Faux Slacker

I went four months without blogging.  Certainly not because random trains of thought stopped coming to me.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  But this little thing called real life just kept getting in the way.

You see, my husband and I decided it would be fun to destroy our house.  Not a single year goes by without some kind of project being put on THE LIST, and this year, it was a whopper.

After a mild winter that still had us feeling the drafts, seeing the frost on the windows, and noticing the peeling away of the exterior, we knew we could no longer ignore the outside of the house.  So, windows, doors, and an entire new facelift of new siding got put on the honey-do list.

We are avid DIY-ers, and this little chore is no different.  I've made some foolish decisions, like keeping both my 110 year old cottage windows that are irreplaceable, and though I may occasionally shake my head at their draftiness, I will be glad I kept one small piece of original construction.  I also HAD to have the antique door with the leaded glass that looks like a cobweb, which isn't really a security minded door, but I will smile every time I look at it.

I am a detail oriented brain, and a project this large makes me an indecisive twit.  I can quickly decide that white siding is what I want, but ask me if I'd like shutters and I still, two months later, can't decide if I want to refinish the old shutters or go with all new.  I know I want a front porch built, but the size of said porch has changed four times.  Point out our front door is not quite centered on the house, and I'm now the proud owner of an unfinished sidelight.  A sidelight I can not decide on a framing style for.  A sidelight that will be installed with the door in the next couple of weeks, that I am still clueless on.  I am reusing our house numbers, but can't decide how to refinish them, or if I want them framed in some way.  I still have not decided on a new exterior light.

I keep telling myself I have time to make these decisions, because there's still SO much work to do.  This weekend, we tear apart the bottom two feet of the siding to determine what kind of damage or repair work needs to be done to the foundation.  I'm convincing myself that with penny pinching previous owners, there will be plenty for us to work on before these decisions have to be made.  But as the sides of the house progress, and I leave for work each morning seeing the front, I am reminded that all these decisions relating to the front of the house will need to be made before we can even begin to prepare it for the new siding.

Is it terrible to consider that extensive foundation work could mean the budget runs tight, and then perhaps I can avoid making a decision on a front porch until next year? 

And is it awful to avoid thinking about our DIY weekend warrior title also means we are only working on Saturdays?  And refuse to look at a calendar to see how many Saturdays are left before weather prohibits us from doing any more work?

At what point is all this avoidance going to bite a big chunk out of my ass?

Amazingly enough, I am not drinking heavily through all of this.  Probably because I've been working too hard to think about pouring a frosty cold one.

All I know, is I've got a great tan from constantly working outside.  And I love my new windows that I can open and close with one hand.  And I have calluses on my hands that I've never had before.

And in two days, another Saturday will have come and gone.

Nope.  Not going to think about it.

How to Exterminate Roach People

I look at our weather forecast and nearly weep.  A big, snot running, ugly cry.  And not because I cringed in horror, but big, dripping tears of joy.

Warmth.

Sun.

Numbers starting with a 5...even some starting with a 6.

Dear lawd sweet baby cheezits can I get an amen?

Now, that being said, I must purge these horrid thoughts, because when weather begins to warm, the freaks thaw out and start scurrying through my life like cockroaches.

First it was the women bundled up in winter coats and hats on a 57 degree day grumbling that it was too chilly.

Then, it was the grocery cashier regaling every person within earshot about her memories of the blizzard of '73.  With a friendly reminder to not get too happy about a beautiful sunny day.  I nearly slammed her, face first, into my pork shoulder roast.  The thought of grinding her nose into raw meat gave me even more pleasure than having the first window open in my house since early October.

And that was yesterday.  Today, the cockroach scurrying multiplied like any good vermin infestation tends to.

Though there were very few people who were able to actually voice a complaint about the weather, the freakfest did not stop coming through the doors. 

Obviously, people have been cooped up in the house way too long, and no longer know how to behave in public. 

Why should I be the one feeling like a fool when I respond to the endless mumbling going on throughout the store?  I was responding, attempting to help the person who appeared to be speaking every time I was within earshot, but it soon became clear she was having a very lengthy conversation with the other personality residing in her brain.

It also felt like a warm summer day when I had to reach for the large bottle of sea salt spray, making a round through the store, squirting as I went.  How can one person smell so bad that they leave a wave of putrescence wherever they have stepped?

Why do three young adults need to stop and rest while walking down the street?  They're young and healthy, but apparently so tired that they need to take a small siesta on the doorstep of an attorney's office before venturing across the street to our store.  And once inside our store, one was so obviously exhausted that the toddler sized chair was the only place he could muster enough energy to check his phone.  Yes, yes, tweeting is tiresome work, I know.

But all was not lost, as a truckload of designer clothing made its way into our store.  By the time it was unloaded, I had a counter and floor completely covered in piles and boxes.  As I began to neatly pack it away for future pricing, I got the joy of all joys in my life...the Curious George's.   It's not enough that we have an entire store packed with beautiful things hanging on racks, displayed on shelves, and at fingertip reach everywhere you look. 

No.

They all wanted to see what was in the boxes.

Touch touch touch.

Pick up.

Admire.

Exclaim "what is this?!!!"

Exclaiming over items I have not even looked at yet.  I, who works there, has not touched, folded, viewed, or inspected them.  But please, Nosy Rosy, Curious George, by all means, reach your grubby little paws into my boxes of merchandise and help yourself.

GET YOUR FILTHY FUCKING HANDS OFF THAT SHIT.

Though I was mentally screaming each and every time, I politely said, OVER AND OVER, "Please, I can not have you touching merchandise that has just arrived in the store."

In which I got the ever-so-famous response of "I"m just looooooooooking".  Yes, in the whiniest tone imaginable.

MENTAL SIGH.  "I haven't even looked at it, and I'M an employee, so again, I need you to not be looking through those boxes, please."

And then, of course, the slightly miffed, nose out of joint, haughty sniff, walk away like I've just asked them to lick me where I pee.

HOWEVER....

Regardless of the cockroach shenanigans, it was a GLORIOUS day.  I may have worked under the harsh lights of buzzing fluorescents, but that sun was shining into my dark little soul.  I washed my filth-mobile with no worries of doors freezing shut.  I opened my sunroof for the drive home.  I soaked up that blazing sun like a cat in a window.  Scurrying little cockroaches be damned.

When the cockroaches invade, shut your eyes, turn your face to the sky, and soak it in.  Life's prescription for joy...spring.

Keeping It Real: Uber-Bitch Edition

Raging Rhonda.

Irritable Isabel.

Fuck off Frannie.

I could easily change my name this week, considering the Ms. Crabby Pants Extraordinaire begging to be let loose upon the masses.

I sit at my desk with my ears plugged, filling my brain with all the soothing music I can muster off my playlist, knowing that if I take these little buds out of my ears, every last noise is going to grate on my nerves like a paper shredder.  I know there's a name for people who can not stand noise, but I don't know if I can label myself with this really-long-word-I-don't-remember, or if I should just suck it up sweetheart and call it like it is.

I'm in uber-bitch mode. 

EVERYTHING irritates me right now.

I'm irritated with myself for being so irritated at everything.

The fucking weather fucking sucks.  One pissant snow storm brought that particular crabby pants attitude out in me.  Maybe because the plowing from my house to work is done by a blind man.  I don't know who this blind man is, or I would probably be standing out on the highway, shoveling snow into a truck bed so I can go dump it in his yard.  Eight miles of snow shoveling, and I could maybe get that bitchiness out of my system and get over the fact that we now hire blind people to be snowplow drivers.  Every other road I see is plowed nicely, and maybe it's not perfect, but there's at least 50% of the road showing so you actually know where the fucking lanes are.  But noooo...not the road to work.  I had the day off after the snowpocalypse, so my rage took an extra day to set in.  With that extra day, you would think there was extra snowplowing going on, but apparently, blind man had Monday off as well.  By Tuesday, when other roads were improving, ours was still nearly 100% covered, but because it had been a couple days since the snowfall, it had progressed into packed down snow-shit that was slick as a sheet of ice.  Wednesday, very minute tracks started to appear, so there was at least a hint of which lane I was driving in.  However, by Wednesday evening, it was recovered after a day of wind and drifting, so much so that it hit the undercarriage of a car if you sat low enough to the ground in whatever you were driving.  Thinking the blind man MUST be aware of this, I expected a somewhat easier drive Thursday morning, only to be proven wrong AGAIN, with the same messes I had driven through the night before.  By this time, I was in full on weather rage mode, and to add to it, the one snowplow I DID see was busy plowing the ditch.  Yeah, blind dumbfucker, that's great...remove the snow from the ditch so I have nothing soft to land in if I go sailing off the side of the road because I can't tell where my lane is.  Thanks, Obama.

The temps took a nosedive today, which piled on the ragey, bitchy feeling brewing in my brain for oh-so-many reasons.  The heat lamp which sits in our well did not get checked over the weekend, and considering the lifespan of the bulbs, I was fairly confident the light was OUT.  With falling temperatures coming, I knew that meant I should leave our water dripping in order to avoid frozen pipes.  However, water no longer just drips, it dribbles, because the aerator has been taken off the faucet for a repair, and a new one has not been put back on.  So, irritation not only began simmering over the annoyingly incessant sound of dribbling, but also of the reminder that a new aerator has still not been put on.  And it can't be just the heat lamp needing routine maintenance...oh HELL NO, not on bitchy McCrabbypants days.  Now I'm well aware that the water softener needs a new filter because I have a lovely rust stain forming in my kitchen sink where the water has been dribbling.  Which means intensive scrubbing.  That I'm too crabby to want to do.  And is just another lovely reminder that I live in hicksville where the water quality is questionable, at best.

Cold temperatures also mean no car washes.  Unless, of course, I would like my doors to freeze shut while it sits outside.  But with snowpocalypse, blind snowplow driver, and a city unable to clear anything within three feet of a curb, my truck looks like it has been painted in a grey, white, and poop tye dye.  Which gets on your pant legs and shoes every time you get in or out of the vehicle unless you are extra cautious.  And of course, I'm NOT cautious, because I'm too busy thinking negative thoughts every time I even look at my vehicle.

What you DON'T see in the picture, is the giant hump of snow I hurdled to get in this parking spot, because some asshat pushed snow into the spot, creating a two foot drift.

I've been especially ragey over the other drivers on the roads.  There have been the typical good ol' boys who come rip tearing up on my back bumper, as I try to navigate my two wheel drive truck through the unplowed/shitplowed roads.  I'd flip them off, but they wouldn't see my finger sticking up through the filth covered back window anyway.  They, in their four wheel drive, have no problems sailing across the snow wasteland, but in my little filth-machine, I can't quite do the speed limit, and occasionally have to let off the gas when the truck begins to slide.  Would they prefer I slide into the freshly plowed ditch so they can get past me to whatever very important coffee date they seem to have?  Perhaps I will write "Feeling Uber-Bitchy" in the filth in my back window, so they can be forewarned of exactly how I'm feeling about them riding my ass.  It's not like I'm going grandma-speed...only five to ten under the limit at most, but that doesn't stop them from riding my ass like a dog in heat.  These will be the same dumb hicks who will slow down to a crawl in the spring so they can do their field-viewing, but come winter time, when there are no crops to gawk at, they are in an all out hurry.

Add in seeing nearly every driver with a phone plastered to their ear, and it's a damn miracle I haven't just rammed my vehicle straight into them in a pissy fit of rage.  I am PERPLEXED as to how people drive while gabbing incessantly on the phone.  And everyone seems to do it.  Am I the only person that finds chit chatting on the phone to be distracting while driving? 

And this week is the week of looking at absolute SHIT that people seem to think is worth money, but shouldn't even be sent to charity, unless of course, you're wanting to make a statement of thinking that charity equals POOP.  People are WAY too chatty, and not in that chatty, I really enjoy my job type of way.  Chatty as in endless rambling just for the sake of hearing their own voice.  Chatty BLATHER, that doesn't even make sense, including very personal details of their life, even though I don't even know their name.  Occasionally, they will ask ME a question, but then continue blathering on, not even waiting for an answer.  You get enough days of THAT, and you start feeling invisible.  But a ragey invisible.  The kind of invisible that makes your hand just ITCH to reach out and bitch slap them to see if maybe THAT will make them shut up for just ONE second.  But no, the Crabbypants has not escalated to those extremes, and with only one more day of work in the week, I think I can survive without an assault charge ending up on my record.

Maybe.

So on the drive home, knowing that I was feeling full-blown bitch mode arriving, I told myself to do whatever it takes to get this the fuck out of my system.  Obviously, that meant blogging the shit, puke, and crud out of my system.  It means plugging headphones into my ears (and I JAMMED those suckers in so hard it hurt) and blasting the most soothing music I could find.  It means typing until my fingers hurt, because I absolutely LOATHE feeling like a crotchety old hag.  It meant talking to Charlie, and letting those big eyes tell me that yes, it's ok.  Get it out of your system now, and move the fuck on, you stupid, silly, bitchy girl.

Tomorrow is a new day.  Sure, I told myself that yesterday when Ms. Crabbypants was at only 75%, but now that I've hit 100%, it can only subside from here.  I will force the sunshine and rainbows, sing it out of my system, and dedicate the day tomorrow to silly play.  I will take a moment in the store room, and slap the shit out of myself if need be. 

Because I find myself quite irritating to be around right now.

Time to Pay

I am enjoying my first "normal" morning in over three weeks.  Round two of espresso sits steaming in front of me, my favorite playlist is blasting from the speakers, and I find myself A-L-O-N-E.

Alone.  What a glorious word.  I'm sure there are some, who perhaps love to wallow in misery, would find such a statement horrendous and inconceivable.  But, considering the state of my affairs, I am embracing this solitude, and were it a physical thing, I would wrap my arms around it and squeeze the shit out it and never let go.

I NEED my solitude.  That moment of turning up the volume because there's no one else to care (other than a FatBastard lounging somewhere in this ice box of a house).  And when I don't have that solitude, when the house bustles with activity, I tend to go slightly insane.  I don't even notice the insanity slowly creeping up on me, until I start waking in the morning with that dull, familiar ache in my face.  The sore spots, just to the front of my ears.  The incessant clenching of the jaw that I am not even aware I do, until my face is aching like a dull throbbing tooth.  Thankfully, I don't grind my teeth, just a constant clench that results in an ache eerily similar to a too long session in a dentist chair.

The holidays brought a girl child home.  Though at 20, I suppose I cannot call her a child anymore.  But does a grown woman actually leave bobby pins in the shower?  Does an adult borrow her mother's super duper (and expensive) hairspray and then leave it in her room?  Would a grown woman actually let her mother search every basket, cubby, and hidey hole in the bathroom looking for said hairspray while she sleeps the peaceful slumber of the innocent?

On the flipside, I enjoyed having another female in the house again, because being outnumbered can wear on a person.  She was my partner in trashy TV, overruling the need for movies that involve machetes, wannabe cowgirls, and fast cars.  She gave me a "look" each time we heard a strange noise emitting from the boy cave, and was my partner in the rolling of the eyes.

Now, with her gone, I'm left with a scattering of bobby pins, and an ever growing accumulation of boy mess.

I suppose the mess is not helped by my lack of participation in all things considered "home".  There was absolutely no Suzy Homemaker to be found through my bout with that lovely plague that invaded, and by the time I started to feel even vaguely human, it was time to dive head first into a work obsession like no other.  As long as the espresso beans kept flowing, I was considering my job at home complete.  No laundry has been touched, my refrigerator is a condiment buffet, and Christmas decorations still sparkle in every corner.

Though the sparkle is dulled by the accumulating dust.

So, in my solitude this morning, I see the bins sitting near the back door.

The Christmas bins.

Waiting to be filled.

Sigh.

After five days of purge and rebirth at the store, I am in a purge state of mind.  A state of mind that says TOSS IT ALL.  Start over from scratch.  Which is of course, ludicrous considering the deep love affair I have with so much of my Christmas decorations.  But it doesn't even stop at the Christmas decor.  I look around and think maybe minimalist is the way to go.  After all, do I really need a collection of candles and candle holders that could light up the entire six square blocks of this town?  The faux flowers in vases are nothing more than collectors of dust and cobwebs, and considering my aversion to dusting, it's pretty silly that I hang on to such things.

I know it's just the whiner in me, because once I start getting all things holly jolly stored away, I will relish putting my house back together to it's original state.  But considering the arctic blast zone going on outside, I may just leave a few sparkly things in place.

I'll know when I start.  Which doesn't appear to be happening any time soon.  Because goddammit, I finally have some solitude, and it seems such a waste to blow these hours actually doing something akin to work.

Rudolph is mocking me.  Cheeky little bastard.  Maybe I'll brave the elements and punt his ass out the door.

Maybe I'll just continue to sit my ass on this chair enjoying that quickly cooling cup of dark, silky goodness.

I could light a match and burn it all.  At least I'd be warm.

Have I mentioned I'm allergic to fake pine?  Yup, I need to go find my long gloves just so I can carefully take every last stupid ornament off the tree.  Unless I'd like to look like I have welts up to my shoulders.

Burn it.

Burn it all.

Perhaps some Nine Inch Nails will be the proper motivational music to get this chore underway.

Perhaps I should stop rambling like a fool on this blog and find out.

Perhaps.

Distracted Much?

Tonight is definitely a meditation night.  I typically do a smidge of quiet nothing time every night, but I think I may have to work harder at it this evening.

Not to sound like an ungrateful hag, but I'm on a roll today, even with everything trying to smack me back down.

My espresso maker died an agonizing death on Sunday, and after the brief panic attack, I calmly ordered another one and decided to get out that french press collecting dust while I wait for it to arrive.

Espresso is disgusting in a french press.  I suppose there are some out there who love those little contraptions, and if it were for coffee consumption, I suppose I could see the appeal.  However, this is not measly coffee, this is ESPRESSO.  And I take mine like tar that could be slapped on a roof.  I could add even more grinds to the french press to go for a darker brew, but I'm already throwing twice the amount in the glass than what goes in an espresso machine.  And it's such a boring cup of good morning.  I've considered just spooning the sludge out of the bottom and eating it like a bowl of Cream of Wheat, but I only have one more morning of this hell before the new machine arrives.  Plus, as finely as I grind my beans, I'm confident that now amount of tooth brushing could remove those little things from my teeth were I to actually get desperate enough to eat them.

The demise of the espresso machine also means there is not the travel cup filled for my morning at work.  I'm actually making coffee.  And drinking it.  I'm not big on coffee, having been an espresso whore for too long to remember.  Plus, coffee is much more acidic than espresso, and well, honestly, if you are not an espresso fiend, you just will NOT understand.

Blech

 

Despite forgetting my belt, and finding myself changing out of workout clothes at work with pants that can not go without a belt, I managed to muddle through the day.  I actually did not get alot of my chosen work done, since there's that little thing called clients and customers, but all in all, it was a good day.  Even with temperatures ranging in the 20's, after a day of 50's and windows open just 24 hours previously.  Even waking up to snow flurries.

Though cold weather normally makes me think of things like hibernating, it invigorated me today.  I arrived home and started chopping and dicing, cooking up a new recipe though I seem to be the only person living in this house this evening.  I cleaned a bit, did some laundry, enjoyed a new soup, and even took out the trash in the bitter wind.  I hate the thought of a large trash can next to the house, which means ours sits near our property line through the back yard.  Not acres, but a fair sized yard, and it seems even larger when you realize you still have flip flops sitting at the back door for those quick runs outside.  My toes are still frozen into little blocks of ice.

Perhaps that was a little jolt that seemed to wake me up even more.  Because even though it's nearing 8:00 pm, I'm considering cleaning out my closets.  Again.  It would be the 3rd time since I packed away summer things, but now that cold weather seems to be here to stay, I feel like I can let go of a few more things that probably won't get touched this year.

However, what I really need to be doing is reading the book for our Book Club this month.  Our meeting is next week and I have not touched it.  I suppose I will have to bargain with myself, as I seem to be more motivated when I offer myself a reward.   And this month, the reward is huge, because today, my new Stephen King book arrived and everything I've seen about it says scary, scary, scary.  But no, I can not pick up that divine little morsel until I get this club selection read.  Bad girl, do as you are told.

I had another random thought that since temps have plummeted and we're lucky to hit 30 degrees, it could be kind of fun to start getting the holiday and winter decorations out.  There are already icicles showing up outside, so why not have them draped over everything inside as well?  It did not help that I took advantage of warm weather yesterday and draped the outside of the house in pine garlands, wreaths, trees, bows, and ornaments.  Yes, yes, stop your foolish ranting about it being too early in November.  And I will try not to laugh when your fingers are going numb trying to put up one single strand of lights.  Since I don't cover my house in lights, inflated snowmen, or candy canes, it actually looks pretty appropriate for what feels like winter but is technically still fall.  Also, I had neighbors gossiping when I put up fall decorations in September (acting as if that was actually too early), so I figure this will really give them something to talk about.

Kiss my ass.

Along with the espresso maker deciding to take a shit on me, I reached for my hand lotion after washing up pots and pans tonight and felt like crying.  My little pot of Lush Handy Guguru is nearly empty.  I've doled that luscious little cream out sparingly, but alas, it is about to disappear on me.  A simple solution would be to order some more, but I've been trying to not purchase anything but necessities and holiday preparations and gifts.  Another moment of telling the too-soon-holiday whiners to shut up.  I'll be relaxing the weeks before Christmas while others are stressing out, so don't question my madness.  But, back to the Guguru...if you have never tried it, you have no idea what you are missing.  Best.  Lotion.  Ever.  And nearly gone.  I'm sad.

Crying.

 

Only for a brief moment, because my mind has already wandered off to closets and bins of Christmas decorations.

Shut up.

I need to meditate.

Om.

I'm Out of Trash Bags

It started with a sale.

With plans for Saturday night, you would think I spent my day Saturday catching up on all those things I ignored through a very hectic work week.

Oh hell no.

All it took was a friend telling me about the vendor going out of business sale.  The 75% off sale.  Starting that very day.  The same vendor I had gone to a month before during their fall event, and passed by so many pretty things because I thought their prices were too high.  Not just pretty things, but things that called my name.  That said, only you, the freak who puts a chandelier in a tree will buy me.  Buy me.  Take me home.  Love me.  Adore me.

75% off.

So, before the sun had even peeked above the horizon, I drove through the predawn light to meet up with her so we could be at the doors at opening time.  On a Saturday morning.  When I'm normally rejoicing in no alarm clock, leisurely sipping coffee, and in no hurry to get out of unacceptable lounge wear.

We arrived half an hour early, and joined the other early riser insane people waiting at the doors.

And it was GLORIOUS. 

They were playing Christmas music, and my first thought while waiting outside was "give me a break, I get enough of this crap at work with Christmas items selling since July".  But then something magical happened.  Maybe it was the camaraderie of waiting in the chilly sunrise with other equally sale obsessed women.  Maybe it was not being in the confines of the store constantly rearranging our own Christmas goods for sale.  Whatever it was, I suddenly FELT IT.  That magical little thrill that the season of snow, icicles, and peppermint candles was approaching.  The knowledge that after all the leaves are raked up, and as more layers are required each time I go outside, I would soon be decorating my house in a winter wonderland.  It could have been the antique sleds lined up against the fence, it could have been the glimpse of the flocked tree seen through the window, but I suddenly felt jolly and had the urge to let out a shrieking HO HO HO. 

And I HO HO HO'd throughout the various buildings, picking up all the little snowbirds, frosted sprays of pine needles, and then the holy grail of Christmas cheer greeted me with a quiet little "hello, I've been waiting for you".   The small tree, covered in antique ornaments.  Antique ornaments that I can never find anywhere.  Antique ornaments no one else seemed to care about.    I gently plucked them off the branches, welcoming them to my home.

And it wasn't just Christmas calling to me throughout their buildings.  Owls, birds, small cages and urns.  The gloriously gothic looking chandelier everyone had passed by.  Not knowing if this one would hang in a tree, from my arbor, or somewhere in my house, but knowing it had to be mine.

Of course, arriving home that afternoon, I just dropped the bags and goods, and knowing there was fun to be had later that night, took a nap instead of putting away a single thing.

So after a deliciously fun time last night, I woke up to a mess of bags and pretties just waiting to be put away.  Knowing that half those goods are Christmas items, and not being a total freak and putting them up before Halloween, I started searching through the house for an empty bin.  Surely there is one, since two months ago we moved a (then) teenage girl back to college.  Nope, no bins, but after looking in the closet of doom, I realized I must remove the doom factor if I want to fit one more bin of ANYTHING in it.

After a quick trip to the store for a bin, I started pulling things out of the closet.  And that is an understatement.  Though most of my Christmas decorations are in the loft of the garage, there are a few bins and random pieces of holiday cheer in the doom closet.  And then I realized there are also many, many other things I've ignored in there, which is why it's been labeled the closet of doom.  It's a virtual junk drawer but in a much larger space.

I had a moment of excitement when I saw the package on a top shelf, thinking a forgotten Christmas gift was waiting for me to rip it open and squeal in glee.  Nope, seat covers.  For the Escape I got rid of almost 8 months ago.

The power paw.  The heinous bitch power paw for the piece of shit vacuum cleaner.  I've been looking for that worthless thing for over a year.  Not that it works, but it attaches to the piece of shit, and every time I pull it out to vacuum, I'm wondering where the stupid power paw attachment went.

A bin of Halloween decorations.  Yup, forgot about those.  I'm decorated for fall, but somehow, in the midst of late night ramblings and post it notes on calendars, I had forgotten that I actually own Halloween decorations.

So now there is a huge mess all over my floor.  The closet is cleared out, but I have a huge pile of crap that needs to be thrown out, and piles everywhere that need to be sorted and put away.  And I'm out of trash bags, so this throwing away thing is going to be a pain in my ass.  Even my son, who is a teenage boy and immune to messes, keeps popping his head into the room and asking me what the hell happened in here.

So, before I tackle the piles of pretties, I have to tackle the bomb that went off at the closet door.  And I really REALLY want to play with the pretties.  My St. Francis (yes, this atheist bought a St. Francis statue, because it reminds me of my grandmother), is begging for a home somewhere in my house.  I'm not sure where yet, but it will probably involve moving things around, and making more messes.

Because apparently, messes is the theme of the day.

The Focus

You would think that being truly alone in the house for the first time in three months would find me kicking back with a cup of coffee and a book.  Or trashy magazines or some horridly mindless reality show.   And I say truly alone, because in the last three months, the snippets of an hour or two in an empty house do not count.  There was always the promise of crotchfruit returning and dumping their belongings in a heaping pile on the table, in the mudroom, in the living room, and generally whatever open spot they find in the house.  Adding to the pile was the spouse who took a week off work, and though he pitched in here and there on random piles and taking out trash, he does not have THE FOCUS.

THE FOCUS is not on the random cat toys shoved under the couch.  It is not the pile of mail on the kitchen table.  It is not the empty boxes sitting here and there that then get gathered up to create a tower of boxes in the mudroom.  He means well, but as the primary housekeeper around here, he just does not do it MY WAY.

*cue hysterical laughter*

Yes, I'm admitting, I want it done MY WAY.  With MY FOCUS. Because I'm a picky bitch and I own it.  I will even say that I am not a great housekeeper/cleaner.  However, I have my methods, and I want the house cleaned a certain way, so I become an insufferable hag when people help but it's not 110% under my direction and with my style.

Rotten ass bitch that I am.

So, with the hubby off work for the week, and moving the girl child back to college for what she says is the final time, I pretty much ignored everything that would normally be touched in a normal week.  Add in a boss lady who took off for the weekend and working Saturday hours, and I was pretty convinced that I would spend my entire Sunday just cleaning up after everyone.

And there IS cleaning to do.  Men folk, young and old, don't seem to concern themselves too much with why the bathroom smells.  Girl child (I suppose with her about to turn 20 I need to stop calling her that), packed up and left a tornado in her wake.  But I'll get to her room another day, because I have plans for that space...oh yes, the plans are starting to form.  The random piles, messes, and dusting will wait, because there are more pressing matters at hand.

It started with a rug.  That heinous fucking rug.

I had a very large red rug in my living area.  As far as color goes, it was great.  Size however, not so great.  It was large enough that it reached the furniture on either end of the space, and no matter what I did, every time it was walked on, it would bunch up, wrinkle, create humps that the average klutz was guaranteed to trip on.  So, instead of scheming up a way to keep the rug in place, I said fuck you Mr. Rug.  You're outta here.  And upon telling the rug to fuck off, I saw all the stains on the shitastic carpet under the rug.  Stains that were not there when the rug was put down on the floor.

Yes, I am a shitty housekeeper that vacuumed the rug and never checked the floor under it.  Piss off.  That's not the point.

So out came the handy dandy carpet cleaning fixes involving vinegar, dish soap, and an iron.  I don't think it's completely cleaning the shit carpet, but it's fading the glaring spots enough for me to ignore them until I can get a carpet cleaner in here.

BUT, what this first little cleaning project created was a dissatisfied feeling with my furniture placement.  And suddenly wishing for a coffee table.  I do not own a coffee table in this house full of furniture, so I started scanning the rooms wondering what I could use instead.

Voila, there's the chest holding a repro vintage record player.  But it's hubby's record player, and it's not like the thing can just be shoved in a closet, because he loves that thing (and his record collection), and since I love him, I'm not going to be hellacious brat bitch and just toss the thing aside.

This then lead to more scanning of furniture, wondering what I could use to hold the player instead of the trunk that I now want as a coffee table.  And stuck in the corner, covered in dust, behind a folding screen is the uglier than sin small side table holding the printer, modem, and various computer shit I have no name for.  But then, where do I put that?

My head turns to the corner that used to be the zen corner.  USED to be.  Until it became the home of the second desk/table.  It was free, and it's a desk styled like a table so it's multi-use and will be perfect for when girl child has her own place.  It was perfect for girl child the entire summer as she piled endless amounts of girl shit on it.  But with her gone, it's now just holding leftover girl shit that needs to go up to her room and taking space in my glorious zen corner.  So I begin the process of cleaning it off, creating more piles to clean up, and heave ho that fucker across the room.

Restoring zen

And I'm suddenly reminded that one leg of this heavy fucker is about to snap off and needs reinforcing screws put in.  One of those little things I never put on the honey do list because I thought I would remember to just say something about it.  Obviously I didn't.  And now I'm heaving and hefting a very solid table that has one leg attempting to snap off.  And I'm cursing.  Alot.  And realizing sometimes it's not such a great thing to take advantage of being alone in the house, because this would be a hell of a lot easier with someone on the other end of this table attempting to move it without snapping the leg off.  So as I'm muttering and fuckity fuck fuck fucking that bitch into the corner by my desk, I randomly look up to see someone very slowly driving by my front windows and find myself screeching "what the fuuuuuuuck are you looking at fuuuuuuucker?".  And that must have been the final push I needed because I got that bitch where I wanted it.  With a five inch gap from where it sits next to my desk.  Being the OCD eye twitching dumbass, I attempt to heave ho the solid wood desk holding ten years worth of records and every other stupid thing I think I need like a paper collection for all those letters I never get around to writing.  And I fall on my ass because it does NOT BUDGE.

I will have to learn to work with the five inch gap, because even after pulling out drawers, that fat bitch still won't move.  And I briefly consider trying some more, because I've moved this desk before, but the thought of disconnecting all the computer components and emptying the entire thing out is more than I want to do to just have a goddamn coffee table.

Hey, at least I got the vacuum cleaner out and am vacuuming up dust and cobwebs from all these pieces moving around.

Now that the craptastic table is out, I need to dust it off before actually allowing the record player to sit on it, and I realize that it got so dusty because there was always a folding screen in front of it.

The folding screen.

Prized possession #1

Shit.

I have no idea where to put it now.

Getting rid of it is NOT an option.  This thing is hand painted by my late grandmother.  It is a prized possession.    A LARGE prized possession.  Which I'm now realizing was large enough to hide a large portion of the wall as well, so along with having no home for the screen, I also now have a large wall with nothing on it.

Unacceptable.

I think briefly to the large picture hanging above the bed upstairs, and wonder why a picture I adore so much is above the bed, where I can not look at it unless I lay on the bed backwards.  But then there will be a large wall in the bedroom with nothing on it.

Better, except now I don't know if I like the mirror.  Sigh.

I can live with that.

I still need to dust off that craptastic record player table.  So I can dust off the chest once it's empty.  And have a coffee table.

I have a sinking feeling this is going to lead to moving around couches.  Which is yet another conundrum, considering I have yet another corner of the living area that I refuse to touch, but it really is nothing more than unusable space.  That could fit a large folding screen.  However, it also contains the prized possession antique trunk.  Which was also my late grandmother's.  Given to me by my own mother.  I would actually consider burning to death in an effort to pull this thing out of a flaming house.  Which means some furniture placement just will not be able to happen.

Prized possession #2

I believe I need to make more espresso to figure this one out.  Perhaps some Queen on the speakers, because great ideas happen with Freddie Mercury.

GLORIOUS

I'd go sit in the bathroom for inspiration, because great ideas happen while peeing also, but it stinks in there.  I obviously have more important things to clean today.

Maybe I should just leave everything sitting in piles and watch some frivolous reality TV.

What did this posting accomplish?  Introducing YOU, my dear reader, to MY FOCUS.

Which really isn't any focus at all, but makes perfect sense to my caffeine addled brain.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

English is My Second Language

The great thing about online school registration is I don't have to go stand in line making small talk with strangers in a sweltering, stinky school just to tell the powers that be that yes, my child will show up there again.  Pass Go.  Collect $200.

The not so great thing about online school registration is it's easy to forget to do it.

School starts tomorrow. 

Whoops.

So, I hopped online to get the process started, and realized there are alot more questions online than there are at the school handing over a check.

For instance, I could let them know my child changed his name.  Or his sex.  Or his race.  Or his birthday.  I briefly considered changing every single answer on that first page just to confuse them.

The second page is so we don't encounter any language barriers.  Perhaps, in between 10th and 11th grade, our household decided that English would no longer be our primary language.  Perhaps we decided to speak exclusively in Lao.  Whatever that is.  But it had a nice lilt to it, and again, the thought of counting down the days until someone actually noticed seemed appealing to me.  I even briefly considered learning just a few random phrases in Lao, whatever that is, and answering the phone in the language if the school should call.  Though it's a small enough school, I believe I probably know everyone in the administration office, but if I also changed my name, I could really start to have fun with this.

The third page dealt with health issues, and I considered letting them know that I'm not sure whether I'm bordering on random hysteria by this point, or if it's a serious mental illness developing from these hoops I'm jumping through.  They didn't actually designate it was the student they wanted information on.  That I know of, because to be honest, I wasn't reading everything carefully and pretty much just skimming questions at this point.

They even wanted insurance information, and I had a multiple choice of private, Medicaid, or our state program for children.  I had to wonder about this one, because what's it really matter?  Are they going to put the kids with private insurance in more danger because they think the insurance payouts are better?  Here, kiddo, your locker is located next to the boiler with leaky pipes, and make sure mom gets a copy of that insurance card in here.  And tell her to stop answering the phone in that weird language.

I can't even tell you what pages four, five, and six were about.  I just remember clicking alot of "yes" and "I accept", but did consider typing in my name as "queen motherfucker" in the permission fields.  Just to guarantee a call that I can answer in Lao.

In the meantime, the girl child is still working these double shifts, so because I do not want to be awake until 2AM tomorrow night packing her, I have assigned myself various packing chores of what I can stand to touch in her room.  At least with college, it's not all about the registration, it's more about the check.  As long as we hand that sucker over, she's good to go. 

And yes, she needs to go.

The stacks of bins and boxes are getting higher, the random piles are growing, and I'm having to avert my eyes from the messes far more than my brain wants to allow.  And let's not forget, in the world of Ms.WorkALot, there also needs to be the final goodbye time with local friends.  It doesn't matter if she saw them two days ago, that was not goodbye, no way, no how.  Final goodbye time has to take place as close as possible to actual moving time, or it does not count.  Which happens to also be packing time.  And final banking time.  And final textbook ordering time.  And final cleaning up the mess time.  And final gathering of the bobby pins time, can I get a PRAISE JESUS HALLELUJAH!

I considered briefly moving in with a friend for the week.  Or at least meeting her at the bar every night.

Instead, I have a desk calendar covered in lists and post it notes.  Because if this shit is waiting until the last minute, there's going to be some GOD DAMN ORDER AND SANITY in it.  Or me just slugging away at the Jack bottle I found in her room.  Payment for services, princess.

In this non stop party, the summer weather finally decided to arrive.  I saw the promise of it arriving, so I spent the last few days getting yard work done before the heat really set in.  Weeding, trimming, mowing dead grass, since there's the promise of rain.  Of course, this promise of rain is the morning we are moving Ms. Bobby Pin Queen, so I better add umbrellas to the lists.  But tonight I realized that weeding must have been bad.  Really really bad, because the 16 year old Lao Son actually noticed the flower bed was cleaned out.  AND actually asked when I had time to do that.

He's such a good boy, my sweet little Lao Son.

I actually considered writing a few thoughts about something serious, because there are some serious things going on in our country right now.  But serious is for the birds at the moment.  The birds who have not died of dehydration from the lack of rain and are still shitting all over my truck no matter where I park it.  The birds still living in my walls in the comfort of my home of random piles scattered about.  The birds who at least are drowned out by the noise of air conditioners running for only the second time this summer.

I hate closed windows.  Closed curtains are even more atrocious. 

Go away summer.  Go away bobby pins.

Welcome home Jack Daniels.

Are Ya Feeling It?

I spent the weekend with very limited internet participation, and was totally ready to get this week started.  After mowing half the day Sunday, I developed quite the nice headache from communing with the weeds, and decided an early bedtime was just what the doctor ordered.  Of course, early bedtime means early riser, which in my case, was 4AM with the need to pee.

It's really dark at 4AM.  More so than those joyful mornings of hearing birds singing their gleeful song at 5AM.  So because it's so dark, I didn't see FatCat, who is a blob of black fur, when I took the first step down.

Yup, you guessed it, I tumbled down our stairs.  The plus side is I didn't wake anyone up doing it...not even the FatCat bastard lounging on the top stair.  The down side is I didn't wake anyone up who might be concerned I cracked my thick skull on the way down.  I did not crack my thick skull, but I did feel every step on my well padded ass.  Ouch.  That one's going to leave a mark.

I found that tumbling down a set of stairs wakes you up quite well.  So those thoughts of going back to bed for a couple hours left my head.  Profanity did not. 

Not one to dwell on just the negatives, I took the opportunity of two extra hours in my day to get some cleaning and the rest of the laundry done.  I was not about to let FatCat ruin my day.  Though FatCat decided to then lounge like a lump of coal on the floor of whatever room I decided to be in.  Just a furry reminder of how graceful I have not become in my old age.

I hit up the coffee shop for the Monday morning ritual, thinking that would snap the pallor of bruised body and ego from my system.  Nope, didn't do it.  I wasn't grouchy per se, but I just wasn't feeling it. I could not decide which hurt worse...my ass, and the hand that was starting to form a bruise, or the knowledge that I was awake well before the happy little larks were.

I got my hair cut, thinking getting rid of the little amount of extra hair I had would totally get my it factor going again, but I left the shop happy with the haircut, but still not happy with my day.  Even the iced coffee that was still icy cold waiting in the truck didn't do it for me.

I ran a few errands, and then decided to visit the local junk shop.  It's like a summer long garage sale, operating on donations only.  My daughter is looking for a small side table for college, and my son wants a grandpa sweater.  Both things you would think a person could find in a local junk shop, but surprise, golly gee, the place was only filled with junk.  I couldn't decide if my brain was really seeing the $20 couch correctly.  Was that really what looked like a shit stain on one of the cushions?  My aching ass skipped sitting on that one.  As I made my way room to room, doing "the circle" that I always do in the place, I felt what little "it factor" I had from coffee slipping away.  This place is really filled with junk.  As I saw one heinous 70's artifact after another, I began mentally ranting about the type of garbage people hang on to, and had to wonder what the hell was going through people's minds when they donated this shit.  Of course, working in consignment, I should not be surprised.  I actually look at some pretty horrid stuff in the process of selecting the really great pieces we have in our store.  And that's with us not being a donation type store...I don't quite know which is worse.

I had nearly given up my perusing, feeling frustrated that this place trying to raise money for a good cause gets shit on...literally if that couch really had the stain I think it had.  I did a quick walk through of the "kitchen room" where you'll find everything from dishes, glassware, to small appliances.

And then....

The heavens opened up, the light shone, and the angels began to sing.

THE espresso machine.  Yes, just like THE purse, there is THE espresso machine.

I've been drinking espresso for years, and this was the first machine I ever owned.  It is THE machine.  No weird plastic taste, no horrid smell, or screech.  A PERFECT brew.  Little did I know that this was a simple little machine originally from Target, because my first one was either given to me or bought used.  It actually had been so long ago that I never remembered.  I've had two since, one bought on eBay, another found at a local church sale.  The one from church sale was the last one bought, and didn't last more than a handful of months, probably because Jesus was mad at me for just calling him a dude in ugly sandals.  By that time, this perfect little machine was long gone from the Target shelves, and a rare find on eBay, so I resigned myself to the fact that I would never own one again.  I moved on to other machines, never quite appreciating them like I did this little powerhorse.

I checked out the contents of the box...everything was there, and other than the layer of dust, it looked like it had not been used more than a handful of times.  It even had the instructional VHS tape included, which tells you how old this machine is.  The sticker on the box said $3, and once I saw that, I snatched it up quicker than my fat ass can tumble down a flight of stairs.  Mine.  Miiiiiiiiiiine.  My preciousssssssssss.

I got it in my truck, sitting contentedly next to THE purse in a place of honor, and realized I still wasn't feeling IT.  Really?  I just found the most glorious espresso maker my wallet can afford and I was still feeling this "meh" feeling?  On a normal, no falling day, I would have raced through the remainder of my errands just to get home and try it out.  What the hell was wrong with me?  Well, other than starting my Monday with a tumble into Neverland?

I decided to check out another one of our consignment stores in town.  It's not often I get to shop there, and I thought maybe I'd find that grandpa sweater, or some other glorious item of my past that would get me feeling IT.  I did find the side table for my daughter, but nope, not feeling IT.  Could have been the price tag, because as is the case in any time crunch, I paid more than I usually would.  But I could stop thinking that one of my own side tables was going to disappear in a flurry of college moving activity.

I wrapped up my errands except for that last dreaded chore of grocery shopping.  Ugh.  I hate grocery shopping.  I even had a list, but still had no inkling of sunshine and happiness to go.  On a whim, I swung by my aunts house.  She was gone, but all four of my cousins were there, and I settled in to a cushion of warmth and contentedness in the space known as the Voodoo Lounge.

My aunt eventually arrived home, but not before I had a few hours with my cousins, and add in another hour with my aunt, and next thing I know, it's late afternoon, and I have found the IT factor.  So much so that it doesn't even give me a twinge of sadness to know it's now too late in the day to test out that espresso maker.

It wasn't the coffee throughout the day, not the espresso machine.  It was the people.  They are my warm fuzzies on a not feeling it day.  Bruised and sore, I was able to find my it factor in the confines of the Voodoo Lounge.  In fact, I totally still am feeling it today, after a night of sleeping on a bruised ass, with a bruised hand.  I am FEELING IT.  I got my mojo back, and I am ready to start this week with a kick ass attitude that far outweighs the bruises.

And this morning, bounding out of bed, I did a Chuck Norris karate chop kick on that first step, just in case FatCat was trying to kill me again.  Take that furball.  You can't kill my mojo.

Welcome Back Kotter

Welcome back to the real world, missy. 

I have spent the last ten days as not much more than an employee.  I took off my mom hat, threw out the housewife uniform, and concentrated solely on THE JOB.  It happens twice a year, and then the hectic pace slows down at least a smidgen, and it's back to life as I know it.

Maybe I'm just getting old.  Maybe it's because I'm not aging one iota, but the kids are magically getting older without me adding one more day to my _____ years of age.  Maybe I didn't drink enough through this period of  job-obsession.

Maybe that fly sitting on my monitor needs to die.  Are those his legs rubbing together or is he just happy to see me?

Random distraction.

It's a little tougher this year getting back to my version of normal in this house.  It's always different for the summer sale anyway, because kids are home on break from school.  But THIS year, both kids are working.  The days of leaving a "mom list" on the fridge to be completed while I'm at work are pretty much gone.  My son actually works more hours than I do, and he has finally hit that stage of the occasional big sigh and rolling of the eyes.  Being the eternal "nice kid", the random attitude doesn't last long, and I usually get an apology within about 3 minutes of the 'tude, but combine that with the hours he's working, and I'm having to play drill sergeant to stay on top of the chores he's expected to do, let alone anything I would LIKE him to do.

And then, we have the bobby pin queen.  The last ten days of removing the mom hat means I have also not tracked the trail of bobby pins throughout the house.  I know they are there, because I have felt them underfoot as I've hobbled through the house with aching feet.  The joys of living with a waitress have also meant finding random cash strewn about as if my house were a strip club at 4am.   Waitress girl also came down with a head cold, which didn't stop her from spending the hours before a shift in a tattoo shop, but did stop her from picking up after herself, and the tables are now strewn with random girl shit once again.

Granted, I basically turned into a teenager myself.  I have crap strewn all over one table.  I have yet to open the box of espresso beans I ordered, which in my mind, is just criminal.  Thank gawd for online bill pay, because I haven't looked at a single piece of mail for over a week, and I know the pile is buried somewhere under purse stuffing I eagerly threw all over the table to get my belongings into THE PURSE as quickly as possible. 

I bought new curtains while on that shopping frenzy last week, and I did manage to put them up, but now, I question the remainder of the room.  Through the haze of work-obsession, it dawned on me that once I slowed down, I'm probably going to find my mind obsessing over what to do about the busy pattern on the windows that now makes the entire space seem busy busy busy.  Not that I obsess over things until they drive my brain absolutely bonkers.  Nope, not me.  *glances over at THE PURSE*  I do LOVE these curtains, but now I don't love the room.  Suddenly, the room looks like it has too much STUFF, and I'm trying to ignore this and adjust to the curtains, because this really could be a side effect of spending ten days handling, rearranging, and dealing with too much STUFF at THE JOB.

This really is something I need to let go of right now, because there are more pressing matters at hand.  The table piles.  The layers of dust on every surface.  The kitchen that looks like a bio hazard dumping ground.  The laundry I have not touched.  But my brain keeps returning to the curtains.  And I wonder why I have the computer desk in the north corner and not in the south.  If I recall correctly, it has something to do with cords reaching, but my mind is too distracted by the pattern on the windows to actually remember the details.  I vaguely think back to other times I moved that behemoth desk and swearing and having fits over having to move it back, so my intellect tells me NO, do NOT even go there.  And then I glance at the curtains again and try to focus.  Just focus.  Do something with the room so I can stop obsessing. 

But there are crumbs all over the counter tops.  The stainless appliances need a chisel and hammer before I attempt to wipe them down.  The last request to empty the dishwasher must have happened, but the sinks have managed to fill up again.  I'm fairly sure the floors are filthy, because it can not possibly be my need for a pedicure that is causing my feet to stick to the floor.

And when I'm not distracted by the pattern framing the windows, I actually see outside to all the work that waits for my motivation outdoors.  The huge clumps of grass from mowing because whatever fertilizer hubby used this year works a little TOO well and the grass is out of control within three days of mowing.  The weeds...oh mah sweet baby Cheezits...the weeds are insane, and I haven't touched my zen garden in nearly a month because there has been NO ZEN other than what I find at the bottom of a bottle.

College starts back up in slightly more than a month, and that means the pile of college stuff that manages to fit in a small dorm room but doesn't fit anywhere but my kitchen, will be gone.  But in the meantime, I really should dust it off and at least make it look like an organized pile.  AND reassure my overwrought brain that I only have to live with it for 31 more days.

Have I mentioned that my oven is busted?  This happened shortly before the job-obsession, and of course, right in the middle of preparing a meal that required its use.  I wasn't too concerned with it, as I knew the days of job-obsession were approaching, which is the time of year when the grocery list includes every quick fix, microwave delight my children could ever want but I never buy.  But now job-obsession has turned down a notch, and the oven is still busted.  I have the DIY hubby, who is also the OnTheRoad hubby, so he's been trying to diagnose the problem when he is home, which isn't a huge amount of time.  Meanwhile, as he runs his little tests and then leaves for another week, it means a non-working oven for at least the next five days.  And, when I'm not job-obsessed, I'm a rabid meal planner, so this planning that can not include the use of an oven means I have to think twice as hard.  And I don't like having to think very hard when I'm coming down off a job-obsession high.  I had a brief thought of just ordering a new stove and having it installed while hubby is off in nowhere land, but then he'd probably come home and take the new one apart too, thinking it was the old one and that I had just cleaned the non-working oven.  There's also the problem of the bio hazard kitchen, and having a new oven installed would mean letting people in my filthy house and then having to deal with them catching some kind of rare disease while touching my kitchen surfaces.

There's probably a bobby pin stuck inside a gas valve. 

What has the endless rambling accomplished other than to whine incessantly that the days of teenage maid service aren't what they used to be?  Nothing.  Avoidance.  The opportunity to make more espresso, ignoring the crumbs of some unknown substance sitting next to the bean grinder.  Briefly thinking that crumbs near the toaster are one thing, but leaving crumbs near the espresso corner is just UNACCEPTABLE, and having random thoughts of just torching the place.  Seeing that the bathroom is NOT the dirtiest room in the house, and that's just a disgusting statement considering I have moments when I would prefer to pee with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it.  I realize I have far too much going through my brain that needs to be done, and it's shutting down on overload.  Internal error.  Fatal error.  System crash.

I gaze outside and daydream.  I briefly consider it is an absolutely gorgeous day.  The breeze coming into the house is absolutely lovely.  It gently sways the curtains.  The patterned curtains.  The busy curtains.  In the busy room.

STOP IT STUPID BRAIN.

Maybe if I just move around rugs?

*whimper*

Pin The Tail On the Jackass

The first step in solving a problem is admitting there IS a problem, right?

*deep breath*

I have a Pinterest problem.

It's not the type of Pinterest problem you would assume, however.  I do not spend hours and hours pinning gleefully and then realizing that there are hungry children whimpering in the corners for food while crouched in their own shit.  Probably because they're teen/young adult and can feed and wipe themselves.

My Pinterest problem is it feeds my mental obsession with projects.

I have a vivid imagination.  This spills over into creativity...or at least that side of my brain that thinks I can accomplish great things with nothing more than a set of children's watercolors and duct tape.

It doesn't help that I live in the money pit from hell.  I love this home, and if you were to ever come to my humble abode and actually look around, you would wonder how many times my mother dropped me on my head to make me think this way.  It is a never ending of needs, let alone the wants.  We have sunk more money into it than the dollar amount that was stated on the purchase contract.  We started tearing it apart before we even legally owned it.  And we haven't stopped since.  11 years of discovering what was falling apart, what didn't work, what crumbled, what leaked, and there does not seem to be an end in sight.  And Pinterest does not help this never ending run of repairs.

Even though the laundry/utility room was renovated eight years ago, it's not "pretty".  But on Pinterest, there are PRETTY laundry rooms.  Laundry rooms that make you want to do the same laundry over and over.

C'mon...look at this thing.  It's got a CHANDELIER in it!  Not some utilitarian light fixture filled with bugs.  It's a happy place, and did it ever occur to anyone that a laundry room is a happy place???  Oh hell no, not until this pin appeared on Pinterest.

So now, there is a cuter than cute bright flowered curtain with a matching bright rug waiting on one of the shelves in my laundry room.  It's waiting, because my demanding little brain wants it installed perfectly so it covers the area the water heater and softener reside, and I have not yet added this little project to my honeydo list.  It may seem like a nagging, bossy thing to do, but I KNOW (like I know I'm the only person who takes laundry out of the dryer) that if it's not in big black marker on a list, it is forgotten.  This isn't a fault...this is fact.

My demanding brain also seems to think that the installation of said rug and curtain will mean my laundry room looks like this organized little piece of colorful heaven.  I will no longer find laundry that didn't make it into the hamper.  I will not feel like I'm walking on gravel as I pass by the litter box.  I will not find random bras and motorcycle gear hanging on the drying rack.  It will be picture perfect because I installed a curtain and rug.  It will be laundry bliss.

Thank you Pinterest, for fulfilling my dreams.

Pinterest also guarantees I will have a spotless microwave, oven, dishwasher, and shower.  Pinterest has very obviously never lived with boys.  I tried that super-steam clean your microwave trick, and then sliced open my hand when Pinterest failed to tell me that my microwave has a sharp edge just near the top of the interior.  Not only did the steam clean not work on boy-radiation-crust, but it didn't help that I then had blood to clean up.  Pinterest also didn't tell me that the self clean option on my oven works better when you actually use it more than once a year.  And the dishwasher?  HA!  Where's the pin for finding Supermouse residing in it???  And living with a well doesn't really mix well with a fun little shower cleaner of vinegar and dish detergent.  Show me a pin that uses a jackhammer and battery acid, and I might believe I can once again, have a clean shower.

I digress.  So before this turns into a rant about needing a maid, let's move back to the Pinterest problem.

I actually have used quite a few Pins successfully.  I've cooked quite a few meals, some winners, some not.  STAY AWAY FROM CHICKEN PUKIAKI IN THE CROCK POT.  Yes, PUKIAKI, because when something smells like fresh vomit, you can't even get a starving teenage boy to try it.  Pinning fashion is not just a virtual make believe shopping trip, it has inspired many outfits worn to work, saving more time in the mornings for espresso consumption and online tomfoolery.  It helped me plan a graduation party, goodies for Christmas, and organized my makeup brushes.  You know, the important things in life, because digging for that highlighter brush is a pain in the ass when you've only downed three shots of espresso before realizing you're running late for work because of your online tomfoolery.

It's easy to forget what you've pinned.  And here, is the crux of the Pinterest problem.  Pinterest is not a problem UNLESS you actually look at your boards.  You know, those boards you name for craft projects.  Not simple little sewing projects, or a wish to learn how to crochet.  Craft boards that show how to use serving trays for jewelry or perfume...serving trays you see cheap every time you're at the local junk store, but since your nose isn't in your phone every time you are there, you don't think to actually pick a $1 tray up to see if you can use it.  The cute picture frame door hanging with the giant initial, that reminds you that there was a giant initial you asked honey of the honeydo list to spray paint for you and you haven't seen it since.  Various projects using old windows that make you wonder where that old window went last year...the one that you said "NO ONE throw this out, because I can make something with it".  The old window that you've searched everywhere for, and yet you can't find.  The "how to" on removing popcorn from ceilings that you pinned because not only does your living area have popcorn ceilings, but some asshat went to town on that shit and sprayed popcorn on the walls as well.  The outdoor projects that stare you in the face reminding you that all you have accomplished this year is pruning and weeding and the discovery of corpses.  You haven't yet picked up a bowling ball to paint it like a cute little ladybug.  You haven't used your leftover bricks to make a gutter drainage path, hell, you haven't used those leftover bricks for anything except to make a neat little stack on the well head.  You've gathered pine cones, but haven't actually decided on which pine cone craft you've pinned will be the winner.  You haven't finished the birdhouse you started painting over the loooong winter, or even mixed up the weed killer recipe you pinned.

I even have a board titled "Summer projects".  Kind of like a list to make you accountable to at least get one or two things done.  I should be proud that of the 8 (yes, only EIGHT) pins, I have done one.  Sure, it was the easiest one that included sticking flowers in a pair of cute rain boots.  My gawd, give me an award.  The gigantor project, the one I really, really want done, is the tree stump project.  You see, we took down a giant tree last year and there's this big gaping hole in the sky now.  We had to leave a rather large stump because the tree was so big, and I have this bright idea to turn it into a gnome house.  Or fairy house.  Or rabbit house for shelter from the Chupacabra.  Whatever I call it, it is far better than staring at that sad, folorn trunk.  It will have a roof, windows, and a door.

It will be far larger than this one, but you get the idea.  I definitely got the idea, and proceeded to pick up old picture frames, which I HAVE painted white.  However, I have done nothing with them since.  I have the bright idea to put little curtains on them, and even have the fabric to do so.  I have not found a door, no cute little window box, and certainly no roof.  Though the roof IS on the honeydo list in big black letters, so there's the very large possibility the roof will be done before I get any other part finished.

Pinterest, today, I hate you.  You have thrown my slacker status in my face.  You have pointed your finger and laughed at me.  You have glared at me with your board of only eight items and said "you suck".  I could blame it on working.  I could blame it on running a  household alone five days a week.  I would love to blame it on a college student home for the summer who is disrupting my zen with her piles of shit everywhere.  But no, Pinterest, I will swallow my pride and say that my imagination is too big for my ambition. 

I hang my head in shame.

I go back on Pinterest and pin some more.

Flashback: Scrubadubdub

Random Scrubbing Thoughts

December 10, 2011 at 11:37am

If I'm going to be honest with myself, this is called writing down mundane and irrelevant things to avoid scrubbing more in the kitchen.  Or at least allowing myself to "take a break" because I thought of something so vitally important to state about kitchen cleaning that it must be typed out right away.

1.  If you are considering renovating your kitchen, don't be swayed by those pretty cabinets with all the nice inset trim work.  Otherwise, you'll become as vulgar as I am everytime you go to scrub them and realize you need a toothbrush to do it.  Flat face cabinets, people.  One quick swipe, and you're done.

2.  If you are looking at your hands and realizing you need to get that chipped polish off your fingernails (and what the hell are you doing painting your nails when you KNOW it will chip within one day of work, even with TWO top coats), just go scrub your cabinets.  Those ones with the pretty trimwork.  Because you'll be using said fingernails to try and get into the grooves and muttering to yourself about flat faced cabinets.  Voila!  Fingernail polish chipped off and floating onto the filthy floor!  Ooooh!  Pretty sparkles amongst the crumbs and menacing looking dustbunnies.

3.  Black crown molding seemed like a good idea too.  The perfect little accent in your fucked up idea of some kind of french country whatever motif you think you know about.  But when the dustbunny monsters have babies (and they're bunnies, so there's lots of babies), they like to hang off the trim so it looks like grey icicles gently framing that pretty picture of french country.  French country meets Amityville Horror.

4.  Said crown molding is the perfect spot for decorative pine garland.  None of that cheap looking stuff either.  Go for the very realistic pine with fine needles, complete with a slightly fuzzy look on them that becomes a grizzly bear of fur when you don't clean them for a long time.  Make sure your realistic garland has pine cones and twigs all over it too so you can look like a complete moron as you scrub not only every pine needle, but curse like a sailor (or like you normally do) at having to try and get your rag into every last layer of the pine cone and actually wash STICKS.  Washing sticks is the most ridiculous looking thing ever, but when they have menacing looking dustbunnies on them waiting to chew off your arm, you know it's best to scrub the sticks before you close your eyes that night.  Lest you wake up with only one arm.  And everyone knows when you feed the dustbunnies human flesh, they become dust grizzlies.  Big giant ten foot tall ones that will eat you and spit your out.

Too much Stephen King maybe?

5.  Always start at the top of your cabinets first (see above crown molding, garland scenario).  The dustbunnies fall to the floor and scurry off to their safe places.  Like under the stove.  Behind the fridge.  Where their big brothers wait.  The dust grizzlies.  Who have been munching on the mouse flesh that makes it into the house.  They're not quite ten feet tall yet but they are the size of a small cat.  Which is why I sometimes think I see cats out of the corner of my eye when both of ours are in plain sight.  And they're feral.  Very feral...because they think they are safe under the stove and behind the fridge...the girl who doesn't clean sticks surely won't clean there.

6.  What the hell is that shit splattered on the wall at knee level????  It seriously looks like someone ate my cooking (something chocolate perhaps, judging by the color) and barfed it up.  But not directly on the wall...this looks more like splatter, like in those drunken moments when you don't quite hit the center of the toilet as you crouch on the cool tile floor.  Not that I know what that's like.  I read about it.  Because I read alot.

7.  If you're going to randomly shuffle on Itunes for your cleaning music enjoyment, I suggest making a cleaning playlist and playing only that.  Suddenly hearing John Denver or Mozart's Requiem doesn't encourage you to continue cleaning.  It's hard to swear vulgarities you are making up in your head while listening to the eternally happy John Denver, and he's definitely eternally happy now because he's dead (wrong?  too much?) and unless you are beating back the dripping fangs of the dustbunnies/cats/grizzlies, Requiem is not quite right.  Requiem is for an epic battle.  Well, maybe it is ok then.

I'm only about 1/4 done with the kitchen, and that's a generous estimate.  But so far, I have alot of unanswered questions that maybe I don't want the answers to.  Like why I have Whitesnake on Itunes.  What some of those various things are stuck to the random surfaces in the kitchen.  How none of us have died of food poisoning yet.  If our oldest cat is really dead, and the furball wandering around the house is really a dustbunny/cat/grizzly in disguise.   Why do I constantly say I had two children so I wouldn't have to do this shit, and then I still do this shit?

Nine Inch Nails just came on...perfect timing