What the…

Yesterday was a work day. My hard work day. Fridays are the day I have to clean up after Hurricane Bossman made landfall and sat in the shop for days on end.

Yesterday was no exception.  I cleaned up after a week away, I moved new stock into the walk-in cooler, I got old stuff off the shelves and replaced it with new. I wound up wading through our autumn display of gourds and such to help an woman choose decor for her front porch, and noticed an rotting gourd. When I finally had customer-free time, I grabbed a shovel and a crate to go in and get the rotting pumpkin out. Because they fucking stink to high hell.

Upon closers inspection, I discovered that there were multiples. Because of course there were. While I was scraping that he’ll Ishmael mess up with my trusty shovel, the boss showed back up (making me wonder why on earth I was still seeing his face since he had been told to go home and get some sleep hours ago). 

Of course, he let me scoop up the gross mess while he dealt with customers. Weiner. 

After I had gotten that done, he decided it was ago good time to unload the truckload of giant pumpkins he had brought in. Because he didn’t think I was tired enough,  I guess.

It was a long, hard day. The only thing that saved it was being able to take a selfies with a pumpkin that we will gladly sell you for $100. And we have 3 of these big bastards.

What the hell does one even do with that much pumpkin? 

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It’s been a day

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?

Fuck no, he didn’t do 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.

I digress…

The off gassing from the rotting onions had caused the potatoes to rot.

Nothing smells worse than rotting potatoes. Nothing.

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.