Adventures in wtf, really?

I think I’ve developed an allergy to turkey.

I don’t eat turkey all that often. As a kid, turkey was:
wtf is this comically large chicken and why is it so dry? My mouth is a desert.

As an adult, turkey is:
wtf why is this so dry? You can easily make a nice, juicy bird. What did this bird do to you to deserve this?
Ground turkey is currently cheaper than ground beef and I want burgers. Turkey it is.
Jamie found turkey cutlets. More power to him, I will cook them for him.

And, on the rare, “I want a sandwich” moment, turkey is: pre-packaged, molded, and sliced into evenly made bits that I can put on a sandwich with honey mustard. The package says it’s “mesquite.”

But, the past few weeks, I’ve realized that every time I’ve cut turkey for customers my face becomes itchy. It didn’t really register as anything beyond “I must be allergic to a cleaner we use back here” in the department or the usual “I work in a disgusting, greasy department. It’s only natural to feel gritty.” Because, really, I do. There’s only so much cleaning I can do, the fryers are on for 12 hours every day, minimum, and I’m constantly going back and forth between excessive heat and freezing cold with very little “comfortable” temperature in between.

I don’t normally try the meats we have available for customers (or any of the food for that matter) because, while we are encouraged to sample in order to help describe things to customers, I’m just not interested. And when the hell do I ever have time to cut a slice of meat to try out? Almost never. It’s also not a priority for me, so I don’t think about it.

A few weeks back, I tried a peice of the honey turkey and a bit later I realized my stomach hurt, but hey random stomach pains happen and I didn’t really make the connection.

The other day, I had a woman ask for hickory smoked turkey (one of our new ones!) and she’d asked for “thick cut, for salads.” So, I cut a slice that might be the thickness she wanted, she said it was alright, and after the second slice, she changed her mind and requested that I make “slices for sandwiches” and that she’d cut it up for salads herself. Ok, no problem.

Set the two peices to the side to be weighed and tossed, sliced “sandwichy” and finished her order, wished her a nice day and checked how much I was going to be throwing away.

Quarter of a pound. In just two slices.

I asked my coworker if they’d want to try a piece of it, since I was going to be throwing the cuts out anyway, and it’s a new item so we’re allowed to sample it. They told me no, and I went to weigh it out.

I decided to try a piece, so went into our prep area and pulled a small bit off, popped it in my mouth and didn’t really taste anything besides copper/blood. Huh, weird. I couldn’t tell if it was the taste of the turkey itself or if it was me. My stomach started to hurt, but that didn’t mean much because my stomach had been hurting off and on since the day before from the quinoa salad mix I’d brought for lunch.

Another coworker came in, I’d asked if they wanted to try a piece and they said no. I said I’d tried it, but it tasted metallicky, so I pulled another peice and all I tasted was blood, my face started itching, and my stomach was like “oh, no thank you.” I left the area to grab benadryl that I have in my backpack as the second coworker went “way to go, genius” in a jokey manner.

My eyes stayed itchy/red/gross for about two days, I still have hives on my stomach, and after reading some stuff on allergies (“metallic/copper taste in your mouth when ingesting thing is an immediate indicator of an allergy” [sic]), I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to turkey.

But, it’s not like I can go to an allergist to verify this. I don’t have the money to go to the doctor and I’ve got enough benadryl to cover me while I’m at work and cutting things. I can easily avoid ingesting it because Jamie and I hardly ever go out to eat. And, on the upside, this means I can give a better reason than “I don’t want any” whenever people ask me why I don’t have any turkey on my plate during holiday gatherings.


jerked around

While I sit here and eat this mug cake (cup cake? one serving cake? whatever the hell those microwave-for-one-minute one-serving cakes are called), I’d thought I’d do a quick update.

The day before yesterday, I told a coworker I was “not having a good brain day” and I thought that was the best description for it. I went from feeling like everyone was out to get me, to saying “fuck this” and buying a Snickers ice cream bar on my break (with the added “my stomach hurts, fuck this, I want ice cream.”) to being plan “meh” to strange mania with a “fuck this bullshit” attitude.

And then I got home and realized I wasn’t able to read more of Last Days (by Adam Nevill) because the description of Those Things was starting to get to me, so I read a few pages of Men at Arms (by Sir Pterry) because it was the first Discworld book I came across on the kindle

I was talking to Jamie at some point day before yesterday and asked “Why can’t I have the fun parts of the disorder? Why does it have to be “coworkers are out to get me”?” Because, apparently, here’s a whole new aspect of the disorder that’s popping up that I wasn’t expecting.

While I am glad that my brain hasn’t done the “the government is out to get you” and I can still joke about my computer being tracked when I look up weird stuff, I’m also a bit miffed as to my brain deciding that now is a great time to go “your coworkers are out to get you, your boss is out to get you, your job is out to get you.”

I forgot where I was going. I looked at the time and realized that the trash bins probably hadn’t been rolled to the driveway (they weren’t) and ran to go do that.


Yesterday I decided that, since my manager was coming in to do some work at night, I could bother him with the Bad Religion station I have set up on my iheart radio app. I wish I could find that phone-turned-mp3-player because it had all these wonderful episodes of NoSleep on it and I could get him to listen to The Babyfruit Tree. But, since I don’t, and M R James narrations are hard to hear while working on dishes, it wound up being Bad Religion/punk, which was fun (for me it was fun).

I got no response out of him besides “I left the phone that has Moana on it in the car.” (he loves Moana and knows every single song, because his kid loves Moana). Other than that, I don’t think he noticed.

And now I’ve got to take the hellbeasts out. It’s raining slightly so it’ll be a challenge trying to get 3 of the 4 out the door to go pee. Cricket loves the rain, so it’ll be hard to get her inside. She’s our weird, derpy shadow

Painted Dogs

I realize that my last post was a real downer and I don’t want to dwell on it, so let me tell you about Friday Night.

It’s been a long day of work, Jamie and I have just gotten home after attempting to get some fast food because we were both kinda hungry but didn’t want to make anything (the fast food joint locked their doors right after Jamie parked the car, so we wound up discussing how we’re not mad and they’re probably super short staffed). We come home, without food because it’s late, we’re both tired, and Jamie’s volunteered to work the next day.

The first thing I see is the pillow that Hobbes stole is now covered in colours, Bug is nowhere to be seen, and Cricket is making her sad-dog whiny noises while Hobbes looks guilty. There’s stuff on the floor. I tell Jamie I’ll get the broom, not thinking that it’s worse beyond the living room and I heard Jamie huff and go “God damnit guys.”

The baking drawer is open and there is stuff everywhere. Cupcake liners, the little metal cookie maker plates (why do I have these? where did they come from?), empty sprinkle bottles, and Firefly…liking up coloured sugar.

The floor has a huge blue stain from where someone exploded a bottle of cheap ass food colouring (y’know, the one that comes in the 4-packs when you need to dye non-newtonian fluid colours for fun). I tell Jamie I’ll sweep up stuff, tell the dogs they are terrible dogs, and Hobbes goes back and sits on the pillow right after I pat his head and tell him he’s a terrible dog.

We don’t punish our dogs. We have yelled at them, but we don’t smack them unless we’re playing around with them or doing the “butt scritches with play smacks” thing. Come on, they’re pit bulls (and Cricket). They’re special dogs, they don’t need to be punished. They pee on the floor, it’s our fault. We clean it up, we tell them to not pee on the floor, and we clean it up again when it happens the next time. Bug has explosive poo, we sigh, put on gloves, and clean it up.

The worst punishment is telling them to “go to bed” so they can get fed, put up for the night/when we go to work, whatever. Yeah, totally mean dog parents.

I have to say the words “It’s not blood, I swear. It’s just food dye.” because the floor has a large red oozy spot on it.

So, we clean up the mess, and go to bed. We’re woken up about an hour before the alarm goes off to a massive crash in the kitchen. Hobbes has stolen a pan out of the sink, I tell him he’s a terrible dog, and go back to bed.

Jamie goes to work and I clean up the now-knocked over trash can, take the trash out, let the dogs roam the back yard, and find that not only is Hobbes’ legs covered in green, purple, and blue, but he’s also got purple on his butt. Bug looks like she’s about to turn into the derpiest zombie dog ever (because she got into the red icing dye, the really nice red icing dye that has better pigmentation and a little bit goes a long way), and Firefly has blue on her butt.

Cricket comes away as just being slightly sticky, but it’s spring and she’s always slightly sticky.

Dogs come inside, I work on laundry. Spent time wiping Bugs’ face off, so now it looks like she ate someone’s cake instead of a raw steak, and it’ll hopefully continue to wear off and I find that not only does Firefly have blue on her butt, but her belly is also swathed in blue.

Firefly is the reason why part of my kitchen floor is blue/green.


I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for calling out of work. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for feeling awful, for having a migraine, for being sick. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for having a disorder that makes me a paranoid bubble who thinks that everyone is out to get them. I shouldn’t feel guilty for making jokes about it either, especially when I need to make those jokes to make myself feel better or make light of a situation.

I shouldn’t have to feel guilty because I’m 1 minute late changing something out. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for forgetting to do something trivial, like picking up the debris caught in the drain under our sink. Especially when I know I’m the only one who ever does it. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for not being able to get our product from the main freezer into our freezer because I didn’t have time. (especially when I know that if the department manager doesn’t do it and I don’t do it, it won’t get done without at least 20 minutes of loud complaining about how “no one but me ever does anything around here.”)

I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for not getting everything done so the newest member of our “team” only has to do one or two things before they leave for the night. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for not pulling mark-down items before I leave, especially when I’m already 20+ minutes past the time I’m supposed to leave and I’ve still got at least 30 more minutes worth of work to do.

I shouldn’t have to have my paranoia sky rocket because I’m going to get shit for not doing this or forgetting that, for not staying “only five more minutes” or for staying past the time I’m scheduled to leave. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty when being told that I should “thank” a certain person, or people, because they calmed another person down after their verbal tirade. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty because I know how the whole verbal abuse thing works.

I shouldn’t have to be made to feel guilty because one of my coworkers doesn’t understand the concept of “go to break/lunch” or when to clock out on time. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty because I work in “the worst department in this entire store.” That doesn’t fucking help me.

I shouldn’t feel guilty for attempting to tell someone that the reason why I am in X-place instead of Y-place is because I am removing myself from a toxic situation that will only result in me becoming reactionary in a negative way. I also shouldn’t feel guilty for refraining from explaining why I think the department is going to implode while listening to someone talk about how it’s a “drama hole” and we’ve “all been sucked into it.”  And “it needs to stop. Now.” I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for taking photos, to show proof that someone wasn’t doing everything, months ago and having it brought up now to make me feel worse when I’m already standing there feeling like shit.

I don’t have the energy, nor capacity, to be the verbal punching bag because someone never bothered to take the time to try to overcome their anger issues. Yes, I know, understand, and realize that I am a barely contained little ball of rage. I have worked many years to keep my anger issues in check, and I continue to work to try to keep my anger to a minimum, and this department has been picking away at it. The difference is, if I blow up on someone, I’ll get fired. But if that same person blows up on me, and customers seeing that be damned, they’ll just get a sigh and a half-assed comment about “this is why no one likes you.” And nothing will get done.

I don’t have the energy, nor capacity, to be everyone’s emotional support. There’s a difference between asking if someone’s ok and feeling like you have to be their human bandaid because every little thing upsets them.

I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m walking on eggshells because something might upset a coworker, something I have nothing to do with might upset a coworker.

Yesterday, one of my coworkers went to the store manager threatening to quit over the bullshit drama in my department. She starts in the store she’s wanted to go to for months this upcoming Monday and I wish her the best. She’ll be happier and we both know that store manager will take care of her.

Friend pointed out this morning that we got our quarterly bonus on this check. She’s getting almost 4x more than I am and I told Jamie about it. Jamie checked his and he’s getting 3x more than I am. We all work roughly the same amount of hours, but friend is getting the highest amount of all three of us. So why am I getting the lowest?

I work in “the worst department in the store.”
My department “has the worst sales in the store.”
We spent a month not even breaking even in sales. We ended this week at -20%
I work in the department that got no less than 8 (EIGHT) calls to corporate complaining about us being “rude” this past week and I feel like I’m being blamed for it.

We keep getting reminded to acknowledge customers, even if we’re busy. We keep getting reminded to smile at customers, even if we don’t feel like it. I’ve had to remind every person who’s done this that I can’t keep it up. I can try, sure, but my disorder keeps me from doing that. There are times where I’m not sure if that customer is real or not, if I’ve smiled or not. I can’t hear people over the sound of the fryer and overhead fan, especially if they’re talking to my back. I can barely hear some of our customers when I’m over on the cold side because of the fans inside the cases.


I’m at the point where I’m really not sure if it’s my disorder that makes me feel like I’m being blamed for everything that’s going wrong in that department or if I really am being blamed for everything that’s gone wrong. I can’t keep it up.

At least once a week for almost 2 months, I keep getting told that: our hours are going to be cut, we’re “over staffed,” they can “get rid of one of [us] and cut hours off another and still be over hours,” we’re the “worst department,” and, my favorite out of all of the vague “you’re going to be fired” threats: “do we need to find a new closer?!”

This last week I got to hear it two different days. Most people can easily see it as “motivation” to work harder and whatnot, but I hear it as “we’re going to fire you eventually.”

Story Time: Haunted House

I’ve been sitting on this story for a few weeks, going back and forth on whether or not to see if I can submit it somewhere (magazine, look through anthology calls to see if it fits, nosleep) or just post it up here. I’ve figured I can post it up here because, hell, why not? I like to share.


Working title: “Haunted House”

There was a house down the street from where I lived as a kid that was known to be haunted. It’d been abandoned since before my parents were kids, or at least that’s what they claimed. I never saw a “For Sale” sign in the yard, so I don’t know what was going on with it. Like, I don’t know if it were owned by the bank or someone who just didn’t have the heart to get rid of it because it was some much-loved family member’s house.

It was a traditional haunted house. Dead grass was the yard, weeds growing over the pathway towards the front porch and where flower beds should be, front porch sun-bleached and slowly sagging, some of the window shutters either hanging askew or missing completely. It was a two-storey house, complete with attic and quite possibly a cellar.

Stories were handed down from older siblings to younger, elder neighborhood children told the younger bunch, and parents who knew the stories would laugh them off and tell the scared ones that their elder brother or sister was just telling tales to scare them.

Every so often, a group of kids would dare each other to go in and spend the night, but not much would happen. A squeak here, a groan there. Someone would scare themselves silly walking around an abandoned house in the middle of the night with nothing but a flashlight.

The summer I was 12, I remember it had been a handful of years since the last group of kids had decided to go in. Max, the guy across the street from my house, had gone in on a dare to go into the attic, and had wound up breaking his leg after stepping through a rotting step. The parents in the neighborhood had gathered us all up to give us The Talk about breaking into houses and, well, killing ourselves being stupid. It was a mild summer and the arcade had been shut down for some reason that my brother Ben refused to talk about besides muttering about “sick freaks.”

We were bored. Ben had been grounded and his keys hidden from him, so he was stuck with me.

“Hey Aaron,” Mikey walked up to the front porch where we were being lazy.

“Hey Mikey.”

“We’re going to go up to that house, wanna come?”

Ben frowned, putting his comic book down on the porch. “Why?”

“Max thinks he found something cool.”

“What? His balance?” Ben snorted.

Mikey laughed a bit, “He said we can look around during the day. No harm, no foul.”

I looked over at Ben, who shrugged. “It’s been a while since anyone’s been in there.”

“Mom said no.”

“Mom’s at work and won’t know.”

“No, Aaron.”

“Come on, Ben. I haven’t been in there.”

“It’s not like there’s anything interesting in there. Just a bit of dusty furniture.”

“But I haven’t been in there. It’s not fair.”

“Come on, Ben. It’s a haunted house,” Mikey added. “And it’s not like we’ll be there at night. Besides. It’s a group of us going so it’s not like anyone is going to get hurt.”

Ben sighed, no doubt remembering how loud of a high-pitch wail Mikey could still belt out when he wanted to and checked his watch. “Alright. Mom won’t be home for another few hours. I’ll leave a note for her just in case, saying,” he glared at the both of us, “We got bored and decided to take a walk around the block. Agreed?”

I nodded, “Yeah.”

Ben pointed at Mikey, “Agreed?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Mikey, if you tattle, I’m telling our mom and yours that you convinced Aaron to go with you when I went inside to take a leak and had to go hunt your asses down.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Mikey and I watched my brother go inside the house to write a note beside the phone. I remembered when Ben went inside the haunted house, a month or two before Max had gone in and broken his leg. He’d gone in with a few of his friends, but wasn’t able to stay longer than a few minutes since one of those friends wound up scaring themselves stupid with a flashlight and a mirror. Mikey was practically vibrating from excitement while we waited. It felt like an eternity had passed before Ben finally came out and shut the door.

“Why do you have a flashlight? It’s still daylight,” Mikey whined.

Ben rolled his eyes, “Not every room has windows, stupid.”

We started walking towards the house, and I saw a few other kids slowly making their way over as well. I guess Mikey or some other kid had gone and convinced others to come and explore.

Sure, it was daylight. It was only like 2.30, so we had plenty of time to walk down, search the house, and get home before Mom noticed we’d done anything. She wouldn’t be home until about 5.45, so that was what? Like just over 3 hours. That was more than enough time!

“If Mr B spots us,” Ben started, “we’re screwed.”

Mikey snorted, “If Mr B spots us, he’s not going to do anything.”

Mr B was an old man, known mainly for being grumpy against everything that wasn’t the roses beside his porch. He wasn’t like other people. If your soccer ball landed in his yard, he’d kick it toward you, mumbling about “stupid kids” with “terrible aim.” He was a harmless old curmudgeon.

I nodded in agreement with Mikey, “Ben, Mr B won’t do anything.”

Ben shrugged, “I’m just saying.”

“Whatever man. Max said to meet him around back. I think he was able to break off the new lock on the kitchen door.”

Ben and I nodded. One of the parents had installed a massive lock on both the front and back doors so kids wouldn’t break in. The cellar door had a large, rusting lock-and-chain wrapped around the handles that looked more like it belonged in some horror flick than in our neighborhood.

By the time we got to the back of the house, a small crowd of kids were gathered around Max. He had this smug, “I’m better than you” look on his face and seemed to be enjoying his extra-cool status from breaking the lock. I don’t know when he did it, it could’ve been days ago and he was just now telling people after setting up the house to scare someone. It could’ve been this morning and he just wanted to bask in the glory of being the bravest kid in the neighborhood.

“About time you showed up, Ben,” he called out.

“Some of us have responsibilities, Max.”

“Or you had to hype yourself up to come over,” he mocked.

I remember asking myself if Max really was older than us or just a tall five-year-old. He always had a knack for getting under my brother’s skin, but it’d be a few more years before Ben would break Max’s nose. I watched Ben push past Max into the dark kitchen and get halfway through before Max realized that my brother had taken the lead and was the first one in.

“You brought a flashlight? Are you afraid of the dark or something?”

“Not every room has a window, dumbass.” Ben didn’t even look behind him as other kids started to pile into the kitchen.

I heard a couple kids mutter an agreement and at least one girl lament not bringing one herself. A few kids just breezed through the room, ignoring us in hopes of finding something really cool further in. I guess Ben just walking into the kitchen helped dispel any fear that there’d be something lurking around the house during the day and then realizing that the room itself was just an old, faded room with an old iron stove and fridge that none of us had seen unless it was on tv, and an old, faded table pushed up against a wall.

It wasn’t anything special at first glance. Old, faded, white. White walls, white doorways, white table, white stove, white cabinets. No dust. No cobwebs. I remember looking through the old glass of the window, watching the world bubble and twist from where it was slowly warping itself, and noticing all of the dead flies. No spiders, no webs, no dirt or dust. Just dead flies. And thinking the whole thing was weird. It was like…someone came in to clean this area, but left all these dead flies just sitting there piled up against the sill.

I could hear other kids talking throughout the house, their footsteps stomping up steps or scraping against the floor above my head. No one bothered being quiet because, really, who heard of monsters coming out in the daytime? All ghosts and murderers came out at night, and almost all the adults were at work or running errands.

“Hey,” Max said near us. “Since everyone else is exploring, I want to show you guys something.”

He wasn’t being his normal self, acting like a stuck-up jackass. He sounded kind of confused, like he’d found something he wasn’t sure about. Sure, he could’ve just been pretending to lure us into some kind of trap or trick to blackmail us with later on. But, there was something about the way he said it that made us follow him through the doorway and down a hall that no one seemed to have noticed. It looked more like everyone else was pulled towards the areas with more light or the better possibility of finding something like lost treasure.

Ben cut the flashlight on, allowing Max to lead us deeper down this narrow hallway. It had a couple doors, which probably lead to rooms that had kids walking around them, and reminded me of our grandmother’s house, which had doors you just didn’t notice because they weren’t ever used. There were doors there that had been accidentally sealed by paint and no one was sure if it was lead-based didn’t want to have it tested, there were doors that were behind furniture that lead to bricked walls, doors that were locked that no one bothered with because there was a door like right beside it that lead out of the room.

Again, there was no dust on the floor or anything. The flashlight didn’t catch any dust floating around, and the air didn’t seem stale. It was like someone had just came in recently, opened all the windows, and cleaned the house maybe a few days before we came in.

Max stopped in front of a spot on the left and removed a large board to show another door.

“Wow, it’s a door.” Mikey deadpanned. “There’s like a hundred doors here.”

“Shut up.”

The door opened smoothly, like someone had oiled the hinges. Not even a click for the knob sounded, and Max just let the door swing to a stop against the wall. Ben shined the flashlight into the room.

“Wow. It’s a basement,” Ben’s sarcasm dripped.

“No shit. Look again.”

We stared down and I realized there was something off about it. The walls seemed unfinished, with a couple paint cans sitting in the edges between the exposed studs and empty blackness of the open area underneath. Ben’s light showed the top two or three steps, part of a handrail, and nothing else. It was kind of like when you’d open up the basement door and right before you turned the light on to go down the steps. But we could only see the top couple of steps.

I don’t think any of us wanted to go down. It was the first time I actually felt apprehensive about a part of the house.

Ben sighed. “Dude, it’s a basement. A basement with no windows. Big deal.”

“How good’s your light?”

“Good enough to read by.”

Max nodded and started pulling something out of his pocket. At first, it looked like a snot-rag, y’know? The light was weird and I only got a glimpse of red before I realized it was way too large to be a folded up bandana Max normally kept in his back pocket.

It was a flag. An American flag that had seen better days from what I could tell in the light.

“Dude, did you steal your dad’s flag?” Ben asked, not really believing it.

“We got a new one. No one’ll notice this one’s gone.”

“Your dad’s a vet,” I pointed out. I remember thinking about being told that flags have to be taken care of a certain way when they go out of commission by Max’s dad, who had very staunch views.

Max glared at me as he fished a lighter out of his front pocket. “No one will notice.”

“Uh, huh.”

He started flicking the lighter to life, trying to set the cloth on fire.

“You’re going to Hell for that.” Mikey piped up.

“Just keep your eyes peeled,” Max responded, not looking away from the flag.

A small flame had caught and was slowly gathering steam. Max had kept the small flag in his hand until he was satisfied that it was burning enough before tossing it through the open doorway. I heard Mikey gasp, like he was about to say something, but kept my eye on watching this little orange ball.

We stayed silent, watching it illuminate two more steps that Ben’s light couldn’t reach, before disappearing.

Yeah, disappearing.

There was no splash of water, no sizzle of the fire going out. Just poof. Gone. One second it was there, and the next it looked as if nothing had happened. The light didn’t even reach the bottom step far as we could tell.

“What the…”

Max nodded, satisfied that we’d seen what he did, and went to pull the door shut. Mikey went to grab him before realizing that Max had pull the door with the inside edge, near one of the hinges, in order to avoid stepping foot inside. The door shut, he put the board back over, and turned around.

“What do you think?”

“I think you set something up,” Ben was annoyed.

“Everything that’s gone past the third or fourth step has disappeared. You saw what it was like. You can’t see anything, lights or not. I don’t know if the steps end and it’s just a bottomless hole or what. I’ve lit firecrackers and dropped them down there. Nothing pops. No sound, no light. No nothing.”

Max left us standing in that hallway, shaking his head as he walked away from us. I didn’t know what to do and I don’t think Ben or Mikey did either. We looked at each other a minute or so later before Ben shook his head.

“We should go. Mom might be home early and I don’t want to think about what I just saw.”

Mikey nodded in agreement.

Unfuck the house

Today is the day for Unfuck The House!

We’ve been doing super basic things (cleaning the dog room, mopping/cleaning up any accidents, doing basic laundry–work clothes and towels, doing the dishes, cleaning cat boxes), but we haven’t had a chance to do things like clean the windows, deep clean the house, dust, etc.

We’ve also decided it’s time to start fresh. Clean slate.

We’re going through out stuff while we clean. Trash, Donate, Sell (Allen and Nanny have decided they want to have a yard sale in the next couple weeks, so we can throw some stuff in there). I’ve found a toy to give Mom as well as my aunt Billie. I’ve also realized that apparently we like to hide blankets from ourselves (for real, 3 different totes had at least one blanket or duvet in it that we completely forgot about)

We’ve also agreed to move the craft room from the extra room to back into the basement. I’ll have more space and I’ll be less likely to lose anything else to the cats. Now I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to set up my fabric holders.

On the plus side, we emptied 2 totes of stuff already, found jackets we forgot we had (winter jackets that were given to us), the blanket my grandma crocheted for me (squee), we gave Firefly 2 of our toys (they have sewn on eyes instead of the plastic ones).

I told Jamie I want to keep the sewing table Dad gave me upstairs and he agreed. Mainly because that fucker is heavy and I hate moving it.

Hopefully I’ll be able to find comics that I’d made, or at least the tracers I need for bits. I don’t know if we’ll be moving all the notebooks downstairs too *shrug* Who knows.

I have a mimosa in my cactus cup to keep me going along with a Kickstart (woo, uppers and downers!)

But, we can do this.

Clean slate. Start fresh.

I feel great. I have energy. I hurt a lot, but I can get through this.