So. Brother. Fucked up hip. Temp hip. Fucked up temp hip. New temp hip. Long term care. No insurance. County. Papers. Papers. WHERE ARE THE DAMN PAPERS? Papers. Next hospital. 10 weeks, probably. Close up rented condo. Storage. Uhaul. While I’m in school and oh, by the way, my daughter and my house. And snow. Why snow? Why this year?

So. Other Brother. Lists. Things that need to be taken care of. Can we make a plan? Oh, everything is fine and everything will work out and ponies and roses. Nothing to see here. Let me jet the fuck out of here. I am manly. I sat in the hospital. I talked to a social worker.

Me. What the fuck? Look at all this shit. How dare you? I told you I Needed Help. I told you I couldn’t do this by myself. How dare you? If you’re not here picking shit up, pay.

Other brother’s wife. Fuck no. Oh fuck no. We plan on retiring someday, so fuck yourself. It’s your fault you are poor*. Go suck off the public teat some more.

Me. Whatever. Bye. For good. Don’t let the door knock you over on your way out.

Other brother. I will send you a check.

Me. I don’t want to cause you trouble with your wife.

Other brother. I am sending you a check.

So, here’s the thing. It occurs to me that Other Brother and his wife are terrified, because they did all these things that were supposed to be the Golden Ticket, and now? Sequestration? Maybe the Golden Ticket was plated tin. (I forgot the little bit of irony. While complaining about my living off their tax dollars, they are both public employees. Oh, yeah, baby. But they’re not school teachers, so they’re probably not lazy bums.)

I guess I feel bad about getting angry at them for their absolute lack of noticing that the rest of their family was sliding – no, make that HAD slipped – down the poop chute. I guess I feel bad for them, for having noticed the hands at the edge of the rug waiting to yank it out from under them at this late stage. I think maybe I should say I’m sorry that they are in such danger.

And I don’t know how to combine the two; the condolences, and the “No, I never want to hear anything about you again as long as I live.” Maybe I do know how, now that I’ve talked it out. I’ll put it in with a full accounting of how I spent their money. (But please can I put in some little comment about MY tax dollars? No! Bad girl.)


My smelly valentine.

* The actual quote was that it was my choice to be poor. And that I would have to settle for the taxes she pays. Good fucking grief. I have touched the face of insanity. It burns hot.