Silencio

Why is it that after a year of sharing a domicile she can't
Seem to understand that when I sit by myself and am deathly quiet that means to leave me alone?
It does not mean I want someone talking my bloody ear off trying to "bring me out of my mood"

NPR

Oh Lord help me!
Tonight we are giving a summary of some interview as heard on NPR in the car on the way home.....
I think  it's time for me to go find  my earphones......

Drunks are banned from my kitchen

I don't know why it is that I thought something like a simple sign would help. I should have known better. Drunk people cannot follow instructions.

When there is a big ol' sign on the dishwasher that tells you whether or not the dishes are dirty or clean, I still don't see how one can continually  say, "Oh I got confused."

It's really simple:

Food on dishes= DIRTY

Nice sparkling, lemon scented= CLEAN

 I have had to run the dishwasher 3 times in 24 hours because Lil Miss Irish Mist can't tell the difference.

That is why we bought that sign!!!

What else am I supposed to do? put a pad lock on it? I'm tired of going put the dishes away to be met with what were supposed to be clean dishes now dribbled with remnants of the prior night's drinking binge.

 And this is after I had to yell at her for not loading it correctly last week!

Last week she threw (ye,s threw and not placed in a slot or peg on the rack) a bunch of plastic containers. We all know if you don't properly secure those little buggers, they get flipped downside up and fill with water as they tumble all around the interior during the cycle. Well in this case, because she threw them on the bottom, they fell AALLLL the way to the bottom and landed on the heating coils. Because she started the dishwasher as she went out the door, no none was home to notice the bloody thing caught fire inside. So when I come home I'm met with the putrid stench of burning plastic. After about 10 minutes of checking all our electronics, I figure out its coming from the kitchen; open the dishwasher, to get a cloud of black smoke in my face!

And then there is the time she made coffee (most likely to try to sober up) and never put the carafe under the drip... So I had to mop up an entire pot of coffee from the counter and floor.

And then there are the times she stumbles into the kitchen in the middle of the night to stand in front of the open fridge to eat BBQ sardines and salmon roe with her fingers, only because she is sloshed and didn't turn the light on (drunks don't take to bright lights well) she drops it on the floor... yet another mess I have to clean up.
Am I running a nursing home or what?!?

I'm going to put trip wire in the doorway to try to keep her out.... 

I'll let you know how it works out

Impending story, I have no doubt

I just know this medical shoe she just took off is going to lead to a story...

A Wall Street Pimp, his Stepford Wife, the Raccoons and a '57 Chevy

So Rose inherited a house that has sadly fallen into a shambles due to lack of maintenance ( and several bottles of Irish Mist (but that is another tale)
This house is located in a hoity-toity area in one of the Yankee states - did I mention she's a Yankee??-
Now I've not seen the house myself, but from the way her bedroom looks, I can only imagine!! what the house must look like seeing how she sees nothing wrong with her room but calls the house a death trap.

Rose has a brother who doesn't really cope well with life and can't make large decisions, so it has fallen on her to take care of their inherited properties. This includes a 1957 Chevy Bel Aire 2-door hardtop (haha every time she tells me about this car I envision scenes from My Cousin Vinny). Now she claims this car is worth a lot of money, but I have my doubts. Anyhow, this car needs to be sold in order for her to get money to fix up the house to get it sold so she can use the money from the sale to fix up another house that they inherited.... a whole other story entirely that deals some weird tenants of hers; that will be a different post one day...
Well when the housing market "tanked" - her words not mine- she apparently was in the middle of getting estimates for repairs to the house. (again, knowing her as well as I do, I'm sure she twiddled her thumbs for a great many years before she got around to thinking about getting estimates, but I digress) So here sits this crumbling house on a fantastic corner lot that houses a garage where the '57 Chevy has been parked for over 30 years without having been moved or started, etc. (which leads me to think that its a worthless rust bucket)
This once magnificent muscle car, a testament to a bygone era - again, her wording- has a few roommates of its own....a family of LARGE, wild raccoons. At the time this post goes live, I am unsure if the critters live in the car or just share the garage with it. I'm truly scared to ask because I don't want it to seem as if the story interests me, for fear I may get frequent updates.

Next door to this unusual "critter hotel" lives a very prim and proper Stepford Wife. This wife and her husband have made several overtures over the decades to buy a portion of the undeveloped land owned by Rose and her Brother. While a normal person who needs the money, would sell the land they want, Rose vehemently refuses due to some feud between them over the raccoons.
Mrs. Stepford Wife's husband works for some trading company in The City and according to my source, Rose, they have money coming out of their ears because he is nothing but a Wall Street Pimp. Well as all pimps are, this one seems to be well connected and has complained to whatever powers that be about the raccoons, and low and behold there seems to be some old ordinance about wild animals and now Rose can't set foot on her own property because she will be arrested for not doing anything about the 'coons and being in violation of this law.
Here's the problem: she isn't really sure of the year of the car. She thought it was a 4 door, but the brother insists it is a 2 door. (although, relying on the word of a near 70 year old schizophrenic might not be the best judgement call) She tried sending someone out to the house to look at the VIN but when he opened the garage door a raccoon got out, Mrs. Stepford Wife (who sits at home all day filing her nails while the nanny attends to the twins) saw the raccoon scuttle across the yard, started yelling at the guy over the hedge and he ran off.....
I'm still unclear on how she plans to sell a car that she can't access herself without the threat of jail looming overhead???
But again, I don't want to show too much interest. On the other hand, after hearing this story and her cursing the Stepford Wife no less than 20 times in the past 12 months, I am now finding myself caught up in this soap opera.

How to begin?

Most people would start at the beginning, so I'm going to take that very literally and go waay back to the beginning...

 A Long time ago in a galaxy, no wait, wrong story... In the Waldorf Astoria of New York, there was an elevator boy. In the same hotel there was also a young personal assistant to some Polish somebody-or-the other. Yada yada yada, they married, yada yada yada and in October 1952 they had a baby girl they christened [omitted for privacy].

I have this roommate. She's a seemingly sweet lady of 60 years, but she has a deep dark secret. So secret in fact, she isn't aware of it herself. Her secret is that she seems to have channeled the fictitious Rose Nylund from the sitcom The Golden Girls.

Now if you have ever seen the show, you know that Rose (which is what I am calling my roommate to protect  her identity, if not integrity) is fond of telling these insane and boring stories from her past.
My Rose is no different. The first time I heard her voice was as the landlord was showing her around the house. I was in the bathroom we were to later share, scrubbing the shower, when I hear this woman telling a story about a rabbit that she she used to feed in the backyard at her last place and "oh how I'm going to miss Mr. Fuzzy". That there should have been my first clue.....

This blog is a means that I have come up with to not only vent my frustration of hearing these stories but also to pass the time while listening to them. You see, even though I frequently walk around the house with headphones on to avoid them, she still talks to me. Blogging about them will keep me from rudely running away in terror and also keep me from throttling her when she starts to repeat them ( I've heard most of the stories a couple different times now)

Stay tuned and Enjoy.....