On the few occasions Mom and I go out together, we always have a great time. At least, I do. She had a little extra money and wanted to open a money market acct at my credit union. The interest rate, while terrible, is still less terrible than a certificate of deposit.
I picked her up and was absolutely amazed at how well she was walking. She has physical therapy three times a week with a woman named Laurie. Whatever they do, my 89-yo mom has made a remarkable improvement.
She learned how to walk w/a cane and actually uses it. I'm so proud of her! I emailed my four sisters and my two kids about it. Little Grace Catherine is too young to have her own email address, but not her first pair of Chucks.
Grace luvs my phone. We unplug it so she won't accidentally call Chief Nestel at the police department.
Mom and I sit at the bank and wait. And wait. And wait.
We're chatting away so we barely realize so much time has passed. She starts talking about her favorite topic - her declining health - and I tell her to shush, people in line can hear her.
Oh, well, she says, I guess they know everything that's wrong w/me.
Forty minutes goes by.
This isn't right, she says. Why haven't they taken us yet.
There are two closed-door offices that are helping new members. I stride up to the reception counter and say, "Nichole, this is very poor customer service. We've been waiting 45 minutes. What shall we do?"
"Well, you can always fill it out online."
My eyes light up. "Online! Well, can you make photocopies of my mom's identification documents?"
Begrudgingly, and I do mean begrudgingly, she photocopies the documents.
And then I see Vernell, the asst manager, at the bank. Why didn't she help? These people are frigging incompetent!
When we leave, my mom says, "I don't know if I wanna do business with these people."
I tell her, if she wishes I'll help her sign up to become a member over the phone.
When I told the story to Scott, he said he knows how incompetent they are and reminded me that when one of his CDs came due at Wachovia, he called Ricky at my bank, several times, and the guy never got back to him. Needless to say, the huge chunka change went elsewhere.
Okay, it's the end of February. The crocus are in bloom. I only have three purple ones, but when I walked around the block this morning, one lawn was studded with crocuses. How b'ful it looked!
Soon the lawn will need to be cut.
I'm not using the same guy as last year b/c he was unreliable and when he came to trim my flower-beds, he got rid of my peony bush, my groundcovers, and most of my red poppies.
What an idiot! Nice guy, but a real dunderhead! He's married and has 6 children.
Perhaps a high school kid. None of them live around here, so I call the Upper Moreland High School. Mrs Bradley says to come over w/a flyer she'll post on a job board.
When I arrive at the school, a good-looking blue-eyed man is unloading snacks for the cafeteria. I walk into the receptionist's office and hand her the flyer.
Upon leaving, a guy is unloading two huge boxes from a big white truck.
I peek inside.
What's in there? I ask.
Snacks for the kids, he says.
So, what do the kids snack on these days, I ask.
Junk, he says.
I spy some delicious Combos, those pretzels filled w/either cheese or peanut butter that I used to devour when I worked at Bristol-Bensalem therapy agency.
I can't eat junk, I say, I've got diabetes.
Me, too, he says.
Are you serious? You're not fat!
He found out by accident, when he was getting his CDL license, and needed a physical. His number was 499. Normal is between 80 and 120.
Hold on, I'm gonna check my sugar now. Wanna do it before I go to bed.
Perfect - 116. I only injected 12 units of insulin today. When it got high, I walked around the block or jumped on my bike for 25 minutes while watching an Ingrid Bergman/Tony Perkins/Yves Montand movie.
So the guy and I chatted. I gave him a crash course on how to eat. He pretty much knows. He's always on the go, has two jobs, and I mentioned why I was at the high school, to find a grass cutter.
I'll do it for you, he said. Me and my brother.
Ecstatic, I wrote down his phone number. When I got home, I talked to my neighbor across the street, who's also interested.
Coincidentally, my former grass cutter was walking down the street, a 45-yo jailbird named Bill, who lives w/his 84-yo father on a nearby street.
Bill told me he's looking to make some money.
Bill, I said, the reason I don't have you mow my lawn anymore is b/c the last few times you did, you were inebriated and threw the beer cans in my bushes.
He didn't say nothing.