Running away

"Don't be upset, there's no cause for alarm" were my mother's opening words to this evening's phone call. She went on to tell me about the spectacle of Gran sneaking out of the house while Cousin Rachael was on guard-duty. It seems my Crazy Aunt had attempted to go to the grocery store without taking the world's biggest toddler in tow, and the saga ended with poor Rach having to call 911 to report Gran missing. Just moments later the Small Town Iowa Police would be fielding another emergency call from some people reporting a crazy, eighty-five year old toddler in their yard. For a woman who seemingly has no memory of her spouse of forty-plus years, her three daughters, her service as a WAVE in WWII, her madcap adventures with her beauty-school best pal following the war, she sure planned one hell of an escape. Just the fact that she waited until Crazy Aunt was off doing the shopping has to count for something. The pod people left behind a mean duplicate. Gran's shell is becoming a giant pain in the ass, though wildly entertaining for all the neighbors.

Today started off weird/bad. Since the flooding happened, the whole town is edgy and weary of the mess, the work, and the confusion. Affected government offices are squeezed into odd places; one office is housed on the top floor of the county museum, another in a bank. The business of life is on hold while entire communities try to rebuild basic necessities like hospitals. I cry every morning as I drive into town, arriving tear-streaked and hiding behind my 'rehab-shades'. This has to be PTSD, which, true to form, I am unable to take medication for. Plotting my own escape hasn't helped either, and today, in a moment of absolute clarity, I had to accept the fact that there is no "out". I can be tracked down anywhere, as I cannot live without my plastic 'money', and vehicle safety standards being what they are, I cannot even be assured of a quick and dirty death. Damnable airbags. So, I, and other small business owners like myself will continue to soldier on. You'll know us when you see us. If the morgue-humor isn't a give-away, the darting eyes and various nervous tics should tip you off.

I'm going to med-up and hit the rack now. Tomorrow Today is a sock class, and I'm hoping to have helpers coming in, except I forgot to call them (dammit, I knew I was forgetting something), so I'll be the idiot blubbing in the corner when it gets too overwhelming. This will all blow over in time, but it'd be so much easier if my telepathy would kick in. Ugh. Latah, knittas.