We found a contractor who offered us a discount if we took the sheared-off sheathing (it’s in 3 separate pieces) to his shop rather than his bringing out his truck.
Now the issue is getting at two pieces which, naturally, are in the deepest and least-accessible area of the backyard.
Oh, and we’ve always known the female half of our ex housemates lives in her own fantasy world in a sense, but she gets into these “you need to serve me because I’m poor and disabled” phases where we’re supposed to drop everything or else she’s going to have a breakdown. She only emails my husband about these because she know she gets absolutely no sympathy from me. She emailed him last night and she’s getting her husband to drive her and their dogs here (60 miles one way) for who knows for whatever reason. Her husband just goes along with it. And, of course, my husband is too kindhearted to admit she’s more of a burden now than she was when she lived here.
Yeah, it seems like the allocation system could skip 10 numbers when successively assigning numbers, i.e., #1, #10, #20… and then start filling in. Dumb.
Please, give me a gym where I don’t have to worry about algorithms.
I work out to clear my head and get so focused (on my pain) that I’m not thinking about my problems. Of which technology is a big one.
So please, no TV on my treadmill, no digital readout of my target kidney throughput, no CGI people that I can pretend I’m running with. And do not beep at me.
One gym (excuse me, Fitness Center Plus) just put up signs about how excited I should be that “We’ve Upgraded Your Running Experience to 2.0!”
Sigh. Maybe I’ll just go outside and run in silence…
I Hereby Pit Malt Vinegar Guy. The thought of pouring this ass of a chemical on your french fries or soft shell taco is vile enough.
Normally I’d say each to their own. Except the problem is when someone opens a bottle of this swill, it immediately makes the entire restaurant smell like a pair of sneakers that have been run in the past 5 days with no socks.
Can’t you smell it too??? If not I’m telling you now how much it ruins other diners meals. Most likely you do know and don’t give a fucking shit making you a self-absorbed asshole. Must your craving for malt vinegar be so strong you can’t just do this at home instead of exposing me to this stench just as I am about to chow down on my meal, only to want to vomit?
MEMO to all bars and restaurants: throw away your malt vinegar bottles. Or, if diners do insist on malt vinegar, do what you do with smokers: make these jerks take it outside.
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I hope to commit a cold blooded premeditated murder tonight.
The soon-to-be victim has taken up residence in my home. He was pretty low key for a while although he did help himself to a granola bar that was in a handbag in my closet. But I was hoping he had left or if not, that he would stay out of my way and find another place to live soon.
But he crossed a boundary and went into my bedroom. So he must die tonight. I am talking about Eek the mouse. I have been calling him Eek because…EEK,a mouse !!
Now I don’t know where Eek came from because I’m in a NYC apartment, 3 floors up. But it won’t be the first time a mouse has passed through…they are always alone and always go away on their own. And I think Eek is working alone. But I keep costume jewelry in stacks of decorative cardboard boxes on the dresser. And when I go on vacation I usually take one of those boxes with me. And once, when they put mini chocolate bars on my pillow, and saved them and pushed then up against the corner of this jewelry box.
And Eek must have an amazing sense of smell. Because he shredded that corner of the box, and the paper wrapper, and the foil wrapper and got some chocolate. That was Friday night. And he’s been back every night since. And it’s driving me crazy and passing me off because I can hear him scampering around. But Whats a girl to do, I can’t smash it like I would a cockroach. So I ordered traps, I couldn’t find the fully enclosed ones in the store. And I’m not looking at Eeks corpse, I need to be a remote cold-blooded killer.
So for the past few nights I’ve grabbed a big stack of pens and pencils from my office and put them on the bedside table. And whenever I hear Eek during the night I sling a pen or pencil in the general direction of the noise. And eventually he leaves the room or goes into the closet or something. But he has some memory of that chocolate and he’s been looking for it, even though it’s gone.
Hopefully he will smell the peanut butter in the traps and become history.And I did spray some rodent repellant stuff around today so maybe he left on his own. So maybe he got away in time. But ,either way, goodbye!
I have a mouse story with a remote-controlled mouse death involved.
When I was 30 I spent a year abroad, a sort of sabbatical. I boxed up all my books, and because the only place to store them was my parents’ barn, I wrapped all the boxes in heavy plastic and taped them securely.
When I returned, and found an apartment, I was lazy for a while about unpacking my books, so I left the boxes stacked fairly closely in uneven rows in a spare closet.
A couple of months go by, and I notice a nasty smell. I can’t find it at first, but it keeps getting worse and I finally track it down to the closet.
A mouse had fallen in between two stacks of boxes and gotten trapped, it couldn’t claw or chew it’s way through the plastic nor climb out because the plastic was too slick, so I presume it died of dehydration. What a sad end to a harmless little mouse. I put on a rubber glove, grabbed it by the tail, put it in a baggie and thence into the trash.
Can I just say- never ever come to England. Our standard condiments are salt, pepper and malt vinegar. Most cafes will have a vinegar shaker on the table, because almost everyone puts some on their chips or fries. Some just sprinkle it randomly over their whole dinner, to the horror of furriners.
It’s so ubiquitous here that, when in a chip shop in New Zealand, a guy there heard my accent, went ‘Hey, you’re English! Wait a sec, I’ve got some vinegar here!’
And did I accept vinegar from that random Kiwi? Damn straight. Love the stuff.
Maybe Eek is still here or maybe he’s moved on - maybe he smelled the peppermint oil rodent repellent and left the way he came. Although I can’t figure out the entry / exit point. But the traps are untouched and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in my room. Because I have a keen sense of hearing, especially moose footsteps on hardwood floors. And I couldn’t sleep. You have no idea how disconcerting it is to have a rodent scurrying about your bedroom at night. I’m a reasonably prosperous citizen of a first world country in the 21st century, damn it! I shouldn’t have to share my room with a rodent.
Mouse footsteps, damn it. My sense of hearing wouldn’t have to be especially keen in order to hear a moose in my bedroom. But the typo reminded me that things could be worse.
Yes, I would - I’ve had a recent infestation myself. I deployed bait stations. So far the record daily cull was three little bodies distributed throughout my living space on one morning. For the last few days no rodent noises at night, thank goodness, although both the landlord and I suspect a new raccoon in the attic - a capture cage will be deployed today.
We both eagerly await the day the last of the ice melts off the roof and it’s safe to go up there and fix the potential raccoon access points, as well as fix the remaining leaks. Meanwhile, this past week we’ve been trying to patch potential rodent holes around the building.
It’s been like the seven plagues of Egypt around here this past year. I haven’t even mentioned the ants, spiders, and house centipedes.
I caught a possum in a big rat trap, I set a trap because some rats were getting into feed in the barn. We were amazed they even chewed into fertilizer. So I sent Mr.Wrekker to get the biggest rat trap ever. We tied bacon on it set it. Next morning we went to look at the traps, we caught 4 rats ( big mama jamas). One trap was missing. We found it in the back of partition, with a live possum attached to it. Mr.Wrekker dispatched it with his pistol. Gross! No, don’t even ask. I am from Arkansas, but I don’t cook possum.
