November 18, 2006
Hotclue Splits AGAIN!
Beth here this week. Again. Yeah, again. What can I say.
So last weekend, my daughter and her S/O, Chris, decide to come up and paint my kitchen and dining room walls and ceilings and trim and install ceramic tile under the cabinets and above the stove and sinks. Just as I’m getting things ready, I go into the bedroom and see that Hotclue’s got her entire clothes closet emptied on the bed, frantically trying to decide what to wear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, although I knew. She does this EVERY time there’s a big project going on around here.
No matter how I argue, she always does because she hates messes and she hates housework. Not that I blame her, but it gets old sometimes. All the time, if you want to know the truth.
She gives me a disgusted look. “I’m packing,” she says. “Can’t you see that?”
I stand there looking at her. Just looking at her. Hating her, actually, because I always get stuck here with all the work.
“Where this time?” I ask, eyeing all the Daisy Mae’s making their way to the suitcase.
“Well, B-e-th!” (She always says it like that too, with her hands on her hips, like some angry third grade teacher when her kids have thrown one spitball too many.) “Didn’t I tell you Count Babalallapaloozo has reserved a suite at The Reef in Grand Cayman? You can’t expect me to back out on that just to stick around here wiping up grout dust!”
“I could,” I say, disgusted. “I have to. How come you’re always exempt from anything even resembling work?”
“Because I’m the glamorous half,” she says. “I’m the beautiful, exciting half that gets to do all these things. Snorkeling. Sky diving. Dancing under the stars. Gambling. Visiting the Count’s money in his bank vault at Cayman, that’s always fun. You’re the half that stays home and does the work. Remember, you told all our blog guests back in February, that’s how it works. I go, you stay. You can’t back out now!”
She has a point. I did say that. “When are you leaving?”
Evil grin. “When are they coming?”
“They’ll be here about eight or nine tonight.”
She controls her snickering. “Well, isn’t that just too wild? The Count’s picking me up in his helicopter at seven thirty tonight. Gosh, I’m going to miss everything, aren’t I?”
She doesn’t look at all sad. In fact, she looks downright smug as she packs six bikini bathing suits, all of which fit into the palm of one hand. The witch.
Somehow this always happens. People come here to do something, they come in the back door, Hotclue slips out the front door, leaving me with all the cleanup. Again.
The only good thing was, I did talk her into leaving her spandex outfits home and wearing her little black dress that’s split down to there and up to here. I had to threaten to kill her if she didn’t and I also slipped some plain black pumps in there while she wasn’t looking. I know, I know, she loves her leopardskin three inch strappy shoes. But there are limits to what I’ll let her do. Although not many. Whatever I wish I could do, Hotclue does. I hope she comes back with a suntan. My skin’s too pale as it is.
Oddly enough, we didn’t have a bad time with the cats and my daughter’s Dawg, Danali, this time. The cats took a look at You-Know-Who and figured, “Oh, it’s him again,” and then laid their heads back down to take yet another nap.
Danali and I did have one caper Sunday morning, while Barb and Chris were at Home Depot for about the nineteenth time. He wanted to go out. I had just got up, was still in my jams, thinking about Hots and The Count at The Reef, probably having champagne and truffle and caper and sun dried tomato omelets for breakfast at that very moment.
While we were having coffecake.
Anyhow, trusting soul that I am, I let Danali out the back door. Two seconds later he was gone. I don’t even think it took him two seconds. I’m frantically stumbling around, looking for my shoes, anything, grab a jacket, run out the back door.
By this time he’s two doors down the street. We live on a busy street. I run out front, calling, PLEADING for him to PLEASE come back. You could almost read his thought processes. Amazing, just amazing. He’s standing in a yard three doors down, looking around, his eyes start rolling, he focuses on their door, looks back at my door, listens to me begging him to come back, looks back at their door and oh so obviously thinks, “Hey, dude, this ain’t Beth’s house. This ain’t even her yard! It ain’t my yard either! What am I doin’ here?”
He runs back into my yard like the sissy he is, into the fenced in back yard where he started out, goes straight to the back door and sits down, looking at me like, “Well, dude, you gonna let me in or what?”
I got him back in the house so fast he didn’t know what hit him. I have no idea if he did what he went outside to do or not. I didn’t care. I gave him treats for being so good and coming back home. I gave him coffeecake. I gave him a cookie. I would have robbed a bank and showered him with gold for coming back.
Trouble is, he knows he’s one up on me now. I can’t wait to see what he does next time, but I can tell you for sure, it’s not going to involve a door and a back yard and soulful, pleading eyes.
I thought Hots would be back early in the week, but just as I discovered on Tuesday that I was going to have an emergency hot date with an oral surgeon on Wednesday, Hots called from Grand Cayman telling me she was flying to Italy with the Count for some big dinner party, probably at the Vatican, knowing her, and she won’t be home till next week.
That Hotclue. She’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure, but don’t tell her I said so. I get stuck with enough work and ALL the toothaches around here. The good news is, the kitchen and dining room look stunning. Chris and Barb have invented another beautiful little island for me, and it really IS beautiful.
Love y’all, come back next week, we’ll do a writing blog on something vital, I promise.
Beth, a poor substitute for Hotclue, maybe, but a substitute nonetheless.
Oh, and thank you, My Fellow Americans, for your stellar performance on November 7th. Now if we could just get Nancy Pelosi to consult with Hotclue before she does anything, kinda like Bush checks with Rove…although…hmmm…maybe not…