Monday, March 16, 2009

Is it not always something? I submit that it is.

I'm noodling while the potatoes boil. Or get ready to boil. Whatever it is, I'm NOT WATCHING THE POT, because that way lies insanity and a decided craving for ancillary hasenpfeffer.

God, it's been crazy around these parts. Work is all farked up, the schedule is blown to smithereens, there's the small matter of a new furnace arriving tomorrow (And attic insulation! And new insulated ducts! And a new monthly payment! Joy!), The Busted Foot Boy's appointment to remember to go to tomorrow, also SOMEONE'S got a dentist appt tomorrow that I fear will result in pudding for dinner, and my goodness would you look at that, it's almost 7 p.m. and there's no post for the day.

Not that there NEEDS to be a post, but man, if the words don't get out of my head and quit their carousing around my medulla oblongata then there will be blood. BLOOD! And blood is notoriously difficult to clean out of velveteen davenports, which, sadly, pretty much means that there shall be no rousing spate of bloodshed tonight, for there are many many other things to do besides fire up the Lil Green Clean Machine and suck hemoglobin.

Stuff to do like, sift through the pile of dusty dirty filthy CRAP (not. literal. that would be gross) we hauled out o' the attic yesterday, and is now sitting on the kitchen table. Other people's dusty dirty filthy crap, might I add. Most of it for Holidayz. With sparkles. Most of it utterly useless. The people who lived here before us did not have the good sense God gave them to hide precious object d'art in the attic, oh no! They, the ingrates, only stuffed shit like EMPTY BOXES all up in there, and SPOOLS OF OLD CHRISTMAS RIBBON, and oh yes, let's not forget THE GIANT FISH TANK.

Giant fish tanks and empty dusty dirty filthy grody-ass boxes are not going to make me suddenly wealthy and a lifelong re-run on the Antiques Road Show. All them boxes are going to do is make me hate the former residents of the Tiny House one smidge more.

The most inexplicable thing retrieved from the attic? Inside-out little girl's pajama bottoms, with a set of stained cotton panties still attached. The EFF? What the baboon-butted hell went ON up there?

My finely honed skill of 'ignore it and maybe it will go away' seems to be working though. Why, at this moment dear Biff is resolutely unpacking the nasty-azzed boxes, relieving the poor Tiny house if the wretched refuse of former denizens of it's hallowed halls. I, on the other hand, continue to be ready to call the Salvation Army and have them come haul all that garbage off, even if there IS a Monet hidden in the mess.

For I? Am a quitter. And I'm OK with that.

Hope y'all have had a wonderful day. We're still involved in heavy gloom around these parts, and that's just ONE MORE THING that chaps my sizeable white netherbits. But hey, I can still be a little ray of sunshine on the internets, eh? ;)

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