VeraBlue
Executive Chef
It's been a while since I brought you up to date with shenanigans at my house, and those of people who insist they are related to me.
Life takes a turn towards the dark side when you speak to your mother, who happens to be stoned. My mom needs knee surgery (again,just different knee). She's in lots of pain, but is loathe to take a prescribed pain pill. Instead, she'd rather blame my father for her pain, insisting he wished it on her. Wished it on her?? Like the tooth fairy brings you a buck when you drop a tooth? Like the easter bunny leaves coloured and perfectly cooked hard boiled eggs hidden under the sofa? Wished it on her. I got her to take the pain pill and simoultaneously stop looking daggers at my dad. When I spoke to her the next day, she was looped out of her 72 year old skull. This was all taking place in Jacksonville Florida, the home of retired and land of the gun toters. It was my sister who alerted me to my father's imminent demise by verbal abuse. Apparently, she (who also lives in Jacksonville, albiet not retired or toting) had grown weary of the constant phone calls and bickering. Can you blame her? She wasn't too weary, however, to cook. When she called me at 9:40pm she was in the middle of making eggplant parm. Me? I should have been sound asleep by then, but I took the call. After diffusing the Marianne and Jim powderkeg I called Nancy back 20 minutes later. Sound asleep, my nephew told me. Imagine cooking eggplant parm, cleaning the kitchen, and being sound asleep in 20 minutes.
HA! Marianne's surgery is scheduled for the 23 of this month, that is if she doesn't trip out on pain meds, first.
My 19 year old daughter, Coco's attempt to live with three other young ladies on Bleeker street came to a grinding halt the beginning of June. Seems she had a bit of a cash flow problem. No cash was flowing. She made a decent attempt, I do give her credit. $900 a month, each, is hard to do on an hourly wage. While we didn't think of it at the time, perhaps my father could have wished her the money
. I hear he's good at that sort of thing. So, just 6 months after packing up all her worldly possessions and dragging them through the Lincoln Tunnel, my exhusband and I were dragging them back. To my house. And there goes any fleeting thoughts of finally getting some privacy in the house that lilliputians built. (but don't let me skip ahead to my son...) Strangely, she returned with a wardrobe the likes of which I've never really seen. It's as though, and I don't mean to be sarcastic...but I think she might have spent some of her rent money on ah...clothes? Shoes? Bags? Belts? How many belts does a young lady need? She's back to wearing glasses because she couldn't afford her contacts, but she's got more belts than a welterweight. She does keep her room neater than when she left, though. I kind of insisted on that. Like my threats hold any water, yeah, right.
Now my son, Mark, the 22 year old. He finally got a nice job, making decenet money, doing the 9-5 corporate thing. Then he discovered Sarahland. Sarahland is run by a large (okay, huge) breasted pixie who has cast an evil spell upon my baby boy, making him impervious to even my mashed potatoes. What's worse...? She smokes, and makes my baby boy toke em up with her. Gone are the days of yore when young adults dated. I say date as in pick someone up, go for dinner and a movie, maybe some clandestine groping parked somewhere..and then you return to your abode, lie to your parents about where you were, and go to sleep. Instead, they just sleep over each other's homes, hanging out in their mother's living rooms. Eating cheesy popcorn and dropping kernels everywhere. Did I mention the colouring books? Apparently, big breasted pixie girls like to colour in kiddie colouring books, and write googoo messages to their paramours. Then they hang them on the refrigertor of a woman who is trying to have a relationship with a man in the profession of law. So, they sleep, almost daily, on the pull out sofa in my basement. I was given a tutorial by my son that I must pull my car all the way up the driveway so her car can fit in the driveway, too. I am not to push his food around in the refrigerator making it difficult for him to find. I cannot do my laundry in the basement at 4:30am because the sounds of a running washing machine make it difficult to sleep. He also wanted to alert me to the fact that we have a mould problem in the basement. Apparently, they have no mould in Sarahland. Had the young man ever taken a moment's notice of life in our world, he'd have discovered that our basement is in Little Ferry....and entire town below sea level. So, if the mould is in a basement in a town below sea level, said mould would have to climb up 5 feet just to hit the bottom of the Hackensack river. They, also were asked to make the bed down there each time they use it. They, however, have brains like seives. It is fun to watch the smoke curl out those holes, but I wish the information I give them could be retained for even a nanosecond. They slept at her mother's house last night (gee, I wonder how she feels about that?) so I was able to do some laundry this morning. I walked into the basement with my laundry (disrespecting the stairway, the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen on the way) and saw the bed left open, sheets askew. Like I need that image. I was just thinking what a mess that room has become, and how desperately the carpet is screaming for the vacuum to be passed when I saw it... There it was , lumbering like it was the queen of sheba across the carpet. It didn't seem to mind that I was disrespecting it or the washing machine. Scarabs can be that way. All about carrying your soul to the afterlife, one minute, and then scampering across below sea level, mould producing basements the next. It wasn't effected by my scream, either. I looked around once or twice as a plethora of thoughts cruised my brain. Squishing it was out of the question. This thing was the size of my thumb, so it definitely was sporting an ecosystem. Last thing I need at 4:30am was to see scarab intestine on the carpet, not to mention the accompanying crunch it would surely be heralded in on. No, thank you, no. My second thought, always, it cover it so it cannot get away, until someone with different reproductive organs than mine can dispose of it. Problem is, I don't have lots of cover-y things in the basement. I do have clear, glass heads, though. If you saw my photo album, you saw the glass heads, festooned with masks on my dining room table for Mardi Gras. I did have those nearby. The scarab from the banks of the Nile River is entombed in a festive glass head, complete with mask. How long does it take an egyptian scarab the size of my thumb and probably visible reproductive organs to die, anyway?
Clearly, I have to move, because I have room mates and scarabs. I don't really want either. I just want Lou. It's gotta be cocktail hour by now, yes?
Have a wonderful 4th of July!
Life takes a turn towards the dark side when you speak to your mother, who happens to be stoned. My mom needs knee surgery (again,just different knee). She's in lots of pain, but is loathe to take a prescribed pain pill. Instead, she'd rather blame my father for her pain, insisting he wished it on her. Wished it on her?? Like the tooth fairy brings you a buck when you drop a tooth? Like the easter bunny leaves coloured and perfectly cooked hard boiled eggs hidden under the sofa? Wished it on her. I got her to take the pain pill and simoultaneously stop looking daggers at my dad. When I spoke to her the next day, she was looped out of her 72 year old skull. This was all taking place in Jacksonville Florida, the home of retired and land of the gun toters. It was my sister who alerted me to my father's imminent demise by verbal abuse. Apparently, she (who also lives in Jacksonville, albiet not retired or toting) had grown weary of the constant phone calls and bickering. Can you blame her? She wasn't too weary, however, to cook. When she called me at 9:40pm she was in the middle of making eggplant parm. Me? I should have been sound asleep by then, but I took the call. After diffusing the Marianne and Jim powderkeg I called Nancy back 20 minutes later. Sound asleep, my nephew told me. Imagine cooking eggplant parm, cleaning the kitchen, and being sound asleep in 20 minutes.
HA! Marianne's surgery is scheduled for the 23 of this month, that is if she doesn't trip out on pain meds, first.My 19 year old daughter, Coco's attempt to live with three other young ladies on Bleeker street came to a grinding halt the beginning of June. Seems she had a bit of a cash flow problem. No cash was flowing. She made a decent attempt, I do give her credit. $900 a month, each, is hard to do on an hourly wage. While we didn't think of it at the time, perhaps my father could have wished her the money
. I hear he's good at that sort of thing. So, just 6 months after packing up all her worldly possessions and dragging them through the Lincoln Tunnel, my exhusband and I were dragging them back. To my house. And there goes any fleeting thoughts of finally getting some privacy in the house that lilliputians built. (but don't let me skip ahead to my son...) Strangely, she returned with a wardrobe the likes of which I've never really seen. It's as though, and I don't mean to be sarcastic...but I think she might have spent some of her rent money on ah...clothes? Shoes? Bags? Belts? How many belts does a young lady need? She's back to wearing glasses because she couldn't afford her contacts, but she's got more belts than a welterweight. She does keep her room neater than when she left, though. I kind of insisted on that. Like my threats hold any water, yeah, right.Now my son, Mark, the 22 year old. He finally got a nice job, making decenet money, doing the 9-5 corporate thing. Then he discovered Sarahland. Sarahland is run by a large (okay, huge) breasted pixie who has cast an evil spell upon my baby boy, making him impervious to even my mashed potatoes. What's worse...? She smokes, and makes my baby boy toke em up with her. Gone are the days of yore when young adults dated. I say date as in pick someone up, go for dinner and a movie, maybe some clandestine groping parked somewhere..and then you return to your abode, lie to your parents about where you were, and go to sleep. Instead, they just sleep over each other's homes, hanging out in their mother's living rooms. Eating cheesy popcorn and dropping kernels everywhere. Did I mention the colouring books? Apparently, big breasted pixie girls like to colour in kiddie colouring books, and write googoo messages to their paramours. Then they hang them on the refrigertor of a woman who is trying to have a relationship with a man in the profession of law. So, they sleep, almost daily, on the pull out sofa in my basement. I was given a tutorial by my son that I must pull my car all the way up the driveway so her car can fit in the driveway, too. I am not to push his food around in the refrigerator making it difficult for him to find. I cannot do my laundry in the basement at 4:30am because the sounds of a running washing machine make it difficult to sleep. He also wanted to alert me to the fact that we have a mould problem in the basement. Apparently, they have no mould in Sarahland. Had the young man ever taken a moment's notice of life in our world, he'd have discovered that our basement is in Little Ferry....and entire town below sea level. So, if the mould is in a basement in a town below sea level, said mould would have to climb up 5 feet just to hit the bottom of the Hackensack river. They, also were asked to make the bed down there each time they use it. They, however, have brains like seives. It is fun to watch the smoke curl out those holes, but I wish the information I give them could be retained for even a nanosecond. They slept at her mother's house last night (gee, I wonder how she feels about that?) so I was able to do some laundry this morning. I walked into the basement with my laundry (disrespecting the stairway, the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen on the way
) and saw the bed left open, sheets askew. Like I need that image. I was just thinking what a mess that room has become, and how desperately the carpet is screaming for the vacuum to be passed when I saw it... There it was , lumbering like it was the queen of sheba across the carpet. It didn't seem to mind that I was disrespecting it or the washing machine. Scarabs can be that way. All about carrying your soul to the afterlife, one minute, and then scampering across below sea level, mould producing basements the next. It wasn't effected by my scream, either. I looked around once or twice as a plethora of thoughts cruised my brain. Squishing it was out of the question. This thing was the size of my thumb, so it definitely was sporting an ecosystem. Last thing I need at 4:30am was to see scarab intestine on the carpet, not to mention the accompanying crunch it would surely be heralded in on. No, thank you, no. My second thought, always, it cover it so it cannot get away, until someone with different reproductive organs than mine can dispose of it. Problem is, I don't have lots of cover-y things in the basement. I do have clear, glass heads, though. If you saw my photo album, you saw the glass heads, festooned with masks on my dining room table for Mardi Gras. I did have those nearby. The scarab from the banks of the Nile River is entombed in a festive glass head, complete with mask. How long does it take an egyptian scarab the size of my thumb and probably visible reproductive organs to die, anyway?Clearly, I have to move, because I have room mates and scarabs. I don't really want either. I just want Lou. It's gotta be cocktail hour by now, yes?
Have a wonderful 4th of July!
