Nana called yesterday, quite concerned, because her cat wasn’t eating his usual food.  Her neighbor brought over some of her cat’s food, but he wasn’t eating that, either.  So she scooped his poop because it “didn’t look right,” put it in a ziploc bag, and had me bring it to the vet for testing.  The most surreal errand of my life, lemmetellyawhat.

$21 later, we learn there is nothing wrong with the cat.  But last night, as she was putting tuna water on his food – per the vet’s instructions – the cat threw up.  Cue panicked phone call from Nana, while I’m at Stitch & Bitch, asking me to take the cat to the vet in the morning.  Of course, I forgot my sister-in-law, miss Kappa Delta, is borrowing my car this morning to take her dog in for a surgery consultation in Corvallis.  Call Nana to work out the specifics last night and she’s freaked out at the possibility of having to leave her cat at the vet for a few hours.

She calls this morning (waking me up in the process), and the vet is in surgery.  We can’t bring the cat in.  But how is K∆ going to get around?  How is she getting to Corvallis?  Where is her dog staying?  OH MY GAWD, WOMAN, WE WENT THROUGH THIS YESTERDAY. She. Slept. Here. She’s. Driving. My. Car. Today. Her. Dog. Was. Here. Too.  “But how will you and the kids get around?  What are you going to do without a car?”  Seriously?  This is what you worry about?  Oh mah gawd.  I had to reassure her that we had plenty to do around the house, that we’d be okay without the car for a few hours.

And then, this morning, because I certainly don’t have enough complications in my life as it is, I call Zenni Optical to confirm they got the fax from my optometrist, because they screwed up the prescription on my backup pair of glasses & I had to return them.  Oh.  No.  They didn’t.  MOTHERFUCKER.  Call the optometrist and the receptionist says she’s tried faxing it three times but it keeps bouncing back!  Back on the horn to Zenni.  They finally got the fax, but oh, someone mis-transcribed the numbers on the order.  Either it was me or the woman on the phone from the OpShop when I called, but we don’t know and have no way of telling.  50% refund to the card, redo the order.  Because of course they can’t just recut the lenses or switch right with left.  CAN’T SOMETHING GO RIGHT WITHOUT IT COSTING ME MONEY?  JUST FOR ONCE?  JESUS TAPDANCING CHRIST.

In short: not an auspicious start to the day.  I may need a drink this evening.

One of the hallmarks of losing one’s mind is cruelty where there was none before, and another is blowing seemingly minor things out of proportion – mountains from molehills, if you will.

We signed an official lease with my grandmother today.  We are now, officially, tenants of the Clark Street house.  We signed this paper around 3:00 today.  My brother, also named as a tenant, will sign both copies when he returns from his job in the woods.

At 7:15 p.m., Nana called.  She called the house phone.  When she wants to talk to me, she calls my cell phone.  But no one else was home to answer the house phone (Boogermonkey LOVES answering the phone), so I did.

“Oh, Jenni!  I didn’t want to bother you, I figured [Booger] or [Llamaface] would pick up.”

“[Llama] took [Booger] to the store to get dessert, what’s up?”

What followed was a three minute, 47 second tirade on nothing other than our signatures and how messy they are.

I WISH I were kidding.

“No one can even tell that’s a name.”

“That’s the point, Nana.”

“You can’t tell me they accept this at the bank.”

“Every time I write a check, every time I sign for my credit card, yes they do.”

“Well you’ll have to write me a check and bring me to the bank so I can see it for myself.”

“Okay, Nana, whatever you say.”

“When the IRS checks up on this, they’re not going to believe you’re a real person!”

“I seriously doubt, unless your tax guy is totally inept, that the IRS will look at anything, Nana.”
Her handwriting, due to age and dementia, is going to shit.  I can hardly read her shopping lists anymore and her signature is an E followed by bumps and an S followed by more bumps; she swears you can see every letter in her name just fine.  “But I guess I was raised in a different time, when you didn’t have to worry about people using your name illegally.”

This is what I live with.  Every damned day.  And if her doctor dares tell me that there’s nothing wrong with her, I’m complaining to the medical board.  Six months, a year ago?  She wouldn’t have dared criticize me.  She and I are too much alike, and criticizing me means criticizing herself.  But now that Mom’s gone (may she rest), I have taken her place (g-d help me).  That means Nana will be mean to me the way she was mean to Mom.  Hang on folks, that means more stories.

I went to Nana’s house yesterday.  She’s slowly falling into the abyss of Dementia’s open mouth, to the point where we’re going to discuss medication with her doctor next time we go.  So yesterday I go over there, to drop off some jam (I made it myself!) and her hat that Boogermonkey had borrowed and some juice.  “I have something to show you, a collector’s item,” she said on the phone.

I get there and she’s sitting on her couch, holding a pair of white casual slacks folded on her lap.

“Look at these,” she said as she held them out to me.  “Do you see this symbol here on the tag?”

I looked.  My glasses are broken – Gurglebutt snapped the arm off two weeks ago and I’m waiting on the replacement – and I saw a red blob.

“That’s the logo of the New York Garment Worker’s Union,” she explained.  That means these are very old.  They busted up that union a long time ago, sent manufacture elsewhere.  But these, these are mostly polyester, more polyester than cotton.  They used to do that, to make them dry faster – that’s what they said – but now they do it the other way.  I was going to wear them to church today, but the elastic is shot, I don’t know what’s the matter with it.”

“Well, elastic wears out over time.  It happens.”

“Well, these can be fixed.  It would be worth it.  You know, I bought these for a dollar when you were one,” she held up her right index finger by way of illustration.  “And you’re 27, going to be 28 in August, so that makes these 26 years old.”

“No, Nana.  I’m 26 now.  27 next month.”
“Oh.  Only 26 now?  Jumping the gun, I guess.  Anyway, I bought these at a thrift store in Tahoe.  Not the year you were born, but the second year, when I came to visit.  Momma was looking at something for the house, I don’t know what, but you were one because she had you in the carrier, you know, on her chest.  So I found these pants and I knew they were a good deal because of that Garment Worker’s Union mark.”

I kept nodding, eating the cherries she said I could take home.  They’re storebought, slighly underripe, but good anyway.

“You know, they have these things on Antiques Roadshow you know, and you wonder where they keep all this stuff.”

“I don’t think a pair of pants are worth much, Nana.”

“No, not for that, but you know if they make a documentary about the unions, the history of the unions, you could pull these out to show them.  No one keeps anything anymore, and it makes them rare.  I thought you would appreciate them for that.”  She looked downcast, fingering the edge of the folded fabric.
I couldn’t take any more.  The bag of cherries was empty. The kids were at home with Cousin Awesome and my heart was shattering.  I took my leave, reminding her if she needed a ride to church and the deacons couldn’t do it, all she had to do was ask.

I’ve been so tired lately that I didn’t even have the energy to cry.