I've been sitting at my computer for an hour now. It's seven-thirty. Maggie is scratching at the door, my coffee is cold, and so far I've written eighty-five words just to say I have nothing to say. And there's so much to tell you, too. Tom's mother, who was doing so well in her new assisted living apartment, was rushed to the emergency room a few days ago with symptoms of pneumonia, and while she was there the staff forgot to give her her happy pills. "I'm leaving this place; ain't nobody gonna stop me!" she said as she yanked the oxygen hose out of her nose. Security had to be called on a ninety-pound, almost ninety-five-year-old woman. Really? Security? Without her little blue pill, Mom ain't happy and if Mom ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. She's back at her apartment now, but Mom still ain't happy, so Tom has left for Florida, and he ain't happy about that, and Maggie Mae and I are just sitting here with nothing to say. Well, that's not exactly true. It's now nine and she's whining at her food bowl. She has plenty to say and she ain't happy.
Okay, Maggie has a full belly, I'm sipping on a second cup of hot coffee, and I still have nothing to say, and there's a lot going on. My ninety-one-year-old mother, who was doing so well in a nursing home, ain't happy. Her best friend and caregiver for eighteen years (he goes to the nursing home every day) is baffled by her unhappiness and the way in which she choses to express it. "Maybe she needs a happy pill," he says, but the nursing staff says, "If you think she's bad, you should see the residents in the west wing." Nope! Sorry. No happy pill for my mother who ain't happy, so I'm going to Indy this week, and I ain't happy about that.
My third cup of coffee is cold, Maggie's snoring on my lap, and I can't think of anything to write about, yet there's so much happening. The air conditioner is broken, the refrigerator is leaking, the clothes dryer won't heat, the land line is dead and my cell phone can't hold a signal for more than five minutes, the shower won't shower, and the upstairs toilet is drip, drip, dripping water into the downstairs bathroom. Tom is gone and I ain't happy about that.
Maggie is off my lap and scratching at the door, my body is vibrating from four cups of coffee, yet there is not an ounce of motivation to tell you that my decades-long friend and I have begun putting the pieces of our broken relationship back together after a Sunday spat a few weeks ago. Neither one of us knows exactly what happened. All I remember was sitting next to her and thinking, "Oh, my! She ain't very happy right now." And she remembers thinking, "Oh, my. Carol Louise ain't very happy right now."
The coffee pot is empty (did I drink a whole pot of coffee?), Maggie has disappeared with one of my socks, and I have no creative spark. I have blogger's block. I don't understand why because things are caddywhompus at the moment, and there is so much to tell you. Have I mentioned that Anonymous wants me dead? He said that I and my fellow baby-boomers are responsible for everything that is wrong in this country and possibly the world and the sooner we all die, the sooner he and his generation can fix what we've broken. It was my post of a cartoon character "Bugging the Living Daylight Out of You" where he left the comment about wanting me and you (if you're over fifty) dead. Drawing a benign cartoon character did me in. Imagine that anger. Now that is really scary. Anonymous and awholelotta people right now ain't happy. What in the world (oh, don't get me started about this crazy world) is going on?
Maggie's scratching at the door again and she ain't happy.
