All The Things Are Broken

Have you ever felt like you just sucked at life?

Yeah, me too.

The Amazon is house/pet sitting in Big City this weekend so I planned on getting the housework caught up so that during the week, my mind would be free of the influence of clutter and I'd be able to work on beads and bracelets and things.

I spent most of yesterday on a de-lousing mission. The fleas are INSANE this year. Of course, the fact that my grass is nutsack high to a giraffe probably doesn't help, but we have a TORRENTIAL MOTHER EFFIN' DOWNPOUR EVERY STINKIN' DAY.

I can't grow anything useful, but I can grow the crap out of grass.

I'd text Aunt Moses (she only has text, no talk minutes) and ask her to send Trashy-Big-Boobed-Cousin-With-The-Lazy-Eye's innerwebs Bubbahubby over with the riding mower, but precious little Grimm, who's had the run of the house now for a couple weeks and is on a mission to destroy everything he can reach, flipped my ginormous glass of iced tea over and soaked my cellphone. It won't charge. It's probably not his fault, it's moat likely the charger, seeing how I crunched it when I moved the bed over a little the other day. Duct tape can only fix so much.

An upside to T.A. house sitting is use of a washer and dryer. She loaded the back of her little car up with all the laundry she could carry. We've not been able to use the washer in a couple of weeks. Uninvited critters ate through the water hose and now it floods when the washer fills up. I can fix it, but I keep forgetting to borrow a hand truck from work so I can move the dryer out of the way.

Our laundry room is about the size of a  broom closet and..of course.. the washer is on the far end. Factor in my voluptuous sized tush and well.. it's complicated. I'm half afraid I'll get back there and get a boob hung between the washer and dryer and have to call 911, but my phone won't charge soooo... there ya go.

Once I get the dryer out, it's going out to the side of the road. It hasn't worked in some years. I hang my wet bloomers on the front porch, like a shameless hussy.

Ask me if I give a flyin' fudgesicle.

There's always someone going around begging for scrap metal. I'm sure the dryer won't set out there very long.

We've been doing laundry in the bathtub, because we're scrappy mountain women. I'll have biceps like Popeye before long.

The right side of the sink in the kitchen can't be used without a dishpan because the doohickey that attaches to the drain is broken.

My toilet hasn't been fixed yet. I bought a kit back before the big shitastrophe and I've got experience replacing that, but I've not gotten around to it yet. I have a bathroom literally six steps from my bed, but I have to go doing the fat girl waddle through the house with my legs crossed in the middle of the night to use the other, tripping on dogs and cats along the way.

The new skirting is still laying in the yard up against the trailer. The gallon of paint I bought to pretty up the lattice around the porch is sitting in the closet.

And here I sit. Whining about it.

I guess it's okay to feel like a worthless piece of cow dung once in a while, as long as you eventually get over it. Tomorrow's another day.

I just hope nothing else breaks.

Later Taters!