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When The Place You’re Living At Reminds You Of Sky Dancers
Who needs a three-ring circus, I ask you?
We’ve all seen them. The Sky Dancers. No, not some animated paranormal Saturday morning cartoon. Those big balloon men that are typically ten feet tall and do the wobble dance when the air moves. You typically see them at used car lots and at tax time.
Yeah. That’s what it’s like here.
I’m moving and have already begun packing and shopping. Sky Dancer came and knocked at the bedroom door about a hundred times today. I have no clue what he and my sister are going to do when I move. Sky Dancer doesn’t want any hired help in the house. Especially not to the tune of $26.50 an hour and they aren’t allowed to touch medication.
He thinks he has and can do it all.
Never mind that this morning he couldn’t remember how to turn the dryer on. That two nights ago he took his meds over two hours late because he forgot. Yesterday morning he filled the glass pot for the coffee maker (he doesn’t finish his second cup) and dumped the water into the filter basket of the maker. That’s just in the last 48 hours.
But I’ve put my life on hold long enough. First with Mom, and now with Sky Dancer.
