It should be another interesting day
I am surprised that I slept like a baby last night. Well, until 4 or 5 a.m. or so. It's strange, I deal with some forms of stress so well and other forms of stress so not well. The stress I am under right now is the not-well sort.
I am completely blown away by Mr. Neighbor's reaction to his brother's death. It's like he has gone into some sort of bizarre denial mode. Yesterday, I was frantically trying to find this or that agency for him to call to see about what he should do. He would very nonchalantly say something like, "Eh, I'll call 'em next week." As calmly as I could I tried to point out that time was of the essence and he couldn't drag out dealing with this. He'd reply with something like, "Ah, fuck 'em." Eventually, I would get him to place the call, but all he would end up saying--repeatedly--(and crying over) was, "He was a Vietnam hero, for God's sake!" I would have to take the phone from him to talk to whomever. And now, for whatever reason, I've sort of taken over the responsibility of getting his brother dealt with. This is something I was and am so not expecting or prepared for. I just keep sighing heavy sighs every now and then. I need to go for a very long walk. But there are matters to attend to, so I don't.
My car. The poor girl. The mechanics seem to think I and my car are rather a joke and it's pretty much why bother with either of them. She's been in the shop for two weeks. I am sure that fancier cars and monied people came before I and my car did. Such is life, I suppose. Anyway, they got her to at least start. There are two parts to a car inspection here: a safety portion and an emissions portion. In May, they had passed her for the safety portion of the inspection; she failed the emissions portion. So (until she no longer even started a couple of months ago), I was driving around with a big honkin' black "R" (I think it stands for "reject") sticker on her. I tried to go only to the most necessary places. (I do that anyway.) Apparently, in October, it became law that, if your car was over a certain age (which mine is), you no longer needed to pass the emissions portion--just the safety portion. Now, these folks had passed my car for the safety portion in May (even though she had a questionable emergency brake). Now, suddenly, they are no longer willing to pass her. It's true, my emergency brake should be functional, but why, in God's name, did they pass it in May and they won't pass it now? And, to boot, they cannot locate a chain of some sort to make the emergency brake functional. So I am again left with a big REJECT sticker on my car. They claim they will scout junk yards for this chain, but I know they won't. So I've got to figure out what sort of chain it is that they need and scout about myself. (I had to do this when they flunked it for my frayed seat belt the last time around.) Grrrrr.
I know, I know. I'm just bitching and moaning. But I have to let it out somewhere. My parents, for some reason unknown to me (perhaps it's because they have burned-down-house issues to deal with), have abandoned me. Mr. Neighbor has fallen off his rocker. I have the birds to talk to, but they don't seem to want to talk, and the squirrels to yell at, but they don't seem to give a whittle (they just give me the evil eye while they munch away at the bird seed).
I should be juicing what few veggies I have left, but I have no desire to juice (or maybe it's just no desire to clean the juicer). I did saute some onion, garlic and kale for breakfast. I need to get a bit of protein in, but I'm not interested in cheese, and cheese is all I've got.
Someone was good enough to send me links on VA burials. And I thought my prescription medication reading materials were confusing. It appears (although I need to actually *gulp*call someone to confirm this) that burials are covered only if they are in "national" cemetaries (as opposed to "private" cemetaries. Connecticut, where Mr. Neighbor's brother (his name was Sherman, so I'll start calling him that from here on out ... much easier than "Mr. Neighbor's brother") lived, has no "national" cemetaries, so I need to find out if they will transport him to another state that does have a national cemetary. And I like the fact that they will provide a headstone, but you are responsible for getting it from the headstone-making place to the grave.
I need Jessica here to make these calls. She's good at making such calls. After about the age of ten, I made her make all phone calls, because she puts up with nothing and cuts straight to the chase. As much as I hate the phone, she doubly loves the phone. (I have no idea where she got that from.
All right, I'm off to try to not fall off my rocker.
I am completely blown away by Mr. Neighbor's reaction to his brother's death. It's like he has gone into some sort of bizarre denial mode. Yesterday, I was frantically trying to find this or that agency for him to call to see about what he should do. He would very nonchalantly say something like, "Eh, I'll call 'em next week." As calmly as I could I tried to point out that time was of the essence and he couldn't drag out dealing with this. He'd reply with something like, "Ah, fuck 'em." Eventually, I would get him to place the call, but all he would end up saying--repeatedly--(and crying over) was, "He was a Vietnam hero, for God's sake!" I would have to take the phone from him to talk to whomever. And now, for whatever reason, I've sort of taken over the responsibility of getting his brother dealt with. This is something I was and am so not expecting or prepared for. I just keep sighing heavy sighs every now and then. I need to go for a very long walk. But there are matters to attend to, so I don't.
My car. The poor girl. The mechanics seem to think I and my car are rather a joke and it's pretty much why bother with either of them. She's been in the shop for two weeks. I am sure that fancier cars and monied people came before I and my car did. Such is life, I suppose. Anyway, they got her to at least start. There are two parts to a car inspection here: a safety portion and an emissions portion. In May, they had passed her for the safety portion of the inspection; she failed the emissions portion. So (until she no longer even started a couple of months ago), I was driving around with a big honkin' black "R" (I think it stands for "reject") sticker on her. I tried to go only to the most necessary places. (I do that anyway.) Apparently, in October, it became law that, if your car was over a certain age (which mine is), you no longer needed to pass the emissions portion--just the safety portion. Now, these folks had passed my car for the safety portion in May (even though she had a questionable emergency brake). Now, suddenly, they are no longer willing to pass her. It's true, my emergency brake should be functional, but why, in God's name, did they pass it in May and they won't pass it now? And, to boot, they cannot locate a chain of some sort to make the emergency brake functional. So I am again left with a big REJECT sticker on my car. They claim they will scout junk yards for this chain, but I know they won't. So I've got to figure out what sort of chain it is that they need and scout about myself. (I had to do this when they flunked it for my frayed seat belt the last time around.) Grrrrr.
I know, I know. I'm just bitching and moaning. But I have to let it out somewhere. My parents, for some reason unknown to me (perhaps it's because they have burned-down-house issues to deal with), have abandoned me. Mr. Neighbor has fallen off his rocker. I have the birds to talk to, but they don't seem to want to talk, and the squirrels to yell at, but they don't seem to give a whittle (they just give me the evil eye while they munch away at the bird seed).
I should be juicing what few veggies I have left, but I have no desire to juice (or maybe it's just no desire to clean the juicer). I did saute some onion, garlic and kale for breakfast. I need to get a bit of protein in, but I'm not interested in cheese, and cheese is all I've got.
Someone was good enough to send me links on VA burials. And I thought my prescription medication reading materials were confusing. It appears (although I need to actually *gulp*call someone to confirm this) that burials are covered only if they are in "national" cemetaries (as opposed to "private" cemetaries. Connecticut, where Mr. Neighbor's brother (his name was Sherman, so I'll start calling him that from here on out ... much easier than "Mr. Neighbor's brother") lived, has no "national" cemetaries, so I need to find out if they will transport him to another state that does have a national cemetary. And I like the fact that they will provide a headstone, but you are responsible for getting it from the headstone-making place to the grave.
I need Jessica here to make these calls. She's good at making such calls. After about the age of ten, I made her make all phone calls, because she puts up with nothing and cuts straight to the chase. As much as I hate the phone, she doubly loves the phone. (I have no idea where she got that from.
All right, I'm off to try to not fall off my rocker.