Hermine....

who I, along with every other Harry Potter fan, am just going to call Hermoine, has hit Texas - my part of Texas.
This means that every single damn channel is rain and tornadoes and sirens going off. The dogs are freaking out because of the HORNS and the TV is loud so that Pop can hear the HORNS that are going off intermittently. What he doesn't realize is that the HORNS only serve to freak the dogs out more than they already are (one already threw up).
Time for him to have a stress pill.
Dorothy
P.S. Yesterday was a wonderful day if this deal with the butterfly works out.

Frenemies??

I don't understand people. At all. They applaud that I have given up everything to take care of my parents yet they don't like the way that I am doing it - and tell me, often.
They don't like the way I run MY life. Emphasis on MY.
Have I made mistakes? AbsoFUCKINGlutely.
But at least I am not judging you for your mistakes whereas I get it every goddamn day and I am sick of it. If you don't talk to me regularly then you don't know what you talk about. You don't know shit about what I am going through and, frankly, you obviously don't care.
Fuck off and quit pretending you care.
Dorothy

Fuck....

Having not taken a Xanax in two days I remembered VIVIDLY why I must take them.
My brain doesn't turn off anymore and I am left thinking about zucchini blossoms until it races onto the next subject.

Dear Glenn Beck...

You and I need to talk Sir.


And, really, I mean no disrespect but there are some things of which you need to be aware.


Please quit YELLING AT ME. If I chose to watch your program then that is my choice. If my 90 year old, hard of hearing father choses to watch your program then that is his choice. However, you come on at 4:00 my time when I chose to watch Oprah who talks about, at worst, driving while using a cell phone - her stressing me over this I can handle you telling me THAT OBAMA IS RUINING THE COUNTRY AND BUY GOLD BUY GOLD BUY GOLD is stress that I can not handle.


Seriously, I can not handle it.


See, unlike you, my father lived through the Great Depression and he has ALWAYS told me to have a little bit of Gold hid away so I can go buy a loaf of bread when the currency fails (yes, we are an upbeat family thankyouverymuch). But now he has you and, not only does he count how many Gold commercials are on during your program, (I believe it was 8 the other day) but he then wants to discuss with me how we must GO BUY GOLD NOW BEFORE THE CURRENCY FAILS. NOW. QUICK. DRIVE ME DOROTHY NOW. Never mind that I don't have the money for said Gold (because as Natalie Green taught me on Facts of Life the symbol for Gold is "A.U. stole my Gold watch").


I even understand your writing of books. You are a millionaire and have nothing better to do but write books and scare old people WHILE YELLING AT THEM. Oddly, I am busy taking care of one of the ones that you scare to death while I am searching desperately for a stress pill for him and a Xanax for me.


I honestly must admit that I don't know your position on abortion or crime or anything but GOLD and YELLING as I have never intentionally watched your show.


However I do understand that you like Capitalism. As do I. I think it is a great thing. It has made you millions while scaring the shit (literally) out of people.


Here is where I get a little fuzzy and most Conservatives can't answer me. I can think of NOTHING (see I can yell also Mr. Beck) more Capitalistic than a female selling her body - her "God" given gifts for some money - hell I could be a high end prostitute and only accept Gold. But I am sure that you would have a problem with that as it would be immoral and wrong. I disagree. It is capitalism at its finest. Its most pure. I would simply sell (or lease) what I already have - for Gold of course.


Which, I am sure leads us into the abortion debate. I imagine (and like I said I have never intentionally watched your show nor have I read your books BECAUSE OF THE YELLING AND MY STRESS LEVEL DUE TO TAKING CARE OF A 90 YEAR OLD WHO WANTS ME TO BUY GOLD).
I am sure you are pro-life. As am I. Because, really, life? Who can argue? Go life!! Life Rocks!


However, unlike you, I am also pro-choice whereas you are anti-choice. You trust me to have a child, raise it, buy it enough gold for when OBAMA RUINS THIS COUNTRY but yet you don't trust me to decide that I am not physically/emotionally/mentally capable to have said child? Hmmm. That seems odd.


Shouldn't we get the government THAT OBAMA IS RUINING out of our lives and, therefore, out of my uterus?


Shouldn't I be intelligent to decide that I don't have the money to raise a child unless I want it to turn out to be one of those A.U. stole my Gold watch?


I have more brains than that Mr. Beck and, obviously you do also.


You have made millions scaring people because you YELL at them. I take care of one that you have scared and now he takes stress pills, oh and A.U. someone DID steal my GOLD charm bracelet which I would replace but what with your 8 commercials per hour for gold I can't afford it.


I will make a deal with you. I will run your show for an hour (where we will talk about rainbows and puppies and unicorns and nice happy things) and you can come yell at my father about BUYING GOLD NOW and you can take him and even pay for it. I'll trust you - for an hour - with my father, the person that I love most in this world even though you don't trust me with my uterus.


Sincerely,
Dorothy Mayer

Who let the dogs out???

Fucking I do. All day and all night.
Dear my little 4 legged wonder Mitey [who I willingly and happily took into my home because you were so pathetic and laid on my boob (which oddly has gotten me two dogs that specific way) and looked at me with those EYES]:

But who will feed me?? Look at my EYES lady. I laid on your boob. I NEEDED someone as pathetic as you to adopt me.

I love you. Love you as only a single unmarried spinster crazy dog lady in waiting can. But Dude we have to talk. Or bark. .
I understand it must be hard being a dog what with the no opposable thumbs, who is going to feed me, can I, in fact, lick my balls all day and all the sleeping. Sleeping in the morning. Sleeping at night. Sleeping in the car. But here is the deal. One of us (Me - the owner - the Alpha dog.) likes to sleep at night. Preferably through the night. But you aren't tired at night. I wonder why? Hmmm.

I sleep like this because I have no fear, and I am a vicious pitt bull.

Or sleep on people:

There is a dent on my forehead. I am not sure why.

I am aware this is not an attractive picture of me but the dog? Is totally asleep.

Hi Grandpa. I sure am tired during the day what with keeping my Mama up all night.

I am also aware that you have separation anxiety as evidenced by the fact that:

a) Grandma who protected you left this house and NEVER came home and she protected you from me when I must beat you daily.

b) when Grandpa goes on walks you CRY because what if he LEFT you.

c) you shit in the house when we leave you. Inside. For two hours twice a week when we go to eat. What if they don't come back? Who will feed me? Who will play with me? Opposable thumbs? HELP.

d) they are currently people working on our street and if you go up there and look cute maybe they will feed you or you can steal yet another of their sandwiches (twice now).

But, really, you are a dog. Can't I get like 6 hours of sleep at night at one time?

Love,

your adoring Mama.

Yes, thank God I don't have a standard.

The answers to all of Pop's questions...

1. It is too hot to go outside.
2. No the mail is not here yet.
3. Yes I paid that bill.
4. Yes your zipper is down.
5. Yes this is how I drive - you weren't around to teach me.
6. Yes I know smoking is going to kill me. Do you know that worrying about it is going to kill you?
7. No, I don't want to discuss Glenn Beck.
8. Yes I argue. A lot. It is because I am JUST LIKE YOU.
9. Yes I can hear you.
10. Yes they can hear you.
11. Yes I know that is still there. I have something to do with it and when you move it I lose it and it doesn't get done.
12. Yes I know I have too many clothes but you wear all of my Polo shirts so quit your bitching.
13. No I am probably not getting married.
14. Yes I enjoy trashy television.
15. BECAUSE THAT IS THE WAY THAT MAMA DID IT.

I love you. Always.

Stop, Collaborate and Listen...

Pop is a good man. Really he is. So when our car (read his) was for sale and my friend came to visit with her two small children. He gave her the car with the understanding that she would pay us back and y'all can imagine the rest of the story. Yesterday, the car was wrecked. Totalled. And although he had signed the title over to her she didn't have enough money to put it in her name yet and so I guess it was wrecked in our name.
This is a good friend and I am sure she is telling the truth when she says that she explained to the police the whole story but Pop, being Pop, is worried about this to no end. He is sure, no positive, that the person who was hit (or maybe did the hitting as I don't know) is going to go after him (meaning us) for everything since the car was technically still in his name.
After hearing this for three hours - literally - I looked at that 90 year old man and actually said "Stop, collaborate and listen."
And then when we came home I gave him a stress pill.
P.S. I don't think he knows who Vanilla Ice is and thankfully he will never find out because that man's (Vanilla Ice's, not Pop's) eyebrows alone would do him in).

Check out the shaved lines in his eyebrows.

Frustrated...

I don't know how to fully explain how my world changed when my Mama died. I was ruined. Devastated. Ready to commit suicide. Really. Had planned it out. I told some friends how depressed I was - although they knew it already. I know that people have lost children and keep going ( but I barely kept going. Only and only because of Pop did I get out of bed everyday and, as I call it, "played the game." It was really great when a "friend" suggested she would load the gun for me herself. Thanks bitch.

It seems so easy for people to judge me and what I have done but none of these people have walked in my shoes. No one I know has lost their Mama and then automatically had to be in charge of a 90 year old man. I don't think anyone ever will.

So I have to decide whether I care what people think or whether I know I am doing the best that I can and, oddly for me, that is a hard decision as I normally don't care what people think.

Would you mind wobbling it a bit??

As Pop would say "would you mind wobbling it a bit?"

This is a story that was told to him during one of the worst times of his life. He was living in Toronto, had no job, no money and was depressed to put it mildly. He was taken out to eat by a friend of his who proceeded to tell him a story which has gotten him (and also me) through some rough times:

Years and years ago a man went to a pub in England and drank and drank until he could do nothing else. This was in the days before air-conditioning and lo and behold there was a theatre (look at me using the English spelling) that was "air-cooled." Stumbling drunk he bought a ticket, went to the balcony and promptly fell asleep.

When he awoke he had to urinate something horrible so, whether it was because he was so drunk and didn't care or because he was so drunk and full of beer he couldn't make it to the bathroom he opened his zipped and "let her rip" (that would be Pop's terminology). As he was receiving great relief from his decreasing bladder he heard a voice from down below.

"I say old Chap, would you mind wobbling it a bit as I seem to be getting it all."

That is how I feel right now -so would y'all mind wobbling it a bit.

Pop's 90th birthday

Thanks,
Dorothy

Are you kidding?

This morning's conversation:

Pop - "Dorothy can you come out here and smell this. Something smells bad."

Dorothy (trying to enter Scentsy orders on the computer) - "Give me a second and I'll be right there."

I come out to the living room where he smiling. I am terrified I have to clean up dog poop. I can't smell anything so I spell some air freshener (White Tea Cactus for you Scentsy people) and come back to finish entering orders and making phone calls."

Pop walks in not smiling. "Don't worry about the smell. It's me. Did I shower yesterday?"

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

Really??

So Pop informed me last night that he planned on dying in three years. Of kidney failure. And doesn't want dialysis. Isn't that painful? Or I would kill him in a car wreck - I don't think I could live with myself if that occurs. I think that is a crappy way to decide you are going to die (this coming from a person who has always said I would be murdered) but as long as he is not in pain I'll be somewhat OK. And people wonder why I am so strange?

Last night...

he came into my room wearing a wifebeater and underwear. On his head was a hat. A Shriner's hat. "Dorothy why do I have a Schriner's hat on my head? Do you know?"
"No Pop. How would I know?
"Well I found it and brought it in to show you but am I a member of the Schriner's?"
"Pop I don't really know. But I do know that if you don't wear pants no one is going to notice that you have that damn hat on."

Running out...

This just happened - again. It happens often but I always forget how strange it is. Every night around 6, possibly 7, Pop teeters (yes he teeters - he has had 4 cups of wine) to bed. He comes to say Good night to me first and to see where my "baby" is (I'll get a picture of the "baby" up here soon - it's a pitt bull). Then about half an hour later he appears at my bedroom door to tell me that he ran out and he's having another glass of wine. Once a friend was over and asked what he meant.
He ran out of sleep.
Only Pop.

Yes he drinks 4 glasses of wine before bed (Franzia Chillable Red if you are coming over FYI). The man is 90 damn years old. I love him dearly. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. He loves his wine. If, at 90, he wants 8 glasses of wine before bed then by God he'll have them and I'll put him to bed like I do many nights. If that man wants to try cocaine I'd try and figure out where to get him some. He is 90. He deserves it.

And people wonder why I am not a doctor....

So I read a LOT of blogs because, really, what the hell else am I going to do while I sit here with Pop? I cross stitch yes and I sell Scentsy and I even have 12 different farms or frontiers or cities or whatever but I wanted a blog. I do have some stuff to say about this whole caregiving deal - that is a lie. I have stuff to say about everything but I'm trying to focus this on three things - caregiving, scentsy and cross stitch.
Anywho, I have a domain name - have had it for years (because I wanted to own my own name). Now I have a blog. The idea has crossed my mind that maybe these two should meet and my BLOG could go on my domain name. What a concept!!
Now I am not very computer literate. I mean the basics I have down (except this new computer has a camera - WTF do I do with that? Now I have to put makeup on before I get on the computer? FUCK - but I don't know html and although I know what I want (it's simple, really) I don't know how to make that happen (although I did have someone who does design websites for as much as $50,000) but I want to be one of the cool kids. I want y'all to like me and accept me - warts, pimples and all (actually I am wart free FYI). So who would I ask where I could get someone who knows this HTML crap?


um, the fucking internet Dorothy. The people you have been reading for years. Those are the people I want to impress so those are the people I should ask. So here I am, asking.

So if anyone by chance stumbles upon this post please answer - who do i get to design a website?

Thanks,
Dorothy

"I can't hear you." "WHAT?"

I love you Pop. Lord knows I do but you are driving me crazy and I have taken more Xanax in the past two months than I have in my life. I can't tell you what all drives me crazy because I don't want to hurt you so here goes.

1. I am not a morning person really. I am definitely not a morning person until I pee and smoke a cigarette. Walking into my room to "see if I am awake" and then wanting to take to me about the state of the economy or some such bull shit will never work.

2. "I can't hear you." Jesus fucking Christ you can to hear me. You can hear Glenn Beck on television fine. If I whispered that I won the lottery you would hear it. You don't WANT to hear me. As proved by:

Me (four months ago) - "Pop I think that something is wrong with your ears because you aren't hearing very well all of a sudden."

Pop - "Oh don't worry Dorothy. They (I do not know who they are) send me a postcard every month and they clean out my ears really well - even better than Jose (his doctor)does. They get lots of shit out of my ears. I just have to wait for the postcard.

Me (two months ago) - "Pop 'they' never sent you a postcard. Something is really wrong with your hearing. Why don't you tell me who "they" are so that I can call and schedule an appointment to get your ears cleaned?"

Pop - "I have told you they send me a postcard every month. Didn't YOU hear THAT?

This week was the fourth of July. His other daughter and his grandson drove through Texas and we had dinner and breakfast with them. When he got bored or whatever he would just say "I can't hear you. Dorothy is supposed to make me an appointment but she won't."

He won again. Also, the day I say "I can't hear you" please just shoot me now.

Mama said...

there would be days like this. She just didn't tell me that she would be dead when they happened.
Seriously, on a scale of 1 to 10 this day has been a negative 10. And I am going to cover my head with my covers and cry about it.
I wish I had something good to say but I don't.
Anyone know anything good??

Introduction......

I have tried to do this a million times but have never quite mastered it - so here we go again.
I am the primary caregiver for my 90 year old father who I call "Pop."
My Mother died in December 15, 2008. The proper word for that is "suckage."
I sell Scentsy and would love for you to order from me or join my team (mayer.scentsy.us).
I also cross stitch and sell those as well - mainly baby announcements as those are fairly small and easy to do but I would be willing to do almost anything as long as we can agree on a price.

I spend all my time with Pop. Literally (no we don't have to sleep together). Once every two weeks I get an hour to go to my therapist - love her (her nickname will be Mother Earth). The other day I had to go for my yearly gynecologist appointment. Here is how that conversation went:

Me - "I have to go to the doctor on Tuesday. Write it on your map (no clue why he calls calendars maps) so you don't forget..

Pop - "But you just saw Mother Earth last week, checking his "map," on Wednesday. Is this a real doctor? Are you sick? You have to quit smoking. I heard you coughing the other day? Is it something bad?"

Me - "Pop I am fine. I just have to go to the doctor. I'll be home in two hours."

Pop - "Maybe I should go with you."

Me - "No Pop. I'll be fine. I just have to go to the doctor."

Pop - "You still haven't told me why."

Me - "The gynecologist Pop. You know for my girly parts."

Pop - "Well I don't know why you wanted me to go to that appointment. Those doctor's offices are like baby making factories. I wouldn't have wanted to go anyway."

Me - "Yes Pop. I know. Can you just write it on your map?"

A couple of days later he asked me what a baby factory was. A little perplexed I asked him what he was taking about. I looked at the map "DAM - baby factory 2 pm."

I have spent years, literally, reading blogs and feel like I know some of you like we are best friends. Yet I have never had my own blog for you to comment on - had an ex and was trying to maintain some anonymity. Now I just don't care anymore. I am who I am. Some people like it. Some people don't. It's cool. Some days I don't like myself either. Somehow once my Mama died I quit caring what people think. I don't have to impress anyone anymore. I just have to be me and every day I try to be a better person. I am not perfect. I don't think I am. Even the guy who "loved me more than he could ever love anyone" knew I wasn't perfect. Only my dog thinks I am perfect - and if I could convince him to quit shitting in the other room he would be perfect also.

You can email me at caringscents at live dot com.

Thanks y'all,
Dorothy