I’m packing as fast as I can

But before I get to explain the packing, I discovered that if you Google “Kalilily Time,” you get access to 8,240 references to something I wrote here. Holey Moley!! (as we teach my grandson to say instead of what we say when he’s not around). I guess that’s because I’ve been blogging now for three and half years, with only breaks for short vacations. That’s a lot of words. A lot of dissent. I might well be the oldest living, longest/continuously posting blogger in the world. Or maybe not.
I went and Googled myself because I sent an email to an Albany blogger whom I just discovered via b!X. (I don’t know why he keeps track of his former home town bloggers, but there’s a lot I don’t know about that offspring of mine.) Anyway, I figured that since I don’t know any Albany bloggers, I’d send an email — which I did. Then I wondered if that Albany blogger might just Google me to see who the hell I am. Heh. I guess I do get around the blogosphere!
Oh, and the packing. I am the poster child for the Sandwich Generation. On Tuesday, I take my mother downstate to my brother’s, where she will stay for a week while I go to my daughter’s in Massachusetts to help out for a week while she recuperates from surgery. Packing up my mother is like packing up a toddler, only instead of toys, it’s meds. (And toddlers — especially if it’s one’s grandson — are a lot more fun.) Then, before we leave I have to go through..”got your glasses?….got your cane?….got your gloves?….bottle of water?….keys?….. yadayadayada
I also have to set up everything for my cat and make arrangements from a friend to come over and check to make sure that chubby familiar hasn’t freaked out from being totally alone for so long a stretch.
I know that there are women who do all of these things and still hold down jobs. I don’t know how they do it.
I probably couldn’t do it even now without this blog in which to rant, pant, and decant.
Back to packing. After I make supper. Mom doesn’t eat unless I make sure she does.
(Groan. As I write this, I think of my two retired friends now in Myrtle Beach, where it’s a whole lot warmer than Albany’s single digits. Feh!)

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