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I didn’t sleep at all last night...

FIL’s attorney weeks ago objected to our annual conservatorship accounting. There’s a receipt requirement that is commonly waived as long as the overall numbers pencil out. But — NNNOOOOO, not THIS year — this bozo wants receipts for EVERYTHING; I’m talking HUNDREDS of transactions, so we’re burning down the barn, here, to pull it together.

I’m a hair’s breadth from releasing the cantankerous old salt to the care of a Private (read “PAID”) conservator who will not put up with ANY of his crap; ergo, NO more internet, NO more VISA card (reloadable cash card, maybe), NO more TV, NO more personal bank accounts, and — if he won’t cool his oppositional jets — a new apartment in the “secured” wing of a care facility, and dialysis transport limited to a SHORT list of pre-approved, paid providers.

I’m NOT married to him; he’s NOT one of my kids; he’s pushing his luck pretending to be as high on my priority list as he acts like he is. If he wasn’t a Veteran with the Purple Hearts to prove he’s actually got a modicum of honor, I’d have washed my family’s hands of him MONTHS ago. Even at that, he’s tap-dancing on my VERY last nerve.

In funny news:
Our bevvy of hens are popular with a few friends who come by for premium eggs on occasion, but the laying has abated somewhat in recent days. One friend phoned the other day asking after a dozen, and I had to tell her we had just 11. She said she’d be happy with just that, and started on her way. I replied that I’d check the coop once more just before she arrived on the possibility that one of the hens would round out the full dozen as she was driving over. Sure enough, there in the coop my little black hen was brooding over an egg. An egg ALMOST — but not quite — the size of a ping-pong ball. Laughing uncontrollably at the irony, I put it in with The Eleven. Our friend was every bit as humored when she arrived and I gave her the “ta-daa” moment revealing her fresh dozen eggs; she thought it was just a riot.

So, just this morning the same hen gifted us with yet another “pebble.”

It’s just my opinion, but I think that little black hen knows more than she’s letting on. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s the ringleader of the labor slow-down. There are rumblings of trade-unionism about the hen house.

The poor dears; such heavy yolks they bear...

Hope you all appreciate my efforts at keeping the sunny side up.