Saturday, August 18, 2012


Never fear that I am domestic. I am as domestic as a bobcat. I have that on good authority from my mother, who told that to my 3rd husband when he whined to her about what a lousy housekeeper I was. “What are you bitching about?” she asked. “You knew she didn’t do anything like that when you married her.” “Well, I thought she would change.” Why, oh why do they think you will change? Number two thought I was magically going to become a flautist or a bass-player; anything but a violist. Number three thought I was going to become Heloise and leave IBM and free-lancing, for his splendiferous self. Assholes.

Anyway, I digress. As anyone who has listened to me for two nano-seconds this week has learned, I have the flu. It has turned out to be the nuclear-bomb type flu, where every molecule in your body melts, leaving dried husks or something. I haven’t been this sick or this entertained in years. Lest anyone think I am a hypochondriac, rest assured, I am not. I wait until I’m at death’s door before being scraped off the pavement and hauled off to an ER somewhere. The fact that this has provided endless blogging fun hasn’t hurt a bit. It has also provides enormous amusement for my so-called friends. One “close” friend asked once when she called me at the shelter, all concerned, “Gee, Mary. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lying in Nebraska Avenue, somewhere.” Thanks. You know who you are.

I think the last time I had this much fun was when I contracted salmonella and typhoid on honeymoon number 2. No shit. That should have been a dead give-away right there, that the marriage was doomed. This flu has also had the added surprises of not acting like any flu I’ve experienced, being the experienced flu-haver that I am, in that I now have Parkinson’s Disease, so there’s an extra level of weird. My eyes are odder than normal. I’m not shaking as much, as when I’m non-flu ridden, so that’s kind of a plus. In the spirit of making hay while the sun shines, and while I’m not hacking so much, I decided I would wash my floors. It was either that, or plow them. Yes, they were really that bad.

I can’t see really well to sweep, so I just kind of sweep in the general direction of the dirt. Then I sort of scrape it up with the pan-thing that came with that really swell dollar-store broom that I bought. The fact that the dollar-store broom bent about a year ago and has been duct-taped several times and is rather flabby hinders me not one bit. I sweep furiously. Or rather, lackadaisically, as it turns out. The next step is the mopping part. I love this part. I have to get down on the floor to see all the dirt I missed when I was trying to sweep, because I can’t see the dirt when I’m standing up. I know. I could just mop, but then I would have all this hair and goo, so I at least give myself a head start on getting some of the hair and bug legs and spider bellies and what-not swept up before getting to the nitty-gritty, as it were.

So, I grab my bottle of Formula 409 and a couple of rolls of paper towels and some really cheesy dish clothes from the dollar store and set to work, back of the house to the front. The house is 3 rooms, plus bathroom, tile throughout. Normally, it takes about 45 minutes to scoot around on my ass and do the double-armed sweep alá Zamboni ice machine. Today, it takes me about an hour and a half. My back hurts and holy crap! Look at all the hair and bug legs and spider bellies and Egad! I did a horrible job sweeping. So, I had to re-sweep the bastard before I could get down and “mop.” I was highly put out.

Normally, I’d say the hell with it. But the truth is, this place was getting to me. The apartment is cute. It’s small, and it has tile throughout, but let’s face it. We were homeless before we came here and we have mostly castoff furniture. I have lots of nice things in storage, and I will get them some day soon, but not now. So, we make do. It’s depressing to live in a place with things that are used and not have a tidy, clean place and I have put it off because I haven’t felt well. JC is 65 and he hasn’t felt the best this week. He does very well and always takes care of all the errands and the heavy stuff. It was either clean, or set fire to the bitch. I’ve had a big, heaping helping of homeless. I’m not eager for another. Besides, I think there are laws or something to stop that shit. The fact that someone went out of here in handcuffs a few months back for burning down an unoccupied dwelling kind of made a lasting impression. So, it’s all cute and nice again. Now, we can go back to the important stuff; Jack Bauer and the will-he or won’t-he compromise his Presidential integrity David Palmer and company and how many Cheezits can I stuff in my mouth at once.

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