Thursday, August 9, 2012

Stormy Weather Coming.

An alternate title could have been "Blahhhhh...."

We - all five of us, including Pepper the pooch -just got back from two glorious weeks at the cottage. This is a shot of the lake, taken as a nasty storm was starting to roll in.

You know it's hard to get back into routine after two weeks of unreal, relaxing, carefree and fun-packed times. No Internet. No emails. No work.

Just swimming, eating, reading, board games, little day trips to nearby places of interest, music, and did I mention swimming? I'm a Pisces, and if you give me good swimming, I'm happy as a ....well, a fish in water. Coming back to Kookytown has been quite the let-down, even, I suspect, for our dog Pepper, who had the best two weeks of her doggie life, running free, playing with the neighbors' dog, swimming with Alexander and Kathleen, and investigating the local wildlife.

So that's why I almost entitled this post "Blahhhhhh...."

Instead, though, I've called it something that I fear will describe the upcoming two weeks.

What will happen throughout the rest of August, you ask?

Well, Anthony and I have made up our minds that my mother will not be returning to live with us. She's currently in a retirement residence and that's where I think she should stay. I've done my time of almost four years with her, and I can no longer meet her growing list of needs. But that doesn't mean it's going to be easy to tell her that. Or easy to get her to accept that she can't come back here.

That's the first thing.

The second is that Anthony's brother John is still living in his mother's house. He has defied all of Anthony's commands to clean up, get a job, and find a place of his own to live. Anthony even fears that John has moved some of his drug-dealing friends right onto the ram-shackle house. That's because a few weeks ago, one of these thugs called us to let us know John had been beaten up, probably for not paying up on drugs or some other illegal activity.

John called here the other night. Sigh. I hate that he even knows our number or where we live.

He promised Anthony that he had moved out. But in the same breath, he said his "stuff" is still in the house, and that golly gee, honest, it would be cleaned out soon. That makes me laugh.

Double sigh. So this weekend, Anthony and I get to do two things:
(1) visit my mother at the retirement residence, tell her she can't come back here (she will interpret this as "we don't love you anymore"), bear her arguments, tears, rage, etc., all of which I'm anticipating will be spectacular, and then brace for the inevitable onslaught of guilt-inducing phone calls from her, begging to be allowed to stay;
(2) visit Anthony's mother's house to determine the exact state of affairs, who the hell is living or not living there, engage a locksmith (hopefully) to change the locks on the place if vacant, and carefully go through whatever crap is still there to eliminate any needles, butts, empty bottles, etc that may be dangerous/incriminating/disgusting.

Now, doesn't that just make your weekend plans sound a whole lot better than you thought?





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