If there’s a hint of a wondrous sunrise I can, with varying enthusiasm, haul my ass out of my warm bed.
When it is dark and cold and I’ve been up a number of times through the night, I have no enthusiasm for rising. At all.
But I live with cats. They rule my existence.
If they see that I do not plan to rise anytime soon, they go downstairs and jump up and down on Grant, who goes to bed way earlier that I (and claims to never sleep a wink anyway).
Men, I guess, are incapable of not making noise.
Especially when attempting to feed 11 cats.
But when the man pops his head in and says “don’t get up, don’t let me disturb you” rattle, crash, and then comes back asking “is Lucy in here?”…I get disturbed.
Maybe there is a purpose for the stick he insisted on purchasing for me. Next time, I’ll whack him with it!
Abandoning the idea of ignoring the clatter, I groaned out of bed and went to find the great resuscitator, tea.
Not that it had a chance to work because then came a barrage of questions:
Do you need anything from Hannafords? Do you need anything from the Post Office? How did you sleep? How’s your head?
When that didn’t provoke any answers, Grant looked up his favourite app on his phone and began playing an animal rescue story, so sad it had him in tears. He’s always telling me to avoid those things and what was I writing about yesterday?
Doesn’t he return from the store with yet another kind of food he thinks I may condescend to eat and the bad news that I still haven’t met my yearly deductible, so the prescription he picked up cost mega bucks.
All of which is irritating to this old grouch.
Then he asks: “So will there be a cut off time, or are you going to be grumpy all day?”
Fact is, I am the sort of person who ought to live alone.
Equally, it’s obvious I am no longer really able to. At least not in the location where I choose to dwell.
In a condo, I could manage perfectly. Assisted Living not necessary, yet. But I would hate going back to being enclosed.
Elbow room. Absence of other dwellings. Proximity to wildlife. These are my requirements.
And cold, gorgeous Winters. Impractical.
So one compromises. I’ve become an expert through the years of my life. I learned from my mother the value of adaptability.
How would I manage out here in the sticks with 11 cats by myself? Especially since Covid 19.
The reason for the stick Grant got me is because my right ankle is somewhat unreliable. I got up one morning and promptly found myself sitting on the nearby chest, conveniently situated to prevent a certain fall. My mistake was telling him.
These things happen so rarely, I am more likely to fall over the stick itself. I know. My mother would say I am “cussed.”
No doubt she would be right. She was too.
Then there’s the food thing: I hate when people try to feed me. I have, after all, kept myself alive for almost 73 years. I count calories obsessively. Always have. And lots of foods don’t agree with my so sensitive stomach.
Grant knows all these things and he scans the freezers searching for new things, to tempt me to try something different. If I was a nice person I would thank him and appreciate his new find.
But I’m a big stinker. Obstinate. Moody. Hyper-sensitive, obsessive and grumpy.
Because my eyesight is a bit dodgy, Grant has also become my driver which is the key to my independence.
So what if he verbally abuses any car that dares to get in front or behind him? Almost every guy I’ve ever passengered with has been a version of the same.
And I admit that while I think all guys are slobs, it’s only because I am a neat freak. (Boy has that been adapted!)
Stinker. Obstinate. Moody. Hyper-sensitive. Obsessive. Grumpy and intolerant.
At JFK, when I worked in load control, we always sat in the same seat and mine actually had a name plate that one of the supervisors had made for me. It said:
Some of the skippers used to call me “Ms Grump”
(There was another name too, but I won’t disclose it.)
After all, it is in my genes. My dad was really grumpy.
Who would live with me?
OK, Grant, you can come up now!