Staggered off to see mother yesterday. A bad night of waking and sleeping because my feet were hurting, well, one foot was hurting and the other decided to keep it company, misery loves company.
I finally rubbed some Voltaren into the foot and the pain gave up enough for me to sleep.
At least it wasn't raining, just blue sky and chill to the bone wind, picked up some lunch and took the short cut through the car park and got a little stone in my shoe, the one holding the bad foot. So it was mutter, mumble, swear and I just have to make it to the seat halfway down the street so I can take off the shoe.
Honestly going from someone skipping and tripping everywhere to relying on a walker to stay upright is a real pain but it helps a lot when I'm trying to beat an old lady to my seat. Missed it, she's sitting down and doesn't look like moving, damn. I might have to be polite and it's hard enough being polite to all the old bats at the Home.
Really must get my eyes checked. As I get closer I recognize the oldie in the fuzzy jumper and ugg boots, my sister. This is not the first time I've mistaken her for a bag lady with a trolley although the trolley was her art class essentials. She spends about 20 minutes a week with mother and was sitting down because she saw me coming, apparently her eyes are better than mine.
I showed her a photo of my granddaughter then a photo that Queen Bitch of the Universe had posted on Facebook about how lovely it will be to hold her grandchild. Did I get sympathy? Not a bit, got told she didn't want to read anything about it and I really should move on and ignore the whole family. Now that's a good idea and let's start with sisters. So up she gets and off to art class still looking like a bag lady throwing her moderately wobbly fat arse from side to side and flopping in the ugg boots. Unkind of me to think that there comes an age when one should really kick the platinum blonde long hair habit and a bit hypocritical since I'm two years older and still dyeing mine "Pilbura sunset".
It's the attitude that gets to me and make me want to smack her sideways into next Sunday.
Even as children she would could get me to 'frothing at the mouth' stage and I did put my foot through a glass door trying to kick her to death.
Must control temper until I find some stairs.
10 comments:
In response to your temper subject line, I was going to say that you being a red head is the problem, and you should let your hair change to its natural colour, grey no doubt. But you beat me to it with a confession.
oh Coppy darling, fabulous funny post [rant] just let it all out. I despise people who say "just move on" and also think, yes and I shall begin that with moving on from you.
May I mention a close friend who was tortured today by professional 'Pain Assessment' and after 2.5 hours grilling in a cell size windowless room, the professional said "right your next appointment is at 9am Friday", proving she had not heard a single word about the advanced arthritis, the 67 years, and the living a 45-minute journey from the hospital. Another numpty lucky to be employed.
Take a deep breath and surge forward.
oh look, it's 4AM. god bless the WWW
Much better to let it out. And push a few people out. Or over. Or both.
Hugs.
How dare you sir, it was not my fault the angels put me in the fat line twice and missed the red hair line completely. Frankly I don't think I could tell you what my real colour is, I've been redding it up since I was 17. Lordy that's 50 years and they say red hair dye is carcinogenic, bollocks.
Annie O, the only way to deal with professional pain assessment morons is to walk in and whack them on the kneecap to show them what real pain is. The first professional dietitian (straight out of diet school) I visited probably ended up a complete anorexic after I dealt with her. She was so thin the sun shone through her and she's trying to convert a towering blob to her size.
EC, push a few people over more likely. At least with this election I get to hate lots of politicians and aren't they so easy to hate. I must say I did love the moron who suggested that Abbott become Minister of Defence, more the Minister for Boy Toys.
Maybe next time you could sit down too close and "accidentally" nudge her off the seat before you recognise her (*~*)
Better idea to get your eyes checked so you can see her a mile away and turn a corner until she's gone.
I hate getting something in my shoe. Years ago, heck months ago, I could stop and lean against a fence while I nudged off the shoe, emptied it and put it back on. Now I have to manage until I find somewhere to sit and fix it.
I think it's a shame she couldn't say something nice about your coming great grandchild.
Women's hair turns red at forty.
River, don't forget this is the mother who dumped her son on me when his spine had to be operated on. He was 38 at the time and in shocking pain but as usual it was me who arranged the money, surgeon and hospital and he stayed for the next two years. Now she has the nerve to tell me I shouldn't let him leave his cars in the drive because it makes my house look derelict.
Robbert, Forty?? I was much too impatient for that. Somewhere on this blog is a photo of me with bright red waist length hair.
Bright red waist length hair? If it wasn't so close to my bedtime, I'd start searching. As it is, my eyes are already half asleep.
River, it's bright, I used to go platinum blonde and put titian red over the top. I could be seen from space. Youth, wonderful youth.
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