Steal a Wheelchair?

"Steal a wheelchair?" I asked stupidly, wondering if the word 'steal' or the word 'wheelchair' was more alien to my thought process, but red-hot anger bubbled up from within me, and I truly wanted to slap this cute little pissant. I'm the first one to tell a complete stranger how nice they look, and while this young snip of a girl was lovely on the outside, oh honey, what a witch from within. "Pretty is as pretty does," I wanted to yell at her, like the grandmother I am.

"We don't take Medicaid," she'd hissed at me, like I was trashy for even needing it. Gummint assistance. Well, you little farty upstart, I can't take on thirty something children without Medicaid, eight of mine didn't have it, but the rest qualified when they came out of foster care, but that wasn't the point. I sure wasn't telling this witch my business. I stalked off before I said something I'd have to apologize for later.

Sabrina was in agony during this exchange, and the lady had suggested I drag my injured kid back out the door, but since the wheelchair was worth hundreds, she must've felt the need to mention, "Don't run off with it," as fair warning.

Really? Do you have a lot of retired librarians wanting to do that in your place of business?

There are times, thankfully, that the not very dependable brake on my mouth works. Paloma's eyes had bugged out dangerously in response to this conversation, and Sabrina's face was a sludge of running mascara, red eyes, and her very pretty face contorted by pain.

We stormed out, a huge redneck man clicking his teeth in sympathetic response to my plight, no doubt wanting to talk about managed health care and the ruination of our country.

"We need $200 up front to even see a Medicaid patient," I was imperiously told.

This was my second ER trip of the day, the first being early that morning, when I'd accompanied a grown kid taking their child in for getting ahold of the codeine cough syrup, easily snapping the child proof lid, but fortunately not ingesting enough to even make the child sleepy, a no harm done moment, that took nearly five hours in the ER, and gave me an excuse to make a Planet Smoothie run for us. They have an energy mongo smoothie with some 44 grams of protein that I often desperately need after climbing the figurative mountains of this life each day.

My cell phone blasting, "Where are you going, Mom?" in an accusatory manner, as if he'd caught me red-handed running away. "Don't you even look at cars that've passed you?" Big Joe asked me incredulously, since I'd not waved to him. Honey, there's way more than enough entertainment cavorting in my head without me adding another layer of observations.

Sabrina had jumped off the trampoline, landed wrong, and gone down in a heap, screaming on the ground in agony, Mae Mae frozen in fear and shock, what's a two year old to do?

Mayra's large football boyfriend relieved a struggling-under-the-weight Chuy who was valiantly trying to carry Sabirna, his older sister, to the van, Grandma suggesting we call 911, which takes a long time out here, and Tabby skittering around, crying and wailing at Yolie, "Will I ever see her again?" illustrating why Sabrina is called Memaw, and yet another example in a traumatized family, of how tenuous one's emotional hold might be, even on a good day, even after five years of stability.

Another three hours, thank God no break in the bone, soccer evals underway at that moment, Yolie babysitting, Grandma taking and picking up kids from various venues, it's a severe sprain, but Sabrina should be good to go within a few weeks, certainly before the games start, she's very athletic and missing some practices won't hold her back much, leveling the playing field, if anything.

Celebrating the advent of soccer season, JoJo bopped out of the house this morning in a bright red soccer outfit, and a garish purple party hat strapped on his head, left over from Isaiah's first birthday event, oblivious to the fact that it looks like a dunce cap on his head, always the clown.

In the ensuing few free minutes I had between emergencies, I did get bills paid, our strict budget adjusted for the month, paperwork done, and I'd finished yet another of Sarah's superb books, swapping out this month, she's immersed in farming books while I'm reading her foodie choices, loving it totally. But, oh my goodness, Sarah read this article on Bromated flour, thank you Pepperidge Farms for going against the public tide.

A reader, Laura in Seattle, recently suggesting we'd have been great back fence neighbors sharing common interests, especially in the discoveries and publications of this Doctor Mercola. Yes, we would have wonderful conversations, but you might've tired of the racket coming from my side of the fence, or of my sons peeing outside, or of the ignoble view of my rear end bent over in the gardens constantly, while also foolishly dancing to my Ipod, not a pretty sight at my age, reason #786 that I love solitary country life, the freedom to act as stupid as I wanna act.

But Laura, you're closer to my amazing son Daniel, right now than I am, me way over here on the east coast, fretting because he's not in the next county over, but instead on a military installation out there, taking a computer class for several weeks.

I'm having to write a victim impact statement regarding the incident last summer when a mentally ill grown one threatened to shoot out my family room windows, not giving a crap about who else he could potentially injure. "Well I'm kinda afraid of retaliation," I'd told the D.A.'s office, who reassured me that inmates were monitored, a good group of snitches housed alongside him, again, as always, our county with its better class of criminals?

I've finally saved up cash on demand, heck no I'm not paying interest to you, to have our new alarm system installed, including a medical monitor for my dad, who's pooh-poohing any birthday celebration plans for his 80th, this nut (me) didn't fall far from that oak tree either, bored with celebratory stuff, when we (I) could be gardening.

I'd balked at giving them my social security number or even pre-dated checks. "You don't TRUST your security folks?" the man had hollered at me incredulously. Oh Honey, I have issues, trust issues, I wanted to tell him, but I just shook my head in a paranoid fashion, like I care what this guy thinks about me?