Not Again

I really think my grandmother is crazy. I mean, I used to just think she was ambitious. Ambition is admirable. However, the trail of incomplete business plans that have been following her since before the time I began collecting memories, tell me otherwise. This woman has always been selling something. Avon, Mary Kay, Tupperware, Princess House, Watkins, Cookie Lee - it can all be found in her possession. Inventory past handed out at Christmas time, direct selling opportunities revisited time and time again.

On my last visit to her house, I tried really hard to convince myself that the Tupperware boxes in her livingroom were old finds from storage, up until the moment she placed a catalog in my hand. I'm thinking, "what in THEE hell am "I" gonna do with this?" I mean, HELLO! I'm homeless! That means that I wont be stocking a kitchen anytime soon. But that's always the experience at grandma's house. There are very little relaxed visits, and a whole lotta business, business, business! She'll start a business and expect it to take off with minimal physical investment, and when it doesn't she's on to the next "job". I can't even keep up, nor do I want to. I think this is why I have such a hard time pushing my wares. I don't want to be a pusher. I don't wanna be that person that you dread coming in your direction because you know they will try to make you buy something. Up until the time I opened my shop, I had a hard time even asking people to pay me for my handiwork!

I'm glad that I found the confidence to see what I make as valuable enough for monetary gain, and that I have a better business sense than she does, in the way that I know that in order for any business to "take off", there will be a lot of work involved. Work that YOU will have to do yourself.

Now Taking Applications for the Mental Breakdown Club

Photo Credit

Maybe it'll be a win-win, because, you know, most of the greats were/are mentally disturbed in some form or another...

I've always said that, if I could have chosen my mental illness, I would have chosen to be either bi-polar or schizophrenic. No, really. Once you're able to recognize your manic states and decipher the who's who of the voices in your head and the friends in your circle, productivity and creativity take the forefront. Very few productive or creative moments are bore from depression, and those that are aren't necessarily arrived at organically, but rather dug from deep within. Deep rooted expressions of pain are painfully beautiful. Unfortunately, mental breakdowns are not.

Somewhere Between Indio and Los Angeles

Is my granddad. Broke down on the side of the road. After repairing two blown out tires, his truck has now overheated. The radiator is completely dry. There isn't a service station in sight, and I am assuming that no other travelers have stopped to assist. His only link to rescue has been grandma and I, over the phone and through the net. We've relayed information for a tow service that will cost him $350. Much more than a single plane ticket for a little old man don't you think? Oh, and did I mention that the $350 doesn't include fixing his busted radiator, that's just the cost of traveling an hour out of their way to bring him an hour closer to home. He wont be joining us tonight for dinner like we thought. Instead, we'll be waiting, wondering and worrying. You know, the usual.

See, you can NOT teach an old dog new tricks!

Old Dogs and New Tricks

I would think that, if one has spent the last few weeks in physical therapy, recovering from a stroke, and has a blood clot on one's brain, one would not actually consider making a 2,124 mile drive. Alone.

I would think that, if one insisted on spending a day and a half in a car, that one would allow one's wife to catch a plane and come a do all of the driving, or at least be able to lend an extra pair of eyes to the road.

I would think that, if one had a blood clot on one's brain, that one might want to have it surgically removed. That possibly, one would want to exhaust all possibilities toward staying alive. That one could swallow one's pride long enough to fight harder to stick around to see one's 9 year old son grown up.

Maybe if one was younger, and healthier, and in less pain, one would have the energy to make such investments in one's self. But because one is a lot older, cancer, diabetes and now stroke ridden, it is more comforting to live out the rest of one's days in the ways that one chooses. On one's own land perchance. Tilling, and planting, and harvesting, solely for the greater good of one's family. Or, in one's Nevada bedroom, in the arms of one's beloved...

And I worry about her. When something happens to him for which there will be no more recovery. What will happen to her?