I have no idea why a week at Mom’s leaves me lifeless and clueless. And tired. But it does, every time. And every time, it seems to take me longer and longer to recuperate.
Note to self: Don’t get old.
Okay, strike that–don’t get older. Bleh.
It’s not like we do that much, really. As I’ve said before, she can’t do much, but I did manage to get her inside the Beall’s store to do some shopping. Last time I was there, she had marked several things she wanted in various catalogs and asked me to order them for her when I got home. I did manage to get some of it ordered, most of which she had to send back for whatever reason, but I didn’t get everything. The catalogs sifted to the bottom of a pile of stuff I wanted to read “later”–a time which never came–and I completely forgot them. Which is for the best, I reckon. She orders things, tries them on, doesn’t like them, and has to send them back–which often means I have to send them back, but I have to get there to retrieve them first. Anyway, this time, there were no bad fits, no bad color choices, and no returns.
Other than shopping, we went out to eat, a lot, and I came home with five pounds I didn’t go down there with. This is how all that extra weight slipped up on me last time I was in remission. Not gonna let it happen this time. For the most part, I behaved myself in the restaurants, but Mom, who lives on microwave dinners because cooking has proven too dangerous for a woman who’s virtually blind, misses fried foods. That’s what she wants more than silver or gold: fried everything–and bacon. Lots and lots of bacon!
After all these years, we finally got the folks at IHOP to realize that they can indeed sell a pound of fried bacon. The wait staff always looked at us like we were alien beings from a planet far, far away, but now, eh, no biggie. Good.
I read her the opening scenes of The Simulacrum, and she liked it. Before you think she likes everything I do, let me cut you off there. Nuh-uh, she doesn’t either! She used to, but as I’ve talked to her about this business over the years, she’s learned. And has become one of my toughest critics. Somehow that strikes me as inherently unfair. Every author ought to have one person that amps up their egos with praise and adoration. But not me. Everybody’s a critic. At least this one treats me to dinner.
I did drive myself to Bryan this time. Two and a half hours behind the wheel. It wasn’t too long ago I wasn’t strong enough to do it, so I count this as a major milestone on my trek to getting well again.
For some reason I can’t quite pinpoint, visiting Mom tires me out for days afterward. If we fought all the time, I’d understand, but we never fight. If she had a long list of manual labor tasks for me to do, I’d understand, but everything she needs done, she hires someone to help her. Which leaves me with my original conclusion. I’m getting old. All I want to do is sleep, which I combat with pots of java.
Maybe I ought to buy stock in Folgers.