Archive for the ‘ Housekeeping ’ Category

Karma got me this morning, though.

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.

Aaaaaaall week long…

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!

A letter to my daughters.

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.


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.


Apparently this is boob themed.

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.


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