|I am airing my dirty laundry.|
And by "knick knacks," I mean wool coats. Books n' books n' books n' books. Upended tables. At least two cats.
We're like the beginning of a Hoarders episode- with no hope for an hour-long resolution.
The guys currently digging up the lower level were sweet enough to warn me that there might be dust. And a lot of noise. Which is just adorable.
And in We've Really Angered This House news...
We've really angered this house. Part 17:
The other day, feeling way too confident about my abilities to keep this house running smoothly and (relatively) cleanly, I decided to do a load of laundry. The contractors had worked a half day and the afternoon was looking open. After I cleaned some clothes, I figured I'd take the girls to the actual out-of-doors when they woke up from their naps. I was thrilled by the prospect of potential freedom.
While the washing machine was starting its cycle, I began the process of re-packing and moving stuff from floor to floor for phase 2 of the demolition. After about ten minutes, however, I heard...something.
It sounded like a geyser. And being that my home is not currently on the register of any sort of national wonder (yet), I fervently hoped that what I was hearing was not a geyser.
As I turned the corner into the laundry room, I sorrowfully discovered that- yes- it was a geyser. Water and lint and mud shot straight from the washer, splashing the ceiling and shelves and floor. And me. Especially me.
I am totally embarrassed to say that I stood there for fifteen seconds, just wondering what the heck to do. Count fifteen seconds in your head. That's a stupidly long time for inaction. Finally I ran into the melee and popped the washer button out. It stopped, and for a second all I could hear was the drip drip drip of pooling water and failed dreams.
Once I felt brave enough to open the lid, I discovered what had happened- sorta. The blanket which had, only the day before, been sequestering one floor from the concrete dust and sewer gas of the lower level, had completely disintegrated in the wash. Like, down to its atoms. I have no idea how this happened, since (generally) blankets don't just explode. However, since it did happen, it meant waaaay more work for that afternoon.
There was the half hour of fishing out fistfuls of gritty lint from within the murky washer in order to properly drain the machine. Same goes for the utility sink, into which the lint-laden hose had been attempting to spill. Then there was the hour long session of hand-washing each item of clothing to remove the lint and gritty residue (which, as it turns out, was the inner layer of the blanket) that was already staining the clothes- most of them Susannah's.
It was an ugly, pathetic, process- which may not have resulted in actually clean clothing. During this time I had a [momentary] mammoth snap with reality, whereupon I began to yell at the house.
I yelled at the potential ghost.
I berated the previous owners.
I [loudly] assured everyone involved that I was a good person and I was trying to treat this &$#@* house with respect and my baby kid did NOT deserve pajamas covered with mud and broken blanket.
I like to think that the house and I came to an understanding.
As in- I understand that this house has really been a jerk to me and it understands that (being a house), it holds no actual responsibility for my happiness.
It's a start.
|Looks clean enough to me!|