After what-passes-for mature reflection, I considered that there might be an obvious reason Dad didn't get any physical therapy Friday and Saturday. He was out of his pants both days, but in his diaper. Presumably, the idea was to help get the bed sore better. So rather than yell and scream and throw things, I need to get into calm persuasion mode. To wit, again, that he can't poop or pee by himself so he doesn't need to be in the diaper UNLESS he's having PT and only WHILE he's having PT. Also, the best thing for a bed sore is getting out of bed. So this will be my approach. Only if this fails do I start yelling, screaming and throwing things.
Car problems should be finished today. I needed a new master cylinder, new brake lines, a new tire (but they thoughtfully sold me two) and ball joints to go with the alignment. Getting tired of this stuff, I went ahead and popped for Michelins. Hopefully, I can be trouble-free for at least a few months now.
Dreams last night were not so much vivid as thorough. I met a lady from Kazakhstan who wrote a Kazakh cookbook. I read the cookbook, then she shot me. Then it didn't hurt so I decided (correctly, by definition) that I had dreamed it. I don't remember any more but I'm pretty sure it got even weirder. Too. many. detective. novels.
Edit: So much for thinking. They skipped Dad's PT Saturday just because they're fuckups. This. will. stop.
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