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dragonlady7via https://ift.tt/2Qs6ZkR
I’m off any semblance of a routine and I really need to figure out something to do about it.
I wanted to go to the farm this week but 1) it’s not a chicken week and 2) I have the prospect of Finally Moving The Fucking Office being dangled over my head.
I still have my doubts of it actually occurring but. By main force I have begun bringing boxes over, and have witnessed with mine own eyes that the Internet is set up there, so I’m going to Make It Happen. I am. By being here this week.
I know for a goddamn fact that if I’d been going to the farm this week it would still not happen. Coworker is literally not able to fathom doing it without me, even though my role is expressly to agree with him that we should. He is now embroiled in an unnecessary reorganization and triage project of one single box with many tiny items in it. We could absolutely either move the box as-is or throw it out, and have basically no net change to our moving schedule, but he’s now spent three days on it.
I’m going to not think about it this weekend, and not think about how much I want to see my family. I did see Dude’s family last night, his mom and aunt, and showed them our pictures from the trip, which was good because it made me finish whittling down the collection, and editing them. They’re ready to print,if I wanted to print any. So, there’s that. cut for blathering about what on earth i’m supposed to do next.
I have to do laundry this weekend– not trip laundry, I did all that, but the household laundry– and finish unpacking, and put things away, but to put things away I have to tidy the house, and I just don’t know if I can face that. I’ll try, though. I have to; there are no more flat surfaces left to exist upon within the house, so some things have to be removed. That’s just how it is.
We’re coming up on the 1-year anniversary of when I spent two weeks cleaning Middle-Little Sister’s apartment, and she swore she’d reciprocate. Instead, what’s going to happen is that I’m going to have to do it again, because she instantly backslid and her place is a fucking disaster again. Last year it was only in that bad a state, she insisted, because she’d had so many bad things happen– the ceiling of her bedroom had collapsed twice, her living room had gotten soaked in water from a burst hose, all of it had just gotten away from her, and it was true! and i believed her! and so i worked so hard. But this year, nothing bad happened, and she’s living in piles of garbage again, so. I’ll do it again, because I can’t stand the alternative. (She’s totally going to die in squalor and her cats will eat her.)
But what does that mean for me? It means it’s not worth it for me to have people come and help me tidy up because I won’t be able to maintain it either. If she can’t do it living alone, I can’t do it living with a Helpless Man Who Keeps Recycling As An Apparent Souvenir because rinsing it out and throwing it away apparently needs someone else’s intervention. (His idea of putting away clean laundry is to dress himself out of the laundry basket until it’s empty. Fifteen years ago I decided I wasn’t going to just keep stacking laundry baskets for him, so I dump the laundry into piles on his bed, and he sweeps it onto the floor and dresses out of the piles. Now I can’t reach his side of the bed, so I hung him a bunch of laundry on the door of the bedroom– which is also my bedroom, remember– and he’s been dressing himself out of the pile on the door because apparently in his personal moral code it’s illegal to move those hangers into his now nearly-empty closet that I can’t reach.
I’ll be leaving it in the street, next.)
So, I need to just find ways to accept that I don’t live like regular people, and let that be a thing. I’m getting there. We’ll see. I do know I’m not cooking this whole fucking week; I was so tired last week that when it came time to plan meals I didn’t insist on Dude planning any, I planned them all and then was the only one who knew how to cook them, and so I had to do all the cooking. This week there’s still one meal left from that bunch so I’ll do it, and he’s on his fucking own for the rest. I was cooking elaborate shit with literally only the stovetop available as a flat working space, in an actual delirium of overtiredness, and I’m not fucking doing it anymore.
Huh I think I’m cranky. Well, it was a really goddamned hard week. It sounds like he’s doing dishes right now, as a prelude to maybe cooking breakfast, which is fantastic except I know that means he won’t actually cook anything until after I’ve died of hypoglycemia (am seeing stars at the moment), so that’s a shame. It was nice knowing you all.
(Your picture was not posted)
I’m off any semblance of a routine and I really need to figure out something to do about it.
I wanted to go to the farm this week but 1) it’s not a chicken week and 2) I have the prospect of Finally Moving The Fucking Office being dangled over my head.
I still have my doubts of it actually occurring but. By main force I have begun bringing boxes over, and have witnessed with mine own eyes that the Internet is set up there, so I’m going to Make It Happen. I am. By being here this week.
I know for a goddamn fact that if I’d been going to the farm this week it would still not happen. Coworker is literally not able to fathom doing it without me, even though my role is expressly to agree with him that we should. He is now embroiled in an unnecessary reorganization and triage project of one single box with many tiny items in it. We could absolutely either move the box as-is or throw it out, and have basically no net change to our moving schedule, but he’s now spent three days on it.
I’m going to not think about it this weekend, and not think about how much I want to see my family. I did see Dude’s family last night, his mom and aunt, and showed them our pictures from the trip, which was good because it made me finish whittling down the collection, and editing them. They’re ready to print,if I wanted to print any. So, there’s that. cut for blathering about what on earth i’m supposed to do next.
I have to do laundry this weekend– not trip laundry, I did all that, but the household laundry– and finish unpacking, and put things away, but to put things away I have to tidy the house, and I just don’t know if I can face that. I’ll try, though. I have to; there are no more flat surfaces left to exist upon within the house, so some things have to be removed. That’s just how it is.
We’re coming up on the 1-year anniversary of when I spent two weeks cleaning Middle-Little Sister’s apartment, and she swore she’d reciprocate. Instead, what’s going to happen is that I’m going to have to do it again, because she instantly backslid and her place is a fucking disaster again. Last year it was only in that bad a state, she insisted, because she’d had so many bad things happen– the ceiling of her bedroom had collapsed twice, her living room had gotten soaked in water from a burst hose, all of it had just gotten away from her, and it was true! and i believed her! and so i worked so hard. But this year, nothing bad happened, and she’s living in piles of garbage again, so. I’ll do it again, because I can’t stand the alternative. (She’s totally going to die in squalor and her cats will eat her.)
But what does that mean for me? It means it’s not worth it for me to have people come and help me tidy up because I won’t be able to maintain it either. If she can’t do it living alone, I can’t do it living with a Helpless Man Who Keeps Recycling As An Apparent Souvenir because rinsing it out and throwing it away apparently needs someone else’s intervention. (His idea of putting away clean laundry is to dress himself out of the laundry basket until it’s empty. Fifteen years ago I decided I wasn’t going to just keep stacking laundry baskets for him, so I dump the laundry into piles on his bed, and he sweeps it onto the floor and dresses out of the piles. Now I can’t reach his side of the bed, so I hung him a bunch of laundry on the door of the bedroom– which is also my bedroom, remember– and he’s been dressing himself out of the pile on the door because apparently in his personal moral code it’s illegal to move those hangers into his now nearly-empty closet that I can’t reach.
I’ll be leaving it in the street, next.)
So, I need to just find ways to accept that I don’t live like regular people, and let that be a thing. I’m getting there. We’ll see. I do know I’m not cooking this whole fucking week; I was so tired last week that when it came time to plan meals I didn’t insist on Dude planning any, I planned them all and then was the only one who knew how to cook them, and so I had to do all the cooking. This week there’s still one meal left from that bunch so I’ll do it, and he’s on his fucking own for the rest. I was cooking elaborate shit with literally only the stovetop available as a flat working space, in an actual delirium of overtiredness, and I’m not fucking doing it anymore.
Huh I think I’m cranky. Well, it was a really goddamned hard week. It sounds like he’s doing dishes right now, as a prelude to maybe cooking breakfast, which is fantastic except I know that means he won’t actually cook anything until after I’ve died of hypoglycemia (am seeing stars at the moment), so that’s a shame. It was nice knowing you all.
(Your picture was not posted)
