The culmination of three days worth of REMOTE, or bloggings from my car. This kicks off The Harriet Chronicles.

I wasn't gonna write today. I don't when she comes to pick up her daughter. Normally, we get there the same time, and I go hop in her Durango, and we talk. Well. She talks, mostly. So funny, when I hop into her car, or go to her house, it's like I may as well check my personality at the door. It's all about her, baby. I'm an accessory in her world, just like everyone else.

She thrives on drama in such a way, it's difficult to put into words.

Her husband is a mild alcoholic. He's not a roaring drunk. He's not abusive. The kids have never seen him drunk, that I know of. I know he had a real problem before they were together, and early in the marriage. I would rank him a 4, on a scale of 1-10. So, once in a blue moon, he'll dissapear and have a few at a bar. He's so afraid ("he better be afraid, goddammit, he knows I'll kill him", she says) to come home with it on his breath, he stays overnight at a buddy's house or something. Like I said, guy's got a problem, but he's not abusive (she is...)

The Harriet Protocol, for the situation is as follows: She calls him the moment he gets off of work, and confirms that he's on his way home. She knows it takes him X amount of time to get home. If he doesn't get home in just that amount of time, all hell breaks loose. She gets on the horn to all her drama-enabler friends, and the network then calls every bar and cab company within a 50 mile radius. She hunts him down ("like the dog that he is", she says) confronts him wherever, and proceeds to make a HUGE FUCKING SCENE, wherever they are, then drags him home, literally.

Normally, it's over with in 45 minutes. Like some kind of fucked up well rehearsed play.

Then, she gets BACK on the phone, with all her lame friends, and she's all fucked up about how much her marriage sucks, how her life is in the toilet, general man bashing, and how she "simply can't take this anymore". She floats around in this hazy funk, sighing, and moaning, and taking off of work "oh, this stress, I can't deal with it". You can't even get near her, without getting blown over by all the sighing. Till recently, it was shower, rinse, repeat, about once every two weeks.

Ok, this is the second day I'm working on this. The Harriet Chronicles. The irony is, if she knew her name was on a site somewhere, and people were talking, she'd be thrilled. Anyway, she thrives on this brand of drama and martyrdom. It would be sickening, but, my own life is drama-free by comparison, so this is all rather amusing.

Third day's the charm, maybe? I had to quit yesterday, because she materialized at my car door. Good thing I'm scribbling this, otherwise she may have been able to decipher it over my shoulder.

On with the story: Monday morning she shows up in the AM all distraught. Her Aunt Sis (whom they live with) had been rushed to the ER the night before. Chest pains. That's scary. She's 74 years old. I'm genuinely concerned, here, she's a good woman. "Keep me posted, please"

Tuesday comes, and from the moment I see her, she's going on and on and on about some work bullshit. I had to stop her mid deluge, to inquire about Sis. *blank stare* It took her a minute. "Oh. OH! Yeah. Pneumonia. Yeah, she was admitted last night." Right back about how this guy at work is a dick. Pneumonia is scary, in old people, poor Sis. My Aunt Mary died from complications of it, around that same age. I told her that, and she was like "Yah, Sis has had it before, no biggie."

No biggie.