The Lighthouse

the lighthouse

23 January 2016

The week that was

On Sunday: Cooking rice and yet again scorching the bottom of the pot.
A scorched pot sitting on the front step in a snowstorm takes half an hour to completely cool down
The lingering odorous effects of scorching a pot takes a good week to dissipate.

On Monday: Remade rice dish leapt out of the container at lunch and landed in nooks and crannies of the armchair at work, and playing no favourites also all over my lap. While duck walking to the garbage bin  I left a rice trail much like the bread crumbs of fairy tales. Alas, no Prince Charming or helpful forest animals to be seen. Just me on hands and knees, picking individual grains of rice off the carpet.

On Tuesday: Cataloguing is dangerous work. I notice papercuts too numerous to count (because I can't be bothered to) (facts ruin a good story) and the development of a perma-claw, the result of hours of scrolling and clicking of the mouse.

On Wednesday: Day three of The Bathroom Saga.
Due to faulty grout and really old tiles, the wall around the tub is absorbing moisture. My landlord called on Sunday to let me know the contractor would be there Monday morning to start what should be a two day job. I spent the evening packing up all the personal stuff one has laying about in one's bathroom and preparing an overnight bag in case I needed to stay with the Nuts. I got home Monday to discover he hadn't been there at all, Tuesday was the same, and by Wednesday I'd given up rearranging the kitchen and rolling up the rugs to make way. I found out on Thursday that he probably won't be here until next Wednesday. Or Thursday.  So I've decided to leave my stuff about, and if he actually shows up, he can deal with it.  A girl needs her stuff!

Thursday: Taxes.  I have a woeful ineptitude when it comes to understanding numbers. Also a paralyzing fear of phoning official people in order to make appointments, gather information, or get bad news. (It's ok... I'm in therapy)  A recent kerfuffle with last year's taxes led to a pressing need to phone a scary government agency to confess my numerical sins. Utter relief to have it dealt with, a plan in place. I have confronted the monster under the bed, and by shining a light upon it have discovered it is no more than a paltry dust bunny.

Friday: Speaking of dust bunnies: what's with the drifts of dust all over my apartment?  Maybe all those phone calls for duct cleaning weren't scams after all. Huh.

1 comment:

  1. Wow. What a week. Here's to next week being less...rice-y.