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It occurs to me that I need to, occasionally, do a daily recap of activities here at Halfasstic Headquarters, (HH), in order for you to realize that the life of a stay at home caregiver provider person for a little old invalid lady in diapers is NOT ALL glamor, ALL the time.
No, really, it’s true.
So far today, I have, well, done nothing of consequence. But that won’t stop me from dragging you, my precious reader, through it, kicking and screaming if need be. Because, that? That is how dedicated I am to YOU.
Yeah. Let’s go with that.
Got up late. I always get up late. Late for what, Krissa? This is what you are asking yourself right now. (Yes, it is.) Late for life in general, gang. That’s how I roll. I stay up till the wee small hours of the morning and read and/or watch the boob tube. This is quite easy to do as I don’t get up until the butt-crack of noon, when H is finally stirring. I know what you’re thinking, (yes, again), and no, I don’t get that much shit done this way. Hence, the household has fallen into a pit of despair and, while I claim to be a genius at work and need it this way to be effective, we all, here at HH know the truth. It is only a matter of time before the health department shuts us down.
But, Krissa! Who will change H’s poopy diapers if that happens?!, you are asking, (with a good deal of alarm and emotion- at least in my leetle head).
I say if the health department peeps are the ones to take us down they’re the ones to take over the care and feeding of H. Yes sir! Sanitary poo! That’s what we all want, right?
It’s looking more and more like I may have figured a way out of this shithole place.
You want proof? It just so happens I provide it. See exhibit A.
Here we have the dishes that need to be washed, dried and put away. Oh, who the heck am I kidding here? Just thrown in the dishwasher.
Heeeeere we go! There’s underwear in that load of clothes! It needs folding and putting away. Along with all the dirty dishtowels, bath towels and and washcloths. Yes, my “hot load” is a hot mess. It’s all fine and dandy sitting there and not hurting anyone, UNTIL, the love bug gets home and can’t find any clean undies. He never actually says the words, “So, what have you been doing all day?”, I mean he IS still living and breathing and all… But I think from time to time, he might actually THINK something along those lines.
OHMIGAWD! I need to dust! If I’d been thinking, (something I am just considering stopping doing altogether… I mean this can only lead to trouble…), I’d have run my finger along the top of the mantle so that you could see better the layer of dirt dust thick enough to plow and plant write in. But I didn’t cause, subconsciously, I know that if I mess it up, it just shows up more.
Go ahead and click here and take a closer look. Baaaaaad. Granted, some of those markings are the pattern on the floor that some person who clearly doesn’t know me or my floors, designed into the tiles to make dirt and grass and leaves and coffee spills not show up as much. BWAHAHAHAHA! I blew their whole plan all to hell didn’t I?
Here we are at HalfAsstic Control Central. Or, better known as HACC. Yes, I realize that pronouncing it phonically ya get HACK. If you think I’m gonna be too proud to admit that at this point in the post you must be HIGH. This area could use some intense cleaning up. The printer at the back of the table was just recently added. Not because I use it, no, noooo. That would make sense! No, because I need to take some damn pictures of it and put it on Craig’s List. But here I am just doodling on the pooter and reading blogs and slinging shit when I get the occasional diaper requiring it.
Here, I’d like for you to take a look at my mad, maaaaad organizational skilz. This is merely the lap drawer of the desk. Trust me, the rest of the drawers aren’t much better. All I did was yank it open, check for any exposed credit cards and take a picture. I swear, no staging… I mean, there is a COTTON BALL IN THE DESK DRAWER. I will never know why…and I’ll be just as happy.
In an effort to get you to feel sorry for me I am providing proof that John is sick. “Whaaaa?”, you say. Oh, yes. It makes perfect sense to me. Let me explain: John has been slowly dying and taking me with him sick for about a week and a half now. He has coughed and coughed and coughed and the neighbors down the street frequently hear me yelling, “Stop coughing! I can’t hear the TV!” I have been taking excellent care of him and with him being a man and all he refuses to go to the doctor and see what that guy has to say. Cause along with the coughing constantly and breathing problems and my assurance that he has a respiratory infection, he has also depleted the last of his brain cells and can no longer make intelligent decisions for himself.
Oh, right. On the table above we have a jar of Vicks, (he seriously thinks this has healing properties), a box of tissues, behind it a bottle of cough syrup and a bottle of some sort of mucus expectorating drug. The hoop earrings and nail file are mine along with the cookbook I was perusing. Although, he could seriously rock those earrings if he just had the holes for them. Totally look like a pirate all swarthy and hawt. UNTIL HE COUGHED AND RUINED IT! Last night he slid down off the mountain of pillows I had him propped up on and started coughing as soon as he was horizontal. It was about three AM. I was busy reading and he interrupted my busy time.
HOW LONG MUST THIS GO ON?
I’ll let you know.