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Last night Keelan decided she was going to sleep downstairs on the rug in the living room.

No one knows why and this is good with us.

So she is lying there reading on the rug that was vacuumed two days ago and she announces that she is going to vacuum it if she is going to sleep down here.

I certainly am not going to complain.

So she goes to the broom closet that doubles as a coat closet in the foyer, (Have I ever mentioned that my house was designed by a man?), and stands there for a minute looking in.  She then reaches in and grabs something and pulls it out.

HalfAsstic Daughter: “Is this the vacuum?”

Me… dying laughing and a tad distressed at the question, “YES!” I mean how bad is THAT?  Of course it’s not the upstairs vacuum and it is also in there with a steam mop and carpet sweeper but, DAY-UM!  “IS THIS THE VACUUM?” is NOT something you want to hear your 18 year old daughter ask you.

So shoving the feelings of inadequate parenting aside, I ribbed her unmercifully for a moment or two and she giggled good naturedly.

She also picked up her cell phone immediately and began texting what had happened to J, her new boyfriend.  I told her not to let him know she can’t identify a vacuum cleaner and she promptly replied, “As long as HE knows what a vacuum looks like, we’re golden.”

I take it he will be doing the vacuuming in her daydreams of the future.

These are all things that could happen some day… but, until they do it is in everyone’s best interest if they don’t , like, hold their breath or anything drastic like that.

Floors are an area of housekeeping that is an enigma for me.  I mean cleaning it has always been hit or miss at best.  I am quite careful of the dishes and keeping the kitchen clean.  My laundry is fastidious.    Toilets, clean enough to actually POOP in, (if you can imagine doing such a thing).   But the floors just seem like such a losing battle.  I mean, people actually WALK on those.  In their DIRTY SHOES.  And if anything gets dropped, nasty stuff or not, guess where it lands.  That’s right. Think about it, it has never made less sense to clean anything.

When the girls were babies, crawling around, I tied wet sponges to their little knees and hands and sent them on their way I made a better stab at vacuuming and sweeping and (yawn) mopping.  But as they grew older and developed immunity to plagues the ability to walk, their little faces shined, their hair gleamed and smelled of baby shampoo with a huge matching bow in it.  Their outfits were always washed, with no stains and perfectly pressed on the occasion it was needed.  Their little white lace-ups and sandals, always polished.  You’d never look at one of MY children and think that their mother was so ghetto that it would take a street sweeper to get her floors clean.  (Mither is going to DIE at that statement… maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration.)

My dilemma now is somewhat different than it used to be.   I now have such “easy care” floors.  Ceramic tile in the kitchen, breakfast area, foyer and bathrooms and wood laminate through out the entire rest of the downstairs with the exception of my bedroom which is carpeted.   All the floors are… heh, “easy shine” .  But there is a buttload of them.  Did I say “buttload”?  Maybe I meant shitload… Hummm.  Well, for heaven’s sake!  Why am I second guessing myself?  I am just as certain of my housekeeping as I am of my grammar.

The hairy little dog doesn’t help things any.  She tends to produce great galloping dust bunnies that take on a life of thir own when turned loose in the house.  I guess they’re all domesticated, as far as I  know there aren’t any outside.

Trust me people, by the time they are entirely surrounded and caught, they usually have their own IQ’s.  It’s not unusual for me to have a showdown with them.

My particular variety sound a lot like Cheech and Chong…

Dust Bunny- “Hey, bitch!  You da maid?”

me- looking a bit scared, “…er, yeah?”

DB-”Woman, where you bean?”

me- “Uh, you know… dusting and… you know… there’s the shitty diapers and sheets and, and… WAIT A MINUTE!  You’re the dust bunny!  Why am I explaining myself to you?  GET OUT!  I’M GOING FOR THE BROOMY THING AND DUSTER PAN OTHER THING.  And I know you’re scared of those contraptions!”

DB- Clearly incapacitated by raucous laughter and drinking my beer, “Bitch, you don’ know how to use d’ose gizmo’s!  jes sit down and re-lax!”

me- With righteous indignation dripping out of my pours, yet sitting down just the same, “How DARE you!  I am the BIG CHEESE here buddy!  You need to get your shit together and get out!  YOU HEARD ME!  All your little dust bunny pets need to go too!”

DB- Taking a different tone now, “Now, come on chicka, settle down and  re-lax!  There’s a Boston Legal rerun coming on in just a few mee-nits and we can watch it…”

me- “Really?  Boston Legal?”

DB- “Suuuuure.  Ya know, chika… we could use some popcorn…”

Kessa and Keelan were sitting at the breakfast table working on some scrap-booking project that has been in the works for days.  I had finished sweeping and was running my new Haan Steam Mop around on the tile, as I had just finished doing the living room.  They were talking kind of low and I wasn’t really paying any attention to them when I heard gales of laughter and Keelan saying, “Tell Mom!  Tell Mom!”  Kessa was having a hard time finding her voice she was laughing so hard but managed to shake her head vehemently.

Then, she managed to pull herself together enough to look at me and say, “The other day I took that thing, (referring to the steam mop), upstairs and tried to vacuum with it.”  She had the decency to look a bit embarrassed as her sister and I burst into fresh gales of laughter.  I told her that I didn’t know whether to be proud of her for voluntarily cleaning up there or disturbed by her lack of knowledge of the household cleaning appliances.

Oh, she said it did NOT vacuum well at all.

It just seems like it sometimes.

I am being threatened again, by family and… “loved” ones.  I am being told that if I don’t post again immediately, well, there will be consequences.

You don’t want to know.

So here’s what’s going on at chez Lopez now and for the past six months few days.

As you probably remember, there was another auspicious occasion to go along with Mother’s Day.  My birthday was the day before.  I promised pictures when I wasn’t feeling too lazy to work on it and since I am now properly motivated, here they are.

Here’s John and I at Olive Garden.  I gained 50 pounds that night, and it’s all in my neck… and boobs.  I SWEAR my neck doesn’t look that wide in real life.  My boobs, however… Yeah, that’s about it.

We had a wonderful time and I got all kinds of gifts and whatnots.  The whatnots were especially great, but what would you expect?  I know everyone has had tons of fun with their whatnot’s before and you know of what I speak.

Here I am with my adoring fans.  I know you thought I really didn’t have any so I am attempting to provide proof.  John took this and I have to admit that every night there is a fight to see who can get in my lap first when I sit down in the living room with John to watch TV and talk.  Please click on the picture and notice that there are three (3) animals ergonomically packed into the chair with me.  There is the one small dog slid in over there on the right trying not to be noticed, cause if I get feeling claustrophobic after a bit, or just plain HOT (and who wouldn’t), they all have to be dumped out.

Going   back a ways, the last time I was at World Market I found the neatest little pair of earrings.  They are freshwater pearl on a sterling silver wire.  And, they were ten bucks.  I LOVE them.  They are comfortable to sleep in and came with little, tiny, clear acrylic backs that keeps them from wriggling out of my ear.  Cause if something can wriggle off of me, it will.  Except the pets… I think we all can agree that I am doomed to be smothered by the pets.

Moving right along…

This tree, planted between my house and the neighbors is in bloom and it is the neatest thing!  The blooms, that are ALL OVER IT smell like lavender.  And I guess they look a tad like it too.

The leaves, however, look like marijuana.

Well, they DO.

I have named it the “Lavender Marijuana Tree”.  It sounds like a kind that should be very expensive.

And finally we come to my new Haan steam mop!  Ignore the little old lady in the background.  She continually throws food onto the floor for the dogs, (and they DO NOT clean it up well), and she’s the reason I need the steam mop in the first place….  Yeah.  That’s what I’m going to run with.

Anyway, Mither gave it to me because I had told her how badly I wanted one and there is genuinely a NEED for it.  She’s wonderful like that!

This bad boy does it all and with only a cup of water.  Of course it needs someone to run it around and before that happens the floors need all the pet hair and food scraps swept up off of it.  My chiropractor specifically told me not to sweep or mop for a couple of days.

What?  Chiropractor?  Krissa, you must lead an exciting life doing all kinds of adventurous things to have to go and see a chiropractor.

Yeah, well… OK, sure.

John went with me and I was glad he did so he could see and verify that I wasn’t just making up big fat fibs about how archaic the machinery looks in there.  Plus I felt like it wouldn’t hurt for him to hear all the cracking that happened when she “adjusted” me.

I feel  better now and go back again on Friday.  Henrietta, on the other hand is going on a diet.  She laughed when I told her that…  I don’t know why she thought I was joking…

It’s late now and I am tired and am about to go to bed.  John is snoring lightly in the chair beside me and he’s off work tomorrow.  So we will get all kinds of things done.  Maybe.

Free toes, everybody!

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.

John is on vacation this week and we have big plans.

• Fix the kitchen faucett
• Work in yard, trimming trees and mulching flowerbeds, if the rain will ever stop.
• Go to World Market and stock up on wine and smoked Gouda.
• Take my new Periodic Table of Typeface print to the frame shop and have it matted and framed.
• Buy THREE name brand dress shirts, a Chaps tie, and a pair of wonderful, sexy, new jeans for me for a total of $38.00 at Kohl’s. CHECK!
• Clean out garage

• Shop for Keelan’s birthday on Wednesday.  Eighteen years old!

Tomorrow is Monday and I think we should be half way through this list by the end of the day and have more added to it!

And we haven’t even tried to kill each other yet!

I’ll keep you abreast of the situation!

Dear child of my loins,

You, (insert name here), and your sister are welcome to continue to live here in our house along with your father and me, (he will be getting his own letter), for the foreseeable future as long as you are in school or gainfully employed.  Please take note of the “gainfully” part.  This means that you will be expected to work enough to support your movie going, eating out, gas consuming, clothing buying, habits.  We will not be charging any rent.  Nor will you be responsible for any portion of the water, gas, electric, or phone bills.  We are even going to toss in payment for the insurance of your vehicles as a show of goodwill. That’s right.  You buy ‘em, we’ll insure ‘em.  We’re just uber cool like that.

All this and help with college, too?  At this point you’re probably asking yourself how you got so lucky.  You should be.

Also, take note that in that first sentence I referred to this establishment as “our house”, please understand that I am referring to your father’s and my house.  I know that we all refer to it as your house too, but lets face it, that’s loose terminology and it’s either that or tell everyone you are homeless, as in you do not own a house.  To keep from causing you embarrassment we decided when you were mere babes, (4 years old), we’d let you claim residence here, also.

You’re welcome.

Remember that reference to the fact that we are paying for your insurance?  We are, likewise, looking for that elusive “show of goodwill” thing to come from YOU.  The very next time I ask you, (And, yes, this does mean your sister too, because God forbid I should ask one of you to do something the other hasn’t been asked to do the exact same thing), to, oh, let’s see… take out the trash, I am now going to expect a response that doesn’t register on the Richter scale.  I might, from time to time, ask you to load the dishwasher or unload it.  This is not, as you may think, in anyway an attempt to bring on your premature death.  But, merely a normal household function that thousands, NO, millions of offspring your own age are actually performing without drama in homes all over the country.

Yes, I know you don’t believe me.  You are encouraged to do research on this whole phenomenon on your own. AND, there’s even more that you could find out if you so desired.   The fact that many young people your own age get along with one another and treat each other as people rather than plague infected rats.  You know.  The way you treat your friends.  This is how I would like you to start treating one another, because, frankly, I am fed up with mediation.  I really would just a soon let you kill one another as step in the middle of all that shit even one more time.

My patience with all that?  It has done worn thin, people.

So.  There you have it.  Good luck and my best wishes for your futures and I am sincerely hoping for you both to have a long life not cut short by any more drama mistakes you may be inclined to make in my house.

Love,

Mommy Dearest

Hello people!  Long time since I’ve been here, I know.

Disclaimer: This is being written entirely under duress and NOT because I have anything that is exceptionally exciting to say.  OK, not really exciting at all.

Yes, let’s just say I am being coerced by my family and a few other people.  Boy are they going to feel foolish when they read this and realize that they made me do it.  Alright, let the magic words continue…

First up, (I think this is all you’re getting), for your fascination is the fact that I cleaned my closet out the other day.

Here we have the two bags of clothes to donate.  They weighed a million pounds.

Here we are AFTER the sorting.  What you can’t see is that between the frumpy, ugly clothes is SPACE.  WOO-HOO!

Now the really neat thing that I really enjoy about my closet is that the clothes are hung in color waves.  OK, I’m not sure if that is the right term, but they are stuck in there by color.  Kinda sorta following rainbow theory… OK, not very well.  I’m pretty sure my “spectrum” is all outta whack, BUT, if it was in the right order, you’d be awed.  NO, REALLY!  YOU WOULD!

From the other direction!  I think you can see what I mean a little bit better here.

And the pants!  That’s work clothes on the end down there.

There is a whole other bag of clothes that was just trash that NOBODY would want.  Torn, paint spattered, bleach riddled, work rags.  What I’m thinking now is, I really can’t do any hard work at this point because, I have nothing to wear.

Actually, that’s not entirely true.  I couldn’t lie to you people.  Well, not about the ability of me to wear housework clothes, anyway…  I did save a couple of pairs of pants and some old tee shirts for just such an occasion as cleaning out my tub and shower walls.  AND I DID IT!  LOTS of bleach was used and MUCH inhaling of fumes ensued.  Voila!  It all sparkles now.  That man I am married to even noticed… how sad a commentary is that on the filth that was hanging out in there?

We here at chez Lopez do not condone the growth of single cell organisms in our bathing facilities.  Nor do we approve of them flourishing to the extent that they develop their own IQ.

Yes, well…  Once this has occurred, “we”, ahem, (You know who that is, right?), sit back, shake our head and watch that shit grow take appropriate action.  Before too many months days go by I haul myself in there with a bottle of some sort of bleach/cleaner, a piece of Scotch Brite, a rag, and an old toothbrush.  Completely sans the gas mask.  (I am VERY foolish brave!)  Three wine coolers later hours later, I emerged victorious.

Next, we, (I use that term loosely), re grout, cause that stuff is coming lose from all the mold/bleach going on in there!

Here is the one I just KNOW you’ve been waiting for.

With excitement riding high I am presenting the top of my closet.  The white boxes are empty and there for gift giving.  The blue boxes are full of who knows what and the gray boxes are archival quality, acid free stuff to preserve things in.  I’ve got a few different copies of The Dallas Morning News in there from the day of and the following few days after Kennedy was assassinated.  My mom or father got them and kept them. The newspapers in the acid ridden plastic bag next to it are ones that I have some stuff published in from back when The Houston Post was around.

No, I did not have anything to do with them going out of business… NO, I don’t know why they went out of business.  SHEESH

I guess the fact that those are in the plastic bag, turning brown and rotting is pretty evident of how I feel about my worth as a writer!  Still… they DID publish my opinion… hummmmm.

NO, IT WASN’T ABOUT CLEANING OUT MY CLOSET.

This morning I had a conversation with Lisa in which she informed me that she was feeding her fish.  Naked.

Needless to say I had a lot of comebacks to this and then she told me they were all excited because they thought they were going to be breast fed.

I would have just gone back to sleep, but I really don’t think I could have.  And really?  Can’t even imagine the nightmares that were possible.  Scarred. For. Life.

The other day, after realizing that I had been missing one of my favorite bras for a couple of days and was about to REALLY go through the dirty clothes hamper and wash EVERYTHING, I happened to look over at John’s side of the bed and notice that he had attempted to decorate the area.

Lamely.

What’s so brassiere bizarre is that I hadn’t noticed it there for at least 24 hours.

This post will be quite short for a variety of reasons:

The last one was uncharacteristically long.  More than, probably anyone wanted to hear from me.   I was full of angst. (That’s my excuse, in case you didn’t know.)

Mither and Pop are coming to see me and they are on their way here RIGHT NOW.  I gots to get this dump cleaned up!  Change the sheets on their bed!  Start a grocery list for supper tonight!  Clean the bathtub!  Finish the laundry!  Locate all obscene graffiti written in the dust on my furniture and add or subtract letters to make it more grandparent friendly.

FIND MY DAMN GLASSES.  They are gone, people!  I have looked everywhere!  Remember, I just got them a short while back and I cannot function for very long without having to actually READ something.  I took them off when John got home yesterday and they have been gone ever since.  I cannot remember where I was!

Oh crap!  I gotta get going!  Before I do I will share with you that I have a new look coming for HalfAsstic and am excited about it.  Cam is working on it as I type.  Well, actually, that’s not true as he’s in Italy and is seven hours ahead of us, (he’s asleep), but he’s already done some things that I really like.

Anyway, stay tuned!

Free Toes, everybody!