So anyway, my daughter has ORDERED me to write a blog entry tonight, despite the fact that towels are now molding on her bedroom floor, and anxiously awaits what I will say. I got a grudging "You're pretty funny, Mom!" from her earlier while she read through two years of posts, so I guess I should comply.
Today, I've been doing spring cleaning. Not normal spring cleaning, oh no of course not. I've been moving the living room to the study and the study to the dining room and the dining room to the living room. That way I can scrub all the baseboards and steam clean the floors and move all the furniture, which is the joy of my existence. Seriously. I love rearranging rooms, and I'll fiddle with them once or twice a month just for the hell of it.
At any rate, I threw out my back and broke a toe on my left foot.
Couch confinement may not be a choice when I wake up in the morning. It may be a requirement. Isn't that pitiful? I shouldn't give up so easily. The fact is that I can't be bothered to follow my doctor's orders. Hell no! I have editing to do, I have new books to write, I have to get my oldest daughter drunk for a week. I have too much to do, so I'll just lay on the couch and do my writing stuff and let the house fall into the seventh circle of hell without my assistance or preventative measures.
That's right. Fuck housecleaning. As long as the hubby dragsz the furniture where I want it, I guess I'll get to it in my own good time.
It's really funny, isn't it. *shrug* I really don't give a rat's patootey about doctor's orders any more. all my doctor does is charge me a buttload of money and brings me no pain relief. I'm already a week ahead on my meds. Damn. Not like I can call him for more percocets. Maybe I'll have to have a hospital visit or something. I have a feeling, though, that if I went to the emergency room tomorrow they'd slap me into a room with a gaseous octagenarian before I could hobble to the door. I hate those idiots too.
However, as I lay here and glance around at my disordered house, I just have to shrug.
I think I'll finish it up tomorrow just so it won't bother the bejesus out of me. I think I'll get up at seven, wake up the brat...oops, I mean by beloved, saintly, would NEVER drink with her parents daughter Meredith...to get off her lazy ass and hop to it. That's almost literal but she lost the crutches a week ago. It's about time for her to earn her keep...there's those flower beds to be weeded...and daffodils in the front bed to be thinned, and lots of stick left over from winter to be picked up. I understand that tomorrow is supposed to be in fifties with rain and high wind.
Sounds like a PERFECT time to pick up sticks. I can sit on the front porch with a beer and a cigarette. I can point and laugh as she staggers by with her Hefty bag of dead tree. What fun! What bliss!
And then she can wash the van. It's not THAT big after all. Since the hose doesn't reach though, that's going to be a lot of trips back and forth with a bucket of soapy water. In the rain. And the wind. And past Mom sitting on the front porch and giggling while she eats a handful of vanilla creme cookies.
Am I evil? Oh, yes. Am I funny? Naturally.
Oh, by the way Meredith...
HAPPY APRIL FOOLS DAY.