What. The. Hell?

I had been hearing about this survivalist community that somebody was developing in a town near us, but I didn’t really grasp the scope of it. I had been told that it was all going to be underground, with a golf course and horse stables and all this other shit that rich honkies think they need to survive the #endofdays. But I didn’t really comprehend it, because obviously.

I had even heard tales of the ridiculous fountain that had been built at the entrance, but I didn’t grasp the scale of it until a couple of hours ago when my neighbor had me drive her past it so I could finally see it.

People, I don’t know what to say about this…

gauche…

thing.

This is what some rich honkies thought they needed to survive the #endofdays? I hope they don’t head my way when the zombie apocalypse happens.

Because I might have to eat them after I get done with the cheerleaders.

#thatisall

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The insanity ends now…

…until next weekend, when I do the same shit all over again expecting different results.

This is what happens to my home on weekends, because I work weekends and don’t have time to adult or house.

Normally,  I’m one of those “a place for everything and everything in its place” kind of girl. Normally I limit the amount of stuff that comes into my home; if I get new shoes/pants/whatever, I get rid of an old one. One in, one out.

With the house starting to actually look like a house or something,  I’ve been relaxing that “one in one out” rule somewhat.

Side note: Let’s get honest. I’ve just thrown that fucking rule right out the window.

I’ve been keeping things, because I’m about to have space for things. I can have more than 9 pairs of shoes.

Side note: Let’s get honest. I don’t think I’ve ever owned only 9 pairs of shoes.

Weekends, I’m so tired when I get home that I just stuff shit wherever it will fit. Which means that Mondays are spent unfucking my habitat.

Now, I’m off to do some unfucking. Wish me luck!

Get your shit together, Cindy

I’m sitting here looking at all this yarn that needs to be crocheted into coffee cup sleeves for the food truck coffee bar next door to my work. The owner took some on consignment from me a couple of weeks ago and was almost out last weekend when I left work. 

Then there’s the yarn meant for the Christmas if tsunami I need to start crocheting.

Underneath almost hat fucking yarn is a half a case of starkrimson pears that need to be turned into jam or some such. 

Underneath the pears is a tub full of bottled, sparkling,  flavored water that needs to be added to the refrigerator. Or something. 

Beneath the galvanized tub of water is the sugar I need to make jam out of the pears. There’s also a stack of books to be read.

Next door to that bin of sugar and pile of books is my fall decoration display.  What the fuck I’m doing with a fall display IN A FUCKING RV is beyond my comprehension. 

With all this stuff on my to-do list, what am I sitting here contemplating? 

A fucking closet purge.

Somebody send professional help, because I probably need an intervention. 

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.

I’d lose my head…

…if it weren’t permanently attached to my neck.

I’ve lost my keys. My truck key, house key, work key, safe room closet key; they’re all missing. 

I’m totally freaking out here. I’d really appreciate it if you’d pray to the key gods that I find my keys. I need to go to the bank, and I have to work tomorrow,  and I can’t lock my house while I’m at work tomorrow,  and I can’t let the carpenter into the safe room closet to access his tools today.

I’m so screwed, and I’m panicking.

UPDATE: Mr B found the keys clipped to an eye-hook (for securing loads) in the bed of his truck! YAAAAAAAAY MR B!

Waiting game

Some time ago, when the garden was in full swing, producing lots of food, Mr B asked when he would be able to plow it all under so he could level the area to prevent standing water. I told him that December & January  would be perfect,  since nothing would be growing, producing, or planted during that time.

Side note: we’re ignoring the fact that the garden only held water because Mr B extended the distance between rows and therefore had to extend the length of the rows which led to the garden covering a low spot that held water which means that now Mr B is having to solve a problem that he created that isn’t going to be a problem in the future since the garden won’t be extending through that low spot anymore… when you’re a carpenter with a hammer, all problems look like nails to you. Mr B is a Tasmanian devil with a fleet of tractors so all problems look like dirt that needs to be moved. I digress…

By the end of July, the entire garden full of plants that were producing food had been destroyed so he could move dirt. He then made some rows and commenced working on something else. 

So here I sit today, staring at rows made by Mr B that he says need to be tilled.

I’m not sure why I need all these tilled rows, since we are doing are significant portion of this fall garden with the four sisters. The four sisters (corn, squash, beans, and Rocky Mountain bee flower) get planted in mounds that are 2′ in diameter and 18″ tall.

It’s like he can’t stand NOT micro-managing every aspect of all the things. All. The. Things. It would be endearing if it didn’t cause so much chaos. It would be cute if it didn’t mean that projects that he doesn’t prioritize get left undone. It would be funny if it weren’t so frustrating. I digress.

Ultimately,  I wind up in a place where Sunshine is actually ready and willing to help me with gardening,  and we’re on hold because a carpenter with a hammer sees only nails.

Final note: this afternoon,  my garden is being planted, whether Mr B has moved to dirt he thinks need to be moved or hasn’t gotten to it.