Gosh, what is my tale today. I don’t seem to have one.
Maybe because I’ve been interrupted too often by text messages from the woman who daily comes in to help my mother; they had a big spat yesterday because my mother accused her of spending her $$$ on a ball of mozzarella cheese at the market that she didn’t ask for. So said-woman left, and told my mother she could clean out her own kitty litter box herself.
I wrote back that she could be the sister I never had. You know, someone else besides me that has spats with my mother. I’ve walked out too.
Though not before cleaning out the kitty litter pan, a truly physical balancing act for my mother who has fallen twice now trying to scoop the poop.
Now my fear is that this said-woman who is spirited and most days makes my mom laugh, who has two kids my own sons’ ages – except whom she’s raising as a single mom with a “jackass ex” who is delinquent in child support, might walk out one day. For good.
But I know her feeling. Of just wanting to walk away. From it all. From the fragile elderly mother who can vent, her only way of freeing herself mentally and physically from her entrapment, unable to drive, wiling away days obsessing over regrets, and picking through endless catalogues; the unhappy child in school who is going through a clingy “I want Mommy” stage I thought we’d long since outgrown; an over-worked husband who needs new shoes; a front porch that looks haunted, strung taught with spider webs….webs daily I sweep away, to be respun to perfection by the next afternoon:
Spun by spiders as dauntless as my own impatience that daily I try to “sweep” away with deep breathing and happy caffeine jolts.
Anyway, back to the said-woman: I’m not getting by in the same way she is. But we both easily could meet up at a bar over martinis and wind up dancing on the tables until dawn. Hopefully still with our tops on (though evidently that is legal, at least in New York state, baring the boobs. I wonder how many women over 25 haven’t joined this movement : http://gotopless.org ).
Anyway. Well, there it is. I guess I managed to scrape together a Tale Tues. Just waiting for that next bleep from my phone to alert me to a new text. I’ve grown to dread texting as much as the phone ringing. If you want to keep me even keeled don’t call or text me. Send me a note in a bottle.
On a brighter note, guess what: my neglected plant has forgiven me (we had a long talk) and is revived: