How my house is trying to kill me

You will not believe this--well maybe you will, since it is me---but I did the damnedest thing last nite.

I SCRUBBED the laundry room floor. By hand. With a scrubby thing. And some Comet, because it is linoluem that gets so dingy, and I discovered when I did this once before that I do not in fact need new floor, I need to clean this one. By that, I mean SOMEONE needs to clean this one.

You have to know the preparation it takes to clean the laundry room. First of all, Barry and I have an ongoing battle over the laundry....which means that it is everywhere in there, falling out of baskets, falling out of hampers, on the floor, you name it, it is there. He wears more clothes in one week than I wear in a month. And he flat refuses to use a hamper, he just throws his clothes in the bedroom closet floor--I know that is one reason we cannot keep a cleaning lady (which by the way, I have taken step one toward getting a new one by leaving a message for one today).

I am always doing laundry 24/7, I swear. His pet peeve is I will not fold them as the dryer ends, and I am learning to pretty much do that. I think if I DO the laundry, he can put it up. That only seems reasonable doesn't it? Well he does it at his own pace, and if you know him, you know his pace is half the speed of a snail--and not much makes me madder than to see him tromp down to the laundry room every morning to get a pair of underwear instead of hauling the basket to the bedroom and unloading it. Because I do so much laundry and we only have three baskets, they get piled so high that I cannot get my short dinosaur arms over the clothes to the handles--so I cannot haul the baskets to the bedroom and he flat won't. And don't tell me to buy more baskets, then there would be MORE friggin laundry everywhere in this house. So anyway, all that had to come out of the laundry room. There is also a work station in there where a person could fold or stack the baskets unless there are 800 quilts and comforters, and unfolded sheets etc on it, which there always are. So all that had to come out.

Then there are the shoes. Filthy muddy dirty shoes all over the place--I do not know how they get there as we do not use the garage door that leads to the laundry room as an entry point- but for some reason, I counted 17 shoes to pick up in there, every one of them with chunks of dried mud on them. Makes you wonder where the 18th shoe is from the 9th pair, but I do not so much care.

And the change and bottle caps, and drill bits and general particulate that is always on top of the dryer, or on the floor--he also does not know how to empty his pockets before shucking his clothes. More than once I have had to pay the repair man to come out there to fix a belt or something jacked up from a bottle cap in it. I figure he will learn if I just throw it all away. So that is what I did. (NOTE: I do not hold high hopes for this learning curve)

Which leads to a whole other pet peeve of mine. What the hell is the deal with the trash cans? I have long since given up on ever having a trash can with a lid on it- as our dumpster at the farm serves as the trash service for both places. He has to haul trash there to be picked up every other Thursday nite and of course, never latched the lids down so they blew out of the truck years ago. I am over that. What I am NOT over is why in sweet hell he will take trash cans there and empty them, and not put them back in the truck to come home? I can never find a trash can when I need one, which is virtually all the time with the amount of garbage mail, bottles and cans, etc that I have. This is enough to make the top of my head blow off--we own 8 trash cans and I can never find a single one.

I had to interrupt the laundry room cleaning to cuss him about the trash cans (he says "why do you have to get so mad about it, just go get them." Can you imagine the restrait it took to not drown him for that?) and drive my car to the farm to look for one. While I was there I mowed the front yard and the ex-meth trailer area--leaving about an hour of miscellenous mowing to do. I found three trash cans, which of course will not fit in my car, and drove one of them home.

I had to watch my favorite show on TV (Big Brother 10), while doing the mail and chatting with Holly via IM, and cleaning the kitchen, running yet another friggin load of laundry and the dishwasher and cleaning the hallway bathroom.

After all that, I sucked it up and went after the laundry room floor. That is when I hurt myself
For real now. I did something to my left shoulder that felt like I was ripping a muscle, but it is my right shoulder that hurt so bad all nite, and feels like a pinched nerve.

I realize people are laughing at this--only I could get hurt doing housework. It is no wonder really, it is not like I have been in training for this.

My whole day was botched up from my schedule being jacked with. We got home about 4 pm from our 24 hour jaunt to Girard, Barry's home town. I wanted to be home by 2 pm so I could mow mow mow like a m-f'er, but as usual, we are not good with the time management. As we left Girard, we stopped by Ron and Michelle's to see the new landscaping and where the new pool is going--that always lasts longer than it is supposed to. We did however score the real Roundup--the good stuff that will kill an intruder if you spray it at them, let alone kill some weeds. Ron works for Monsanto as some big muckety muck, so he has the good stuff and he handed it over---which meant I had to buy yet another sprayer so I do not mix up that one with the one I make fly spray in and accidently Round up the horses. That meant we had to stop at Rural King on the way home-- I do love me some RK, as we do not have one in our town.

While we were there, we also bought another weedeater as he claims this one is dead--man that can be pricy to buy a good one and I do not know why we buy good ones, as Barry will kill it on the first day he uses it--which means it lasts a year as he only weed eats once a year. That is the number one reason we are white trash--or number one symptom, I should say. On that note, guess what? The original weed eater fired right up last nite, I hear.

We also stopped at a trailer dealer and found the perfect trailer--if they will get off the price some, and it is used and in this economy, you would think they would, wouldn't you? We shall see about that

All this brings me to Monday morning, when I got to work a full 90 minutes before I normally do, and my shoulder hurts so bad, I can hardly type.

Which is too bad, because I need to make a list