Things are crazy at Casa Weetabix right now. I had grand plans for the weekend, as I have not yet truly recovered from the previous weekend craziness. I wanted to finish up some of my own projects and maybe do some shopping, but as it turned out, I was not the master of my destiny, or at very least, was not the mistress of my weekend (say my name, bitch!). My itinerary: I had wanted to repaint the front door and also scrap the forty-year-old flaking grey paint off the breezeway door and prime that, but ended up instead cleaning out the dining room (aka Where Craft Projects Go To Die) instead. This was a fairly entailed project, as the dining room was sort of horribly cluttered. However, since one must tramp through the dining room to get to Computer Room #2 (soon to be renamed My Office) and tomorrow, there will be much work done on this room, the cleaning of the dining room became a priority.
After filling two 55-gallon trash bags with random crap, I managed to quell the restless storm of good intentions into four big storage containers and shove them into Computer Room #1 (which contains all of our books/shelves and also the stuff that will eventually reside in Computer Room #2/My Office). Of course, that action itself required several hours of organizing to make room for the storage containers, although during that time, I discovered an extra dining room chair (I thought we only had one secondhand chair that went with the secondhand table, but apparently we have two) and also my teenage diary in which I was apparently very very distraught and also incredible overly dramatic. Ok, so I spent an hour rereading that, getting angry at how messed up my world was then (through no fault of my own) and amazed at how different my life is now. In fact, I can honestly say that I don’t think my sixteen-year-old self would recognize my life now.
On Sunday, I worked on the dining room stuff, ran with Esteban to the home improvement store for yet more supplies, and then worked on the areas of my house which do not currently resemble a war zone.
It’s as though the house can sense that I am making progress at putting it back in order, because the bathroom has decided to rebel. First the tub wouldn’t drain (which I fixed with a ton of drain opener and hot water and a plunger), and then the toilet tank doesn’t want to refill with water after a flush, necessitating the random jiggling of the inner works until you hear the tank start to refill. And I discovered that the shower liner had decided to no longer be waterproof, so after our showers, there is a three foot puddle on the bathroom floor.
In solidarity with my house, my body has decided to plan its own coup as well. I had a spontaneous nosebleed in the shower this morning. Like, what the hell is THAT about? The overwhelming scent of Dove body wash overcoming my sinuses? Actually, I blame the Aveda Color Conserve shampoo/conditioner that I selected this morning. I rarely use it because I don’t like how it smells (but the Victoria’s Secret shampoo? Thumbs up!) and perhaps it was the cause of the reenactment of Hitchcock’s Psycho, with the blood swirling around the drain and everything. At first I was sort of happy for the serendipity, because hey, is there a better place to get a mysterious bloody nose? And now I can tell you with certainty that yes there is and it involves a tissue or something so that the blood doesn’t run back into your open mouth, which you have open because you can’t breed troo your dose.
Also, my face is shouting “Viva La Resistance!” as it has countered with the biggest chin zit in all the land. I mean, it’s so big that it hurts, like, all the time. It’s crazy. Also, today the Indian contractors are going back to India and are therefore walking around taking everyone’s picture as though we are characters in a theme park. They’ve taken three of me so far, standing next to me smiling. I’m certain they think I’m a descendant of Buddha or something. Either that or they’re impressed with my rack. It’s a tough call. But I am pleased that evidence of my chin zit will be making the rounds in Calcutta.
This is what I get for being too lazy to wash my face properly with The Soap and resorting to Dove’s premoistened facial towelettes instead. I have been duly chastised and have learned my lesson.
Although, it might just be a Splenda Head.
