The Dow Bones fell 366 today
Right now, Dad is having his daily tantrum over his food bowl, his "on-line Scottrade account." He's in a rage because Mom scheduled a meeting with a contractor at 3:30, which is exactly the time the market on Wall St opens and exactly the time that Dad has his scheduled meltdowns in front of his computer about his investments.
I don't really understand what Dad is doing. Mom tried to explain it to me. It's like he has bones that he piles up with bone companies that lots of other people throw bones into. Sometimes, the pile of bones gets really big and is worth a LOT of bones. And then, usually when Dad has "invested" more bones, the other people take out their bones, out of the pile and the value of the bones goes down for no real reason and Dad has a tantrum.
Today, the contractor is here but it's bad timing because I think we are down a whole bunch of bones. I think the Dow Bones is down over 200 bones and it's still morning in America.
Contractor: (in French to Mom) "So do you want the walls smooth or not? Does he want poured cement with the sink or stone? The cement loses its color so I'm just telling you. I need to know because if he can't make up his mind, I can't make the decision about the electrical work."
Then Mom has to translate everything for Dad, who is running back and forth from the kitchen to the computer in the dining room. The French contractor just had a stroke a few weeks ago so he just wants to go home.
Mom: "You have to make up your mind about what you want up there. I'm out of it. I can't take it anymore. You won't listen to me. If you had listened to me, it would have been gorgeous and DONE by now. Like a beautiful little jewel box slash hotel suite up there."
Dad: "Well maybe I want it to be the way I want it to be, not the way YOU want it to be. It's supposed to be MY office. I might not want it to be in a pink, French candy box and it's not my fault the guy had a stroke and it's taken months. I'll never see that room upstairs anyway. I'll be dead first. "
Then Mom checked her e-mails and while she was reading them, she started yelling again.
Mom: "Oh, my God! I've been submitted for a Fixodent commercial! It says 'must be able to prove I wear dentures' ! My agent doesn't even know I'm out of town and he thinks I can prove I wear dentures?! This is truly the end. I'm competing with the toothless now. My agent doesn't even realize I have teeth, let alone any talent."
Mom has teeth. I see her chewing all kinds of stuff every day.