August
5, 2013
1:53
pm
At
the mountain house….
Well,
I’m seven minutes away from the time I planned to leave. Even set an alarm. Woke up before it (8:30) and I’ve got another
good hour before I’ll be on the road.
Probably not a problem, but not what I had planned.
I
just had to turn the fans on for the first time since I was here. AND hike up my skirt while I stood in front
of the largest one. Dear Jesus. Part of the deal (or it should be) is that
you clean up behind yourself. With my
mild (and I mean MILD) OCD tendencies, I HAD to not just hit the high
spots.
The
entire time I was here, I had “sugar on my feet”. Supposedly, that was what I told my Aunt Ruth
when I was three years old and was visiting at her house. Rural Georgia. Dirt roads.
Country. Dirt yard. All to equal dirt on the floor.
But
I had lived with my mother. And I had
rarely felt “sugar on my feet”.
The
“sugar” was sand from the yard.
Although
that is a story that I’ve been told, not a memory that I have, I still don’t
like the feeling. I know why. I know where the utter distaste for grit has
come from. And 44 years later, there’s
still a neural pathway in my brain that reacts to sand, grit, whatever on my
feet and elsewhere.
I
have to quit a minute to go check on the damn bird food I’m cooking.
<sigh>
I’m
back. It did not occur to me that it
would take a freaking hour for a pot of water with some sugar in it to
boil. I CAREFULLY put the sugar in (none
on the floor). And made sure I was making
enough to fill up the bottle in the frig for its purpose (a note on it would be
nice, but I can figure things out). And
be damned if I haven’t been cooking for birds FOR-EV-ER.
Why
didn’t I do this last night? I don’t
know. Because now it has to cool before it
goes back in the refrigerator. Be damned
if I’m not going to be here…. Wait. My IQ just kicked in. I’ll put it in the jug and put the jug on the
carpet in front of a fan. That will cool
it more quickly. IQ. Common sense.
Who knows? Getting by and getting
home is what I call it.
And
a funnel. There are more things in need
of funneling here, and there’s no funnel to be found. Food has to be put into hummingbird feeders (my
current recipe). The recipe has to be
put into a jug. I’ve found the blender
and will use it to pour. But there is a
clear need for a funnel.
So
back to the sugar on the floor. We were
the last ones here. My oldest son
cleaned and cleaned. I had everyone
cleaning at one point. And I’m as neat
as a pin. So whence cometh the
sugar?
I
swept the laundry room and kitchen. I swept
the great room and hallway. I took rugs
out and knocked the dust and dirt out of them.
Then, I got out the Swiffer that we’d bought for the cabin just last
week. “Leave it better than you found it”
is one of the “rules,” so we bought the house quite a few things that probably
won’t be noticed. One was a Swiffer. Dry pads and wet pads. And the wet pad package we bought had two
pads left. That means my son used TEN
last week. Two was all I needed,
though. One in the laundry and
kitchen. One in the bathroom.
Oh
my God. I'll post the pictures later when it's easier to do. Not from a wifi but from home.
Now
prior to this time my mild OCD had me not just cleaning up behind myself…
(gotta go check the stove)…
What
a hot mess. For future reference,
blenders are not good for pouring. Some
of the hot sugar water ended up on my hand.
So, I resorted to the coffee pot which worked perfectly. Except that I’ve already washed it. Now, I have a pot, a blender, and a coffee
pot to wash PLUS the countertop and sink to clean. AGAIN.
Anyway,
when I cleaned the bathroom, I CLEANED the bathroom. Like a woman cleans a bathroom. My “leaving it better than you found it” even
involved cleaning the inside of the shower.
Naked. Indeed, some men probably
would have paid good money to have seen that, but it needed to be done, and I
couldn’t stand to leave it that way.
Peace and paradise must be clean.
The
hummingbird food is cooling as we speak.
Damn. I’m going to have to drive
like a bat out of hell to get home when I wanted to.
Anyway,
I took pictures, mainly to show my son, of the last two Swiffer wet pads that I
used. Now, I’ve been here four
nights. I’ve gone out ONE time. I am NOT responsible for what I saw when I
looked at those pads.
So,
now, the cabin is out of sugar. In great
need of a funnel. And I had hoped to
have extra time to drive in to Spruce Vegas (thanks to my college friend for
the rename) to the Walmart in hopes that those country folks aren’t attracted
to the same color of lipstick that I use (since it seems to be in short supply
in Columbia). Hottie. That’s my color. And I’m in short supply. And I still have to clean up the kitchen
AGAIN. Make the bed (sheets are in a
dryer that is afraid to get too hot and therefore takes FOR-EV-ER). And drag my stuff back down the stairs. Along with closing up the windows. Taking out the trash. Turning off the water
(ewwww, in a scary place downstairs) and locking up. That should do it. Then, me and my newly rediscovered self will
head home.
Spruce
Vegas Walmart will require a trip BACK into this place to drop off what is
needed. Jesus. Why am I like I am? I can’t leave it without what it needs!
And
I broke a wine glass. I wasn’t planning
to buy that from Walmart, but perhaps it would keep me from having to do it
elsewhere and having delivered to the owner’s office. Back where I’m from.
I’ve
finally quit glowing (I don’t sweat). I
need to fix my hair. Possibly wash dishes again beforehand. With paper towels so there is nothing left to
wash.
And
it’s 2:49. And I just learned something
new: my curling iron cuts off by
itself. Went to fix my hair so that when
my husband and I discussed how we were going to “revive” our marriage I’d look
like a sex pot (hell, why not), and the curling iron is cold.
But
the hummingbird food is not. NOT cold. NOT cool.
NOT anything anywhere close to anything but still hot.
Damn.
Okay,
so real-life confessions here: I haven’t
washed a dish, a piece of clothing (to include linens), wiped a countertop,
cleaned a bathroom, swept a floor, run a vacuum, or made up a bed in…I don’t
know how long. I seriously don’t
remember. I’ve only been able to keep
myself together. No way could I do anything
else. Am I spoiled? Hardly.
I’m privileged. I’m blessed. I’ve been sick, and the world has gone on
around me, and I’ve had to let it.
Curling
iron should be ready for me. Note to
self: Google “how to store hummingbird
food”.
3:26: Sex pot hair.
Check. Dishes washed. Check.
Bed made. Check. Towels folded. Check. Almost
all windows closed. Most of my things in
the car.
Damn. Guest book.
And the valium makes my hands shake.
And
the good news is the hot hummingbird food.
Genius IQ comes in handy: I put
it in an ice bath in the sink. It’s
cooling now.
Conundrum: Spruce Vegas Walmart or not?
3:33: Cleared that up. Nope. No
need. Called the office assistant, who
is apparently my new contact, and left a list with her. Forgot to mention the wine glass.
Told
her to tell the owner thanks. Heard it
in her voice. She knows. She knows my error. She knows my…. Well, she knows what she knows, and what she
likely doesn’t know is that I am just not like that. That’s not me. It’s me, indeed, because it came out of
me. But it’s only me because of the
damage done to me. Damage that I always
control. Except for this time.
Damn. Damn it all to hell. Because that’s where it came from. And that’s where it belongs.
I’m
going home to try to fix my broken marriage.
And to try to keep it fixed amongst my broken children. God help me.
God help us.
As
for my broken friendship, I’ve done my part.
And I can’t fix everything. And
be damned if a delivery of wine glasses to the office, even by someone other than
me (it would HAVE to be someone other than me) would probably be
misinterpreted.
So,
I’ll just have to owe this place a wine glass.
I hate that, but I guess the lesson learned for me is that not
everything that is broken gets replaced by the person who broke it. I was broken and left that way. I had to fix myself. And to be honest, I’ve done a damn good job
considering the circumstances.
Post. Then home.
Home sweet home. Going to make it
that way with a man who worships the ground I walk on (minus a few
incidences). The man who thought I was beautiful
even when I was fat. The father of my children. The man who has loved me through so
much. Now, I’ve got to love him back again. And try to put away this brokenness that
keeps me from fully investing in a relationship that is 17 years old.
God, please help me. Can’t do it alone.
So this was the product:
This was the result of the kitchen.
This was the result of the bath! Ugh!
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