The first daze ...

I'm going full throttle on less than all cylinders, and at times I feel like my mom wants me to do more and/or go faster. I simply cannot.

The first day is what I expected, sort of. I scheduled office hours starting first thing Tuesday morning. Of course as I'm rushing to get out of the house I can feel my mom's pull. I had already written her a note and left a spare key out for them. Along with that I had printed a map to the IRS office. Terry had questioned whether my mom knows Bellevue. I replied, "Well, she knows her way to the mall. How do you think she got herself into financial trouble in the first place?" It was a joke in poor taste.

My mom had told me the IRS office was a priority for them, so Al could hopefully get some forgiveness and they could have a little more in their account each month. By noon I sent my mom a text about an appointment I made for us at this 55+ community I wanted to show them. The appointment was for the late afternoon. Plenty of time for them to deal with the IRS. I asked how it was going. At 1:45 p.m. I get a call from my mom. She tells me they haven't left the house yet. I stated that I had understood this was a priority for them. She said it took them a little longer today. They ended up going and I cancelled our appointment.

Al had a meltdown was why they hadn't left the house. He melted down at the IRS office, too. In the end, they didn't so much as lay a hand on him or blow a hair out of place. They advised him of some options, invited him to share with them the losses he incurred so they could offset the gains they're taxing him for.

As soon as they get home, which was before 5:00 p.m., Al says he wants to "suck down some scotch." And so he does. Stand up guy. Truly. My mom then explains how horrible a day it was, that Al was ready to go back to Coeur d'Alene to get all his paperwork to bring back. Now he wants to get his paperwork together?! Yeah, right. Likely another excuse to tuck his tail between his legs and bury his head in the sand. I call bullshit. Though I am told his Granddaughter Britti, who holds a graduate degree in counseling, does in fact believe he is suicidal. That is unfortunate, at the same time this is a person who stopped working at age 54. Now 22 years later his mind may be going. The mind is like a muscle. Without proper exercise it becomes weak. This is a path he has at the very least partially chosen for himself.

Aside from my mom getting emotional about Al's debacle, we had a delicious dinner of homemade turkey and dumplings with Thanksgiving leftovers. Oh, and apparently Al cracked our toilet seat. Not sure how that happened. Wait, this is just day one?