It's been approximately 36 hours since I gained an excuse to get a new table and chairs to replace our nice-but-from-Wal-Mart-five-years-ago solid-wood dinette. It really has served us well, and doesn't look like we had to assemble it ourselves (and that had NOTHING to do with the leg splitting in half and falling off, so don't even start with that). As I was saying, it's been approximately 36 hours, and I'm already antsy to have found a replacement, and I get annoyed when The Perfect One is already sold. Even though I know I'll find another Perfect One soon.
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Yesterday was my dad's 51st birthday. Dad has one brother, Uncle Randy, who is 52. Uncle Randy was born with severe cerebral palsy, and has always lived at home with my grandparents (who I call Paca and Papa).
Paca and Papa called last night to wish Dad a happy birthday and chat for a while—and they had some news. My elderly, retired engineer grandfather recently got a job. He gets $8 an hour for 30 hours a week. No, he didn't go to Wal-Mart to be a greeter because they need the extra money. No, he didn't apply to bag groceries at the store. And he didn't start selling his handmade jewelry boxes at craft fairs.
Papa is getting paid $8 an hour for 30 hours a week to be Uncle Randy's caretaker. This program has been available through a local company for 15 years, and they only just found out about it. He took some training courses—training him how to do something he's been doing for 52 years—who now "employ" him to make his son's Friday nachos, his afternoon iced teas, to drive him to the Y for swimming, to help him shave with his electric razor, to set out his vitamins and medications every morning.
According to my calculations, he's owed $187,200 in back pay. I don't think he'll be asking for it.