FEBRUARY 25TH, MONDAY, 2008-A RATHER TYPICAL DAY FOR VENUS

Hello my friends,

Here was my day, today. This was my Day Off.

Up at 6:20 AM.

Sweep ALL the new fake wood floors in my house. Oh my gosh. What a mess of dog and cat hair and dirt. ‘All this,’ I think, ‘used to be what sunk down into my former carpets and disappeared.’

Then I wash all those floors on my hands and knees. Very healthy and good for me, I am sure. I used to know a doctor who said it’s good for women’s female organs to scrub floors; it puts them in order. I think of him, now.

I do some yoga and work a bit on an exercise machine.

I visit my neighbor, Lyn and she shows me her house remodeling project. It looks like my remodeling has infected her house, too. I’m sorry, I tell her. I have already ruined another friend, Regina, who starts remodeling her house next month. Remodeling is like a virus I think. A very expensive virus and everyone should stay away from me as I seem to be a carrier.

I work on my taxes and try not to get impatient and exasperated.

Meanwhile, my contractor, Chuckie, has the radio volume turned way up as he works on my new patio, so we are both listening to some screaming, out-raged, strident right wing talk radio man.

Geranamo, Chuckie’s side-kick, is busy painting my ex-boyfriend Bill’s (now my tenant’s) bathroom, shocking red. This will be a surprise for Bill. When I told him I was having his bathroom painted while he is at work he said, ‘Don’t get too wild.’

I have an appointment to call my tax lady at 4PM.

Next, I call my mother to see how she is doing. She has had the bad flu and just as she was getting it, she tripped outside on the hose as she was trying to feed her lemon tree. She fell hard and couldn’t get up. One of the tenants, a teenage girl, saw her on the ground in the yard and dragged her into the house.

My mother says, when I call, (“gasp, wheeze, gasp”) that she has been feeling really horrible and she is nauseated and can’t eat. I tell her I will go up town and get her some food.

I call my sister Polly. I say, “You need to have Dr. Ron check on Mom, again. She sounds dreadful.”

Polly is sick, too and she says, “Ron is sick,too, and he’s just getting started with it. But, I have made some red beans and rice. When I called Mom earlier, she said she would eat some. Will you come and get them? I’m too sick to go out.”

So, I stuff some oil up my nose so my family won’t infect me (you know how I am; I think if I stuff sesame oil up my nose I won’t get germs and I believe I am right) and run up town to get Mom some groceries.

I get Mom a baked chicken, mashed potatoes, mixed fresh fruit and some ginger for her stomach. I have to go to three stores. Then, I drive to Polly’s house to get the beans.
I am in a hurry because I have promised my daughter Summer that I will meet her half way between her house and mine, (a half hour or more for each of us) to sit with her and Lexi at the dentist. Lexi, who is five had her first cavities filled last week and she said it was the worst thing that has ever happened to her in her life.
Now, her teeth are hurting and she is crying most of the time, so Summer has to do an ’emergency’ run and take her back to the dentist.

I rush to my mother’s to deliver the groceries and to check on her. She is asleep in her bed and I tap her on the knee. She shoots upwards like a marionette on strings.

She’s not hungry, she says, so I fix her a plate of chicken, mashed potatoes and fruit. She eats all of it and looks like she could lick the plate but refuses more.

“I wish I had some wine, ” she says. “I spilled the last bottle you gave me.”

Well, luckily, I bought a bottle of sirah at the store and I bring it in from my car.

I open it up, pour Mom a big glass of it and leave her lying on the chaise lounge on her deck with the glass of wine and the open bottle. She wants me to stay, but I can’t. For moral support and because I miss them, I have to go sit with Summer and Lexi at the dentist’s.

I call my tax lady and say I just can’t chat with her today.

At the dentist, we wait for an hour and one half. It’s a children’s dentist and the swarm of anxious little kids is not relaxing. Summer, Lexi and I go outside and sit on the stairwell.
Lexi’s whines and rubs her teeth.
Summer looks at me as we wait and says, “Mom. Your wrinkles are going away! Why is that? They’re really going away.”

Lexi throws her arms in the air and wails more and cries and says her jaw and her teeth hurt. I tell her it’s normal to hurt for a week or two or more, after you have your teeth drilled and filled. Eventually, we see the dentist and he takes X-rays and says pretty much the same thing.

I drive home in traffic.

After I have been home a short while, my sister Candy calls and says she can’t reach Mother on the phone. We agree that she probably has her hearing aids out and Candy says she will try later, or maybe drive over to check on her.

“And you know Vicki and Bill,?” she says. Of course I do. I have known them for years and years. Bill is the husband who put the radio in upside down in his car and sat on a tree branch and sawed off the branch.

“He just had a seizure,” Candy says. “The doctors say he has a brain tumor. Vickie has had two years of hell. Her mother died, then her mother’s house burned down and her mother’s old boyfriend was homeless because of that and Vicki’s niece took him in and she just committed suicide a month ago, and now the old boyfriend needs a home and care and Vickie says she is just not ready for Bill to have a brain tumor.”

This is my day today, and I know many of you have days…or lives…. just like it.

I go and have a little drinkie and then I eat a big bunch of cookies right after dinner. I am pretty sure I will now have huge gas all night.

Then, I call my sister Candy, again. Has she found Mother? No.

I call Mom on 3 way and we still can’t find her. We decide that certainly she is safely in bed asleep, drunk on sirah, with no hearing aids and that surely all is well and we decide to go to bed ourselves and think about all this, tomorrow.
It is 9PM but it feels like midnight.


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