I just called mom to tell her we are packing up to head to the Farm. Whoa.....while technically nice, her responses were all snippy, snippy, snippy. Translation: she's scared and sad. And the worst part is, there's not a single cotton picking thing I can do about it. By this time next week, she'll be all moved, all settled, and after a transition period, my $ says she's going to love the Plaza. But that transition may be a loo-loo. We ran by last night to take over a bed frame since her new stuff comes this week. Her new headboard comes Monday so I'll either get Brian or Bruce to help me attach it and have it all set up and ready--the adorable slipcover is already there as is the adapter kit. I figured I better get one of those--just in case.
Anyway, when we came in the front door, I immediately fell in love with the handsome, kind, older, funny, gay man at the desk, Frank. He's gonna charm the socks right off of mom and I cannot wait. He was just a wealth of information and is there Friday evenings. I toured Bruce around and showed him the dining room upstairs, the menu's, the calendar of events, and we both concluded, if mom doesn't like it, we're moving in. Case closed.
Wiggles is right here at my feet, moaning, since he already knows we are going to the Farm, and so is he. It only gets worse as we pack the car. They either attach themselves to the window or neither dog will come in the house--even for a last drink of water. Noooooo...they stake out right beside the car, and sometimes underneath it so you can't grab them, to make sure you don't leave without them. We always put their dog bed in last since that really throws them into a frenzy. Sis stands up on her hind legs to "help you" put her in the car. If she could jump that high, she would. Just to keep her in line, we always put the elderly gentleman in first and let him pick his spot before we hoist her--and I do mean hoist.
Happy weekend to all and no telling what I'll have to report on Monday.
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