How Not to Save an Old Lady

     So there we were, DH and I, heading to Lowe's to price riding lawn mowers, (his baby, not mine), when I notice a car with a flat heading into the parking lot.  The driver looked like an elderly woman with red hair, so I said, "aww J, (DH), let's go help that poor lady, (she said she was 89); I'll bet she's like mom and all flustered with that flat."

     We get out the truck and after the customary greeting and, "oh my gosh I have a flat" conversation J heads to the trunk and retrieves a spare, a jack, and a lug nut remover thingie.  All I can think as I watch him go to work is, "Gawd there goes the new shirt I gave him for Easter."  Apparently he was thinking the same thing because the tire was held as far away from his body as he could manage.  On his hands and knees he starts to loosen the lug nuts when he realizes that she has a, "locking lug nut," which apparently needs a special lug nut remover thingie.  Of course we couldn't find this much needed thingie and so we go on to plan two.  Call someone for help.

     The problem with plan two was that J wanted to go out for breakfast and when he's hungry, really hungry, he doesn't want to wait for anyone or anything.  J left home without his phone.  I left home without my phone.  And of course the elderly woman didn't have a cell phone.  So we stand there a few moments feeling stupid.  We're a couple of regular superheros, can't change a tire, can't make a phone call, so we go to plan three which is to offer her a ride to the Council on Aging, which was where she was going when she got the flat.  So with plan three agreed upon, we unload her walker and take her over to the truck.

     The problem with putting an eighty-nine year old woman in a large pick up truck with no running board, is that she can't step up into the thing.  J and I stand by and watch her struggle to get in and when he sees she isn't going to make it he leans over and in a desperate sort of way whispers to me, "you are going to have to pick her up."  The heck I am.  This woman is 5'6" inches tall and I'm 4'9" inches tall.  If I twist funny my back goes out and he knows it.  He just feels weird having to pick this lady up and figures he'd put it off on me.  In hind sight this putting it off on me was probably the better option, but hind sight is 20/20.

     Well, poor J tells the lady he's going to give her a boost into the truck and without thinking crouches and, well, sort of puts his hands under her butt and pushes upwards.  I don't know who was more shocked, him or her and after the first couple of exclaimations J put her down, but not before she lost her wig.  Apparently our red headed old lady was actually a white haired old lady.   Poor darlin' she was just so flustered after losing her wig and having some guy grab her rear and yet was very nice to us anyways.

     We eventually found something to use as a step, and I told her not to worry about the wig and that there was a mirror on the sun flap.  Unfortunately she didn't use the mirror and just jammed the wig back on her head sideways.  When we took her to the Council on Aging she was really sweet and thanked us and said for us not to worry that her son would come take care of the car when she called him.  I went in to make sure they would let her use the phone because I felt like we were dropping a stray kitten off at the pound.  I kept repeating to myself that she had food, water, and air conditioning and would be fine until her son came for her.  Then I thought perhaps it was for the best because once her son found out J grabbed his mother's derriere causing her to loose her wig, who knows what would have happened.  I mean for all we know he could have been some seven foot tall two-hundred fifty pound gorilla with an anger management problem.

Glutton for Punishment

     I don't know what it is lately but I seem to be attracted to activities that will make me miserable.  My stool project has taken all of my time this week and I am so not where I want to be, (which is finished).  I went with the logo for one of my favorite places in the world, (a bar), and of course couldn't have been any more difficult to work with unless I had chosen a DaVinci to copy.  I broke it down a bit because 1. I'm lazy and 2. There was no way I was going to be able to replicate that with my skill level to my satisfaction. I'm one of those never satisfied people when it comes to DIY or art projects.  I'm really struggling not to pick this one apart.  Now I'm stuck on color, and getting major resistance from DH over adding rhinestones to the legs.  So I'm feeling a bit grumpy.  I have no idea how someone could resist either feathers or sparkle.  I should have been a drag queen, except I can't sing, dance, and I'm not very outgoing.

     Anyways, a couple of weeks ago we went downtown, (French Quarter), to play tourist and thought we'd hit the Presbytere.  Mistake.  Well I know they had a Katrina exhibit, but I thought we could see the rest of the museum without having to see the Katrina stuff.  We walked in and there were these flashes of lights and booms and the sound of high wind; it was so in your face.  I felt my stomach tighten up, the butterflies kick in and I immediately looked at DH.  He was already sweating and the hair on his arms stood up.  We left.  Now I can't stop thinking, "well I am a little curious as to what they present and if I don't bring DH along and not mention it to him that I went..."  It's stupid thinking on my part and makes me have that twisted stomach, run away feeling and yet I can't stop being curious.

     I'd better stick to the bar stool misery at least I'll be happy when I'm done with that one.  On the bright side of things we are finally going to sign the papers for the lot next door next week!

Cool a follower!  Thanks Dionneacooper : )

Enui

     I like quirky, and I like tradition, and I like modern so you can imagine my home should be a hot mess.  The thing is, it's not.  It's quite boring and I've lately gotten the urge to amp it up a bit.  I'm looking about the room and I realize I've lost myself along the way.  The decor here is nothing but suburban.  Well to be fair, I've made choices that I'm quite pleased with, the brick paver floor in the kitchen with the sewer cover set in the center, the barrel ceiling in the hallway, the arches I built and installed in the yet unfinished bath...  But somehow I feel like I've fallen flat and failed in many ways.  The living room is just so Rooms to Go, (as well as unfinished).  I'm not knocking RTG, I just don't want that for me.

Enui & Ugly

     So lately I've been inspired and as usual DH is either going to love it or hate it.  It can't be any worse that the time he came home to find I had torn out the kitchen counter, painted the kitchen K&B purple and apple green and hung those awesome chili pepper lights with leopard print curtains.  My BIL would have gone into a rage with my SIL if she had done that, but my guy took it in stride, choked and stammered a bit and then asked when we could expect to have kitchen counters again.  I need that vibe again.  So I'm gonna begin with the bar stools.

Uncle Hebrard 

     We started out as usual not agreeing on anything.  He wants something that Henry VIII would have commissioned or that would belong on a pirate ship.  I wanted lucite.  We purchased $20 wooden stools in the end because we weren't going to agree and it had been three years without a bar stool to sit at the kitchen counter.  I'm sanding those suckers down and painting them with some kind of pattern.  Uncle Hebrard, the gator statue named after Mama's nanny's husband, (here a nanny is your Godmother, not your grandma, a Mimi is your grandma), needs something with a bit more soul to pair with.  I might even slip in some glitter, then again, I can, do, and have gone too far.  Lord of the Rings meets the Hall of Mirrors was awesome, but putting tons of mirrors in the bathroom is not for the faint of heart.  It takes a lot of self esteem for an overweight short woman to get in and out of a tub surrounded by mirrors without cringing.  That's okay for I have learned and the Harry Potter meets French Quarter mansion bathroom is going quite well.  Let's just say that the Mirror of Erised will be strategically placed.

Barney the Kidney Stone

     This week's adventure involves a new character in my life; Barney.  Barney made himself known Friday, (today is Sunday), afternoon.  Mom called me and told me she felt, "terrible."  "Do I need to come up there?"  "I don't know.  No I don't think so, but I'll call you if it gets worse."  Mom never calls for me to come up for an illness.  Chores?  Yeah.  But she never calls for an illness.  She would rather die on the floor of the bathroom than to have me come rushing up forty miles to sit with her over the flu.

     I didn't hear from her and so Saturday we, (hubby and I), went out to eat and have a drive to look at the construction on the new supposedly vastly improved levee.  Hardly what anyone else would call romantic, but then again how many people go panning for gold and digging in the dirt for their vacation?  Anyways, on our way home Mom calls and says it's worse.  So forty miles later I find myself sitting in the emergency room with crying toddlers, some woman who looks like she had a run in with about 200 wasps, and a guy covered in blood, (skinned elbows from motorcycle accident I'm guessing).

     We were there six hours, but after the usual, "don't go into the light," stuff...  Oh the nurse said she remembered us from the last time we were there.  We never used that emergency room before.  I know why she thinks she remembers us.  My aunt was there about a month before, and knowing my cousins like I do, I would bet money they behaved the same.  It runs in the family.  Okay, so it was announced that Mom was trying to birth a 5.5mm kidney stone.  Mom named him Barney Rubble.  Where do you think I got all my foolishness from?

     So now I'm staying with Mom, while Hubby has to tough it out alone.  I get up this morning after a lovely night on the sofa and ask how she's feeling.  Oh she's feeling fine, great, awesome.  I inform her that isn't good and that the doctor said that when she feels bad it means the thing is moving and we want moving.  All day she's had water to the point that I think I hear her sloshing as she heads to the kitchen and still she feels great.  Urologist here we come.  Sigh.