Clueless
3:00 p.m.
I wrote a drabble for a contest on one of the sites I belong to for burgeoning writers. It’s a form of prose exactly 100 words in length, and the theme was about being lazy without ever using that word. Voilà!
The clothes overflow from the hamper, dirty. The dishes sit on the counter, bits of old food stuck to their unwashed surfaces. Dust bunnies cluster under furniture, forming soft, sneeze-inducing communities as their population grows. The grass is uncut, long blades rippling in the breeze, and weeds have taken over the flowerbeds. Cobwebs cling to exterior fixtures and decorate ceiling corners inside the house with lacy arabesques. The dining room table is strewn with mail and periodicals and unpaid bills. Does Miranda care? She snuggles under her quilt on the comfy couch, nose buried in a book. Nothing else exists.
Unbeknownst to the contest makers, this is my life. Except that instead of having my nose stuck in a book, although I do that too, I am glued to this computer. Sadly, nothing really happens here. I’m just really, really lazy.
I did do some yard work yesterday though. I dug up the burgmansia, which never did flower at all this summer, and potted it. It’s in the garage where it will stay for the winter. I just have to remember to water it occasionally. I also repotted the dieffenbachia in an enormous vessel and staked it with a shovel handle as it was bent over like an osteoporotic crone. It takes up a lot more space in the dining room now, what with the size of the pot, which is one reason the other is now in the garage.
I also pulled out the tomato supports and put them away in the garage, and at the same time pulled some weeds from the garden which grabbed onto my arm with little hooks and gave me a bad bunch of scratches. They burned for hours afterwards, even after bathing, and I think it must have been some kind of nettle. I do tend to work without gloves, which accounts for these injuries, as well as the dirt that gets under my over-long nails.
My mother was moved to the room on the second floor last week. I think I mentioned that already. I spoke to her on the weekend and she actually seemed to be all right with the whole thing, saying that she didn’t need a lot of space after all, and this was fine. She was getting into more of the activities at the home, and was pleased that she didn’t have as far to walk from the elevator.
But I just talked to Little Princess who went to see her for tea on Sunday and said that her grandmother was not happy with the new room, that there was something about it she hated. She resents losing her independence. Of course she does. She was the most independent woman I know. My father would not travel, so she went on trips all over the world without him. She got a well-paying job, and upped her educational qualifications so that it would be even better paying so that she could make more money to sock away for her eventual old age and so that she could afford to spend it without my father’s disapproval. She was telling me on the phone that she’s glad she did that, that being old and poor sucks, but she doesn’t have to worry about that now.
Then I got a carbon copy email (funny how we still use that expression for something so obsolete) from my brother to the head of nursing at the home mentioning the memory medication my mother is supposed to be but apparently is not taking. I have asked him to explain this to me, and he emailed back saying we would talk on the phone. He hates typing. It is practically painful to him. In the meantime, my other brother, the one who has power of attorney over her affairs and makes all the decisions, doesn’t give me any information at all.
So, right, who am I writing this diary for? I haven’t a clue.
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