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Well, I'm home
I had a very bad Friday with my Mom. Good news: her lawyer talked her into accepting an assisted apartment. I texted the head social worker during lunch that she needed to be moved ASAP before she changed her mind.
Mom is threatening to revoke her power of attorney, which she could do with any other attorney in town. After my private talk with Mom's lawyer, I will be starting a formal application for guardianship of an adult in Indiana. That'll be fun.
Other than that, packed frantically, realized I needed to mail myself a box of clothing in order to be able to zip my suitcase, did that, saw my mother, fled.
As a final joy in the day, when I was closing up the house the garage door opener broke. I called maintenance. It turned out to be a really, really freak accident in which the manual release cord had wrapped itself around the motor and moved the motor just enough that it came unplugged.
I texted this to my husband and he replied, "Get home before your head explodes."
Airport hotel food was (as to be expected) dubious. Lowlight by far:
Me to waitress: "Could you ask the bartender what kind of brandies he has?"
Waitress, returning: "Something called ... Paul Masson?"
Note for my unAmerican friends: Paul Masson is a terrible American brandy-adjacent substance. I wouldn't use it to cook with. I assume they're using it for mixed drinks. Brandy Alexanders?
Then I got home on Saturday and promptly got a call from our credit card company. Had we used our credit card for $1.00 in Florida?
No. No, we hadn't. Credit cards cancelled, new ones in mail.
Daughter has an enrolled Navajo friend. I am so asking him to smudge the house (he's volunteered before) when he's in town.
Mom is threatening to revoke her power of attorney, which she could do with any other attorney in town. After my private talk with Mom's lawyer, I will be starting a formal application for guardianship of an adult in Indiana. That'll be fun.
Other than that, packed frantically, realized I needed to mail myself a box of clothing in order to be able to zip my suitcase, did that, saw my mother, fled.
As a final joy in the day, when I was closing up the house the garage door opener broke. I called maintenance. It turned out to be a really, really freak accident in which the manual release cord had wrapped itself around the motor and moved the motor just enough that it came unplugged.
I texted this to my husband and he replied, "Get home before your head explodes."
Airport hotel food was (as to be expected) dubious. Lowlight by far:
Me to waitress: "Could you ask the bartender what kind of brandies he has?"
Waitress, returning: "Something called ... Paul Masson?"
Note for my unAmerican friends: Paul Masson is a terrible American brandy-adjacent substance. I wouldn't use it to cook with. I assume they're using it for mixed drinks. Brandy Alexanders?
Then I got home on Saturday and promptly got a call from our credit card company. Had we used our credit card for $1.00 in Florida?
No. No, we hadn't. Credit cards cancelled, new ones in mail.
Daughter has an enrolled Navajo friend. I am so asking him to smudge the house (he's volunteered before) when he's in town.