“They ratted ‘em out!” Mom yelled from the living room.
I looked over at Bill, who was busy designing user interface screens for our current project. “Ratted them out?” I whispered.
He shrugged and replied, “You better go check or she’ll come looking for you and by the time she gets here she’ll forget what she wanted to say.”
“Okay,” I sighed as I stood and started making my way toward the other end of the house.
“Who ratted out who?” I asked as I came into the living room.
“All three of them,” she exclaimed. “I just heard it on the radio.”
“Mom, you don’t have a radio in here,” I commented drily. “Do you mean you saw it on the TV?”
“No, I heard it. It must have been on the radio in the other house.”
“You don’t have another… Oh, never mine. So, who ratted out who?”
“I told you, the three of them. They all got ratted out.”
“What three. Are you talking about Trump and Hillary?”
“Yes, and the other one.”
“No, not him. I don’t know who that is. The other one trying to get elected.”
“Elected to President or some other office?”
“No, not an office. To President.”
Well, Mom, there’s only Hillary, the Donald, and Gary Johnson,” I explained.
“Not a Johnson. It was Hillary and Trump and the other one. That’s who got ratted on.”
“And what was the ratting about?”
“I don’t remember, but it was pretty good,” she said with a grin. “I just know I’m voting for the other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“The one they aren’t ratting on.”
“No, I told you, I don’t know who that is.”
“Don’t worry, neither does anyone else,” I replied. “But I still don’t know who you’re talking about. All that’s left is Trump and Clinton. There isn’t anyone else.”
“Are you sure,” she asked, squinting her eyes and looking at me suspiciously.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I concluded, turning to leave.
“Well that’s a pretty crappy choice.”
“Yup, pretty much,” I said, as I started back down the hall. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“I think you’re wrong and I’m voting for the other guy!” she called after me.
“Okay, Mom, you do that. An imaginary guy couldn’t be much worse.”
After cleaning the house on Sunday, I was in the shower and Bill was patiently waiting his turn while he sat in the office playing Solitaire on his computer.
As I lathered up, I thought I heard the distinctive sound of the Red Menace coming out of Mom’s bedroom, which meant she was up from her first nap of the day. I quickly rinsed off as I listened to her motoring down the hall toward the living room and, I presumed, into the Arizona room where I knew she’d be looking for me.
I squirted out a blob of shampoo and prepared to wash my hair, but stopped when I heard her returning up the hall. I mentally braced myself, waiting for her to bump the door open to see if I was in the bathroom, but instead she stopped just short of the bathroom at the office door.
“Where are the women?” I heard her say to Bill.
“Women? What women?” he responded.
“You know, the women. Where’d they go?”
“I don’t know,” he stuttered. “In the bathroom maybe?”
“What in the world would they both be doing in there?” she asked sharply.
“Taking a shower?” he offered lamely.
“Well that’s just not right,” she huffed. “I never took a shower with Shirley in my whole life and she’s my sister. That’s just not right.”
“Okay then,” he replied, still sounding somewhat befuddled, “if they’re not in the bathroom, I don’t know where they are.”
This was met with an abrupt harrumph, followed quickly by her rolling away, back down the hall toward the living room once again. Thinking that was the end of it, I quickly shampooed my hair, rinsed and turned off the water.
And then I heard the Red Menace returning up the hall.
“Crap,” I muttered to myself. I grabbed my bath towel, wrapped it snuggly around myself and stepped out of the shower onto the bath rug just as she slammed into the door with the wheelchair. I stepped quickly out of the way as the door stop slammed into the wall and the door ricocheted back toward the door frame.
“Oh, there you are,” she said brightly, ignoring the paint chips that snowed off the front of the door onto the floor as she backed up. “I was just coming to tell him that you and Bill went for a walk.”
“Him?” I asked, wiping water out of my eyes.
“You know, him, in there,” she said, indicating the office with a left jerk of her head. “Anyway, never mind, I guess you didn’t go.”
“Nope. Just trying to take a shower,” I sighed.
“Okay then, I guess I’m going to lay down for a while,” she replied.
“Didn’t you just get up?”
“Yes, but I was just resting my eyes. This time I’ll probably rest more than that.” And with that she performed a perfect U-turn, then hung a left into her bedroom just as Bill poked his head out of the office doorway.
“Is it safe to get in the shower,” he whispered.
“I guess it is, as long as Shirley isn’t in there with you,” I laughed.
I was showing Mom a couple of choices of frozen meals for dinner: oven-roasted turkey with red mashed potatoes or Angel Hair Pasta Prima Vera. “Do either one of these trip your trigger?” I asked after, what seemed like, two or three minutes of her staring at the labels.
“I’m just not sure,” she said, switching her attention back and forth between the two boxes.
“Mom, my fingers are starting to go numb,” I commented, trying to evoke a decision. “So if you don’t like either of these, I’ll go get a couple more out of the freezer.”
“Well, I’m just not sure. I’m not too crazy about the mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, and why don’t you like mashed potatoes anymore?”
“Because they taste too potatoey.”
“Okey dokey, that make absolutely no sense. But what about the Angel Hair pasta?”
“I really don’t think I’d like it very much.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because I don’t imagine food made out of some kind of hair would be very good. Angle hair? What is that, some kind of cat?
“It’s pasta, Mom. It’s made out of flour and water and salt, not cat hair! And its angel not angle.”
“Whatever. Besides, that’s like the food they make out of old thread. That’s probably pretty bad too.”
“Old thread? What on earth are you talking about?”
“You know, that stuff in Chinese food. Sewing beans. I swear to God, they’ll eat anything.”
“They? Do you mean Chinese people?”
“No, not them. Those hippies that like to eat with shop sticks because they think they can. But all they do is spill rice and sewing beans all over the tablecloth.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked in frustration as I shifted my grip on the boxes to avoid frostbite. “What hippies?”
“The ones on the TV this morning on some show. They were talking about healthy food and stuff and eating with shop sticks. They looked like idiots.”
“Okay then,” I sighed, trying to get the dinner planning back on track. “I’ll get a couple more meals for you to look at. But, just so you know, Angel Hair pasta isn’t made out of hair. It’s regular pasta but really thin, you know, kind of like hair.”
“Oh, well that makes more sense I guess. I’ll try that one but I think they should change the name to something better. Maybe Not Hairy Pasta.”
“I’ll pass that on to the Lean Cuisine people next time I see them,” I called over my shoulder as I escaped back into the kitchen.
“Is that a duck on the wire out there?” Mom asked from the dining room.
I looked across the couch at Bill, who gave me a sideways glance, shrugged and attempted to go back to his Kindle.
“Duck?” I whispered.
“Yup,” Bill whispered back, his eyes never leaving the book he was reading. “On a wire.”
“What duck?” I called out as I slowly peeled myself off the couch and stood up.
“The one out back sitting on the wire holding up the tree.”
I walked out of the Arizona Room into the dining room and stood next to her where she sat, gazing out the window. “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What wire holding up which tree?”
“The one over there,” she said, pointing toward the street. “There’s a duck sitting on the wire.”
I looked across the yard at one of our Palo Verde trees, which was propped up to prevent it from listing too much toward our neighbor’s yard. A bird was perched along the wire that held the tree to a five-foot metal stake.
“It’s a dove,” I said.
“It’s too big for a dove,” Mom argued. “I think it’s a duck.”
“Mom, I don’t think a duck could sit on a wire. They have webbed feet.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well then it might be a goose.”
“More webbed feet.”
“How about a…”
“It’s a dove,” I interrupted. “A big old fat male dove. If we get any ducks in the yard, they’ll probably be in the birdbath.”
“Oh, okay. Well if I see any swimming there, I’ll let you know.”
We’re finally getting some overdue monsoon activity. The first big storm hit the last week of July and included thunder, lightning, blowing dust, rain, the whole works. It hit well east of Sun City first, then build up steam as it moved west before it finally landed over our house about 8:00, which also coincides with Mom’s bedtime.
Right about the time she got settled into bed, thunder rolled overhead and lightning lit up the backyard. Just as the television picture broke into a thousand digital pieces when rain clouds briefly blocked the satellite signal in the southwestern sky, I heard the click, click, click of the Red Menace’s joystick being engaged and a minute later Mom was parked in the Arizona Room doorway.
“There’s feet up there,” she exclaimed over another rumble of thunder. “They’re making too much noise.”
“Mom, it’s thunder, not feet,” I replied. “There’s a storm moving in.”
“Well that may be, but the people upstairs are still making too much noise,” she countered, pointing toward the ceiling. “Bill needs to tell them to settle down.”
Bill glanced over at me with a confused look on his face. “Upstairs?” he whispered. “People?”
“It’s a storm, Mom,” I replied with a sigh. “We’re finally going to get some rain. There is no upstairs, just the attic and it’s got to be 150 degrees up there.”
“I know that,” she responded defensively. “But it’s still feet. Feet in the attic. And it’s loud.” And with that, she turned abruptly and motored away.
“Does she think we have people living in the attic?” Bill asked as she rolled through the living room on her way back to bed.
“Not people,” she called out. “Rats. Big roof rats.”
“We don’t have roof rats,” I hollered after her. “It’s THUNDER!”
“Rat!” came her retort from the hallway. “With big FEET!”