Archive for the ‘ just plain weird ’ Category

Enter Godzilla

John is going to kill me when he reads this. But I just can’t not write about it.

My daughters are… a bit weird. Not weird in the way that they are strange to everyone, just weird in that if they didn’t look like carbon copies of me, I would SWEAR they were switched at birth with…. some princess’ brat.

They are total pantywaists. Never has there been two more whiny, sensitive, fraidy-cat, sissies put on this earth.

OK, maybe the aforementioned princess popped out something that comes close, but I’m guessing that mine take the cake.

We live in SOUTH Texas. Bugs are a fact of life down here. And while we don’t have roaches in the house, it is entirely due to the quarterly visit of the exterminator.  And I know what you’re thinking.

Yes. I do.

Krissa, if you would just keep a clean house they wouldn’t come in. Keep the food put away and post little signs around telling them they can’t use the facilities…

WRONG. I’ve done all that. (Put up little signs in English AND Spanish)

SOUTH Texas. People who live on The Gulf Coast know about all this.

Anyway, since they were mere babies, if they saw a roach, or spider, or mosquito hawk, heck, you name it. Anything. They screamed for me. I became the “go to guy” for all things icky.

Damn you and your consistent job history, John! I was the one there with them, murdering bugs raising them and being their knight in shining armor.

Well, that was all a bunch of crap. I thought they’d grow out of it. They are TWENTY AND TWENTY-ONE years old, now. Do you know how many times I have heard, “MOOOOOOM! COME QUICK!”, and gone charging UP the stairs second guessing all the way about whether or not I should have brought the  pistol with me, only to find a “child” lying on her bed bug-eyed, (HA! “bug”-eyed!), pointing at a roach that is trying valiantly to die due to a toxic chemical barrier it has wandered across?

Do you have any idea how hard it is for me not to have the most outrageous run-on sentences? Are you now realizing I don’t care?

So I calmly walk over to the bug, remove my flip-flop, whack it, replace flip-flop and turn to go.


Yes, I have made them clean up their own murder scenes in the past. It’s just a lot less drama to snatch a tissue or bit of toilet paper and do it myself.

AANNYWAAAAAAY, yesterday morning, I was sleeping in and all of the sudden the bed was bouncing and Kes had thrown herself across it and John, who had yesterday off was standing there. They are looking at me saying things about a lizard in highly excited voices.

Let’s be honest here. I was SOUND asleep when they came in. A gentle whisper in my ear would have sounded frantic to me.

So they’re saying something about come quick and lizard and Purzza, our ancient gray house cat. So, like an idiot, I do. I leap out of bed, (Once again wondering if I need the pistol.) I mean pandemonium, people. 

They hustle me down the hall and into HACK. (Longtime readers, will know that this stands for HalfAsstic Central Kommand. It is also the dining room. Whatev.)

Kes has explained by this time that Pruzza had a “HUGE” lizard in her mouth and Kes “thought it was a snake”, and swatted Purzza so the poor thing would drop it and it’s a lizard and it’s “HUGE! I MEAN HUGE”!

It occurred to me later to wonder why on earth she would want the cat to drop it if she thought it was a snake, but I never really got a good answer for this.

So I walk over and pick up the poor lizard and rinse him off under the tap, since he is hopelessly tangled in a dust bunny from behind the wine fridge, and take him outside.

He thanks me politely, sympathizes for a moment with me about the crazy people in my house and lets me know that Purzza still has good reflexes for such an old cat.

He moves off into the grass.

When I come back in I am looking for the MAN of the household. Hummm, there he is. Looking all sheepish.

Kes pipes up and says, “Dad was never gonna be able to catch that lizard, Mom. He was trying to use a paper towel to grab it.”

I dissolved into hysterical laughter and I’m not sure, but I think John blushed.

It’s a good thing he’s so damn cute.

Last time I was on here my life was falling apart around me. I was surrounded by appliance cadavers.

It were spooky, ya’ll.

Guess what? They all came back to life! I wandered out into my front yard to try to find the newspaper in the jungle of grass that needs mowing and apparently the top of my head was still visible. My next door neighbor with the immaculate yard called out to me so I took my machete and made my way over to the property line.

He asked me if my air conditioner compressor was running.

I stared blankly at him for a second wondering why there didn’t even seem to be any mosquitoes in his yard and then snapped to. “OH! Yeah, well my A/C has been running all day, just blowing away hard as it can and there is no cool air coming out.”

He then said, “And your dryer? It’s not heating either, is it?”

At this particular point I’m thinking he’s spying on me and the house is rigged with cameras and hidden microphones. While struggling to remember if I had been wearing clothing all day and what other embarrassing stuff I could have done, I stood there and listened to him explain that “A leg of our transformer has blown.”Everything in both our houses that runs on a 220 circuit won’t work.

Well, this is news to me. I do know that anytime that particular transformer blows my house along with the meticulous yard folks and the neighbors located in the two houses directly behind me all lose power. ALL power. So I just go ahead and believe what he’s saying and slip in little tidbits about how my good underwear is dirty but I DO have some. You know, just in case the theory about the hidden cameras and microphones turns out to be true.

After talking to him for several minutes I ascertain that he has called the power company already and they will be showing up shortly.  He mentions that the Homeowners Association would not only be grateful to me for mowing the yard, but appreciative for my efforts in donning a bra before wandering outside.

Yeah, yeah, yeah… I’ll get right on that.

I went back inside my abode and turned on the oven. The digital clock was lit up, but no heat from the cooking deals inside. (Yes, I know they’re called elements!)

It truly is a 220 problem.

Anyway, around midnight and with the house steaming hot from having no A/C all day, the electric crew got my power up and running.

They had to completely shut off the power in order to work on the transformer. Apparently the little sissies don’t want to risk any kinds of nasty little jolts to their precious little bodies. So we not only have no A/C, but no fans either, not to mention lights.

I ran a cool bath and climbed in with a flashlight and my nook. I was sitting there in the spa tub, finally cooling off and guess what I heard immediately to my right, on the outside of the large picture window that overlooks the tub? Men. Talking about the work they are doing. Muttering things about how they wish we had mowed and the mosquitoes are a bitch.

I am sitting NAKED not two feet away from this guy! It was freaky! I have a filmy thing hanging there, in front of the glass that I KNOW you can’t see through, but I know they can see the light from my flashlight.

So, eventually they wander off I kill the light and get out, wake John up and tell him there are men outside the bath window and he mumbles something about “Tell them to mow…”, and goes back to sleep.

Funny thing is that when I was reading my comments a reader named Carla, (a former lurker), figured out what it was just by reading my previous post. She hit the nail on the head!


Well, Henrietta is sitting quietly in her wheelchair in her room. I say quietly because she isn’t crying or yelling for Gilbert to come in there or ringing the *=$#@&! bell for service.  I brought her in the dining room earlier and rolled the table to one side so I could roll her chair right up to the window and she could see the cardinals and blue jays and squirrels fighting for the food I put out on the feeder in front of the window. She greatly enjoyed this and I thought she might stay here for a while.


She started rolling out of the room and down the hall in just a few minutes.  Oh well. It was a thought. It just seems to me the more she stays in there the worse her mind gets.

We may need an exorcism.


I started to name this post, “Tragedy has struck” or something like that, but thought with John’s health problems of late that might not be best. Too easy to get the wrong idea before reading the post.

However, there has been a tragedy of another sort.

Remember Cecilia? Well, I was able to “fix” her. We won’t go into what I found out was the problem and how disgusting and embarrassing it was to admit. (NASTY BLACK…. GUNK. GROWING, reproducing… pooping, and doing all sorts of nasty things in the water reservoir.  I think I heard it laugh at me when I shined a light down in that black tank to see what it looked like. It had it’s own IQ, people.)

Well, I am just not down with that. The only place I am content to grow hairy things that are perfectly capable of turning into monsters that could overthrow the household is in the vegetable crisper. There’s plenty of light in the fridge and I am at lest aware of how bad it’s getting and can warn people not to even open that drawer.

Yes. That’s what I do…. Don’t you?

I think I am getting off track here. I was reminding you all of Cecilia so that you can appreciate how totally in mourning I am when I tell you that the EXPLETIVE HERE, dishwasher won’t wash. I mean, it will wash, but only with fairly cold water. Not nearly hot enough to say, remove grease. Or sanitize. And there is no heat to dry the dishes with either. It sounds to me like the heating element has gone out. Or maybe the thermostat in it is broken. Or, as some smart arse repair person pointed out to me on the phone, it’s an electronic gizmo in the computer brain of it.

I don’t know, but it is a Bosch and supposed to be a superior product dishwasher-wise. This means it costs a fortune to repair. So, until next month when we can afford it, I am washing dishes.

And drinking coffee with my best friend… Cecilia.

Or YOU if you want to come on over, I would love to have you! You don’t have to be scared of Henrietta! Well, not TOO much…

How low will I go? Nobody knows…

Friday, John and I went to JC Penny and I took a gander at the clearance rack.  I walked into the place with a $10.00 off coupon.  I walked out with two really cute new pairs of jeans that cost me a total of $11.21.  AND they’re a size smaller than the ones I’ve been wearing!  “What size, Krissa?”  I’ll tell you.  One more size down and I’ve hit my goal!  Woo-hoo!  How’s that for specific? 😉

I put on one pair of them and wore them yesterday and Keelan remarked that they don’t make me look like I have an, ahem, “old lady butt”.  I considered this statement carefully and decided to let her live after all put it in the compliment category.

Both pairs of jeans are low rise, and while I don’t wear the “Mom Jeans” that  Stacy and Clinton on What Not To Wear are constantly lecturing people about, they are a good deal lower than I’m accustomed to.  I finally went in and put on a belt because every time I stood up I felt like I was losing them by an inch or so.

Then, Sunday,  Kes and I were running into Kohl’s.  Upon getting out of the child’s car, (actually climbing up out of her car, which is what you do with a Mustang…), grabbing the “waist” of the jeans and hauling them up, while pulling my shirt down and noticing Kes staring at me, I turned around so she could see my back and said, “So can you see any butt crack?”

She pinked up a bit, glanced nervously around and said, “NO MOM!”.  While deftly giving the ubiquitous eye roll.  She then had the grace to grin at me and comment that I need to “…get some tight strapless tops today.”.

I told her that I am wearing practically butt crack pants so she can just score one for her team and leave well enough alone.

Free toes, everybody!

The pervs are after Henrietta

Well, it’s official.  Henrietta has been, at the very least, (to hear her tell it), leered at by a pervert.  She has been waiting for the majority of her life to be able to have verifiable proof that men are after her.  Oh yes.  At 87 years old… it’s here.

Her proof of this came several weeks ago, in the way of a breaking news story that was about, Dr. Bernard Albina, her old orthopedist from years ago when she and Marcos were living in their house.  We took her to all of the appointments she ever had with him, as Marcos didn’t drive anymore at that point.

The news story?  Sadly, he was, apparently, a really busy pedophile.  While that is in itself, not the least bit funny, her take on it was, predictably,  aaaaall about her.  She was absolutely agog and went on and on about how she never trusted him and how Marcos used to ask if he had to go with her to her appointments and she, “always told him yes, he had to go”, because she didn’t trust that man!  “Oooooh, no Krissa!  I knew there was something wrong with him!  Just the way he looked at me!”

I never did point out that it was ME who had gone in with her to every single appointment and, clearly, an octogenarian is not going to do it for a pedophile.  Whatever.  She could not get enough of the local news and the articles about it in the paper.  She has told every single person who will listen to her about the peril she was in and how that man just wanted so badly to get her alone.

Sigh.  If it wasn’t so sad it’d be funny.  OK, maybe it’s funny, anyway.

Check out the news clip.