Sunday, October 14, 2012

Y2 Day 46: Sunday, Sweet Sunday

  • Me: What did I do today?
  • Husband: Pulling your shirt over my head was pretty good.
  • Me: <sigh>
  • Husband: Highlight of my day, in fact.
Perhaps I should mention that I was wearing said shirt at the time, and there is no bra involved in this story.

My morning was filled with an editing job regarding national security, which was all kinds of jittery fun. It's a cool proposal, though; I hope they get funded. (Which will make us all safer. If they don't get funded, the terrorists win!) And then Li'l Martini came home (he spent the weekend in Maine with Sexy Em and HoneyBear, at a church retreat), and that was wonderful, and we ate leftovers for lunch and did chores, and I don't have an enormous crap pile on my dresser any more, and my mental state is once again cool and serene. Color it lavender. (The last few days have been agitated and cranky red.)

And then I called my mom, and we talked for two hours. She's worried about Dad, who's becoming more and more of a shut-in, partly because he's in pain, partly because even after having his legs Roto-Rootered, which helped his circulation problem a lot, he didn't do enough walking to keep his circulation moving, and he's all clogged and achy again. He's going to have a second procedure, and this time Mom will be a squeaky wheel with the physical therapist, who will (in theory) make Dad do what he's supposed to do. But as Good Neighbor Anne and J and probably lots of you know, when your dad is a stubborn old cuss, despite a heart of gold, there's no making him do anything, even if he knows full well it's for his own good.

And he absolutely won't let Mom push him in a wheelchair. N-O. So he sits in his recliner, watching TV and falling asleep, and she's left with two choices: Stay home and rot with him, or do things by herself. Or make more friends, but for some reason she's having a harder time doing that, or is less interested in doing so, or . . . I'm not sure what. My mom has always been very social and has many good friends, but of her two besties, one died and one adopted two kids and is way less available than she was before and is also kind of a flake. And I keep suggesting various avenues for making new friends, but — you know what? I think she's tired. She's 70, and her own health isn't that great, and she's still working, and Dad is wearing her out — and she's just plain tired. Which I totally get.

I wish plane flights were cheaper or I had more money. But they aren't and I don't.

I'm now going to take a quick bath and then watch three hours of Sunday-night TV — and cut apart more math cards for tomorrow. Happy happy me!

I'm still stick, but the drippy nose-congested sinus stage has moved into the husky voice-chest congestion-coughing stage. And oh man is it charming.

Good night! Hey, go watch Blame It On the Midwife, you'll love it. (I know that's not the actual title, but I can never remember the real one.)

—Lady C

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