly warned him, “You don’t disagree with a Sicilian holding a sharp knife,” as the better part of common sense.
I’m tired, so will finish the rest of the post tomorrow. But this experience helped me ponder a deep philosophical question: Between being carried on a stretcher by hot, young fireman or helped to undress and dress by hunky, young residents, after much deliberation, I think I’ll go with the residents, because as an elitist, I prefer spoiled, entitled brainiacs, they possess so much more of a cheerful disposition, and we can discuss something besides the latest celebrity wardrobe malfunction, of which I am barely aware (pun intended) and sports, which, sorry, I am not only not aware who won, I am not even interested in who is playing. I am a sensitive soul who actually finds the hooting and hollering one experiences at games deeply unpleasant.
I wonder if I will join the ranks of the super-straight in high school and college, who turn into wild old ladies…….Already had the purple hair. But those wonderful highlights that got me so many compliments, especially from young people who saw me as the cool mom, made my hair break horribly, so until a more feasible solution is discovered I am back to brown, and this is when I am well enough to get to the hairdresser, as I failed to be well enough to make my pre-holiday one.
Sorry I got off-track. Wait for the continuing story of Jez, and how after my friend left, she managed to knock me over along with my walker, and while I was considering how to manage to get myself up with no one to help, and I am aware some persons with disabilities have service dogs that help them up rather than knock them down, and wouldn’t dream of sticking their little noses in your fresh, hot chicken broth and imported Japanese green tea. Think about that you little monster.
Don’t think I didn’t notice my glasses out of my purse where I always keep them (from YOU) as thanks to Wanita Panza for warning me about her doodles that have chewed up three pairs of expensive glasses, and did I ever give you permission to friend such bad company on FB and chat at night while you think I am asleep?