Visiting Aunt Jean in the Old Folks Home that Smells Like Piss and Is Depressing as Fuck

[This is not Aunt Jean. Aunt Jean is WAY prettier, so don't insult her ass or mine by writing to ask if this photo is of Aunt Jean. Also, Aunt Jean won't participate in ANY art activities, and she gets huffy if you ask her to. Crafts are for children!]

Why do nursing homes always smell like warm piss? Surely they could do something about that smell.

My husband's Aunt Jean is currently an inmate (I use this term intentionally) in an old folk's home near us. Jean's a dear lady, but visiting her gives me the MAJOR SADS. It depresses the fuck out of me (I know this may come as a shock to you motherfuckers, due to my normally cheery disposition. Everybody gets depressed sometimes, people! So if you want to read some Pollyanna bullshit, this may NOT be the post or the blog for you. Go over to Rachel-fucking-Ray's goddamn bullshit Web site, if you want chipper.)

It's always WAY TOO FUCKING HOT in the nursing home, and the old women and old men are usually wearing wool cardigan sweaters. WTF?

In the home, there are a variety of futile activities to try and cheer the oldies up and to keep their brains functioning, such as crafts and sing-alongs on the piano in the dining room. The piano player in the home sucks REALLY BAD. I'm guessing that he is a volunteer because nobody would pay to hear that shit. I wouldn't be able to digest my damn food with that fucker plonking around. Sometimes, they put little pointy party hats on the pensioners in the dining hall to try and make shit festive, but it's futile as fuck. [Aunt Jean refuses to wear a hat! She is a damn rebel! It makes me proud.]

Once in awhile, when Mr. SB and I are visiting Aunt Jean, one of the old loonies smells young blood, and plods over in her wheelchair (always shuffling in the wheelchair by walking her feet out in front of the chair, rather than using her damn claws to propel the wheels forward--I don't get that shit--this takes too much damn time--I feel like screaming at her--YOU'RE NEARLY AT DEATH'S DOOR--USE YOUR GODDAMN HANDS--GET YOUR ASS MOVING--but I don't, because it wouldn't be polite to take that tone with an elder).

Anyhoo, this one particular old fucker always starts showing off when we're there and telling poor Aunt Jean stuff like she just got back from a five-star breakfast at the Hilton with her rich son, Ted. This old loon is batshit crazy, and Aunt Jean just ignores the old whore and rolls her eyes a lot and then asks us if we will wheel her back to her room, which I think is the polite way to handle it.

The other day when we visited, Aunt Jean had the SADS, and she wanted to go home (I can't say as I blame her with the piano playing and all!). Jean told me that she felt bad and that nobody believed her. [I have that kind of face and people are always thinking I'm interested in their complaints and I'm really not.] Anyhoo, I told Aunt Jean that I believed her. If you feel bad, you feel bad. You ought to know, Aunt Jean. I believe you, I said. I think Aunt Jean needs to be on some MAJOR-LEAGUE antidepressants.

I've tried suggesting that Aunt Jean pass the time by dating one of her table mates in the dining hall. I pointed out that the one guy has a lot of hair and what appears to be his original teeth. Aunt Jean is widowed, but she won't go for it. I guess no one compares to Uncle Kenny.

I'm going to blow my brains out if I ever have to go to the nursing home. It's really horrible there, and to top it off, some of the inmates yell continually. I would seriously have to throttle the screamers. My nerves can't take that shit.

The only good part of visiting the home is that one batshit pensioner keeps mistaking me for Nicole Kidman and asking for my autograph. When I sign With Love, Nicole Kidman, I make that bitch's day. [And don't ask me if I look like Nicole Kidman, either. I look about as much like Nicole Kidman as a cat's asshole. It was wonderful dancing with Hugh Jackman, though.]