Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting...

For the past many months we have been subsisting on a half-tank of hot water. The bottom element burnt out and I didn’t bother calling the plumber because it was enough if we didn’t all take showers or baths at the same time. But the night before last as Buddy Boy was doing dishes, there was no hot water at all. Nada. Not a single drop. So I left a distress S.O.S. on our plumber’s answering machine and he called me back later that he’d be by before the end of the next day, which was yesterday.

After an hour and-a-half, or thereabouts, we had two new elements, a very wet floor and messy basement, and a bill for about $180. Two hours later we had hot water, 60 gallons of hot water, for the first time in months. It was so nice to take a bath this morning and not worry about the water going cold before the tub was filled.

My first makeup lesson today was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. for one and-a-half hours. She never showed. I got myself a quick sandwich and tea at Dead Tim’s (for 20� more I could have had a doughnut with that, but the scales told me this morning that it was definitely out of the question), ate hurriedly with the slide librarian, then rushed back for my noon lesson, who was 15 minutes late. My o’clock never showed. So I went to the bank, did some business there, and came home.

The telephone conversation I had with my mother yesterday was disturbing and depressing. She called me, upset because she couldn’t get anyone to answer the phone at Delaware Avenue, which is the street where the house she grew up in is situated (if it even still exists). I asked her where she got the number from and she said directory assistance. So I explained as gently as I could that her parents sold that house over 50 years ago and moved to the house where my brother now lives. She wanted to know where her parents were now, and I told her that they had died in 1967, and it was now 2008.

Our conversations are becoming more and more like this. I thought the memory drug was helping, but apparently it’s a losing battle either way. It makes me feel bad: a) for not being there to look after her and spend more time with her, and b) because I don’t call her frequently enough because these conversations depress me.

Life sucks.

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