Archive for the ‘ crazy shit ’ Category

First off, I actually did repaint both bathrooms. OK, right that only took a couple of days and Mither was down here helping. BUT, both bathrooms were in such disrepair I had to house a lot of peace corps people in order to carry out the make over. Yeah. That’ll be a good deal of my excuse right there. Cause I couldn’t just kick them out as soon as they painted my bathrooms! I mean what kind of jerk would do that? They were going to deploy to…. Bosnia in a week, so I let all of them hang here until time to leave.

How many? Oh.

Uuuuh, lets say 30. Yeah, that sounds good.

Are you having a hard time swallowing this?

What I need here is a touch of evidence. Here are some bathroom pics!

Behold, BEFORE! Go ahead, click on it and make it BIG!

Master bathroom 80's wallpaper BEFORE the paint job. NOW you see why The Peace Corps was needed.


Now stop that! I know you can control your gag reflex better than that! You’re being a sissy! Only a few of those Peace Corps folks tossed their cookies. And there were 45 of them staying here, remember!

Allrightythen, moving right along. I’m guessing you are  now wanting some eye relief. Let’s try showing some improvement, but not quite done.

This is the loverly Kessa. She was a tad upset with me cause she didn't have any make up on. I know... I can be decked out to the nines and sporting a tiara and not come close to looking like that.

SEE! Isn’t it a beautiful shade of blue/teal or whatever it is? Talk about “lighten and brighten”! That’s what we did!

Here's the mess aaaaall over the counter. There is so much mess you probably can't even see the Peace Corps workers in there doing their thing.

Here's Mither bent over painting the wall behind the counter. I realize you can't see that much of her, (go with me, here), but she's peeking out between that bucket of joint compound and blue plastic cup of paint.

Here's a close up of my new shower curtain. I got it for six bucks at a garage sale and so the bathroom color was picked around it. SCORE!

This is a really great shot except that the paint is so totally NOT that color. I really did have a hard time getting pics that represent the shade of blue/aqua/turquoise/greenishblue...

See what I mean? The paint in the potty room is the exact same as the paint in the rest of the bathroom. However, I can point out here that the far wall in the potty room does look more like the actual color. I don't know why it makes it such a baby blue in the foreground.


Here we are, still needing bath mats down and towels, but doesn’t it look fresh? You have no idea how much brighter it is in there!

Doesn't this long piece of ribbon look pretty with my shower curtain? I wish I could figure out something to do with it in here.

It's hard to stand where I can get a good shot. Here is a look at the mirrored side, so you can see the reflection of the other.

Now, this has been so long and I have taken so much time to do it that the girls bathroom, upstairs, is going to have to be another post… I have to go… I am a volunteer firefighter and there is a raging skyscraper fire in downtown Houston that I am going to be airlifted to. Yeah. That’s it.


Oh, for the love of God!

Do you guys remember waaaay back, over a year ago when John was in hospital and I discovered that he had been misled into believing his test for diabetes was negative when in fact, it was positive and his blood sugar was 566 upon admission?

Well, (refresher here), he had been losing weight at a really alarming rate and so had figured he must have diabetes. We have never known anyone with this disease before and really had nothing to go on besides Wikipedia and medical websites, but it seemed obvious.

Also, understand that John was adopted, so there was no family history.

So, he made an appointment and went in and got his blood drawn and peed in a cup and just basically gave them all the info he could.

For some reason I will never understand the doctor didn’t just prick his finger right there in the office and look at a glucose meter. But, who am I to wonder at the wise and mysterious ways of quacks?

Aaaaanyway, a couple of days later the chick with the test results called and told John he was fine. His cholesterol was just a tad high-he needed to work on that.

He came right out and asked her, “So… I don’t have diabetes?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Lopez.” He was good to go.

So now, I am panicked. How could he have lost literally close to 60 lbs in 2 1/2 months?


You know what I was thinking, don’t you? Cancer. And so was John.

We were scared to death.

OK, cutting to the chase now.  That was in February. In October John was admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure and that’s when his blood sugar was 566.

I had the presence of mind to call the old doctor that USED to see him and ask for a copy of those test results from back in February.

You guessed it. He was very clearly diabetic. It was circled and everything. It was on the page after the cholesterol count and apparently she just hadn’t bothered to look at it.

Color me livid. And panicked, since there was some misinformation at the bottom of the page that said he tested positive for some kind of cancer. Come to find out that bit of info was for another patient and John was fine, which we knew as soon as the hospital ran the same test on him.

OK, now. Guess what I received in the mail from the same clinic that screwed up the delivery of his test results? Go ahead. You never will.

Unless you are skipping ahead before I tell you…

Are you?

Stop it!

OK. I received the test results for a Juan Lopez. Along with his correct address on the INSIDE.

The good news is Juan’s culture was negative. The bad news is I’m pretty sure I am supposed to be oblivious to this.

When I called the clinic and told them I had his test results in my hand there was a lot of gasping and a collective “Oops!”. They asked me if I would please mail it back to them. I asked why not just tear it up and throw it away? She indicated I could do anything I want with it, but they would prefer I mail it back to them.

I would prefer they get their shit together and communicate better with their clients.

Too much to ask?

AND, Is it evil of me to want to just hop in the car with this and run it over to Juan’s house and hand deliver it while explaining why it’s opened and the envelope is addressed to a John Lopez?

Look what’s new and Mardi Gras

Well, I know… It ain’t all that. And I don’t use the word “ain’t” lightly. Sometimes there’s just a place for it. It’s not the old HalfAsstic mast head with all the style and flair, yet it’s not that ridiculous country lane with the dude skulking off in the distance making you wonder what the hell he’d been up to and is he about to break into a run, and are those police lights coming up the road behind him and is he staggering?

Yeah. One of the many default looks, but it got old fast and never looked remotely HalfAsstic.

This one? Not perfect, yet much better.


Now, I am going to try to do better about posting. You have probably heard that from me in the past few years, and I meant it, too. Every single time.

John and I went to Mardi Gras in Galveston the other day. We were invited by a distributing company that supplies beer to his store. We were part of a private party that was on a balcony on The Strand and it was very la tee da.

I’m not sure how much my readers all know about Mardi Gras. It is a very southern experience, and if you’re not from down here it’s probably not something the typical person would know anything much about.

Being on a balcony we were expected to throw beads. Lots and Lots of beads.


This was inside, and really I didn’t spend too much time here. Mostly I was freezing my ass off outside with John.

It was so packed out there it was almost impossible to take pictures except of the street below. And it was too far away for the flash to work well, so really? Not too many good pictures of the crowd or parade.

See the necklaces with the really big beads on John’s and my neck? Guess what the crowd below is expected to do in order to get one of those thrown to them?

Mardi Gras etiquette. No, really. I’m serious.

The first person to respond in comments with the correct answer, I will do something… fabulous for.

Did I mention, it got a bit nippy out there?

Cooooold John

Heh! When he finally remembered he wore a shirt with a hood, he didn’t bother to pull his bling to the outside of it before cinching it up. He is holding my drink along with his beer in order for me to take the picture.

All he needs is a couple of cute, long, white ears and he’d look just like the little white bunny on Craig Ferguson.

When it finally became too cold for us to adequately distribute beads we moved on inside and were entertained by none other than Elvis.

Fer Real, people.

And not the old, fat Elvis in the white jumpsuit, either. This guy sounded EXACTLY like him, too.

We chatted with friends, had a few drinks, and danced a good deal. Eventually Elvis had a wardrobe change and came back like this:

He was singing all his hits and we were having a ball. While John and I were out there “getting down”, he all of the sudden grinned and pointed over my shoulder. When I turned around, Elvis was…. making advances to me.

I quickly accessed the situation, ran my hands up and down his chest then threw my arms around his neck and he dipped me.

I don’t think he ever stopped singing or got too far away from the microphone. Very talented professional.

But what would you expect from Elvis?

We met a lot of interesting people…

And had a lot of fun.

I wish you could have all been there with us!




Have you ever had one of those days where you wander around doing all these different things that need doing without any kind of plan in your head, cause really? there is no way to plan that shit, and as you are going from one thing you put up to another thing you do to another thing, you realize you set your coffee cup down somewhere and you begin searching for it.

It is nowhere. You can not find it to save your life. Backtracking all over the house you see where you have been and things you have done countless times. Just no coffee cup.

Finally, you just give up. Throw your hands in the air and admit defeat.

This justifies another trip to the coffee pot and a fresh cup.

Wait a sec… it’s kinda cold. A quick 35 seconds in the microwave will do the trick.

You open the microwave and guess what you see sitting there on the little turntable thingy?

And it’s even cold since it’s been sitting there so long waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and drink it instead of walking all over the house looking for it like a nitwit.

And has this ever happened to you twice, IN THE SAME DAY?


Uh… me neither.

Halfassed at the HaHa house

Hello there, my dears. I realize it has been a long time since I have posted and if you are beginning to notice a theme in my infrequent posts well, that would be the reason for my… infrequentness. (Is too a word.) I have also be horribly remiss in the reading and commenting on your lovely blogs. For this I am sincerely sorry. I will be making a halfassed attempt at getting caught up here sometime soon.

Henrietta is home from the hospital and on hospice again. I can’t remember if she was home or not in my last post. It might have been three days ago that I last wrote, it might have been three years. My conception of time, (which has always been shaky at best), has been completely annihilated.

I keep having random thoughts run through my head that I think I should post about and they are never anything that’s related to anything else. Once upon a time I could have pulled that off and while giving the occasional reader a minor case of whiplash, ultimately it would have been light and somewhat charming.

Now, I feel almost as crazy as H. And she IS crazy, people. With a capital C. CRAZY.

I just left her room a few moments ago where I was putting up some laundry. She asked me if I had heard Baby, our dog, try to talk. I asked her if she meant the dog, first. Yes, she did. I shook my head and she smiled and told me, “Oh, yes! She’s so cute! She tries to say the words and then she repeats it! She’s going to be talking soon.”

Now, Baby IS a very smart little dog, but I don’t think she has any desire to learn to talk at this point in her life. She has this whole world domination plan thing where she uses her doggy wiles to get what she wants and it would be totally ruined if she learned to talk. Other than that, I am sure she could.

So is Henrietta.

Now, I don’t want you to think that her confusion is always this pleasant. I can’t tell you how many times she has rung that *%#@*%! bell, I go trotting down the hall and she announces that I need to get all those Mexican men out of the house because she knows they want to buy it and she doesn’t want us to sell it. She then tells me that it’s bad for John’s heart for them to be here and the machine they use put him to sleep and I need to check to see if I can wake him up.

Any one part of this makes as much sense as any other part.

She is SO far gone. I just kind of nod and leave. But, THAT? That is nothing compared to her story about them running out of room for her in hospital so they took her in her bed to a house and put her in the garage to sleep. That’s where Jerry, (her nurse who was a very nice Indian man named something rather exotic that started with an “S”, but I can’t remember what… we just called him Jerry since she named him that), apparently took “… aaaaaall these girls and had his way with them.” Currently her story has morphed into Jerry raping her while she was there and asleep. She shows me her arms that are covered in the bruises from an IV and having blood drawn and all the little sadistic things they do to you in hospital, and says, “That’s where Jerry beat me.”

Oh, and while she was in hospital she insisted that both of my daughters had told her that they were raped. I had taken her the newspaper to read and I had just laid it down on her tray table. She pointed to it and asked,

“Krissa, is the story about the girls in there?”

I hadn’t watched the news in days and didn’t know what she was talking about so I innocently asked, “What girls?” So, slightly disgusted with me, (as I am obviously trying to hide something), she says, “The girls were raped, Krissa!”.

Once again, me being a bit on the obtuse side and all, I say, “WHAT GIRLS?”

“YOUR girls!”

“Well…. this is news to me!”

She doesn’t seem to think this is funny at all and proceeds to tell me that they were and I need to call the police. I assure her I will get right on that.

She hears men talking outside her window every night and the extent of the loooong conversations that she overhears at the other end of the house is amazing and repeated in painstaking detail every time she rings the &%$#*@! bell.

She drinks maybe 8 to 10 oz. of liquid a day and is well on her way to another UTI and fun stay in the hospital. Nothing I say to her can convince her to drink more. I have pleaded, pushed and cajoled. She ain’t gunna do it.

Meanwhile I had a serious… cuticle mishap. Stop sneering! You should see this thing! It has taken on a life of it’s own. A while back I was trimming an offending cuticle that was catching on stuff and ended up trimming just a TAD too close. Damn. That hurts.

BUT THAT WAS NOT THE END. Now, I have a thumb that is the size of John’s big toe. John wears a size 12. You do the math. It is swollen and full of, well, I don’t want to think about what it’s full of. I’d rather go and change a shitty diaper than think about what it’s full of.

Infected. That’s what it’s full of. It looks nasty and is the sorest thing I have experienced in forever. Hurts like a sonofabitch. I am pretty sure I am gonna die and it will be sad and I will be the first person ever who died from not getting a professional manicure from someone that knew what they were doing.

That? Will go on my headstone.