Utils in Bat Country

Wash wash wash

As I believe I've indicated before here, I'm a bit of a slouch when it comes to the housekeeping. I kind of hate doing it. Don't get me wrong, I love a clean house. But it's a pain in my ass, and I just don't worry that much about it. Yes, there are boxes sitting in my living room, and junk mail all over my kitchen table. Life goes on.

However, my dishes are NOT something that can/should be ignored. And yet, I've gotten REALLY GOOD at doing just that. Throw 'em in the sink, and...something magic will happen? Maybe? Dishwashing fairies? Nuclear holocaust? Anything so that I don't have to hand wash things any more.

Sadly for me, the dishwashing fairies seem to be on strike and I ran out of clean plates and forks before the nuclear holocaust hit, so I was left wondering what to do. Buck up and wash dishes? It seems to me that for a while I was doing just that. But now I often have dishes from two people rather than one. And rinsing that extra fork was just silly talk.

Before my dog decided to get all arthritic on me and cost me a grand in vet bills, I found a countertop dishwasher on amazon. I looked at the measurements, figured I was good to go, and ordered the thing.

Let me tell you what, folks. MY DISHES ARE CLEAN. Obviously, as this is a countertop model, I can't do my large pots and pans in it, but I can fit smaller things like that, as well as a metric fuckpile of dishes. More than you're supposed to, actually, but whatever.

AND! Because I am a slacker, I still had dish detergent from when I moved to Bmore, as my apartment in DC had a dishwasher. AND I just found a bottle of rinse-stuff under my sink as well. Who knew I even owned that?!

Yes, this is a post about a dishwasher. I'll give you something meaty or funny later. Right now, I'm reveling in putting my drying rack under my sink, only to return to my counter when I cook with large pots.

Not a moment too soon, either. I was almost out of paper plates.

Ummm.

Oh, hai mouse! Nice to see you again!

The Continuing Story of Bungalow Mouse

Some bad ugly shit happened over the weekend. Sunday, actually. I cannot talk about it on here, in part because it's not my story to tell and in part because, well, it was bad and will continue to be bad for a while. It's one thing to be broke and worried about money. It's another thing to have ugliness touch your life, and this certainly wasn't on the pretty end of the spectrum. So I thought it best to reflect on my mouse a little more, and continue to the story of my Oskar Schindler-esque boyfriend, and his one man rampage to save mice for the good of all mankind.

The Guy was none too pleased at my blog interpretation of himself, when I read him my entry from last week. In fact, he seemed to think I was poking fun at him for being a pacifist, vegetarian, and mouse lover. Which, of course, I was. But only really for the mouse love, and not the other stuff.

When I read him my post about the mouse and my planned genocide, The Guy responded by explaining Mickey's actions. In reality, I was told, Mickey was not laughing at me. In fact, he was rewarding me through song and dance for my hospitality. Because I gave him a safe, warm place to live, Mickey felt it only right to sing my praises in his little spats and tap shoes every night.

Whilst I would love to believe The Guy, I really think he was just making that all up.

On Friday night, he set the live-trap to capture Mickey, replete with peanut butter incentive. On Saturday morning, the peanut butter was gone, but there was no mouse. I laughed and offered the poison trap instead, but The Guy stood firm. We were going to catch this mouse, dammit, come hell or high water.

And so, Saturday night the trap was set yet again.  And Sunday morning we had a mouse.

Now, things got more than a little stressful and hectic Sunday morning (again, That Which Cannot Be Named), but somewhere in there The Guy found time to dump the mouse into a paper shopping bag. The Guy carried the mouse into a most unfortunate situation for a little while, and then I ordered him to get rid of the mouse. And quite frankly, at that moment in time, he could have let the little fucker go in my living room and I would have been OK with it.

Instead, he let him go in the alley behind my house.

That's right, we caught the mouse and let him go about fifty feet from my back door.

Now we go into Mouse Watch 2011, wherein I have to discover whether or not 1) there were more mouses in the houses or 2) if Mickey is smart enough to find his way right back inside.

Bmore was cold last night. We had a low in the single digits, which is unusual for the mid-Atlantic region. So perhaps Mickey died of exposure, or found another house to invade. Either way, I wouldn't have known if he were in the house last night or not, as I needed sleep in the worst way. I'll get home late tonight, and then we'll see what's going on in the world of mouse show business.

Of Mice, Ice, and Honey Bears

I am sick. It started yesterday afternoon, and I tried to will it away. Compiled with a shitty day at work yesterday, the Almost Cold revved up and turned into the real thing last night. I feel like ass. Stuffy head, kinda achy, no cold medicine for daytime in the house and no real desire to fight the ice on the sidewalks to walk to the store today. So I took some DayQuil Cough and called it good, sat through several episodes of the 1991 verson of Dark Shadows and didn't move much, other than to answer the door when the pizza guy came. (Hey! I drank orange soda, so that kinda counts, right?)

 

Which brings us to one of the points in my title. I've been drinking tea like it's going out of style for the last couple of weeks. I had some fresh honey I bought over the summer from a guy I know, but that's gone. I had a honey bear, but he's long empty now as well. And I found another 1/4 full bear in a box from my office down in the basement, which I have now consumed too. I just had to dig into my sugar stash to sweeten this last cup before bed (it's caffeine free). Only to see that I am just about out of sugar as well. What I do have in my cupboard, which does me no good for my tea, is about 3/4 of a bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet chocolate chips. Which I have been consuming at an alarming rate for the last ten minutes. My tea is no sweeter, but dammit I feel better.

My mother, kind hearted woman that she is, is sending some care packages to Bmore to me, via The Guy. He returns tomrrow night, but is vacillating on whether he wants to go straight home from being on the road, or come see me on my sickbed. Problematically, he has dog food (I'm out after they eat breakfast tomorrow), honey, sugar, and vitamins for me. All things that my mother magically knew I was out of before I did, as she bought this stuff more than a week ago and I had said nothing about any of it. If I can hold out until he comes over, I can have all these things free of charge. If I cannot....then I just have twice the honey, I suppose.

The ice portion of the title is something ridiculous, but I feel I must share it. Last night we had a nice little sleet/ice/snow system move through the city. I don't know how the commute was this morning, being a creature of the night at this point, but I know that driving home from the restaurant wasn't fun in the dark and ice. I'm from the midwest, so driving on slippery roads doesn't bother me. I had to run a red light because hitting my brakes would have been far worse, but that was about it. However. I don't keep an ice scraper in my car. 99% of the time this is not an issue, as any snowfall we get can be wiped off the windows with the sleeve of my coat, and ice is melted in about a minute. Not so last night, because when I got in my car the driver side door window was a solid sheet of ice. I sat with the heater turned up full bore for about five minutes, so I could get all the ice off my windshield, but it wasn't budging from my side window. I finally decided I was tired of waiting (and just tired, and sick, and a little upset, and WHATEVER I WANTED TO GET HOME OK?!) So I just rolled my window down when I was making right turns, so I could make sure no one was coming from the left without their lights on. It was pushing 1am on a Monday, so I wasn't too concerned with traffic, especially since folks in the mid-Atlantic don't go out when there's snow. I got about halfway home (it's a three mile trek, but can take me a considerable amount of time depending on weather, traffic lights, and traffic itself) and thought to myself, "Hey, I bet if I roll down the window now, the ice will fall off." And yes, it was true. By rolling down the window, the ice, which had been loosened by the heat in the car, did in fact fall off the window. And directly into my lap.

Finally, there is my mouse. In order to protect the innocent, let's call him Mickey. Mickey used to be a skittish little thing, running into the kitchen from under the basement door without a moment's pause, getting past my watchful eye quickly and silently. I planned to kill Mickey, because he's a pestilent rodent and he poops on my kitchen counters.

Insert The Guy into the equasion. The Guy is a vegetarian, and mostly a pacifist. I don't think he's ever fired a gun in his life (this summer should be interesting), and when I mentioned my plan for Bmore Mouse Genocide 2010, he reacted strongly against it. My Final Solution was not to his liking, it would seem, and thus Zyklon B was right out of the plan.

Recently, I heard someone say that the hardest part about a relationship was recognizing that you couldn't change the other person, and instead determining how much you, yourself, were willing to change. Thus, I felt it only just to give The Guy a chance to get rid of the mouse sans Goering-styled gas chambers. Therefore, just before the holiday break, I bought a live trap for Mickey and told The Guy it was his duty to trap and dispose of Mickey.

Then the holidays were upon us, and thoughts of the mouse disappeared, replaced with thoughts of driving for nine hours together and wrapping gifts and and and and and. Then we were back in Bmore for a week, but I was back to work, and so was he, and the mouse yet again did not get trapped. And he's been gone for over a week, again, back in Michigan to visit his parents (and mine, apparently). So still no jailed Mickey.

At the same time, the mouse has gotten bolder. Much much bolder. In fact, here's a short version of my mouse interactions now:

Mickey runs out from under the basement door. He stops along the wall, stands up on his hind legs, waves at me, and says, "HAHA! Your boyfriend is a vegetarian!" Then the little fucker runs into the kitchen, somehow Spidermouses his way up onto the counter, dons a top hat and spats, finds a little mouse cane, AND FUCKING TAP DANCES ACROSS MY KITCHEN COUNTER DROPPING MOUSE SHITS EVERYWHERE while singing show tunes. This happens every night, replete with a barking, whining audience of two perturbed dogs, who, for the life of them, cannot figure out how cats work that mousing magic.

At some later time then, Mickey, tired from his song and dance routine, Spidermouses his way back down the counter, and comes around the corner on the floor again. For the second time in one night he stops, stands up on his hind legs, and chats with me. This time, he typically says something along the lines of "your boyfriend is a wuss", then flips me the bird, and runs off back home again. Where he probably gets drunk on bourbon and beats his wife when she complains about his life in show business.

I've told said boyfriend that he has a minute amount of time when he gets back to Bmore to fix this problem. He's hemming and hawing about where the mouse can go once 'we've' caught him. I explained earlier tonight that the mouse was going to go to the Great Mousehole in the Sky very very soon if he didn't work something out. In fact, I told The Guy about the song-and-dance routine every night. The Guy, however, seems to think I'm projecting onto the mouse, and that Mickey doesn't actually say these things to me. HA! As if. The little shit is probably under contract to MGM or something, and just can't perform in public, so my kitchen serves as his warm-up space.

Projecting?! Just wait until the first time Mickey flips The Guy off and calls him a pussy. Then we'll see how long the littlest tap dancer gets free reign of the Kitchen Club before The (Vegetarian Pacifist) Guy grabs an armband of mouse-hatred and joins my one woman army.

Clean All The Things, Part 98,653

I live in a rowhouse, which means it’s narrow. When you walk in the front door, you are faced with the staircase to the bedrooms and bathroom. When you turn, you’re in the living room. I’ve got three couches (well, two couches and one loveseat, but you know what I mean), a couple of end tables and that’s about it.

However, my living room and dining room and kitchen aren’t really separate entities. They all flow into one another. If one is messy, the others look messy as well. It’s a little frustrating, because I like to break my cleaning all the things up into distinctive rooms, so that I feel as though I’ve actually accomplished something.

My bathroom is, right now, clean. As I’m the only one who uses it, I’m careful to clean up after myself. So that’s fine. I need to mop the floor, but I’ll get to that eventually. Otherwise, clean. Because it’s a little room, a little subset of the house that I can set aside, clean, and move on.

Downstairs is different, and I’ve been working towards cleaning it all day. I had to move a bunch of foodstuffs around, because I received gifts of groceries over the weekend and they needed to go somewhere. Various bits and pieces of my camping life come in and out of the house all the time, and often get left wherever they are set down, because I’m just going to use them again in a week or so, and why bother putting it away in that case (it’s circular and bad logic, I know). And the inevitable bras laying around my house, from dining room to living room…I still can’t explain that, but I live alone so I don’t have to.

My goal today, before heading to a class about technology in the classroom that makes me want to beat my own head in with a blunt object, is to clean the kitchen and dining room. That goes in waves, as the dishes have to be done to clean off the counters to clean off the table. There’s not really a lot of stuff, and when I start actually cleaning it everything moves very quickly. If I had hot water in my kitchen sink, it would be faster and better, because boiling water to wash dishes is so 1850.

No matter what, there will be a large pile of things I need to post on ebay soon left in the dining room…but that doesn’t count as ‘mess’. Only the actual mess counts.

Cleaning all the things wouldn’t be so damned hard if the things didn’t just go and get all messy and dirty again when you’re done. Dammit.

But Tassie, you might ask, why the sudden serious push for the cleaning?

I got a job. Finally.

It’s at a bar/restaurant that’s opening in Fell’s Point soon. It’s about three miles from my house, which is awesome. I start training on Thursday in DC, work down there both Thursday and Friday, and then next week is the real deal. I’ve never worked in a restaurant before, but I used to do the karaoke thing at the Elbow Room, and I barbacked there on occasion, so I have some basic knowledge of how things are done. Oh, and I’m pretty smart so I’m not too concerned.

The interview was fun, and perhaps I’ll write something about that later on. For now, it’s time for more cleaning. Of the things.

I swear, if I start making real money, I might get a maid.

Forks

I know I’ve talked about my house and it’s state of uncleanliness before. And because school is starting (tomorrow!), and I’m making a push at getting ANY job under the sun (hello, bartending, here I come), I thought this weekend would be a good time to get some of my shit in order in the house.

Which of course resulted in watching TV on my computer and general lazing about. Oh, and watching a football game on Saturday, and then perhaps over-imbibing just slightly. My neighbor has many stories about things I told her Saturday night, when I rambunctiously invaded her house and demanded that she look at pictures on FaceBook. Ah, yes, Tassie at her finest.

ANWAY. Cleaning. I’ve been doing it. Laundry, check. Dishes, check (although they go so slowly when you have to heat up water for each batch). Bathroom, check (seriously, I even scrubbed the tub). Garbage has been put into bags and consolidated, more dishes have been done, and part of the basement is coming together.

This has left me with a serious question about my life.

Where are all my forks?

When I moved to the apartment, I had forks. When I moved to the house, I still had forks. I know I’ve been lazy about doing the dishes, but forks don’t get pissed and leave home. They don’t go out for cigarettes and never come back. My forks are not silver, nor do I have a maid, so no one has been stealing them. So seriously, world, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FORKS?!

I’m not asking for the answer to the age old question about socks and the dryer. These are forks. Utensils that I eat with. And seriously, they just should not be MISSING from my life suddenly. If I can find skeins of yarn I bought five years ago, I should be able to find the fucking forks I ate with YESTERFUCKINGDAY.

 

However, if you’d like some cereal, I have spoons galore in my kitchen.

Gross, But Not My Fault!

A few things.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am slightly underwhelmed by this, as I will spend the bulk of the day driving, and because I am turning 32, which is an age full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Or really, just another year gone by.

I kind of have a thing for Australian accents.

I am almost finished with a knitted tank top (light, cotton yarn). And if I can get it done tonight (and I should be able to, as I just need to stitch the seams together and do the finishing on the edges) it will be the first non-hat, non-scarf thing that I’ve done. Minus those two pairs of fingerless gloves, but those are the same general idea as hats and scarves. It’s interesting to move into more complex knitted stuff. Although, I have recently been compared to someone’s grandmother for knitting, resulting in the necessity of providing a link to Knitty.com to prove that not all knitted goods are Weaslyesque monogrammed sweaters. So no, you won’t be calling me Nana Tassie, thankyouverymuch.

Finally, the point of the title. Because I’ve been talking about gross things around my house, like the sheer mass and volume of my dirty laundry and the grossness that is the rinse water in my washer, I thought I’d throw another story out for you. Although this one, as the title predicts, is NOT my fault.

I’ve spent a good part of the summer traveling. You know, because I’m unemployed and broke, and thus should be gone as much as possible. And when I have been home, it’s been hot as blazes in Baltimore AND since I’m broke I don’t go out much. So in my house with the air conditioning is where I spend my time.

Two weeks ago, when I got home from Chicago, the city decided it would cool down enough to open windows and allow some fresh city air into my home. Since I live in a rowhouse, there are windows in the front and back of the house, but clearly none on the sides, since that would be weird, and I’d be looking into my neighbors house (but much easier for borrowing a cup of sugar).

I opened the back blinds and the windows, and nothing was amiss. I opened one set of blinds and the window next to my front door, and all was normal.

I opened the other blinds and window in my living room. The window that is perhaps three feet from where I sit and contentedly type away on my lappy, watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and read books. Where I am comfortable and happy and unaware of the problems going on outside. I opened the window.

And was faced with a virtual holocaust of dead baby june bugs. Which had gotten stuck between the screen and the window. Meaning, had the window been open, there would have been a fucking swarm of june bugs in my house. And. Z.O.M.G. FUCK NO. YUCK. EW. NO.

I am not scared of june bugs. But, ewwww. I’m pretty sure they swarmed there because the window is also close to the lamp in my living room, and thus the light emanating from the blinds at night would have attracted them. I say this specifically because this was the only window where there was the June Bug Apocalypse.  

And although I am not a fan of cleaning, I did pop the screen out and move the carcasses of the slain back out to the field of battle, rather than IN MY HOUSE. YUCK.

 

(Also, because nothing can be easy for me, my truck died in front of my house a few weeks ago. Dead battery, and I just got around to jump starting it, as I’m supposed to leave tomorrow for Ohio. And wouldn’t you know, the fucking cable for the hood? Is broken or something, and thus the hood will only kind of close, but not really. CAN I CATCH A FUCKING BREAK HERE, PEOPLE?! PLEASE AND THANKS.)

Water Crisis Averted

Waaaaaaaaaaaay back in February, I had a little water issue in my basement. As in, there was water in my basement. Where water ought not be. As in, coming through the floor and wall. Thus, waterproofers were hired, and for a mere $9000, my basement has been water free ever since. Which is great. Except that my basement was all put together before the waterproofers were here, and after they left…well, let’s just say putting the basement back to rights wasn’t on my list of Things That Need To Get Done Before I Die.

I have found that I am a much worse housekeeper while I am out of work. While working, my dishes were done, my house was generally picked up and tidy, clothes were washed and put away and the spare room was ready for guests. Since quitting my job, my house has become a festering cesspool of stuff all over.

[Side note: I have been going through a glut of watching Doctor Who (the new version…and I am madly in love with David Tennant…only to find out that he was/is dating Georgia Moffett, whom I could easily also be madly in love with, so I am not without hope), and Torchwood. And because my house is a constant state of disaster, there’s a plastic bag sitting in my upstairs hallway. Combine four days straight of watching a show about aliens who pop up out of nowhere with the gloss on a bag shining at you at 3am when you’re going upstairs in a dark hallway to go to bed, and you have one spooked and dumb feeling Tassie on your hands. (ZOMG A DALEK IN MY HOUSE! EXTERMINATE! NOOOOOOO!) Where was Captain Jack when I needed him!?]

Over the weekend, in a fit of energy I was unaware I possessed, and which was as short lived as it was strong, I went into said basement and put the wood paneling back on the wall it had been removed from in order for the waterproofing guys to work. Once this was done, I was free to start putting furniture back in place. Of course, I did not do that, for then I would actually be accomplishing something, and I just cannot have that. But the paneling went back up in about two hours of fussing and fighting (minus a large door piece that I simply cannot rehang by myself…but that I can set to the side and get to later, while still putting things on the floor under it).

Tonight, in another fit of Need To Get Something Done Other Than Knitting, I ventured forth again, into the bowels of my house, to move a couple of bookcases and a mid-century entertainment table. This would be simple if there were two of me. As there is only Tassie, it takes me a while to move things around. Thus I thought throwing in some laundry would kill the proverbial two birds, etc., blah, ad infinitum.

My washer has been on the fritz for a while now, and things that are overly dirty (stuff I shoot guns in, for example, or things that I wear to Lollapalooza and thus have been sweat through three times over) require a pre-soak, so they will actually get clean in the washer. The sink is next to the washer, so I popped a mess of stuff into the sink with some water, and threw the rest in the washer (can those of you with washers in their homes see where this is going?)

I then proceeded to move furniture around for a while, dropping a shelf on my foot in the process, and really only getting a small amount of things done, but clearing up a huge amount of space in the process. As I was finishing, I looked over at the washer. And realized it was draining. Into the sink which I had stopped up and filled with dirty clothing to rinse.

Normally, one would simply walk across the basement and fix this. However, I had an virtual obstacle course to run, jumping over and around 1) a chair on its side, 2) a bicycle, 3) another chair, 4) an old computer and monitor, 5) a pile of blankets which I know is also obscuring grilling implements and thus cannot be trod upon with bare feet, and 6) various and sundry other items which could not be stepped on and required my antelope-like bounding over elephantine trundling around.

By the time I got to the washer and sink, the water was reaching critical proportions. A smart person would, of course, simply open the lid to the washer to turn it off, and then fish around for the clothing in the sink, while allowing the water to drain. However, this particular almost-ABD girl thought it far wiser to freak out, and try grabbing the clothing out and throwing it into a laundry basket, frantically searching for the coaster used to stop the sink up in the first place. Until the water was almost over the edge, when I came to my senses and opened the fucking washer lid instead.

I also came to learn, through this experience, just how gross my clothing gets. The majority of what I was washing came from the last time I went camping, and Lolla. And the water that was draining out of the washer? Was a foul pink-grey color. I know this was not a problem with the water itself, because I had a moment of doubt and pain, wherein I was positive I was not THAT filthy, and therefore watched the water that went through during the rinse cycle. Guess what? Clear and clean as a mountain stream. And it should be, with how gross the actual washing water had been.

This traumatic experience has, of course, killed my desire to move any more furniture. I shall now, instead, wait for the last of the washing to get done, run one more load WITHOUT various articles soaking in the sink, and get back to Torchwood and my knitting.

Sunday Evening: A photo essay

After more than a year of living in the apartment with it's terrible to begin with carpet, plus us, plus the cats, plus the puppy... well, something had to be done.

First though, I got to prep the rooms with a bit of a pre vacuum

 

and be simultaneously amazed and disgusted by what accumulates in the carpet after a week

and paused to mock reassure the animals who freak out upon sight of the yellow vacuum.  Oh pretties, you have no idea what's next.

I started moving the furniture which quickly became futile so I decided that if it'll take me an hour to clear off and move the table of 10 tons, there's no way dirt, dust or animal ephemera made it in either - lazyness wins! (why yes that is the Christmas wreath peeking out from beneath the fall cinnamon broom that was buried by the fireplace candles...poor ill purposed dining room table, no wonder those chair indentations are so deep)

D 'helped' by getting things out of the way in the office

<--why I had to wear my pajamas to work

But, finally, the actual carpet cleaning process could begin. D was tasked with keeping the animals upstairs or outside but as I'm an intelligent woman, I was positive that after I stared down the machine for a bit it would recognize me as boss and be cooperative.

I fill the bucket with the recommended 3 1/2 gallons of hot tap water

sacrifice the rest of my tea so I can use the cup as a measuring device since I need to add 7 ounces of soap and the bottle contains no measuring device. 16 oz cup = slightly less than half full into the hot tub

Pleased by my ingenuity I got everything all mixed up and the next step on the instructions is to pour the liquid from the bucket to the tiny opening in the machine... which is on the floor.... and the now very heavy bucket is on the counter... hmph.

haHA! I shall use my formerly tea cup now soap measurer and fill the machine till I can lift the bucket.     {Insert short break where I patted myself on the back}

But.

Then.

It all started pouting out of the bottom of the machine.

In hindsight, it's actually quite a good thing I'm too weak and feeble to lift the full bucket off the counter or the spillage would have been much worse than the few cupfuls that I had poured in. Regardless.          {Insert short break for curse word filled diatribe}

Like the good engineer's daughter that I am, I was able to find the culprit.

Now, really. If it is essential that the tube be snapped into the little white clippy thing else all the liquid spills out don't you think that a) home depot should check to make sure all the pieces are in place before giving it to me and b) there would be a sticker or something saying hey, crazy lady, make sure the tube is snaped in since there are bright yellow stickers all over every other important button and lever?

After four years, I assembled all the pieces and was able to turn the machine on. And let me just say, maneuvering it is worse than trying to drive a minivan backwards, oh my hell. T & B came over and we all took turns and pointed and laughed at each other and managed to work our way through the rooms (wild weekend, I tell you, watch out!)

And the results? While not completely magical, the rugs look so. much. better.  Much less frat house, a bit more old and tired.  I'll take what I can get.

But since we had to leave while waiting for the carpet to dry anyway, it only made sense to go seek libations.

<-ah, the dimly lit bar shot.

Enough Profanity to Make George Carlin Blush

A couple of weeks ago, I had my basement waterproofed (much to the disappointment of my bank account). In order to get the work done, which involved jackhammering around the edges of my basement floor, it was necessary to move everything into the center of my narrow basement. The workers were unsure of how this would work, and wouldn't move anything until a supervisor showed up and talked them through it. (They originally wanted to move everything outside, to which I said NO WAY.)

This involved moving my washer and dryer, both of which are from roughly 1980. They are big, heavy, bulky, and probably no problem for a four-guy work crew to move. I, however, am not a four-guy work crew. I am not even two people. I am me, alone in my house, and I really really need to do some laundry.

So last night, I went into the basement and made the Big Push. Moving the dryer back into place was no real issue, because it slid right over where it needed to go. And I reattached the vent hose just fine. And I slapped some teflon tape around the gas hose hookup (oh, did I not mention it was a gas dryer?), and got that reattached as well. And then, I could not, for the life of me, turn the gas handle thingie, to get it back on. And I was a little frustrated already, because I had to move a pile of paneling that the workers left outside, and I had already tried to reattach said paneling, only to find that I need a piece that I can't find, and blah. So, the dryer works, but only blows cold air for now. Tonight, I shall see what can be done about the gas.

Then there was the washer. Now, for some reason known only to the workers, the washer was very far away from where it actually goes. "Very far" in this case means probably eight feet. But the problem is that the washer was also trapped by almost everything else in my basement, because they moved it in front of all the other stuff. So I had just enough room to slide it between the wall and the pile of stuff (the pile contains chairs and a couch and other heavy things, and would have required a mass of energy for me to move, which is why I was working around it). And it got stuck once, and I couldn't get it to slide very well, and I was, after about ten minutes, sweating profusely and swearing a blue streak. I swear a lot, but this was over the top. Because I was so frustrated, and irritated, and already angry about the paneling and the dryer and ZOMG SMASH. I think, by the end, I had possibly offended myself.

I get the washer pretty much in place, and realize I can't see what I'm doing, and who knows where the workers moved my flashlight. After more cussing, I went to my bedroom, got my bedside lamp, and went back downstairs. I found my vice grips, figured out which hose went to the hot and cold water hookups, and commenced to putting part A into slot B, in the not sexy way.

I turned the water on, after much huffing and hurting my hand. And then yelled, because dammed if the fucking bastard of a connection wasn't leaking and spraying me in the face (again, in the not sexy way). GAH. Turn off the water, teflon tape the connection, lather, rinse, repeat...only without the spraying in the face. Then, of course, the other connection...I couldn't get the handle to turn, and it's at a weird angle, and blah yet again. However, I got it working, and it wasn't leaking, and POOF. I plugged it the washer and it worked. Thank Jeebus, because I was getting ready to kick SOMETHING.

There is something freeing abotu living alone. If I don't feel like doing the dishes, I don't have to. Of course, when there are no clean glasses, I ahve only myself to blame, but whatevs. But it's moments like last night, when I'm huffing and puffing and trying to slide an ancient washing machine across my basement floor when I think having someone else around wouldn't be all bad.

Then I remember that they would have a say in decorating, and whether or not I have popcorn for dinner, and generally be there so that watching five episodes of Angel after work would be out of the ordinary, rather than par for the course.

And still...it wouldn't be all bad.

(And yes, I could have asked my neighbor and she would have helped me in a heartbeat. But that's just not giving it the old college try, now, is it?)