My grandma calls today to tell me that she has pulled something in her hip and is immobilized at Ye Olde Schnauzer Ranch and requests my presence. I assume this to be because those hairy little bastards wouldn't wait five minutes before turning to her as a delicious alternative to their current dirt-clump style food. Or possibly to keep her company.
So to YOSR I will go post haste. And by post haste I mean Sunday. I just hope there's something left when I get there.
In other news, my Great Grandmother (who recently engaged in a 6 day hunger strike, in which she refused to eat foods that weren't Tillamook Butter Pecan ice cream and consequently spent nearly 2 weeks in the hospital, suffering from anemia and a bad attitude) is apparently getting more action than I am, as the frau we hired to forcibly bathe her (yes, against her will- hence the hunger strike) found a lump in her breast.
Now Great Grandma is insisting on elective surgery to remove the lump (the size of a AA large egg- no I am not kidding) from her breast. Because living with a less smooth and luxurious bosom is more important to her than the possibility of exceeding 95 years of age.
When I declared that I can't believe that we are allowing Great Grandma to alter her knockers for cosmetic purposes my Grandma declared, "Well, they're her boobs."
Thought I, "Well, they'll be completely lumpless, there in her casket."
Now I'm wondering why Great Grandma is nervous about her - no doubt knee-length- breasts having a nice consistency, it isn't like any of the old ladies with whom she boards are gong to be all honk-honk. *I hope.*
Furthermore, I wonder if our professional bather should be paying us. Either this egg-sized lump was easy to find or said frau was offering off the menu services.