Still alive. Trying to organize my work space today, and you guys seem to think I'm hilarious no matter what I'm writing about, so we'll see how this goes. Let me know if you think this is a really bad idea in the comments. You know, if you think it's a really bad idea.
Have set up my net book on a box, behind a sewing machine (am reaching over sewing machine to type while standing) in the lair. Beside me is the loom I found last week in a box labeled "yarn spinner". All the heddles are ripped off, a pawl is missing, and I get pissed off every time I look at it.
Goober has informed me the room is "Dirty and stuff". Thanks, kid. No shit. Glad you're here to tell me these things.
Working at clearing off work bench so I can build a ribbon rack at the back of it, then re-clutter it up again. Right. On that.
Now I remember what I wanted the hook for at the hardware store earlier today. Did I buy it then? No. Because I couldn't remember what I wanted it for. (To hang knitting bags on. Putting it here so maybe next time I WILL DAMN WELL REMEMBER.)
Hey, all you people I've owed boxes to for the last year? I just found them. Beating my head on a wall for a while...
Meanwhile, Julie, thinking of herself in the third person, contemplates getting seriously drunk.
Gee, I bet I could put stuff away on that shelf IF THERE WASN'T ALL KINDS OF SHIT PILED IN FRONT OF IT.
Surface of work bench located. Right. Finding pencil and tape measure.
MOTHERFUCKING COBWEBS I SWEPT YOU UP LAST WEEK MOTHERFUCKERS.
And then there was a noise. Sounded like someone drilling through the wall. Oh. Wait. IT IS THE HUSBEAST DRILLING THROUGH THE WALL.
Still looking for pencil and tape measure. The stuff I don't need yet for this project is, of course, right in front of me.
Child begging for food. Would tell her to have cat food, but she'd actually eat it. DRAMA. WE HAZ IT.
Oh, look. Dead carpet beetles. I HOPE YOU DIED SCREAMING YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!
Eyeballing some measurements. Yes, indeed. That always ends well. Learned that from knitting.
Now off to find out if the husbeast has located the miter box yet. And argue with him over power tools and spade bits and these HIGHLY ACCURATE measurements.
Child's life threatened for playing with light switches.
More drilling through the wall. The fun never ends.
BUT THE LAVA LITE IS UNPACKED AND ON SO I AM UNPACKED GODDAMN IT.
Husbeast is laughing at my choice of safety footwear: Pink Vans with skulls on them. He, Mr. Drill-Through-The-Wall, is barefoot. The term 'idiot' is not used by either party. Though it very well should be.
Miter box completely worthless. Used the saw without. Sawdust everywhere, including inside the toolbox I dumbassedly forgot to close before sawing. Length of board, perfect. I'm gonna cling to that. Next, the power tools. Specifically, a cordless drill. It seems I have my own.
Husbeast through cleaning the garage; that sounds like a fine time to go out there and drill some more holes.
Large holes drilled. Bolt holes and guide holes drilled next.
Broke a nail. A fingernail. FUCK.
Bent a drill bit. Husbeast grudgingly impressed.
Eyeballed measurement NOT EXACT. I am shocked. SHOCKED.
Hammer has fixed above problem.
Husbeast helping. First thing heard: sound of splintering wood, followed by "oops". FUCK.
Silence from that end of the work shop. This is a fine time for me to do another load of mildewed laundry from the clothes that were in storage.
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Shouting at child. In unison. Ah, togetherness. The romance never dies. (Above profanities were not shouted at child. They were just shouted.)
"Do you have a lot of these wood screws?"
Still mildew on bathrobe. Overwhelming urge to drive to Charleston and slap the shit out of people.
"If you got rid of all these books, you'd have room for all kinds of stuff." And yet, I let him live. A fine example of my generosity of spirit.
Houston, we have Shop Vac.
"Are you making a blog post out of this whole thing?" "Yes." "You fucker. Make sure to tell them I got your butt with the Shop Vac." My butt was gotten with the Shop Vac.
Husbeast now scaring Sekhmet with said Shop Vac. He's laughing now, but will he laugh at three AM when she jumps on his head? NO.
First person who asks me to cook dinner, dies.
My arm hurts. Gee. I bet NOBODY saw that coming.
One step closer to organized.
All sarcasm aside, without the husbeast's help, I'd be upstairs in the bedroom, laying down with a heating pad and serious painkillers. Instead I'm down here laughing and thinking "gee, my arm hurts". So.
Tomorrow is another day. Maybe then I'll find the floor of the living room.