I’ve been to the Post Office and filled in the redirection forms for Nana’s mail. I’ve been to Telstra to organise getting the phone disconnected and the final bill forwarded to me for payment. I’ve written a letter explaining Nana’s change of address and circumstances to send out to people in her address book. I’ve gone to the bank and asked for her statements to be redirected. I’ve emailed her podiatrist. I’ve called her (she was actually really lucid – or at least lucid-sounding… there’s a critical difference that’s not always detectable to the uninitiated, but I like to think of myself as having been well and truly dunked in the river). I’ve had texts and emails back and forth with my sister (who visited today and was told by Nana that it’s been a very long time since she last heard from me – I seem destined to be an early casualty. Repeatedly.) I’ve emailed the assistant care centre manager and asked her to tell me how Nana’s settling in from a professional perspective… And that’s just this afternoon’s activities. That’s just for starters. We’re only getting warmed up.
Let me be frank. I had a shit weekend, and I hated lots of it. I’m not gonna lie. It was fucked. It started well – L and D came over for dinner (French onion soup with parmesan toasts for starter, moussaka for main. L brought homemade brownies which we served warm with vanilla ice-cream), and that was lovely. I was juuuust starting to actually relax when a few friends dropped in for a drink. One of them promptly dropped and smashed a full glass of red wine all over our newly reupholstered white-with-grey-flecks-linen couch. Ordinarily, I’d understand that it’s only what we deserve for getting such a stupidly impractical but so lovely fabric. But the fact is, this particular person drops and smashes a full glass of wine pretty much every time she crosses my threshold. New sandstone pavers in the courtyard? Red wine, glass, maiden showing. It’s enough to really give you the shits. And look. I have the shits. I think I even said something narky like, “Oh no, don’t worry, it really wouldn’t be a visit from you without the glass shards and wine stains spraying out all over our home.”
Later she stood in the hallway with water from her tilted glass pooling at her feet.
“Don’t look down,” she said.
No, it would be much better just to slip and slide into an early grave so I don’t have to host you in my house anymore. That sounds nice. I wonder sometimes if she does it on purpose, but another friend said, “No, she’s just careless. She’s done it at my place. She used to do it all the time at J and J’s house. It’s not just you.” Okay, so she’s careless. But you have to wonder. Being that careless with other people’s property… it’s just disrespectful, isn’t it? I think it really betrays a basic disrespect for my home, my repeated (really-ought-to-know-better) hospitality, and me. So, I’ve said to Llew, that’s it. No more. No more come-on-over-and-drink-me-out-of-house-and-home-and-spill-and-break-my-shit. No-really-please-do–because-I-can’t-get-enough-of-the-way-you-trash-my-property. It turns out I can get enough, and I am so, so, so done with that. We can meet out in future. It’s better this way.
And that was just the tip of the iceberg, but I woke up Saturday morning still fuming about my soiled couch. Llew did a masterful job getting most of it out, but I found some tiny shards today, and there’s a spray of red wine he missed. But (deep breaths, moving right along…) the news wasn’t getting better. First, the fertility meds aren’t working. Then, en route to Nana’s to start the job of packing her flat up, I checked my P.O. Box downtown to find I did not win one of the Australian Society of Authors (ASA) mentorships. I burst into tears, screamed at Llew, and we had a big fight in the car while parked in an alleyway like two smackies badly in need of a hit. Both of us felt depleted and miserable afterwards – and that was before getting to Nana’s and assessing that particular challenge. Luckily Llewie and I stopped at a tiny and absurdly cheap Indonesian diner for satay sticks and noodles before heading to Musty Fusty Retirement Village, and we talked about lots of things and generally pulled ourselves together. We like each other a lot, and so fighting is always a big shock, especially in broad daylight when no one’s been on the turps. Most of our fights, the shameful truth be told, have occurred because someone (who, me?) kicked off after too many drinky-poos. Throw in a full moon and an empty stomach and it’s actually surprising I’ve not been arrested. No wonder we’re both liking me more now I’m moderate… Anyway, that’s for other (and several past) posts. Today is about RANTING and getting these irritants off my chest.
Is anyone still reading?
Things have a way of bottlenecking (oh, she loves a pun), don’t you think? I wonder why that is – and is it actual or imagined? Either way, good bye, last week, and heeeeeeello brand spanking new week full of potential and possibility… I’m coming with you!