It’s been a year of almost pure shit.  I am sick and tired of it and want it over with. It can not come soon enough. And, I know it’s not supposed to make a difference what year it says it is on the calendar. There is absolutely no reason to think that having the year change from aught nine to ten will make any difference in our day to day continuance. I mean why should it. Logically, it won’t make any difference at all.

And yet, it has to.

I know that it was very close to the beginning of this year when things started spiraling downhill. John’s job got a ton more stressful. We had Marital Problems. His health issues. Issues that weren’t even acknowledged to us by his then general practitioner, and we ended up finding out with his stint in the hospital for the better part of October. Yes, October in particular, can bite my ass.

Moving right along…..

Henrietta has decided that Kessa’s boyfriend is the devil. No. Really. She selected him from all the other contenders of people that she see’s day to day sometime in October when John was in the hospital.

It all began with her telling my SIL, who was here taking care of her while I was there with John, that The Boyfriend was a shifty character who was just trying to sleep with Kessa.

Upon John’s and my return she announced to us that my SIL was unable to sleep while she was here one night because The Boyfriend was going in and out the front door all night and he was trying to sleep with Kessa.

Of course the SIL had already alerted us to this latest rant and we were kind of expecting, well, something like this.

I came *this* close to telling her something like, “Henrietta, I know it’s been a long time since you “slept” with anyone, but it’s not accomplished by going in and out the front door of the house.”

I just explained to her that SIL said no such thing and we had talked to her already and she must have misunderstood her.

Soon afterward, she indicated her annoyance with The Boyfriend in more ways to me.  Saying little muttered things under her breath about him being lazy, shiftless and no good. Rolling her eyes at the mention of his name. Said things like, “Oh, you know how that boy is…”

“No, how is he, Henrietta?”

Exasperated sigh, “Krissa, you know how he is!”

“NO! Truly! I do not! What have you got against him?! You’ve been badmouthing him for days and he has done absolutely nothing to deserve it! I stopped just short of telling her that he is just the latest in a long line of victims she has plucked out of thin air to harp on, (including me), and she is just never happy content if she’s not being hateful about someone.

At this point she stopped and told me that while John was in the hospital The Boyfriend threw the telephone at Kessa.

What?

Oh, yes. She was certain of it.  He was standing at the top of the stairs and Kes was standing on the landing and she told him she didn’t want to talk on the phone and she’d call the person back and he THREW the phone at her!

I assured her that this did not transpire and took the story in and was telling John what she said when Kes came home and caught the tail end of it and was amazed that there actually was a tiny grain of truth to another one of her wild tales.

Old Blue was for sale during all this time and we had an ad on Craig’s List.

We were getting calls for it and Kes and Keelan were taking numbers for me to return from the hospital or where ever. Hence, she took the phone upstairs with her to watch a movie. She came back down to make popcorn and The Boyfriend appeared at the top of the stairs and hollered at her that there was a call for the pickup. She said tell them my parents will call back and he said they just wanted to ask some basic questions. So she stepped up onto the landing and he pitched the phone down like we have done a thousand times, except Kes is the worst catcher in the history of people with hands and practically never does anything but break the fall for the phone. (Stairs are carpeted, whew!)

So, as per normal procedure, she drops the phone and then picked it up and talked on it and hung up and that was the end of it.  OR WAS IT?

God, please, PLEASE give Henrietta a more loving, tolerant, accepting soul and fill her with the understanding that there is no one in this house that is pure evil and actually the only evil she has to worry about is what she brings out in me when she gets all bitchy like this… Actually, scratch all that.

God, PLEASE give me a more loving, tolerant, accepting soul…

Amen

Today started out well enough.  I pretty much slept in as long as I wanted.  Was awoken by a loving husband.  (In a loving way.)  Got up and did what had to be done for H., (just some breakfast and running a bit.  Laundry, dishes, etc.).  Relaxed with John while I waited on the inevitable ring of the bell indicating time for the bedpan and ubiquitous poop.  Did that, dressed her, hauled her into the wheelchair and brushed her hair.  John was running errands all over the place.

I sat down at the laptop.  Innocently.  Not knowing what was to come.  I checked emails, and did some reading on some blogs.  Was just sitting there enjoying myself and the little deal popped up asking me if I wanted to UPDATE my:

Safari

iTunes and Quicktime

I unchecked the Safari one and hit OK, or update, or go ahead, or knock yourself out, or whatever it said to continue.

It did.

It promptly told me that my hard drive had crashed and burned.   I wanted to cry.

Fair warning:

If anyone comments or emails me saying I should back everything up I will seek you out and assassinate you!  I KNOW!

The good news?  OK, the hard drive we get to replace the one it came with will be better and faster than the one it came with.

Sorry, that’s about all I could come up with at the last minute.

I am sitting at the desk on the, ahem, other computer.  It is a Vista piece o’ crap and while I really, REALLY want a Mac next, I am thinking it’s not in the budget.

So, shit.  Here I sit.  Wanting to spit?  No, no. NO.  Do not get me started!

I will be running to Fry’s later this evening and doing some pooter repairs when I get back home.  I just wanted everyone to know this was typed on a different keyboard and that’s why it looks different.   heh

It’s midnight on Monday.  Or, actually, I guess I should say Tuesday morning.

I am sure everyone out there realizes that Sunday, May 10 was Mother’s Day.  Well, Saturday, May 9 was my birthday.  I am now 46 years old people.

Stop looking so smug.  I know I’m older than you.

So this is what happens at chez Lopez.  I am waited on hand and foot for my birthday, showered with gifts and treated like a queen.  Taken out to eat and pampered.  Hauled in the loot like you wouldn’t believe.  My family rocks.

THEN! The next day, Mother’s Day, a repeat performance.  For two days I only had to get H on and off the bedpan and diapered.   The SIL even came and stayed with her so we could all go out and eat together.  We didn’t get back until after 10:30pm and Kes got here a few minutes before John and I did.  John and I walked in the door and there was Henrietta sitting in her wheelchair in the living room.

The SIL left as soon as Kes walked in the door ahead of us by maybe three or four minutes.

SHE DIDN’T EVEN PUT HER IN BED!  We fed her before we left, (long before), and SIL just plopped her happy ass down and watched TV and didn’t even put her in bed or give her her pills or change her into a nightgown or change her nappy or anything.  I was pissed.  Not to mention tired after being pampered all day and then overstuffing myself on overpriced Italian food.  That can wear a girl out.

Now.  Down to the really, really serious matter at hand here.  I am looking for someone to sponsor me in a program for an addiction I have acquired this past weekend.  This sponsor wouldn’t need to have the exact same problem as me…  Perhaps someone out there started out just occasionally using, ooooh, I dunno, M&M’s.  Or, has been seen in line at Baskin Robbins a few too many times.

I’m not judging.  But when you find that you have fallen and fallen hard into a life where you have become totally dependent on bon bons to get you through your day, THEN you can judge me.

My bon bon addiction combined with my lack of motivation to move back into my regular life of being taken for granted, used and abused, coupled with the realization that I was making a HAUL on gifts there for a couple of days and like any toddler, DON’T WANT IT TO END, just HAS to be the reason I woke up today with nausea and actually REGURGITATED.  This? is monumental.  I cannot remember the last time I threw up.  I have a cast iron stomach and a similar constitution.  My family looked at me like I might be gonna die.  I must say this was disheartening.  I told them all where to go and crawled back in bed.  I got up long enough to feed H breakfast and she very sweetly insisted on staying in bed today so I wouldn’t have to breathe in her face haul her in and out of the wheelchair and get her dressed and all that shit.

So today, I blew “it” all off again.  Life in general.  No laundry got done.  I didn’t clean the kitchen, I didn’t cook supper.  It was all magically done by the little elves that run around here on magical days like May 9th and Mother’s Day and freaky puke days. Well, the laundry didn’t get done but if I have calculated correctly, at least three of us run out of underwear tomorrow.  (huh…better not be me…)

Next year Mother’s Day and my birthday are one and the same.  This happens every seven years or so.  Not THAT big a deal.  And I know what you’re thinking.  No.  I absolutely do not get shortchanged on gifts on these occasions.  I don’t think I would stand for that if it was ever attempted.  My loves know this.

I have been watching Craig Ferguson as I, er, composed this.  It is now 12:59 and I am about to throw it out to the blogosphere and see if it doesn’t get thrown back in my face.  Regurgitated, if you will.

Remember my plans to take it easy and chill out on Easter Sunday?  Well, I was well into doing that and just hanging out in my nightgown cause, hey, I could.  And John won’t be off work until late.  Henrietta plans on staying in bed and watching a DVD of The Stations of The Cross.  So I am on my hands and knees in my raggedy nightgown, scrubbing the bathroom floor, (around the toilet, no less) flitting around the house in my finest lingerie when what happens?  The *&^%$#! doorbell rings.  I looked out the window and I don’t recognize the car, can’t see the front porch from where I am and so I walk over and snatch the door open because whoever is showing up on Easter UNANNOUNCED deserves to see me like this and smell the bleach emminating from my hands and knees.  (Plus they need to be appreciative of the fact that there is no pee on the floor in my guest bathroom.)

There, followed by her SIX children is Henrietta’s grand-daughter.  The one that shows up once or twice every few years.

She said, “Sorry, I didn’t call, I lost the number.”

Dude, we are LISTED.

“We’re just going to pay a short visit.”

I was not the least bit apologetic about my appearance and the state of things.  I told her H was on the bed pan, which she was and the smell of poop probably snuck in and visited her as soon as I went in and hauled her off of it.

*Why does spell check say “snuck” is not a word?  It most certainly is… English According to Krissa.  Look it up.*

Of course then I had to dress her and put her in the wheel chair and the whole nine yards.

Those six kids must have completed the circuit of living room, breakfast area, kitchen, dining room, foyer, living room, breakfast area, kitchen, dining room, foyer… etc., a milliondy-two times.

Running.

She got here at 3:00.  It is now 3:53.  She is here to see her Mimi, not me.  I am trying to be ensconced in the riffraff room by myself, only “they” keep running in here.

Soon I will scoop out my eyeballs with a spoon.

I can see into my dining room from here and there are children hiding under the table and pulling the tablecloth down to hide themselves.  I have all my bill paying crap all over the table. (Did I mention I wasn’t expecting company?)  An avalanche of paperwork slid off the table and onto the floor.

Kids scattered like cockroaches.

The bathroom door just opened and kids came out.  If there is pee on the floor in there I will hurt someone.

All I was waiting for was H to do the poo thing so I could put in the DVD for her and I could go and take a bath and clean up for John to come home.

It is 4:10 and I just heard her say that they have to get going.

Now?  How ’bout now?  Oh, come on!  Now?

It’s 4:11 now.

I’m not having fun.  Please comment and tell me about your good holiday experience.

OK, half the post is in the title.  Whatever.

Remember this?  Crystal the caregiver provider from hell was all we had and we were pulling out our hair dealing with her the best way we could.  Until I fired her and changed companies because they were understaffed and didn’t have anyone else to fill her spot.

Welcome to my world today.  Where, once again we have the same company, (due to a long list of reasons) and we, somehow, I lost my freakin mind and someone should beat me within an inch of my life ended up with Crystal.  Again.

She was pregnant with twin boys the first time she was “working” for us.  She was in her first trimester and SO incredibly sleepy all the time.  Man, I remember that feeling.  And I sympathized with her.  I really did!  But she spent almost every moment she was here either on her cell phone texting her husband and friends or falling asleep.  Not to mention the main part of the reason I let her go was her penchant for not showing up or being an hour or so late.

Well, surely things will be better this time, right?

Wrong.  She has delivered identical twin boys, and that right there would make me want to slit my throat, but for some reason that has yet to become clear I thought things would be better now that she’s not pregnant anymore.

She showed up here Friday and was a sobbing, soggy mess.  She had obviously been crying hard for a while already.  I had her come in and sit down and spent about 45 minutes talking to her and helping her get her composure.  The VERY LAST THING I needed was her going in and letting on to H about ANYTHING that was upsetting her.

Guess what it was.  Go ahead, guess. Never mind, you never will.  Crystal who has one month old identical twin boys and another 3 year old at home is pregnant again.  She and her husband had been fighting about this latest revelation, though, at that point I don’t really know what there was to fight about.  She said her husband had “forced her out of the car at the entrance to the subdivision”, and she walked the rest of the way to my house.  She had left her phone in the car and he drove off with it.  Yet, somehow she had her charger in her hand and she had thrown it after him as he left.  He drove over it and smashed it.

Yes, here, in my little neighborhood of quiet, mostly older people who all know each other’s names and no one ever even speeds.  people return misdirected mail directly to you at your door.  Along with any escaped dogs.

This is NOT the kind of drama I want or need.

She repeatedly called her house and talked to her SIL over and over and she wouldn’t let her speak to her husband.  She was screaming profanities at Crystal over the phone that I could clearly hear just being in the same room with her.

She managed to get herself pulled together and went in after I made it very clear that she wasn’t to tell H anything about this.

I was going to go over to Lisa’s house, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving at that point so I stayed.

I called the agency today and talked to someone who was very apologetic and they said there will be a new person out tomorrow!

Thank you God.

How to put this…?

Several times in the past few months there has been a little… eh, afternoon delight going on in the HalfAsstic boudoir when, WITH NO WARNING WHATSOEVER, there has been a knock on the door.  Or worse, a rattling of the doorknob.  (Which is always locked because hey, we may be naive enough to think that we can actually get amorous while the others in this house are awake, but we’re not totally storybook-stupid.)  And then there’s always the ubiquitous ringing of the damn bell from Henrietta, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

Aaanywaaaay, over a month ago I told Lisa that we had a Lucy and Ethel mission to go on that would only rate a 1 on the five star Lucy and Ethel Absurdity Scale, yet, it needed to be done.

Nay, it MUST BE DONE.

I could tell that she felt like I might be just wasting her time with a measly one star mission, but, in true BFF fashion she jumped on board.  When I explained the situation and what needed to be done to remedy it there was no question.  Appropriate measures would need to be taken.

My first instinct was to head to the local Motel 6 and just steal one off any old random doorknob.  Lisa would be the “get away driver”.  (Like I said, a dismal 1 on The Scale.)

Before any of this could happen Lisa left on a cruise with a few family members.  Her aunt knew about what I was in need of and though about me while on the ship.  Lisa returned with the very best “I went on vacation and you got stuck here changing shitty diapers and hauling an old lady around gift” ever.  For me anyway.

John went to work this morning at the butt crack of dawn.  He is expected home sometime within the next hour or two.  It’s 8:00PM.  Being a holiday, he has to work twice three times as hard selling flowers and food and crap like that, that people want on holidays.

This is totally unfair to ME.

And that’s what it’s all about, right?  OK, shut up.

Around here holidays are something to fear and loath.  Something that takes away the husband/father and spits him back out, after the date has passed, a used up, hull of a man.  A man who only wants to sleep and get some decent rest.  When he passes out nods off in his comfy chair in the living room and we mess with him because he is totally defenseless and cannot wake up and protect himself say something to him, his response is something to the effect of, “Go clean up the back room and then start reorganizing isle 9.”  This without ever opening his eyes, of course.

And if you ask him questions?  You can even get him to argue with you.  This is one of our girls favorite pastimes.

Daughter: “What do I use to mop up the soda with?”

John, never moving a mussel or cracking an eyelid except to speak: “A MOP!”

Daughters and wife: massive giggles.

Daughter: “Can I go home early, Mr. Lopez?”

John: “No!  Get back on that check stand!  Now there’s a line!”

This can go on and on.

It gets them to snickering and laughing everytime.  And the only thing I feel badly about is the fact that when we are having close, fun, family moments like this… he won’t remember them.  Completely absent.  But at least he is HERE!

Not really.  I was just really trying hard to be clever.  Relax.  It’s passed.

Monday morning, 4 AMish, H rang the bell and I went in to see what was up.  She was having a very bad anxiety attack, with her whole body shaking violently.  She has done this a good many times before so it was easy for me to recognize.  Like always she insisted she was having a heart attack.  (I am assuming she always thinks this because her accelerated heartbeat.)  I assured her it wasn’t a heart attack and went and got her an Ativan.

She ate it and I sat there with her for about 10 to 15 minutes while it took affect and she stopped shaking and went to sleep.

Monday about noon I went in to wake her up and see how she was feeling.  Her speech was slurred and, what I could understand wasn’t quite making sense.  The catheter bag was full of darkish, cloudy urine.  (Though, not the dark pumpkin colored pee from yesterday.)

I called the EMT’s.  (Pay close attention, SSG), They sent out a couple of them and one was entirely too cute.  They gave her the once over and announced that she has a urinary tract infection.

Ya think?

So they hauled her bony butt to hospital and I rode up front and this was about 2:00 PM.  Last night at one in the freakin’ AM, John and I left her there in the ER, because they promised she was about to be put in room 428 and she had finally gotten some antibiotics about midnight.  John was dead on his feet and I was in no mood to be expected to be nice to anyone.  John and I had just had a big, whispered fight in the ER exam room while H dozed off and on and I didn’t want anyone else to have to be admitted. (John)

*side note: whispered fighting is harder than it should be.  Avoid this at all costs in future.*

So there it is.  I will be off to see her here in a little bit when Kes drops me off at the hospital and I will stay until John gets off work at 8:00 or 9:00 tonight.

Here are a few pics of Henrietta, cute EMT/firefighter (BONUS!), oh, and John.

Henrietta’s not too happy to be here.  Must have asked me a million times when she was going to be put in a room.  LIKE I KNEW.

Here she is trying to muster up the strength to flirt  with this cute EMT.  This is NOT something that is beneath her.

And finally, John after being up for the last 20 hours.  Literally.  He’s tired.  And we’re both feeling poopy.  Spell check says I misspelled poopy.  Clearly, they don’t know us.

Don’t forget to go here and do the unconscious mutterings thing to be entered in my giveaway!

This morning long before H was up the nurse called and said she was bringing by some supplies for me and doing a “supervisory visit”.  Well, this is all new to me.  I told her that the other nurse was just out here day before yesterday and they only come about once a month, unless there is something wrong and I call them.  She was surprised and said she was just supposed to bring by some supplies anyway.  I couldn’t imagine what, but told her to come on along.

She showed up in a few minutes and went on in to wake up and see H.  I went about my business and saw no reason to go in as there was no need for me to stand and scream what the nurse was saying at H because the nurse is too lazy to raise her voice and do it herself interpretation.  Sometimes Henrietta is having a particular complaint that she wants to address and so I go in and relay the answers back to her, but not today.  Not that I knew of.

She stayed back there talking to her, taking her vitals and getting information about the frequency, size, shape, color, smell and over all IQ of her stools.  I know this because the neighbors at the end of the street could hear her screaming the questions.  When every last bit of info about the poo, (classified and otherwise), was gathered.  She emerged victorious and held out two plastic bags to me proudly saying, “Here, I brought you supplies.”

Does it make me a bad person that my gut instinct, first response was, “You got booze in there?”

I took the bags and judged by weight and size of the bulges that there were several catheters, a box of latex gloves, and about 3 sterile catheter kits.

The latex gloves were a bit of a surprise and I am guessing the nice lady in the office, Paula had included them for me as that’s not part of the deal.  We are expected to buy our own gloves and I go through a shitload of them.  Hahaha!  Did you see what I did there?  I use the gloves to change shitty diapers and empty bedpans and I said I go through a shitload of them!  Hahahaha!  OK, maybe the shit jokes are a bit dense around here, but so is the shit.  (I bet that nurse didn’t even ask about density….)

Then the nurse leaves and almost immediately Henrietta rings the bell.  I go to see what’s up and am a bit surprised she rang and I hadn’t had time to get her breakfast in to her yet.

“Krissa, I hate to tell you this, but I have a dirty diaper.  That stuff just came out all of the sudden!”

It’s always called “that stuff”.  She has never referred to the poo as anything other than “stuff” once it has happened.

I must admit it helps to think of it this way…

So I assure her that it’s all OK and we set about the business of cleaning it up.  I see fairly soon that the reason she was so unaware of the situation is that it’s very loose.  (Am I getting too graphic, yet?  Cause I don’t mean to be, but really… YOU weren’t here cleaning this old lady’s butt up and changing gloves and swiping her with the required lotion.  SO DON’T JUDGE.)

We got done with that and I brought her the first course.  Oatmeal with a few cut up prunes and a dose of Miralax.

Now I know what you’re thinking.  Why would Krissa give H the Miralax if she just had a U. P. that was loose?

Well, my pretties, it’s like this.  It doesn’t matter what I do.  I’m screwed.

I have tried cutting off the fiber and shit-making producers as soon as there is any kind of disturbance in the digestive-go-about before.  It is all for not.  There would be an Abrupt Poop Stoppage and massive discomfort.

So we don’t do that anymore.  I mean the APS wouldn’t happen until the next day, but it WOULD happen.

Aaaaanywaaaay, I got her all cleaned and lotioned up and she has the rest of her breakfast.  An egg, breakfast sausage and an oven roll with a bit of jelly.   Of course, the U.P. has set her off her game and she prefers to stay in bed for the rest of the day.

Whatever.

A few hours later she rings for me to come in there and she has had another poopy diaper.

Well, shit.  I am just elbow deep in it today.

The day progresses and eventually I bring her in her supper.  (She never eats lunch and considering she doesn’t get up until noon, I can pretty much see why.

Remember she is being sickly today and playing it up big time.  No other complaints other than she is poopy.  Literally.  She wonders aloud numerous times what is the matter with the poops and why “all that stuff just keeps coming out…”.  I clearly have no new answers and have told her repeatedly that it’s OK.  Nothing to worry about.  Same ol’ same ol’…

Well, tonight I took her in the loaded toothbrush, fresh water, her two pills and a napkin and spit bowl.  She told me that when she was coughing during her soup she may have messed up her diaper.

So I peel it all back and there it is.  POOP.  From The Endless Font of Poopage.  AGAIN.

So I changed her again.  And ran like hell.

I want the hell out of here people!  I need a makeover!  WITH NO POOP!  Or even mudpacks, cause I don’t even think I like chocolate anymore due to the color and texture…..

LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO ME YESTERDAY.

I casually, even innocently, strolled to the cabinet that holds the precious black ground up goodness that gets me through the day.  I reached for the container and put it down on the counter, opened it up and…

CUE THE SCARY MUSIC.

This is what I found.  EMPTY. (Note: that word is in italic, bold, caps AND underlined. That is how it sounded in my little caffeine starved head.)

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!  I called John immediately and he dropped the phone cause I was still in screaming mode assured me calmly that he would bring home coffee when he was off work.

It was a very trying day.  I cried when I broke my fingernail and in hindsight that seems a tad dramatic, but at the time, there REALLY WAS NOTHING ELSE TO DO.  My whole day was in capitol letters. The strange little dogs hid from me the whole time.  I choose to think that my not having coffee was…depressing them and they just wanted to hide from… the whole world.  Yeah.  That’s it.

There were headache pills and Henrietta was a pill AND a headache.  I had tea with her and it always does help, but I still needed my coffee!

For once, John’s ridiculously long work day was longer for me than him.  YES IT WAS, JOHN!  Finally he came home and “delivered the goods”.  No.  That is not a sexy euphemism.  He brought the coffee and he KNEW that there was no coming home without it.  As a matter of fact he had to show me the bag of perfectly ground beans before he was allowed through the door.  I snatched the bag and ran to see my best friend the coffee maker.  With trembling hands, (and a silent prayer that John would quit trying to kiss me hello- Don’t make that face! He was getting in my way!), I carefully scooped the grounds right out of the bag into the precious magic machine.  Turned on the water right next to the maker of miracles and stretched out the faucet hose to fill it with water.  With a quivering finger I pushed the “ON” button.  Tears of joy escaped down my face as the tortured day came to an end and the black liquid gold ran into the pot.  Soon I was pouring a cup and blowing frantically/burning my tongue because I couldn’t wait.  I didn’t care.  The best reason to burn my tongue ever.

Today?  Got up, made coffee, ran the dishwasher, read the paper…  You know, same ol’, same ol’…

Free toes, everybody!