I told Mother I would take her to pick up her prescription after Headcase and I went to pick up her cell phone from the bar -- we'd be back about 4-ish. Mother tells me fine, she was going to take a nap. Well, Headcase and I got back a little early, so I decided I needed a nap. The nap lasted until about 6, so I called Mother to apologize and that I would pick her up right away. She starts giving me the business about did I drive to South Haven to pick up the keys, as if Pimp is HER car, not mine, but I gritted my teeth and got her. Then she gets in the car and starts going on about how Crazy Aunt has her phone number and how would I feel if she gave out my number to anyone she felt like -- even though Mother had to coordinate with Crazy Aunt and Uncle about moving some of her furniture and cleaning out Dad's toolshed when she moved THREE YEARS AGO -- so I tell her in my annoyed, indoor voice that I would ignore any of that rant because I didn't know what she was talking about.

Long story short, she's frustrated because she doesn't drive and has to wait for her friend Yolanda or me to pick her up, and I can appreciate that. It's just that she then goes into how she doesn't know what purpose her life has and that she should've died instead of Dad, etc., etc., etc. So I told her if she really felt that way, no one's stopping her, to which she says that she wishes she could, blah blah blah blah, wonk wonk wonk wonk.

Before anyone tells me how inappropriate my response was and that I suck, keep in mind that this is a woman who is clinically depressed and that although she takes several medications to combat it, she does not go to therapy. Instead of dealing with the changes that are unquestionably horrible for her and trying to make the best of it, she would rather piss and moan and feel helpless, and that's also fine -- until she starts pulling the "I wish I were dead" card on me, which she has for all of my adult life. Believe me when I tell you it is unbelievably painful to have that put on you when you know that any effort you make to help her feel better is not going to work, because she would rather continue what she knows (pissing and moaning and being waited on) than change it and feel better about herself. You tell me what you would do.
Oh, whatEVER.

Jaundice Cocktail
Chill cocktail glass. Prepare as follows:

In bar glass combine

1¾ oz Sauterne
¾ oz pisco
¾ oz Noilly Prat
1 tsp. maple syrup
2 dashes Rose's Lime Juice
Stir with a small iceberg and a sneer.

Strain into chilled cocktail glass.
Oh, whatEVER.

Now, this conversation was actually a lot cuter than it sounds; the one guy knows my knack for getting put in charge of medical decisions whether I want to be or not. But can you imagine having to make that call? "Um, yeah, hi. This is (Broad), and we haven't talked in awhile, but ... God, I don't know how to tell you this, but ... Ok, I'll just come out and say it: I was fucking your son, and he had an aneurysm. Where should I send his body?" Yeah, no. That's not a conversation I'd ever want to have.
Oh, whatEVER.

Well, without getting too personal, my plumbing's in pretty bad shape -- so much so that cervical cancer was found during a procedure about six years ago. No, nothing metasticized -- one surgery and it was gone, and it's remained gone. But I'm extremely grateful that it's remained gone, because "cancer survivor?" Not a battle I want to undertake.

So, yay me.
Oh, whatEVER.

[*Those who know the history will understand exactly what I'm getting at. Those who don't? Let's just say that Anne Bird's and my universe are running awful parallel.]
Oh, whatEVER.