Here we are, again

This has been an, um, interesting morning. Think Chinese proverb "interesting."
A couple of months ago, the Eldest Male Son had the unpleasant experience of having the brakes in his car lock up unexpectedly. This caused the airbags, both steering wheel and passenger dash, to go off. That, in turn, broke the windshield. So...
Up comes the car to The Homestead, where it was parked in the driveway. Giuseppe the Auto Body Guy was duly contacted about replacing the windshield. After much playing of phone tag, it became obvious the Giuseppe was not in the least enthused about yet another Homestead Project.
(With 5 kids we have sent him a lot of business. I think he gets tired of seeing us. And our vehicles.) As a demonstration of Auto Body Guy's total disinterest in the project, he packs up and takes off for Las Vegas for a 3-month sojourn.
Well, great, just great. We have a large, dark colored Cadillac squatting in our driveway. Not to mention the vehicles that normally reside here, a pickup, a Subaru, a Cougar and an r.v. That doesn't leave an excess of parking room. This is a problem.
To further confuse the situation, Giuseppe is not answering messages left on his phone. At all. Nada. Where are we to get a windshield for the Beast? EMS can't afford to pay for a new one which will be well over $600.00. (To be honest, he really can't afford that car, either.) EMS lives 90 miles away, his fiancee is teaching at the university, he is attending classes full-time and has to drive to our Capitol Burgh at least once a month for Guard duty. They have another vehicle which is famous for being persnickety about when, or how far, it will run. The shifter is broken and has a screwdriver jammed in it to activate the gears. The electrical system is a bit iffy. Sometimes it feels like starting, sometimes it doesn't. So, something must be done.
But what?
So begins the fun. EMS call Giuseppe, who doesn't answer, EMS then calls Mom who does answer but doesn't know anything about the situation. Message is then passed on to Himself who doesn't know any more about this than Mom. He calls Giuseppe, who doesn't answer, yet again. Himself tells Mom that he is not the broker in this whole thing and for Mom to tell EMS that he has to handle this himself. Mom calls EMS, delivers the message. EMS protests that Giuseppe is not answering his phone, nor returning calls, and he, EMS, needs to go to the aforementioned Burgh in 2 days for drill.
OK. Well, what now? It's winter in Iowa, fiancee needs to get to class, EMS needs to get to The Burgh, Mom needs the Beast out of the driveway, Himself needs a break, and Giuseppe really, really, needs to answer that damned phone.
Things proceed in this manner for some weeks. Beast is repeatedly de-snow and -iced. Started to make sure things haven't frozen and Giuseppe is still totally and completely Missing In Action. (Did I mention that the Beast can't be driven because the windshield is broken pretty badly?)
After numerous panicky, or infuriated, conversations, Giuseppe the Auto Body Guy calls Himself. Unexpectedly. Out of the proverbial blue.
He's back in the vicinity.
Goody! Progress! The Beast will be repaired and the Homestead will return to it's normal routine of herding cats.
Himself gives the order for Giuseppe to contact whoever it is that has the replacement windshield and find out how much it will set EMS back. The Auto Body Guy, some days later, contacts Himself and tells him that the junkyard has a Caddy, they are hauling it into the shop to warm it up. Things are looking good, indeed! All parties are pleased as punch, including Mom who is receiving some flack from Curly the Insurance Dude about having someone else's car squatting in the driveway all this time.
Some time passes. Giuseppe contacts Himself again to tell him that the windshield will be $75.00. He isn't working with his Old Glass Installer so the installation charge is unknown at this time. That isn't great news. How much is this going to cost, anyway?
Himself delivers the news to Mom, who delivers the news to EMS who promptly responds with words unsuitable for children and sensitive souls. Good thing Mom isn't either of those.
Giuseppe isn't heard from for some time and isn't appearing at the usual haunts so information of any sort is hard to come by. He has also returned to the routine of not answering calls.
More time passes. A call comes from Giuseppe the Guy Who Doesn't Like Phones requesting that the Beast be brought down to the shop to have the windshield installed.
WHAT??? When did it get here? We didn't know it had been ordered! Mom is thinking about sending this news to EMS via a courier service to spare her ears from his inevitable response to this surprise.
Beast goes to shop. Mom emails EMS, thereby proving that she is a total and complete woos.
The Auto Body Guy calls last night, says the car is done and we owe him $140.00. *sigh*
Mom is wondering, yet again, about delivering this news via courier. Or passenger pigeon. Or something.
Saturday morning rolls around. Mom is not happy about making the call to EMS, although it is inevitable that it has to be done. She girds her loins, turns the volume down on the cell phone and makes the call.
EMS is not answering.
Call fiancee.
Mom delivers the news.
"WHAT???" comes the screech.
Mom didn't turn the volume down far enough. The left ear is now deafened. Shift phone to right ear.
Fiancee passes phone to EMS. "WHAT!?!?!?!"
Volume still not low enough.
Mom takes a deep breath, lights a cigarette and passes phone back to left ear.
After some acrimonious discussion about whose particular fault THIS one is, an agreement is made that Mom will pay for the car, bring it back to the Homestead and park the damned thing in the driveway.
OK, well. Fine. (Mom is wondering how long it will take Curly the Insurance Dude to spot it this time.)
Mom receives call from Himself who is working. He didn't take lunch and is starving. Will Mom get him some junk food? Yeah, sure, fine. Glad to be of assistance, dear.
Mom notifies Youngest Male Son that it is necessary to go to Himself's workplace. Mom will return.
While backing out of the driveway, a message is passed to Middle Male Son who is putting the battery back in the Cougar. Or, rather, swearing with a vehemence and fluency that would make a longshoreman blush. The battery refuses to seat properly, it's 15 degrees and MMS must be to work in 15 minutes.
OK, fine, since Mom has to take Stepson to bank she will drop MMS at work, do the bank run, go to rescue Himself's digestive tract, return to town where, she noticed earlier, Giuseppe was at the Body Shop, have The Auto Body Guy drive the Beast to MMS's place of employment and leave the Beast for MMS, Mom will drop Giuseppe back at the shop, go back to the Homestead and have a strong drink.
Sure, that sounds great, doesn't it. Everything went just fine until Mom returns from the Rescue Mission and discovers the Giuseppe has left the premises.
So, yes indeed, here we are. Again.

*yawn*

It is impossible to write anything that makes any sense in this state.

I can write sick, drunk, mad, happy, sad, but I can't write exhausted. It's frustrating when the thought is there but won't translate from the visual in my head to words. Reminds me of taking painting lessons. I could see the picture in my mind but getting it from there to the canvas just wouldn't work.

It's no surprise to anyone who has kids that this should happen. Doesn't matter what age they are because it's one thing or another, even long after they leave home. Just seems like the tired gets more "tiredey," as I get older. Back there in the Paleozoic of my life, I could go 20 hours a day for years straight. Not much choice, really, not then. Maybe my body is getting back at me for all those years. Great, a vengeful body. That would explain the widening of the butt, too.

The teenagers are the tired-makers. Two seventeen year old males are about the limit of what I can handle. If it isn't one of them doing something utterly stupid, it's the other one. They alternate days, an amicable arrangment for them, I would suppose. Doesn't do much for the Old Lady, though. An old friend dropped in yesterday for no particular reason. We sat down at the table and he remarks, "Well, you look better. Have some color in your cheeks." Great. I didn't know I had been looking so bad. Somebody might have told me. "Old girl, you're looking quite raggedy. Might I suggest a week or two in Fiji?"

As a matter of fact, I am tired enough that I am not even cooking anything remotely tasty for supper. Loose meat sandwiches for us, with chips, whatever he can find for the veggie teen. This is sort of an anomalous thing because I know most people would consider loose meat sandwiches to be cooking. Nah. Putting something in a pan, pouring broth over, simmering until done, nah, that isn't real cooking. That's TiredCrankyOldLady night. Sure as hell beats Fend for Yourself, though, even if it isn't real cooking. A person could get real sick of breakfast food in a short time.