Buzz Needed

I don't know if I could simply write this off to karma or if it's just plain bad luck, but the bearings are going out on Shotgun Bob's merry-go-round.  First off, there's The Girl.  About a month back some Southern sawbones discovered that The Girl had a tumor in her abdominal cavity.  The precise location was never revealed, but what was made evident was that the tumor was pressing against the intestine which caused The Girl to be nauseating nauseous all the time.  Surgery was scheduled for June.  This condition went a long way towards explaining her demeanor, which might best be described as that of a constipated she camel in heat who has been penned up away from the males.  What a sweetheart, huh?

It's a well known fact that The Girl has many more living relatives in one single generation than I have (living or dead) in the last three generations, yet none of The Girl's relatives volunteered to come down to Memphis and care for The Girl during her post surgery convalescence.  Although I don't know this for certain, I'd be willing to bet that in many cases the relatives were not asked for reasons that would become obvious to anyone of average or better intelligence.


"Oh, Hell yes we'll come - whats fambly fer if not tah come?  Yew all jest step back and we-uns-uhl take care-ah ever-thang."  Including keeping a good supply of beer on hand and plenty of ammo for the shotgun.  Nothing like setting up the lawn chairs in the side yard with a cooler or two of beer and shooting at the empties - what a great way to invite the neighbors over to be sociable and all!


When Mom got wind of all this she immediately took the initiative and booked a flight to Memphis.  However good Mom's intentions are, she's still in her 80s and not as spry as she once was.  Therefore it was deemed a good idea if Auntie Annie went with her.  Uncle Sardonicus wisely stayed at home, reassuring Auntie Annie that he'd have no trouble being a bachelor for two weeks.  So the two sisters headed South to chez Shotgun, arriving the day before The Girl went for her laparoscopic surgery.  The Girl is now at chez Shotgun, the operation having been proclaimed a success.  Meanwhile, there have been a few complications and adjustments around the house.


Shotgun Bob lives North of Memphis in the middle of no where.  I'd describe it as somewhere East of Hell's Half Acre and North of Jerkwater, but he claims to like it and there are certain attractions.  The closest store is about 30 minutes away, but it's a giant Walmart.  The nearest gas station is about the same distance, although if you go shopping for fuel during normal business hours (9 to 5, M-F) you can pay a higher price and patronize a gas station that's only a 20 minute drive from the house.  There used to be a closer station, but last year it went bankrupt for the third time in five years and no one has stepped up to that plate this year, so there you are - a business opportunity.  Keeping that in mind, there are two things in this world that Auntie Annie cannot do:

1. Organize.  Auntie Annie cannot organize anything, and so one trip to the store is never going to be enough.  She'll need three to do what Mom would do in one single trip, and that does not include the "Oh, shoot!" forehead slapping turn around trips.
2. Drive.  A car, that is.  Auntie Annie is a worse driver than Shotgun Bob, and that's saying something.  Shotgun Bob almost killed both of us some years back by screwing around with a Kleenex box instead of watching where he was going, and as a result he drifted into the oncoming traffic on a two lane blacktop.  I yelled at him, and we're both still alive but I don't think the experience made much of an impression.  Last time California Dave and I were on vacation in Memphis, we watched Shotgun Bob driving his pickup truck ahead of us, and he was drifting all over the road while screwing around with his SatNav device.

I may not have mentioned this, but both Mom and Auntie Annie insist on a neat and tidy home.  Everything must be picked up and put away.  No exceptions.  By contrast, The Girl never lifts a finger around the house.  Possibly Herself is allergic to housework, possibly not.  That leaves Shotgun Bob and Flounder, one of whom has no idea just how to put everything away or why the house should be kept in order.  I'll leave you to guess which person I'm referring to.


Mom tackled the laundry, and by day three Mom feels that the laundry is mostly done.  Auntie Annie tackled the kitchen and cooking, and as a result the rest of the household is faced with a brand new novelty: healthy dinners.  That's one side of the coin.  

On the other side Mom is having to bite her tongue fairly often as her younger sister tries to take charge of everything, thus creating more work and running around than there should be.  Like I said, organization.  So since she's doing the driving, it would follow that the clock is ticking on Auntie Annie, and today I learned that she ran over the weed whacker on her way to the store.


Then I got the topper.  Flounder has been spending her days at the local YWCA and last night it was discovered that Flounder has come down with head lice.  Yep, good old head lice.  They have a lousy foster child. Now think.  Mom and Auntie Annie are WWII kids, and head lice are not a brand new item, oh no they are not.  According to Mom's Grandmother Quaker, the only people who have head lice are those with questionable personal hygiene.  They don't bathe often enough and they come from the wrong side of the tracks.  This is a great truth here, so remember it.


I suppose I could have let the whole thing rest, but I didn't.  I assured Mom that head lice were not particular and that they'd cheerfully settle in with anyone.  Flounder likely picked them up at the YWCA, but modern medicine will eradicate the pestilence in short order.

So imagine old Shotgun Bob coming home after a hard day at the office.  He has a one hour commute through Memphis rush hour traffic and when he gets home he finds that the pickup has a new dent in the fender, the weed whacker is toast, The Girl is tanked up on painkillers and Xanax (prevention of anxiety attacks, you see) and whatever impulse control existed previously is now suppressed, but the pain isn't.  Suppressed, that is.  Flounder has nits.  Dinner is going to be some kind of health food concoction involving plenty of fiber and a dearth of calories and carbohydrates.  And he doesn't dare have a drink, because Mom will give him the stink eye for drinking, and Auntie Annie will say something which he'll have to suck up because he can't find anyone else to look after The Girl and he knows it.

What Shotgun Bob needs is a solid dose of the old two buck buzz.