Matchy-matchy

Finally, tmy eldest little is old enough for us to wear matching t-shirts. I can die happy. This comic is one of my favourites and I love that she smiled hugely when I showed her mine and said 'Oh, I wish I had one! Because it is true: eventually we all die.' 

The shirts arrived yesterday but in the blur of trying get my pops settled and his paperwork filled out, and the kids sorted, I didn't open the package.  Today, I opened it coming into the room after a long day that found me almost in tears: we were supposed to drive down to Cincinnati to the Zoo and Fort Thomas for a sound bath and yoga session with a dear friend tomorrow but all of this is now paused because of Covid. A surrogate grandfather who looked after the Littles on Saturday has tested positive today, so we must do the responsible thing and get tested. 

'I don't want to be responsible!' The Sandman is understandably angry and hurt. Covidity isn't gracious about making herself known, a bit like a New Yorker who dropped in for tea one December and didn't leave until March.  His hurt is heartbreaking but also done with such flair, I try hard not to smile.  The BD handles the disappointment better, possibly helped by the fact that we've found an eatery that doesn't leave us all feeling queasy or overwhelmed with portion size.  Our hotel is a haven but not having a proper kitchen is taking a toll. And I am finding it increasingly harder not to be able to stay in my family home. This house, I want to say goodbye properly, want to do right by it and my tribe. 

My pops was diagnosed with pneumonia yesterday, which is hardly a surprise. He's confused about times in that way that hospitals do but he's also confused about where he is and what is happening. Tonight, he railed at me for 15 minutes because I couldn't get him any gumbo. 'I made gallons of Gumbo, Rachel! What in the hell do you mean there is none left! I just made it with Ellen yesterday.' Ellen is a sibling who died over a decade a go. I shiver, wondering if this is the start of the Dementia that has begun to roost in his mother Betty-Lou. For her, it is 1949 most days, which I suppose is better than the decades that immediately followed.  I take a deep breath. 'Daddy, Ellen's been dead a while now. But I can bring you gumbo on Thursday.  He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. 'I just want some now.'  I don't tell him there is only Salisbury Steak for dinner. It's not a favourite of either one of us. 

Each day I take a little time to do something truly for myself. Today, I was going to get my hair done, a few inches taken off to even out the undercut. Of course, earlier today, I caught sight of it in the mirror and wondered if it was necessary. When the stylist didn't turn up at his salon, I took that as a sign, instead spending quality time with my daughter and friends.  Besides, this way, I can wear it up for 'Dive Bars, Bingo, and Ballgowns,' my $40 evening gown from Feathers in the Oregon District shimmering in its pinkness from the wardrobe. 'We're going to have fun, darlink!' I can hear her whisper. Its the closest thing to a pageant gown that I've worn since...well, since I did pageants in the early 1980s.  It still amazes me how much of an impact that 18 months had on me, being so young.  I do wonder if I would have continued on if I had had a discernible talent, like clog dancing, or vocals. Ballet or carrying a tune in a bucket. Apparently, playing 'Library' and napping aren't really pageant skills, which I still find ridiculous. 

There's a lot I find ridiculous, almost bordering on obscene at the moment, including myself. I vacillate daily about whether being here is the right thing, especially when my dad continues with the denial about my brother's situation. 'You sent him how much money?! Do you think he has a price on his head?'

'Sweet stars alive, Daddy. Do you really think he doesn't have a price on his head? I mean...he was messing around with white supremacist drug dealers. I'm pretty sure they don't love snitches.' I don't want to be cruel but this denial has gone on for so long and I just can't allow it to continue. But it does feel a bit like outing the Easter Bunny.