Feeling stabby. YOU know how it is.

May 31, 2012

I didn’t think I’d post again until after THE WEDDING (my son is getting married to a marvelous girl June 30, in case you hadn’t heard), but I’m in a particularly foul mood this morning so who better to bitch to than you guys?

First of all, I had to clean the kitchen. I mean, I was compelled to clean the kitchen in a way that lemmings are compelled to throw themselves off a cliff into the sea. The kitchen was disgusting. And I always am disgusted with myself with I allow it to get that way, even though at least 75% of the mess is unrelated to me. Or rather, it’s very related to me, because it’s made by my son, but I have long resigned myself to the fact that while he is a very stellar example of young manhood in many other respects, a cleaner he will never be.

We don’t have a dishwasher, so it’s not hard for the kitchen to quickly become a wreck. But the wreck part didn’t perturb me as much as having to wear GLOVES while I cleaned because I have this slice on the end of my finger where I ran over it with the rotary cutter the other night and now I have another slice on a different finger but same hand that I don’t even have any idea how got there. These stupid cuts are deep and still open at the least bit of pressure and I’ve been trying to keep my bandages dry. . . so gloves. And I hate wearing gloves when I clean. I am such an OCD control freak when I clean I have to FEEL that stuff is clean, and I also have a bad habit of scraping stuff up with my fingernails (I have wretched cuticles but AWESOMELY FREAKISHLY TOUGH fingernails) and my hands were feeling all claustrophobic which was making me feel even more anxious and stabby so I don’t even have a satisfactory sense of accomplishment after washing that big pile of nasty dishes (and I do mean nasty, I had to run three sinkfuls of dishwater, but have you noticed that dishwashing soap doesn’t do near the job it used to? I don’t remember ever having refresh my dishwater when I was a kid washing up after dinner for the six of us; it was still good and sudsy even after the last greasy skillet had been scrubbed. What the hell? Probably a plot by THE MAN to make us use more dish soap so that we run out more quickly and in turn have to purchase more, making HIM more money. Bastard man).

Also I asked the husband to find me a music station to listen to on our new cable TV. I always listen to music when I am forced to do household chores because like so many of us I was tricked by those Disney princess bitch-whore who were always having such a splendid time scrubbing floors and mending evil stepsisters’ girdles because they were singing and cavorting around with adorable woodland creatures. No adorable woodland creatures have ever shown up to help lighten my workload no matter what kind of music I’ve got going, just ants and moths and ohmygodthegnatsthegnatsTHEGNATSSOMEONEDOSOMETHINGABOUTTHEGNATS and my dogs underfoot, making mess about as fast as I can clean. Anyway, I requested adult alternative, and I’m sloshing away in the sink and I’m all, Is this Celine fucking Dion? I went to investigate, and sure enough it was. So now I am even more dismayed because apparently I am married to a man who thinks Celine Fucking Dion is alternative music.

AND THE RECYLING IS TAKING OVER THE HOUSE. Seriously, I’m going to have to throw all the goddamn recycling in the trash because it’s all stacked up in my mudroom (yes, I have a mudroom, custom designed by myself, try not to be too jealous–no, really, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to be jealous of me. Ever) and I can’t even get to my washer and dryer and did I mention the laundry is also piled to the ceiling? Now before y’all start hating on me for destroying the environment and all that shit, let me point out that 1) I live in the heart of Booniesville and there is no recycling center I don’t have to drive at least thirty minutes to get to, 2) my house is in a constant, never ending state of remodel/refurbish so there are already piles of construction shit lying around inside and outside this place, 3) I don’t even have curbside trash pickup (nor a curb, for that matter), so we either burn our trash or take it to the county dump down the road, and 4) and most importantly, ALICE HAS NOT FOLLOWED THROUGH ON HER END OF THE RECYCLING BARGAIN. Alice has been bitching at me about not recycling for a while, but it’s easy for her to recycle because the city picks up the recyclables with the trash, and now the city has provided these awesome bins to put the recycling in AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO SEPARATE THE GLASS, PLASTIC, PAPER, ETC. So she tricked me into agreeing to recycle by saying she would pick up my recyclables every week when she brought Hellbaby for me to keep and she would put it in her bin. All I had to do was not throw the stuff in the trash. So I was all on board and even got the husband and the son mostly trained to put the paper and plastic and beer cans in the recycling bag which is no small accomplishment since those two can’t even remember to close a cabinet door or drawer or pick their damn socks up off the floor.

But now—NOW, after a month, Alice says there’s too much recycling for her bin and I need to take it someplace else. Well, fuck that noise. I have already enumerated the reasons why this is not a feasible proposition for me, and she can be as judgey  and superior-feeling she wants, because I am quite certain her profligate use of paper towels, cleaning wipes, and disposable diapers more than offsets her puny recycling attempts. I USED CLOTH DIAPERS, BITCHES, BACK WHEN NOBODY WAS DOING IT. It was the 80s, man, and it SUCKED. And I don’t even have paper towels in my house. IT’S CALLED A DISHRAG, YO.

AND MY GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DOGS WILL NOT STOP BARKING AT EACH OTHER. I have four dogs, and these dogs have grown up together from puppyhood, and now in their middle age, they have decided that they either do not like or are afraid of each other. Husband’s devil dog was just now barking at my dog—who happens to be her father—for no reason that I could tell except that he was chewing on his foot. Maybe her eyesight is going and she thought it was a bone. Or maybe she was having a traumatic flashback to their one incestuous encounter, although I still say she enticed him. And the big dog was lying across the doorway to the hall like a big hairy moat that the other three are terrified to cross so they stand three feet from him and bark and whine and carry on while he ignores them completely.

And Husband is crippled up something awful. He’s going to the doctor this afternoon because his shoulder is hurting so badly he can hardly breathe, but I have a gloomy suspicion that the doc is going to say, Yep, you have advanced osteoporosis and neuropathy and bone spurs and that’s what you get when you’re sprayed with fluorosilicic acid. But that’s a stabby story for another day.  But when he’s feeling so poorly he takes to the bed, it blights my entire outlook and I just want to crawl into bed with him and hide under the covers.

BUT I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT BECAUSE I GOTS STUFF TO DO. Stuff to do with my sore fingers. Gah.

{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }

Lady Estrogen May 31, 2012 at 12:40 pm

I’m going to give your hubs a tiny benefit of the doubt because we have an “adult alternative” station to which I thought – ohh.. 90s cool shit.. UMM NO. Bullshit and stabby is all it plays.

And? I love dogs, but they’re a pain in my coccyx.


Kait May 31, 2012 at 12:49 pm

I was SO with you re: the hands in gloves things. But you lost me when you said no paper towels. I mean, NO paper towels. You may need therapy.


Lilscorpiosweet May 31, 2012 at 2:17 pm

Ok so yeah I can see why you are all sorts of stabby.. I think it is a good idea to go back to bed and maybe start over. But then who wants to start the last week of school all over and deal with bratty kids. Oh wait.. you don’t have to do that.. that’s my bag. Damn.

Oh well maybe you could rewind to the time before you cut your finger with the rotary cutter and figure out where you got the other cut from. Maybe then the gloves wouldn’t have to be worn because you will have avoided that mishap.


Chunky Mama May 31, 2012 at 6:38 pm

Gloves make me claustrophobic too! I refuse to wear them, even if it means I have to wash my hands 15 times to get off whatever gross germy messes I encounter.

Sorry you’re having a ranty kind of day. All of it blows. Hope your Hubs is all right & your fingers heal soon. In the meantime, take a nap or 10.


Lizbeth June 1, 2012 at 8:06 am

Well its about GD time you eeked out a post! How are you typing with mangled fingers??? And don’t forget to Google that shit with your husband before he goes in. Doctors love that.


Flannery June 13, 2012 at 10:52 am

I have some issues with this post. First, I don’t see any possible way I could survive without trash service. I am far too lazy to haul my garbage down to the dump, because that is icky, sweaty, gross work, and what if you have a CAR and not a TRUCK? Huh, what about that? You can’t just fill up your car with stinky garbage. THAT WOULD BE WRONG. I am going to be pondering this for a while, thankyouverymuch.

Also, I’m concerned about the bacteria in the dishrag, and I insist that you get paper towels and/or cleaning wipes right away. Of course, that will create more trash and then we’re back to the dilemma in hauling it all away, and obviously you can’t count on ALICE to help out with this, so husband better get himself back in good health pretty damn quick so he can haul away all those used paper towels and cleaning wipes.


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