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Annals of the Floored & Flabbergasted

Hou$e-Cleaners!

by

Egad! Check this out:

The other day I decided my beloved cleaning lady, Luz, has gotta go. While she was here slamming around, I sat down to the dining-room table to grab a fast lunchoid. That ingested, I suddenly felt very tired — hadn’t slept well the night before.

So there I am sitting at the table, where I fold my arms in front of me and lay my head down. Not really expecting to fall asleep, mind you — certainly not with a vacuum cleaner roaring around the house — but just to rest the very tired eyes.

Yeah: I do fall asleep. And…holeee mackerel! Have you EVER met anyone who can make trouble just by dozing off after lunch? Well…now you have! Online, but here she is….

While I’m sitting there snoozing, Luz takes out her camera and snaps a picture of me and the wine bottle. What she gets is a photo of a woman who looks flat-out, zonkered-out DRUNK, passed out on the dining-room table.

This, she emails to my son! No comment: just the damning photo.

Upshot: he thinks exactly what you would expect him to think: Mom has been sitting there swizzling wine until she has passed out snockered.

He and I get into a very nasty exchange, one for which I have not yet and may never forgive him.

But speaking of forgiveness, one thing Luz ain’t getting is any of that!

I haven’t called her to fire her yet, but I will. Today, I expect.

Hoped to find a new house-cleaner first, but I haven’t been ambitious enough to launch into that kind of search.

I’ll tellya, I do hate cleaning house! And so resent (very much!) having to fire the woman. Sure don’t want to do the job myself. And just now don’t know where to turn to find a new house-cleaner.

But…egad!

*****
o-h-h-k-a-a-y…

Search online for someplace to hire such a person, and you discover the prices for cleaning a house are now just phenomenal!

Lookit this! TWO HUNDRED BUCKS to clean a 1500-square-foot shack???!!?? Actually, no: that’s $164 to $350 for an average-sized house.

Surprising that Luz doesn’t know this. I pay her $80 a hit.

Hmmmm……

Well… Guess I’ll just have to sit her down and have a little chat about professional behavior on the job. Whatever caused her to do such a stupid (vindictive??) thing, she’s still a bargain on four wheels!

Hmmmmm….not to repeat onself. I wonder why Luz doesn’t seem to know she’s vastly undercharging a going market.

O’course,, there’s only one of her. If you hired a service you’d get at least two people in the house; probably more like four. The job would be done faster. And their employer presumably would have insurance. None of those apply when hiring the standard cleaning lady.

****

On the other hand…hmmm… At 80 bucks a hit, I pay Luz $320 a month.

BUT…I do get four cleaning visits a month. Looks like what these formally organized outfits are charging would be more like $800 a month if they came in weekly. Wow!

****

Well…  I guess I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just have to be a whole lot more careful around her. And don’t even think about taking a nap while she’s here. Or eating dinner, either….

Balmy Afternoon…

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5:00 p.m., Tuesday, June 17

…and…

It’s 108 degrees in the shade of the back porch!

My son, the redoubtable Caligula, still has my car. I guess he thinks he’s protecting me from myself.

Since I have exactly zero desire to go bucketing around in 108-degree heat, he can keep the damn thing. In the meantime, if the outdoor temp were reasonable, I’d have an eight-minute walk to the nearest grocery store. So…I don’t feel very concerned about it.

What am I gonna do about this latest Act of Arrogance, though?

Really, I haven’t decided. In theory, he has stolen my car. But…you can be sure I’m not about to press car theft charges against my son.

Sooo…we’re brought around to the question of do I care whether he’s glommed the car?

And y’know…the truth of the matter is probably not. Yes, I would like to get the money for it: it’s worth a few tens of thousands of dollars.

But y’know…the whole truth of the matter is that his li’l act of arrogance has demonstrated, spectacularly, that I don’t really need a car.

The neighbor across the street drives an Uber. He’ll take me wherever I please; and what the heck? If he’s not available, some other Uber or actual cab driver will be. I’m within easy walking distance of a Sprouts, an Albertson’s (huge supermarket), an El Rancho (downscale supermarket), an AJ’s (upscale supermarket), a Target, a Walgreen’s…and on and on. In other words, I don’t need a car for normal, day-to-day routine life!

Truth to tell,  I don’t need a car at all. Certainly not for everyday use. And…if something comes up that I do need a vehicle, there’s a place that rents cars within walking distance.

My inclination is not to retrieve that car of mine, and not to buy another car. Let the kid pay the taxes on it! 😉

Seriously: don’t replace that hole in the asphalt into which to pour money. Instead, hire drivers to schlep me around, and rent a car if a day comes that I really need one.

That need isn’t likely to last more than a day or three. And so…why own a car and pay taxes on it if you can provide for yourself more economically?

Heh heh!!!  If my father heard this line of reasoning, he’d think I really have gone balmy. 

Wow! Let’s Get This Straight!

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This afternoon I learned that someone near and dear to me has been telling people that I get sauced up on booze and then climb in the car and cruise around. Let’s get this straight:

I do not drive after I have been drinking. 

Yes. I do drink alcohol. Sometimes I do get sauced up. But I’m not in the car driving around in any kind of sauced-up state.

How do I feel confident about saying that?

Because I very rarely drive after dinner. And generally I drink only wine or bourbon: with dinner.

Dinner goes on the table after all the errands are run, after all the hoo-haw is done. My social life is such that I tend not to go out of the house in the evenings. Thus, if I’ve had any alcoholic beverages — which 99.9% of the time will be wine, taken with a full meal —  I’m not likely to be driving after consuming.

A couple of years ago (more, by now…), I did get into the habit of having a glass of wine or a bourbon & water in the afternoon, around a large mid-day meal. Did I go cruising after consuming this? Not likely: I would have had noplace to go. Why not? Because all of my errand-running and chores would be done before I started fixing and consuming a middle-of-the-day feast.

At one point, however, I realized that this was not a good habit: First, because it had me eating a lot more than necessary and therefore putting on some serious pounds; and second, because it indeed was leading me to drink wine or whiskey before all the day’s activities were done. So, I quit it.

Thus I can  testify, with real confidence, that I do not sit around getting sauced and then jump into the car and drive off into the sunset.

No idea how I can prove this assertion. Because I live alone, there’s no one here to testify whether and when I get sauced up. But surely, if I were cruising to the grocery store through an alcoholic haze, by now I would have accrued a citation or three. And no such things appear in my driving record.

What IS the matter with people, to say a thing like that about an old lady?

Ah hah! First Thing to Go Right This Morning!

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LOL! Here we are at Funny about Money…After only three tries to get online. 😀 By 5:30 a.m., this morning had already revealed itself as the start of One Of Those Days. Ugh! Whatever you touch goes wrong. Touch it twice, and it goes wrong with a vengeance.

This morning will start with a major misadventure: I have to WALK to the grocery store, way to Hell Gone halfway to frikkin’ Yuma.

Why? Because my son has stolen my car. 

Why? Because my idiot cleaning lady convinced him I was passed out drunk at the dining-room table.

No kidding!

When she was here the other day, banging around from pillar to post, I was feeling very sick. The peripheral neuropathy was driving me nuts; I hadn’t been able to sleep all night; and I hurt from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

So while she was roaring around the house, I sat down to the dining room table to have a bite to eat with half a glass of white wine. That accomplished, I stayed sat, folded my arms on the tabletop, and laid my weary head down.

She, in all her wisdom, decided this indicated I was passed-out stinko drunk! 

So, the Soul of Concern, she whips out her phone, snaps a photo of me with my head laid down on the table next to a half-empty wine glass, and emails it to my son!

He freaks. Charges over here. Even though I’m clearly not plastered, he thinks I must be — how could a genius cleaning lady like Luz be wrong, eh?  So he decides to confiscate my car! 

No kidding!

It’s now parked at his place, too far away for me to walk, and impossible to retrieve anyway because he no doubt has it locked inside his garage.

So now, the only way I can get groceries is to HIKE to one of the grocery stores around here, dodging drunks and panhandlers every step of the way.

Hey! It’s good exercise: adds an extra mile or two to the mile-long daily doggy-walk. But how am I supposed to haul a week’s worth of groceries two miles through 100-degree heat?

In an old laundry cart, that’s how.

Well, it’s 6 a.m. The Sprouts doesn’t open until 7:00 a.m., but the far less desirable Albertson’s will be open now. Wunderground predicts a temp of 105 degrees today…so I’d better get going before the sun rises any further.

What the fu*k IS the matter with people?????

Dawn of Another Dreadful Day

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So, so, soooooo sick! Is this thing EVER gonna go away?

Just now, I’m about ready for me to go away. Spectacularly tired of stinging and burning and hurting and not being able to walk across the room without the hip shrieking (metaphorically, of course).

Dog is fed. It’s a gorgeous morning. Need — want — to take Ruby for a walk. But migawd! It hurts so much I can barely stumble around the house…much less hike two miles around the park and through Upper Richistan.

Or even one mile.

Gotta get that poor li’l dog walked. Can’t leave her snoozing under the toilet all day.

Learned why the ineffable Luz is a cleaning lady and not a nuclear physicist.

:-D
Get this:

Along about the middle or late morning, I’m sitting at the dining table, soooooo sick I can barely wriggle. EVERYTHING hurts: hands, feet, head, belly, teeth, gums….whatever: if it’s part of my body, it HURTS. The racket from the vacuum cleaner and the toilet scrubbing and the general cleaning-lady carrying-on trumps trying to sleep.

Exhausted, I fold my arms on the table top and lay my head down.

Now the brilliant Dr. Luz wanders into the dining room and sees me with my head and arms flopped down on the table. She whips out her camera, snaps a photo, and sends it off to my son!  With a message that I’m falling-down stinko DRUNK!

For.

The.

LOVE.

of.

God!

He comes flying over here in a freaking state. Apparently no brighter than Luz, he also decides I’m shit-faced drunk.

Understand: I haven’t even had half a glass of white wine, because I’m too, toooo sick to get around it. No kidding: I literally cannot drink a glass of wine with a little food: that’s how sick I am.

Like our honored Medical Cleaning Lady, he also concludes that I’m sh!t-faced.

An amazing fight ensues. Would’ve been more amazing if I’d had the strength to defend myself…but it was quite amazing enough.

He charges through the house, tossing everything in all the closets as he searches for Demon Wine. Finds one (count it: (1) bottle, which he steals.

Jayzuz!

I should can that stupid woman. But frankly, I’m too sick — way too sick — to clean the house myself, nor am I in any condition to conduct a search for a new cleaning lady.

Well. You may be sure that if and when I manage to get well enough to drag myself around the house, dear Luz will be seeking a new job.

What next, Lord?

Did She Know?

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Did she know what she was doing as she loafed around the house poisoning herself with cigarettes?

Did she know those little pleasure-sticks were, given her family background of cancer death after cancer death, bound to kill her?

Did she know how painful and ugly her exit trip would be?

Oh, yeah. She most certainly did.

If you could read during the late 1950s, you knew that tobacco causes cancer. She may not have understood that she was addicted to nicotine and so would have a gawdawful time trying to stop smoking. If she chose to stop.

  • She did not choose any such thing.

She knew her fog of tobacco smoke was making her little girl sick.

  • She didn’t care.

She knew smoking tobacco had been proven to cause cancer.

  • She didn’t care.

She knew what it was like to die of cancer: she watched her mother die horribly of uterine cancer.

  • She didn’t care.

What she cared about was that passage of minor pleasure, brought to her several times a day by the murdering bastards who grow tobacco and who turn its leaves into cancer sticks.

She saw her mother die horribly of a cancer doubtless brought on by the woman’s promiscuity. So yeah: she knew what it meant to induce a terminal disease in your own body.

One wonders whether she cared about the misery she put my father through, as he tended to her for weeks and months on her deathbed. Probably never thought about it…at least, not until she lay dying.

Well, I can’t be criticizing. Because I do the same thing. 

Not with cigarettes. But yeah: with wine.

As she dared to smoke a cigarette every time the mood struck her (which was often), so I dast to have a glass of wine with dinner every day. And then usually another glass of wine. And sometimes even a third glass of wine.

Horrors!

My cleaning lady (soon to be an ex-cleaning lady, as I’ll be canning her whenever I can find someone to take her place…) grew horrified and beyond horrified at watching me swill wine at mid-day, when I have a serving of meat, a salad, a side vegetable, and a starch (potato, rice, or pasta), accompanied  by a glass of wine. So she pulled a self-righteous little stunt on me.

Come noon the other day, the table was laden with a fine meal and an open bottle of wine. I’d stuffed myself and swilled down a glass and a half of cabernet. She’s slamming around the house, making it impossible for me to accomplish much of anything. So what do I do?

Wouldncha know?

I lay my head on the dining-room table and freakin’doze off. 

This, she takes as proof positive of my unregenerate alcoholism. So she whips out her camera and snaps a photo of me with my head down on the table, snoozing.  And she emails that to my son!

Proof positive: I’m a lush!

My son is abhorred! Not at her sleazy behavior but because I appear to be passed-out drunk at the dining-room table!

So now, convinced that I’m a drunk, he has purloined my car and parked it at his house (so I can’t kill any of my fellow homicidal drivers, right?). He has rummaged through all my closets searching for hidden wine (and stolen all two bottles that he found). He’s taken to supervising my daily habits….which is pretty stupid, because I rarely drink more than a glass of wine a day. Upshot: the only way I can get groceries is to walk to the nearest supermarket, dragging a rolling cart behind me.

***

Yea verily: now I need to get off the dime and find a new cleaning lady. And frankly, searching for an employee is NOT my favorite pastime.

Plus my dear son’s presumptuous superciliousness pushes me toward seeking something other than a new cleaning lady. Like…a new place to live, far far from unlovely Phoenix.

Yeah. I’ve started to think, with something verging on the serious, about moving to Sedona, Wickenburg, Fountain Hills, or Tucson. Or New Mexico.

At this age, the last thing I wanna do is pull up stakes and move far, far away. But on the other hand…this BS makes me mad enough that I’m tempted to do exactly that.

Still thinkin’about it. But thinking seriously….