This past week, I had to fill out a form for the registration on my new refrigerator. The company has a service where you text a picture of the completed form to a special number, so I got ready to get it done.
Except I had a brain fart midway through the process and couldn’t remember my own zip code.
So I poked the block where I was supposed to fill in my zip code.
Nothing happened, so I poked it again because I needed to see the autofill options to remember my zip code.
Y’all, I poked that fucking piece of paper four damned times before I realized what I was doing.
Somebody get me some professional help.
Yesterday, when I got ready to do some yogas and shit, I decided I’d put on some music. Music can be so calming. They say it even tames the Savage beast.
I busted out my laptop and an external speaker and opened up iTunes.
What do you good folks think I picked to listen to? Maybe some classical, or new age; or even some Mercan December, who is global traveller DJ known for his Sufi inspired music?
Metallica. The “Load” CD.
What can I say? Metallica has so many songs that haunt me. Their S&M cd set was fucking brilliant; they pimped out an entire symphony orchestra FFS. I chose “Load” because there’s some good shit on there that somehow haunts me just as much as the S&M experiment, perhaps because it’s just so raw without all those strings and woodwinds added in: The Outlaw Torn, Mama Said, Until it Sleeps…
Side note: it’s actually pretty brilliant, that whole idea of yoga to Metallica. It’s a great use of conflicting styles, rather like a very violent scene in a movie being played out to soothing classical music. It’s also very unexpected, kind of like that flower toilet brush I ordered recently.
So there is was, on my yoga mat in my living room floor, stretching my way into a few simple yoga poses. Before too long, I had decided I was enjoying the music so much that I’d just yoga my way through the entire CD. Because I’m smart like that.
I got up this morning feeling achy in muscles I forgot I fucking had. Turns out, Metallica might be better suited for workouts once I’m in better shape, rather than as motivation to push to far in the beginning stages of getting fit and healthy. Somebody please find me some professional help, because I obviously need something to save me from myself.
Final note: the upside of this whole bizarre experiment that ended in so much muscle ache? I decided it would be a great idea to ask Santa for a Samsung gear fit 2 or a fitbit to help me stay motivated. In my book, that makes the entire Metallica-yoga experiment a smashing success.
We’ve gotten it in our heads that our next experiment is going to be growing pumpkins and gourds.
Hell, we already have a fairly rich stock of seeds, with more arriving every week thanks to my job. The downside to this is that much of that seed stock was buried in the muckheap of our compost pile. Our compost heap is filled with rotty pumpkins and gourds and fruits and shit, which gives it the unfortunate distinction of smelling like the runny tequila shits that spew forth from Satan’s bunghole the morning after a night of too many margaritas.
This morning, I suited up in some clothes I won’t cry over (much) if I have to burn them to rid them of the scent of Satan’s shithole and waded in. I wish I had gotten some pictures, but there’s no fucking way I’m risking dropping my phone or tablet in Satan’s tequila shits, so you’ll just have to use your imagination to get an image of me knee deep in rotty pumpkin juice and elbow deep in a giant pumpkin collecting the seeds.
While I was in there, smelling the insides of Satan’s colon, I took the opportunity to stabilize the fence panels that keep scavengers (mostly) out of our compost and condense the pile as much as I could with half a shovel and a hip injury that will never fully heal.
Of course, the minute I got done with all of that and closed the newly stabilized fence, Mr B came driving up on his big orange dirt mover machine (I mean tractor with bucket on it). I wasn’t turning down free tractor time just because I was calling myself done with the compost heap, and I opened it back up and let him smoosh and turn the pile. Some of the rotty pumpkins kept rolling away from his tractor bucket, so I had him back out for a minute while I jumped in and tossed them back on the pile to get smooshed. With no gloves on. Which would have been okay except for the damned maggot I felt crawling on my hand after I stepped back to safety.
Mr B got a good whiff of Satan’s morning-after tequila shits and filled his tractor bucket with some spare cellulose left over after his last E.P.I.C. experiment. He was on to something- -part of the aroma wafting forth from that muck hole was rotty pumpkins (which nothing can fix), but part of it was from having too much greens and not enough browns in the heap.
I still haven’t finished collecting all of the seeds. There are some gourds and mini pumpkins that I still need to split open and clean out. I’ll be damned if I was doing that without coming inside to get something to drink and whine to you guys about how awful I fucking smell right now. Besides, I need to do some quick research on how to properly prep these seeds to be stored until next spring.
Someone please send an emergency care package from Bath & Body Works, mmmkay?
This morning, I got to looking for a very specific piece of paper with some very important notes on it.
Somehow, that lead to me lying here in the floor with a bruised arm, a bruised ass, and an aching head from falling off of a 1′ high stool. Or missing it when I went to sit on it. Tomayto tomahto.
Think I’m lying?
I woke up to puppy yarf on the comforter and in the bedroom floor. The comforter doesn’t fit in the washer, so I had to clean it by hand outside.
I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.
Then I saw the storm cellar was open and I knew I was facing the seventh circle of hell. Several months ago, I mentioned to Sunshine that he needed to have someone go down there and get the crates of rotting onions out of there. Do you think he did it?
So I had to start dealing with it. I was in such a rush to get that crate of rot out that I banged my head on the roof of the fucking storm cellar. I sill have a headache, and it’s keeping me angry about this colossal failure to follow directions and I’m planning my revenge on Sunshine as I type. It’s probably going to involve something expensive.
The off gassing from the rotting onions had caused the potatoes to rot.
I used a face mask and some mentholated rub and still almost yarfed from the stench. It got worse, though.
I almost came undone when I realized what the sound was that I was hearing. I could hear the fucking maggots writhing in their piles after I removed the crates from the storm cellar. It was a horrifically squishy, wet sound and I cannot unhear it. That sound will give me nightmares, and I’ll probably have PTSD from it to add to my tornado PTSD and my wildfire PTSD.
When Mr B and Sunshine pulled up in the yard as I was working, I promptly went and apologized to Mr B or whoever was the unlucky soul that discovered that hell and left the storm cellar open.
Mr B, being the gracious individual he is, actually went down in the storm cellar with a water hose and shop vac and cleaned out what I hadn’t gotten to yet. Biff (AKA Goldilocks) helped lift crates out too.
Once that ordeal in the seventh circle of hell was over, I thought my day had gotten as bad as it could get. I showered and went to town to get my truck registered.
My first mistake was thinking.
When I returned home and walked into my magic bus, I spotted a bloody mess in my living room floor. Apparently, Mollie found someone’s fresh kill and brought its guts inside and dropped them in the floor. She then proceed to track the blood all over the living room.
I spared you the actual picture of the guts, because it was actually a grayish brown glob of gross. I didn’t even get a picture of the bloody little Mollie prints because I was to busy rage cleaning.
I’m probably going to go order myself some shoes or something to make me feel better after such a horrible day.
I recently ordered some coat hangers via the Internet. Screaming pink velvet flocked slimline hangers. 50 shirt hangers, and 50 hangers I could drape pants over. I got excited about having a real closet again. One with lots of light, bright colors in it.
Obviously, I didn’t think that one through very well. 50 + 50 = 100, right?
Somehow, I neglected to factor that equation into my decision making process. I failed to consider what the fuck I’m as even going to do with 100 screaming pink velvet flocked slimline hangers. I don’t have hanging space for that many fucking clothes in this RV. I don’t have anywhere to stash 100 hangers in this RV.
I did go ahead and swap out my current black, grey, and cream colored velvet flocked slimline hangers. I used just over half of the shirt hangers and just under half of the ones to drape pants over. Now I had giant piles of unused screaming pink velvet flocked slimline hangers AND a mismatched pile of black, grey, and cream velvet flocked slimline hangers to deal with.
I gathered all of the matching black shirt and pants hangers and made sure all of Sunshine’s clothing was all on matched hangers and saved the rest of them for when he has more hanging space. The mismatched black, grey, and cream hangers are in my truck waiting for me to take them to the charity shops as a donation.
I have stashed the matching pink hangers at Indian the matching black hangers in the driver’s seat of the magic bus. Next time I get ready to order some shit, y’all make me do the maths first, please?