Bring Out The Dead

Gray. I figured I'd just get it out of the way this time. I know it's what you all come here to find out anyway.
The Rockies are seriously depressing me at the moment. I don't know if life could get any worse.
Anna had to go pick up a job application for this Aging and Community Services position. She had agreed to be there at nine. I'm a loving husband and got up two hours earlier than usual so that I could take her. You girls can all be jealous of Anna for a bit.
As we were walking out the door to leave, Bobbie was randomly pressing buzzer buttons, hoping for someone to let her in. I gladly opened the door for her and then let her into her own apartment as well. I'm the perfect manager. I instinctively know when my tenants are locked out and need my assistance.
In between his cleaning duties, I let Daulton work on a crossword with me. I figured it would be a learning experience for him. I was surprised though, at just how often, when we would get the first letter of a word, he would start throwing out random words, regardless of length, that started with that letter. There were several times when the answers should have been right in front of his eyes, and he seemingly found every way possible to not say them.
I'm currently rocking "Son of the Morning" a la Oh, Sleeper.
I love listening to good music on good headphones.
Anna's father's return to Browns Corner coincides nicely with their need to redo the bathrooms. Tonight he was over there, putting his 30+ years of construction experience to work. Anna's mother had called and told us what was going on, so we said we'd pick up pizza for all of us and come over too. Well when we arrived at the church, we discovered that Anna's mother was not there, and in fact, she was at home with a bad back. So we fed Anna's father and then went to their house and chilled with Anna's mom for a bit. (This would sound so much less clumsy if I could just call Anna's father "Mark" and Anna's mother "Karen." But that just seems so gosh darn disrespectful to me. So you'll have to just keep pardoning the clumsiness.)
And yes, I mean "bring out the dead" not "bring out your dead." I'm not quoting Monty Python here.
Anna loves Daisy.
My right butt cheek itches. I keep scratching it, but it just won't stop. Now that I'm thinking about it, the sensation is crawling up my butt, and I am starting to feel it on my right cheek, my left ear, and my left butt cheek. This is worse than water-boarding.
I'm getting excited for the various hunting seasons coming my way. I need to get out my bow and make sure its still spitting broadheads where I want them. I need to figure out where I'm going to focus my deer hunting efforts, so that I can do some scouting and pick a tree.
I'm having issues with my spelling tonight. You can't tell because I pay attention to that sort of thing, but my fingers aren't exactly at one with the keyboard at the moment.
I don't know that I have much else to say this evening. I grow boring in my old age.
Apartment 112: George
You've heard about George. He is an exceedingly frail old man with a greasy old man comb-over and a cane. He's in his mid-eighties and smokes like a California forest fire. He has had multiple strokes, and they have resulted in a couple unpleasant consequences: he is impossible to understand, and he drools everywhere. He receives all of his meals via "Mom's Meals." They bring him fourteen meals a week, that he gets to choose himself off of a menu. He just has to place his order once a week. Obviously, if I can't understand him in person, no one is going to understand him on the phone. Thus, I place the orders for him. I realize this is terrible of me, but I hate doing this because it requires George to come into the office, lean over the menu and point to each meal he would like to order. As a result, I have a desk covered in drool and a soggy order form. And he reeks of smoke. George has several nurses that visit him each week. One of the nurses comes twice a week or more to help him keep his apartment clean. I've heard horror stories about how it was before she started helping, and it must have been awful because I can't stand to be in there now. My eyes actually burn in the atmosphere of his unit. His nurse that helps him clean is probably 6'2" and has hands bigger than any man's. I'm not exaggerating. Her hands look like they could crush my skull. His other nurses come to make sure he is cleaning himself and taking his medication. Neither of these things is he wont to do. He likes to sneak out of his apartment when he knows they are coming. Only one other resident likes George, and that is only because they spend all day smoking together. Apparently George moved into Booth Manor with his wife. I'm not sure how long they both lived here, but eventually she passed away. As I understand it, it wasn't long after her death that George's "floozies" (this is not my term but is the term the other residents use) started showing up. They seem to come in droves around the first of the month (social security time) and peter out after that. It would seem that one of them for sure has stolen a great deal of money from him, and yet he keeps letting her come back. Other residents have reported these floozies leaving George's apartment with handfuls of electronics and such. Some of them have also been involved in threatening other residents, and I even heard one report that one was walking around outside half naked. I've had to tell the other tenants that they are welcome to call the police on George's ladies. I have no idea where he gets them either.
So yeah, that's George, and I feel like an awful person saying all of this. But it's all true, and I'd be failing you, my readers, if I did not report to you the facts of my employment here.