Things are unfolding here in the most surreal ways....

Dad is Noise Incorporated. He has the tv on at full blast and talks on the phone. Then yells up to me to ask me what I'm doing, if I need anything, if I'm sleeping.

How can anyone sleep with that cacophony?

Mom was an amazing pack rat. But an organized pack rat. I found neatly organized and categorized paid bill stubs dating back at least 30 years ago, and an old subpoena served to my Uncle Joey in 1938. Certificates of Appreciation for work my Mom did at my elementary school and progress reports on me from high school. Pretty shopping bags, old unusued desk calendars, greeting cards from people for the past 50 years (no kidding there).

She used to get mad at me when I saved things. Maybe she didn't want me to be a pack rat. Then again, maybe she was pissed I was encroaching on her space.

I went to Borders Books this afternoon to look for some things. Didn't find them, but had a decaf and a biscotti. Was the worst biscotti I'd ever had.

Dad keeps bending the ears of the same relatives. I'd tell him to keep a journal, but he can't write too well and it would frustrate him quite alot.

My sister looks terrible. She came by today to drop off a deposit slip so my father could transfer money from his account to hers so she could pay her mortgage.

I drove him to the bank to do this.

I remember my sister yelling at me one time because I said I was a size 14. "I'd never admit to being a size 14!" she screamed. She's more than that now.

I told Steady Eddie about the stuff with my sister. She's 58 years old and is still mooching from my father. He couldn't believe that my father would fork over a rather hefty sum to pay her mortgage without blinking an eye. "What does she do with her money?" S.E. asked me.

"I don't know," I sighed "but I *do* know that he's been doing this kind of thing for her since I was a little kid. And you know what, I don't want that for myself. I want to be able to take care of myself and not rely on my father to pay my bills when I'm pushing 60."

Then again, when I'm pushing 60, my Father will probably be dead and gone. And I won't have the luxury of mooching off my father.

I don't really have that luxury now.

I don't know what happened to Mom's jewlery. Perhaps my nephew stole it when he was in the throes of his crack addiction. For that, I could strangle him.

All I want are the old wedding pictures from my mother and my aunts. Strangely, they mean something to me. It's like history. And I want the old hand-crochet edged handkerchiefs. My grandmother made those. I crochet. I think that might be where I got it from...indirectly.

I might get those. And Mom's fur. It fits me.