Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Ozark 809 Crash

I vaguely remember blogging about Gary's experience with the crash of Ozark flight 809, but I can't find it. I apologize if I am telling you this story as if you haven't heard it before.

It comes up because last week Gary told me the story as if I hadn't heard it before. The first time I heard it we had just started dating, and I was skeptical. I was skeptical because I was 19 and in college, and I knew everything, yet somehow this crash was news to me. 

Of course, it had happened when I was 11, so I asked my Dad, and he confirmed that there was an awful crash by UMSL grounds and this Gary fellow was not lying to me about this one specific thing.

It happened when Gary was working at Normandy Osteopathic Hospital. He said the staff was all called into the emergency room because there had been a plane crash right across the street.

Gary said he remembers the rain blowing into the ER, because as an orderly his job was to mop it out. At first he was mopping, and then he got a push broom and just started shoving the water outside. After a few hours he was shoving more blood than water through the open door. 

Now, forty years ago I would have been skeptical, and kept my mouth shut so as not to sour my budding relationship, but last week I said, "Are you telling me the storm kept blowing the doors open? Weren't they automatic doors?"

"The doors never closed, because the firemen and police kept carrying in bodies on the airplane wings and parts of the plane fuselage."'

"Oh, come on. There is no way an airplane wing would fit in an ambulance."

"An ambulance? No, they just carried them across campus."

"That would be crazy. That would take too long." 

"There was no rush, they were all dead. They just stacked them up in the hallways when the morgue was full."

You can see why this sounded iffy to me, especially since I didn't have an iPhone and Wikipedia to check out the full story, minus the dramatic details.

For the full story, with a slightly lower body count but additional dramatic beagle-related details, check out this article from the Post-Dispatch archives.

Dave Haul

I relocated a few of Dave’s things to Saint Louis. There was Jerry's final draft (which I am still reading), several old Mad magazines, and then two other things.

Mom's Whale Mugs.

Mom, as you may remember, had limited use of her arms because of the polio. One arm had a good elbow but a hand that didn't work, the other had a bad elbow but  a good hand. When her friends bought her a heavy mug for Christmas, she explained that perhaps they could enjoy the mug when they had their regular breakfasts at her house, but it was too heavy for her. And then they bought her the heaviest whale mugs imaginable for years and years, the end, until she died. They took some of the whale mugs, and Dave and I divvied up the remainder. 

So now my collection has doubled.

The NASA shirt. 

I didn't even know Dave had a NASA t-shirt until I was sorting through all his clothes, and I saw it, and immediately said "Mine."

This thing is gossamer. I believe once it was a normal t-shirt and then all the warp wore off, or the woof. (Wooft? Weft?)

I wore it to work during one of our rebellious roundneck Fridays. (Every day is casual Friday now, so on Fridays we can only relax by wearing t-shirts.)

I said "Check out my cool NASA shirt."

Half the team has the same shirt. I thought I was special. 

Rewriting the Novel: That New Draft, and Again, May I Say, FFS

One of the reasons I had trouble closing my suitcase on the way back from Albuquerque was because I was carrying Fave's ashes and Jerry's evidently-finished novel. If you recall, a few pounds of Dave had to stay behind, because I wasn't going to trust Jerry's novel to UPS.

But then, when I got to the airport I realized there was no way I could get the extra weight of Dave and Jerry into the overhead bin. I risked a Hemingway novel railway situation and checked the bag. 

Based on the first 25 pages, I shouldn't have made any Hemingway comparisons.

Well, to be fair, the first sentence is good:

"Duke Pritchard did not like the sound the rotary table was making. He did not like it at all."

That is followed by three and a half pages describing the specific actions Duke takes to correct the problem. From "He kicked in the clutch on the rig's drawworks and reached up in back of him with his left arm until his hand found the engine throttle" to eventually "Dude maneuvered the drawworks brake up and down until he eased the bit back on bottom."

I would have written, "Duke fiddled with the drawworks and corrected the problem." 

Speaking of Hemingway, I thought my writing was tight, but perhaps it's just tight in comparison. I ran my third draft through the Hemingway App and evidently mine is bloated as well. Also, I use the word "just" every other sentence. (See above.)

This Year's Christmas Ornament

Usually I have bought a Christmas ornament by this time. 

I was debating with Gary what might make a good ornament symbolizing the the year.

I don't know if they make tiny little wig ornaments, bur that didn't happen to "us."

On review, all that happened was that we sold Mom’s house. (I mean, of course Dave died. A little vial with Dave's ashes was the first thing I thought of, but that's just a little too morbid, even for me.)

So, no vial of Dave. Focusing on Mom's house.

Gary, on the other hand, is so enchanted with Dave's Apple watch that he's dedicating his ornament the Minnie Mouse watch face.  I can see the appeal. She's the only female who giggles at him.

Death Food

When I was at Dave's it was just too easy to Grubhub all the food. Sure, it was ridiculously expensive (like fifty bucks for Taco Bell), but with the terminal agitation and the expired food from Shipt, it was easier.  

It was also easier when I came back. I had enough stuff to do with lawyers and catching up on work that I didn't want to spend any time making butter chicken from scratch. 

After two weeks back I realized that there are frozen pre-made meals at the grocery, and that would be almost as convenient as Grubhub. It isn''t as tasty, but it's handy.

It's also pretty fattening, even though I really did make an effort to skip the ones with starch. This plus Thanksgiving and Christmas - I'm pretty sure I'll have put back all my Covid weight by the new year.

Sometime I wish I were a little bit of an alcoholic. I doubt I'd be fat if I didn't soothe with food. I could never drink all the calories in a Thanksgiving dinner. Plus, I'd have more friends. My god, the friends Dave had. They're still calling his phone to leave messages even though they know he's dead (which is disconcerting).

But I suppose a dozen-donut-hangover is better than an booze hangover. 

Infrastructure Nonsense

Two days ago I saw a truck in our subdivision marked "U.S. Infrastructure" and I thought that was pretty cool. 

Yesterday I noticed that an area on our street was marked off by cones. 

Today I noticed a large pile of gravel blocking our driveway. 

Could have put it where they parked their trucks, but no.

I walked out to the driveway and employed some pretty loud body language to say, “When is this nonsense going to be over?” It was over when promised, in less than fifteen minutes, during which of course Gary’s phone rang. Luckily, no one was summoning him.

It amazes me that if a roof is to be torn off or a door or fireplace repaired Gary feels it in his bones, but if the street is torn to bits he loves it for the entertainment value.

It amuses me that as he day has gone on it is evident this nonsense is so that AT&T can upgrade their cables. ATt&T trucks everywhere. It would be especially amusing if they were putting in individual landlines for us old folks. I canceled my landline service, since my biggest landline user died. What if I was the user that tipped the scales, though, early last month? Poetic justice.

Weekly Paint Progress; 11/24 Happy Thanksgiving

I put so little effort making this:

... out of this:

Rookie / Cookies

Rookie. Every synthetic wig wearer does this once: opens a hot oven and scorches the nylon that her wig is made of. I went a whole two months without doing it. Technically I could take that wig to a stylist and have her clip out the scorched hairs then use mild heat to re-route the ones that remain, but it seems to me that with supplies and practice I could acquire that skill. In the meantime I just bought the same wig again, and because the floodgates were opened I bought a different style. Just to see how it looked on me. 

I was on the fence but Gary surprised me by being very positive about Shirley. 

Cookie.

Speaking of frying ones wig, it was a dutch baby in a 425 degree oven that got Chimera 1.0.  Even 350 degrees will cook any wig, so I have slapped a cautionary post-it note over the pre-heat button in preparation for this year's Christmas cookie bake.

Good Things / Bad Things: Big Delete

Now that Dave is gone, I keep coming across things I no longer have to hold on to, and I've been getting rid of them.

A list of movies David insisted I must watch. Dave and I differed on what made a good movie. For years he insisted Veronica Guerin was the Best Movie Ever Made. After I resisted for years, I watched it, and I told him that that while it was okay I did not agree. Over the years he claimed these were the Best Movies Ever Made: American Flyers, The Negotiator, Executive Decision. I kept a list so I would not waste time on these movies.

All Bookmarks for Dealing with Borderline Personality Disorder. Don't need those anymore. 

The Landline. I was keeping the landline so Dave had an assigned phone to call that wasn't my work phone. During his manic moods he could call up to twenty times a day. 

On the down side - Artemis is on the way to the moon, and no one would be more excited about that then Dave. 

Bad Things: Dust and Mysteries Part 2

So, now I have honored Dave's wishes and distributed some of Dave's ashes to his friends. (I assume his AA sponsor really did this at the remembrance ceremony they held for Dave.)

I kept the rest in my luggage and flew it home. (To be honest, first I sprinkled some in the backyard of his house in Albuquerque. Because he did love that house, and Albuquerque, and because my suitcase wouldn't close. This is why we love cremains: so practical.)

As I said, I kept some for my garden, and I also kept some because I had a vague memory that at one time Mom instructed me what to do with Dave's body, should he die. (I don't remember what Dave was doing that prompted this.) Mom told me there was a spot in the family plot for Dave, because the plot was divided into two plots of three: Her mom, dad, and brother, and then her, her sister, and then one where Dave might go. I had sprinkled some of Mom's ashes in the plot where her body was meant to have been buried, so I thought I should do the same for Dave.

Only then did I realize I have nooooo memory of what cemetery the family plot is in. I also have no record of it in my files. I don't visit Mom's grave because very little of her is there; she's mostly in my garden.

"Try one of those Find a Grave web sites," you say. Nope. For that you need the name to match, and my family is full of divorced women, so who knows what name they are buried under.

I had one relative who never married, Aunt Dolores, and in a hunt for her middle name I found her death certificate, and then I found that the last line of the death certificate records where they should send the body. Sunset Cemetery. Whew.

(An aside: Sunset Cemetery has some bad Yelp reviews. Good thing I'm giving my body to science.)

So, I may take a day during Thanksgiving week and sprinkle some of Dave across the family plot, and then wait to put him in my garden when the ground isn't frozen. 

For those who think I'm being disrespectful: a) always, and b) we have eight billion people on this planet now, and they all need real estate. At some point there will be a New York Catacombs, and the New York cemeteries will be dug up and the bones will be the foundation of the gift shop. Even today if you are in a crypt in New Orleans there comes an anniversary when your remains are pushed to the back and a fresh body goes in front. 

Ashes to ashes, people. It's the way to go. 

Bad Things: Dust and Mysteries Part 1

Per his wishes, I cremated Dave. Part of Dave will join part of Mom and part of Dad in my back garden. (To be specific, I'd say it's 2 cups of Mom, one cup of Dad. I'll make sure that Dave doesn't overwhelm them.)  

After Mom died I followed most of her directions: I amended her last name on the headstone, then I sprinkled some of her cremains on the plot, dug up some of Dad's ashes from her garden, and mixed hers and his for my garden.  So now part of Dave will join the mix.

Only part will stay with the family, because per his wishes, I divvied him into baggies for his AA friends to put in their gardens "to help things grow."

Let me tell you, while it may be practical to distribute ashes among friends, and relatives, and friends you love more than relatives, Dave's friends do not necessarily relish the responsibility of a baggie o'Dave. Maybe they think it's gross, or maybe they think he's out there expecting them to take him to Europe or something. I was surprised how taken aback they were by the suggestion. Eventually I found one sympathetic ear and gave him a dozen baggies of Dave to distribute how he saw fit. Will it happen? Who knows?

Bad Things: Selling Things I Don't Own

A few days after Dave died I woke up in his bedroom and noticed the window. 

"Well that's cute," I thought. "There's a little window seat there. I've always wanted a house with a window seat," 

I sighed. Then I realized: I'm Dave's only relative, so technically, I do have a house with a window seat.

Only I don't, because of probate. I spoke to a realtor about repairing and selling the house, and that process can't start until probate is over. I can't even get the locks changed. Because it's not my house. And fair enough, I can see the sense in that. A probate lawyer is working on it.

The lawyer is also working on this:

As I was driving Dave's cute little convertible, it occurred to me that I am not insured to drive that car, and more important, I was driving a car I don't even own. New Mexico makes you wait a month before you change the title after a death. And even though I won't end up with it, and I know who gets it next, I have to get it first so I can sign it over.

And I know it's tacky to talk about such things with Dave only three weeks gone, but those three weeks felt like three months.

Good / Bad Things: Finding the Ex

One nice thing about Dave's death was that I got to reconnect with Dave's last real girlfriend. 

He's "passionate," as one of his friends said. I think I've hinted at David's ugliest side. If he gets close enough to a woman, he spits on her and slaps her, and feels that isn't abuse because he doesn't close his fist.

The last time this happened, Dave called the police because he thought the woman had stolen his dog and car, and of course the police came and saw the marks and put David into jail for a weekend. Oddly, when the woman told me (apologetically - also odd), I immediately said, without thinking, "Well, technically I have to be on his side."

Only, no, of course not. I'm a human, then I'm a woman, and then way down the list I'm a sister. I didn't correct myself to her at the time, but that was the day I vowed I'd never be in the same room as Dave again. 

So I got a chance to tell that woman that I regretted saying that, and that I was wrong, and that she deserved far better than him. Too late, probably, but done.

As for not speaking ill of the dead, I've done enough damage by not warning every girlfriend what was in store for her when he was alive.

Somehow I need to find the original ex, the least favorite girlfriend, the one who fought back, and let her know his final albeit addled thoughts were of her. 

Thursday Paint Progress: 11/17

Old paintings: the two dog paintings are in Colorado with Dave's two dogs, and the zebra and the third dog came back with me.

New painting:

Bad Things: Things I Never Want to Hear Again

Dave's house has a Ring doorbell. I never want to hear the noise that a Ring doorbell makes when someone is at your front door. 

I could do without the Amazon Alexa Bark routine. If Alexa hears a bark she plays peaceful music to calm your dog. Dave's dogs would start barking when they heard the Ring doorbell announce someone was at the door. They weren't calming down because of some music.

I don't want to hear a Ring doorbell tell me simeone is at the door at 9:30 at night. I want the Ring doorbell to tell those people to fuck off. Well, no. Those were the medical supply people. There was also an AA person, and it's important they have access to each other at all times.

I don't want to hear Dave's phone ding again with another person who doesn't know he's dead.

I don;t want to hear my phone ding again with another message that I've used up all the cellular data on my plan and they'll happily charge me fifteen dollars and hey, I might want to check out this thing out there called "wireless." The wireless at Dave's was strong, but the password he gave me was wrong. I would have looked to see if the password was written on the router, but even after the AA folks disconnected all the computers (to protect me from Dave's meticulously curated porn collection), the wireless was still broadcasting from God knows where. In the attic? On the roof? Did he wall it up? Still don't know.

Good Things: Airport TSA

I have never set off a metal detector at an airport before, but this time I rang all the bells and merited the TSA touch.

It was the wig, of course. Well not the wig, but the pins and clips trussing up my real hair. Well, the clips and the Apple watch. I haven't flown since 2018. Things have changed.

Happily, even though the x-ray image plainly showed every clip haloing my skull, the TSA lady just ignored that. Didn't have to whip off my wig at all (though I would have). She just checked the watch and waved me on my way.

Good Thing? Bad Thing? Feeding the Devil

When mom died I took a year to clear out the house. She had stocked up on noodles and soup and I ate many meals lifted from Mom's larder. Getting rid of all her open food, personal effects, furniture wasn't difficult because I had an all the tine I wanted to do it. 

I had to clean out Dave's house in a week, though. I had to review every piece of paper, every file, plus root through the car trunk and closet shelves to find bills he tossed there unopened. For a while I was laboring under the mistaken belief that some things would be donated and some would be tossed, so I separated the wheat from the chaff, until I found it was all chaff. 

The AA folks came in and took all just chaff they wanted, and then all that was left was the food. 

Ten unopened containers went to a food kitchen. The rest couldn't go in the trash, because the bin was already full. Couldn't go in a bag outside of the bin because of raccoons. No, everything had to go in the sink and down the garbage disposer. Frozen food? Thawed overnight and down the diposer. Pasta? I was tempted to cook it first but it happily went through the disposer raw. I learned to hold my breath as the spices went down the disposer. Medical marijuana? Also, to my friends' dismay, down the disposer. (Good thing, because the TSA searched my bag. All they found was a bag of remains. I checked first: you can transport cremated remains in luggage.)

It felt wicked to throw out perfectly good food. I suppose I should have had a buffet for the AA folks, but it would have been a weird combo of protein shakes, shaved turkey, Propel, and green sauce. Instead, that disposer ran for five straight hours. 

Must remember to eat everything in my house when my death is imminent. 

Good Thing? Bad Thing? Meet the Cousin

Three years ago Dave gave me a list of people to call if he died during his bile duct surgery. That list included our mutual cousin Mark, Jerry's brother's son. 

I left Mark for last, naturally, given that I'd have to introduce myself as a long-lost cousin. That happened, and it immediately led us down such a tangent that I forgot to spell out exactly why I was calling. I eventually mentioned, "when Dave died last week," as if he knew, as if he'd been one of the dozens of people I already called that day. Sigh. 

Even with that awkward situation he continued to talk to me for 90 minutes about Jerry ("raging alcoholic") and his own father ("raging alcoholic'). I also asked about his sister Cindy ("I don't have a sister; I don't even know anyone named Cindy.") 

He remembered meeting my Mom once, after which they stuck him in a room to play with my brother, who tried to bite and kick him and generally terrorized him.

He suggested we meet, and then was nice enough to explain that he refused to get the vaccine and refused to wear a mask, to which I noped out of that situation. I did convince him that I was avoiding all germs, not just Chinese-manufactured ones, so we actually did talk the next day on Zoom. 

Mark knew Jerry longer than I ever did, knew him in his alcoholic days, even lived with him a while, and got into a fistfight with him. Mark had nothing good to say about Jerry. Oh, and Mark also disavowed Dave's incredible story of how Mark recognized him in a chance meeting at a hardware store and said he had a box of Jerry's stuff. In actuality, cousin Mark stalked Dave on Facebook after he discovered Dave had moved back to New Mexico -- just after Mark had cleaned out his parent's house and found the Big Box o'Jerry.

It was interesting to see how Cousin Mark had essentially the same biological father Dave and I had (both brothers were reduced to violent "raging alcoholics"). Mark had to interact with both of them, while Dave and I didn't. Mark then built an enormous family (seven children or something, mobs of grandchildren and great-grandchildren) while Dave and I opted out of the children game entirely. 

Late in life Mom reconnected with her cousins -- because, she said, "they know the history." It was interesting to hear the history, only the history didn't tell me anything new. 

Good Thing? Bad Thing? Out and About

So, I was grateful I had gotten the Evusheld right before this trip, and especially grateful half of Albuquerque wore their masks. The Covid numbers were fine the week I set off for ABQ, and only began to trend up the week I left.  

Most of Dave's friends knew I was at risk, offered to wear masks, but still kept trying to shake my hand. What happened to waiting for the woman to extend her hand? Wasn't that the rule once? Did that only apply to the late Queen Elizabeth?  I just adopted an awkward windshield-wiper wave if someone reached out a hand. Only one person pushed on to an elbow-bump.

The daily conversations with medical professionals didn't worry me. I knew they weren't carriers, but I figured the plane ride and the visits from Dave's friends were enough of a risk that I steered clear of any stores and restaurants. Grubhub got a lot of my business. Before his appetite vanished, Dave wanted Taco Bell burritos for Saturday dinner and "chocolate ice cream with pecans," on Sunday.  

(Speaking of food, add the grocery app Shipt to the list of things that are defective in Albuquerque -- they sent me a bag of dog food had been opened and an expired box of Velveeta mac and cheese. So separated and nasty I checked the date. It went bad back in March.)

If I hadn't been forced out into the world, though, I don't know if I would have ever left my house this year, or the next.

Bad Things: More Surprises are Unearthed

• For a surprising series of months over the span of years David paid someone named Brad $600 a month. I hope it's the person he bought his car from. 
• I had been told the house was set up to transfer on death to me: it was not. I see why he never really did it. I'm sure he thought he'd end up with a wife.
• Also, I had been told that the cancer was a surprise to everyone. That's why I was a little taken aback when he got a call on his cell phone the day after he died from his CANCER nurse reminding him that he had A CANCER APPOINTMENT with the CANCER doctor at the CANCER clinic. I called them back, and they wouldn't speak to me, except to snort when I told them Dave had said Dr. F was his back doctor. 

The cancer mystery will be solved after I call the hospital and tell them I am next of kin and had a say in his medical care. He's had this Cancer nurse's name in his files for at least three years, ever since he had that cancer scare that turned out to be nothing three years ago, which of course was the cancer that got him. I can't imagine he was in denial about cancer, given that he'd been watching for rare cancers after he heard about Coldwater Creek. I can only guess that he had cancer all this time and wouldn't tell me because I would "freak out," thus establishing my bipolar brother as the emotionally stable one.

That will be interesting.

Thursday Paint Non-Progress: 11/10

No way. I can't paint if there's a box of unfinished business in my room, and the basement is still in chaos. 

Bad Things: CVS

I say this again: Don't start hospice on a weekend. Hospice is all about the drugs, and you can't get the drugs. At least not at the CVS at the corner of 528 and Southern in Rio Rancho (/an ABQ suburb).

So, hospice meds are divided between maintenance meds, comfort meds and end-of-life meds.

• Maintenance meds: Daves meds for his bi-polar, his asthma, etc. Hospice doesn't pay for this, understandably, but they order it for you.
• Comfort meds: Meds to make the patient comfortable. These are things like the meds that would have reduced the amount of ammonia in Dave's brain and made him more rational. Oxycodone is one of these meds, and I think it is a pain reliever I've used, and I don't remember any great pain relief.
• End-of-life meds: You don't get these until the end-of-life is imminent. This is your morphine (which makes Dave hallucinate) and your Dilaudid. They also give Haldol, an anti-psychotic, for people who are having terminal agitation.

Usually the meds are supplied by the hospice from its warehouse, but that isn't open on the weekends. On Saturdays and Sundays the prescriptions go to the CVS pharmacy on the corner of 538 and Southern. 

CVS told the doctor and the admitting nurse that the meds would be ready that afternoon, Saturday. Dave was sane enough at that time to be on his own, so I gave them extra time and showed up at 2 in the morning. None of it was done. None of it. "Short-staffed," the woman said. I pleaded at least for the pain medicine, and she filled that - one prescription out of 11. I went back to Dave's, annoyed, but not furious.

The next morning I told the nurse about the situation, who passed that on to the doctor.  I could hear the doctor shouting "Lies! Why do they lie?" through the phone.

That Sunday afternoon I went to the CVS for the rest of the meds. A smirky manager told me I had a lot of prescriptions to fill, and that some of them were for controlled substances, and that the pharmacists were the only ones who could fill those and they were all busy giving covid vaccines. I was civil enough to say good for you, giving vaccines, but if you are so short-staffed I couldn't see why you would take on orders you can't fill, and then he said I was no more important than the other people waiting, and if I didn't mind waiting at the CVS few hours he might be able to fill the prescription. I couldn't leave Dave alone because Dave wasn't sane enough that day. (Perhaps he was not sane because he hadn't been given the medication that would have reduced the ammonia in his brain, because it was, say it with me, tied up at the CVS.)

I told the manager that I couldn't imagine why the hospice was doing business with them at all, and left without the one piddly prescription they offered -- it was a maintenance med Dave already had a bottle of -- and went back to Dave's house and cried. I also formally cursed the family of the smirky manager with a protracted hospice in which they couldn't get any medicine, and he would have to watch.

On Monday the doctor was able to supply one the end-of life meds from their warehouse, and she made another plea to the CVS to fill the prescriptions they had, and when I arrived they had almost everything. As I was waiting, the man in the line next to me had just evidently told a different manager that his pharmacy was "a piece of shit," and that manager chastised him, saying that his staff worked very hard and it wasn't their fault that the computers were down. So, Saturday/Sunday the lie du jour was "short-staffed," then on Monday it was "the computers are down."

Then on Tuesday we got the last bottle, and of course it was some useless thing that he needed for his bi-polar, or for sleeping, but by then the agitation had started and there couldn't have been any sleep even if he'd been drugged.   

But good God. Four days. To fill a prescription. And God knows why. 

Bad Things: Time in Albuquerque

This is how time is calculated in Albuquerque.

• I order a taxi for 2:15. He calls to say he'll be there at 2:30.
• Gary sends me an overnight package and pays extra to have it there at noon. It arrives at 7:30 p.m.
• I have to be at my brother's house at five p.m. to take posession of medical supplies. They arrive at 9:30 p.m.
• Later I wait for the supplies to go back whence they came. They are supposed to arrive to get the stuff at 5. They show up after I am in bed at 9:30. 

After I question this, in each instance, I hear that they all live in "The Land of Mañana," in which things will always happen tomorrow. So I pose the question to the next Hispanic person I see, the police officer taking the drugs from me on Pharmaceutical Day: how is this blatant racism allowed to fly? Her opinion is that "Land of Mañana" is a convenient excuse for people who don't want to work hard of all races, but it is an Albuquerque problem. Now that I know, I'll just ... well, I'll never go back to Albuquerque again if I can help it. And if I do go back I'll just order anything I might need a day before I want it.

The Worst Thing: Lost Dog

The night Dave died was awful, but not the worst. That was the next day.

The next day his bigger dog, the blue heeler, slipped his lead, jumped the fence, and ran away. 

I started off calling the dog, then screaming for the dog, then asking the neighbors, then falling on the floor asking the remaining dog for help, then hyperventilating and asking my dead brother for forgiveness because I let him down by losing his dog.

For some reason I called Gary and sobbed to him. (Pro tip: "Just calm down" is not helpful.) Then after that, still on the floor, I looked at the other dog's tags with "Am I lost? Call -- " just as Dave's phone dinged.

And miraculously, of all the codes Dave had given me the ONLY one that worked was the one for his phone, so I got the see the text from one street over that read "We have your dog."

Horrible up till then, though.

Bad Things/Good Things: Dogs

A few days ago the head of a New Mexico dog foster service told me, "All the shelters, pounds, and foster agencies are full up. No one can take your brother's dogs," and I replied, "I will give you a thousand dollars if you take these dogs."

She said she would see what she could do. At that point my choices were the Humane Society or renting a van and driving them 18 hours straight to Saint Louis. (And this week has proved nothing if not my tragic inability to stay awake.)

I was intrigued by the prospect of having actual house-trained dogs, but these are big dogs. I don't want big dogs. I don't want dogs stronger than I am.

I would have kept them if there was no other option. Happily, a rescue was found in another state (Colorado where demand is high because they neuter), and a person to drive the dogs, and the dogs are now together five hours away. (And five hundred went to the rescue and the other half as “gas money” for the driver. )

They sent videos of the dogs happily jumping up on couches and playing in the snow. Weight off my mind. 

Good Things: Other Things are Unearthed

Well, finding Jerry's more finished novel was one thing (and again, come ON), but today in the bottom of a nightstand I found ...

A half bar of chocolate from the cannabis store. Medicinal grade.

Luckily I had just eaten a bag of Reese's chocolates, so I wasn't tempted. It also looked kind of old. Not appetizing. 

Still, tempting enough to make me wonder if this was something I could legally put in my carry-on.  Or if it was legal for me to consume it at all. 

Still on the fence about it. I know Dave said the right dose was half a fingernail. 

Probably won't affect me at all.

Like I said, still on the fence.

Maybe when they make the pot medicinal grade they suck all the fun out of it.

Rewriting the Novel: FFS

So I finally found the bookcase that Dave said had the family stuff "on the left."

I was looking for things like the Transfer on Death papers he claimed he filed, or the car title, that would be helpful, but what did I find instead?

Another draft of Jerry's novel. A better draft, at least judging by the first page. 

Does it have the themes of abandonment? Probably not. But seriously, come ON. 

 

Rewriting the Novel: Benchmark

I can't believe it, but before I cam to Albuquerque I knuckled down last month and finished all of the third draft. Almost all. Ten pages shy.

It's changed so much since draft one. It's only five percent shorter, and it flies. It spins out like a kite string. 

Still, I have realized I need another swing through it to make it less judgmental. And another for descriptions, now that I have room. And of course the other remaining seventeen for consistency in dialog and the like. This might actually be done before Christmas.

Good Things: Wheelchairs

This hospice situation was very different from Mom's. It shouldn't have been, but somehow everything just went wrong.

One thing went south immediately. We were back at the house at 5 p.m. to get the wheelchair and bed, etc., but no one was there. (No one was there until 9:30 p.m., but that isn't germane to the story.) 

We needed a wheelchair so I could get Dave back into the bedroom and he could show me where he keeps this:

It was only about half an hour when I realized we might not have a wheelchair , but we had a chair with wheels: the xChair I bought him two Christmases ago. He was strong enough that first day to get in it and we got to the pot. 

Now that he is gone I did rub the dropper on my inner lip but I felt no effects. 

Good Things: Paying for It

One running joke I made with Dave last week, while he was still lucid, was, "It's up to you, you're paying for it."  

I had earmarked half the money from Mom's house for his support. I kept it in cash so I could get it to him but it wouldn't count against him as income. 

So, do we Grubhub Taco Bell burritos for dinner or legitimate Mexican burritos? Up to you, Dave, it's on your dime.