Mark's stepmother is 84 years old. Her sister is 80. They appear to be sweet little old ladies, what the British call "old dears", until they start talking. They bicker about everything. They argue about who will put the bread into the toaster. They argue over whether the toast should have marmalade. They argue about who will make the tea. They argue about what shoes and coats should be worn on any given day. They argue about moving chairs from one room to another. They argue about what time to leave for the hospital. Once they are there, they argue about what time to go home. I even heard them argue about a card game that took place decades earlier.
One couldn't compliment the other without an argument breaking out.
"I hope I'm as strong as you are when I'm your age."
"I don't know why you say that. I'm not a strong person at all."
"I think you are. I think you're a very strong person."
"I'm not...I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
And on it went. I wanted to bang my head against the wall. At least they're not lonely or lacking conversation.
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