Tag Archives: OCD

3 Reasons Why I Can’t Unpack Right Now

Or, 3 Reasons Why I’ve Worn the Same 4 Outfits to Work for Weeks

1. Moving drained my life force.

Packing up one’s entire domicile is a hideous undertaking. Not only do you have to spend hours carefully packing stuff like wine glasses and the trinkety crap from the mantel–you also have to worry about getting the curtain rods down (and how do you pack/transport curtain rods? or brooms for that matter? things that don’t fit in boxes drive me MAD) and taking pictures off the wall and cleaning out that weird dark closet under the stairs where the old litter boxes sit silently mouldering.

There are so many deeply annoying aspects to moving. I barely managed to survive them this time. All my energy went into staying sane for the few weeks before the move and now I’ve got nothing left. I’m a lifeless husk of my former self. I’ve turned into the Autumn-zombie.

Confession: I spent 45 minutes playing with the Dead Yourself app. In the end I couldn't put a zombie mouth on there cause I was too scared.

Confession: I spent 45 minutes playing with the Dead Yourself app. In the end I couldn’t zombify my mouth cause it was too scary and I wanted to cry.

2. There are too many TV shows.

Currently I am watching Buffy, Angel, Bones, New Girl, and Scandal. I recently finished the new Arrested Development and Firefly. Y’all. I can’t stop streaming. Send help.

Buffy

How did Joss Whedon make a show that is half campy horror and half profound exploration of the meaning of life? I’ll never understand.

Seriously, why is TV so good? I have spent so much time binge-watching on Netflix that my eyeballs ache in bright sun and there’s an Autumn-shaped imprint in my corner of the couch. I have lost the will to make my own food (thanks for keeping me alive, GrubHub) or wear real clothes.

I just need to finish the shows I’m watching now and then I’ll be good. Well, unless I start The West Wing. Or Alias. Or The X-Files. I heard those shows are dope, y’all.

3. Our new place needs some serious TLC.

Check out this toilet. I’m a little afraid to use it because I suspect it’s a secret portal to the 70s. Can you imagine speeding through time and space and arriving in the 70s via toilet? Not. Fly.

Yellow toilet

On the bright side, it’s not avocado green. I think that would be marginally worse.

As you can see, there is also carpet in the bathrooms, which registers like a 7.0 on the Ick-ter Scale. Plus the paint on all the walls and trim is dirty and faded and sad, and the “finished” basement is like a dungeon, if dungeons had orange-and-yellow carpet.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually like this place so much more than our last one. It’s super spacious and closer to work and in a great neighborhood and we’re saving *buckets* of money on rent. We can bike to work every day and we have a lovely patio and lots of natural light. The kitties adore it.

But it’s old and outdated and it will require some serious elbow grease (guys, by the way, wtf is elbow grease?) before it can be attractive and comfortable. And the problem is, most of the painting and decorating and camouflaging of yellow toilets needs to be done before I can fully, truly unpack. The thought is overwhelming. I’m completely paralyzed. Just…I can’t even. Hand me the remote somebody.

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4 Reasons Why I Am Embarrassed

Or, 4 Reasons Why I’m A Goober

1. It’s been 3 months since my last post.

I mean, good lord. That’s pretty much a lifetime. I can’t believe what a sadsack blogger I am. So…what’s up with you guys? Anything exciting? I trimmed my bangs too short back in March. That’s my news.

2. All my pants look like this.

Piglet is in this picture because she was chasing a fly. Note the crazy eyes.

Piglet is in this picture because she was chasing a fly. Note the crazy eyes.

How did it come to this, you ask? Well, I’m short and lazy. That’s like the perfect storm of bad traits in terms of pant length. Every pair I buy is too long and I’m certainly not going to do any actual hemming. I mean, I took this picture when I went downstairs to get my sewing machine and pin up the pants to the right length, and the whole time I knew I was lying to myself. I just color-coordinated the yarn in my yarn drawer and eventually got chased away by an angry fly.

So the upshot is that I go to work everyday looking like Huck Finn.

3. I used my busy academic library’s borrowing service to get this book.

How to Seize a Dragon's Jewel (How to Train Your Dragon 10) by Cressida Cowell. Picture from www.amazon.co.uk.

How to Seize a Dragon’s Jewel (How to Train Your Dragon 10) by Cressida Cowell. Image from http://www.amazon.co.uk.

Although the ILL folks are all very kind and would assure me that I’m not using this service inappropriately, I know they’d just be saying that to make me feel better. It’s clear that our interlibrary loan exists for researchers who need that obscure but crucial article or they can’t finish writing the incredibly serious paper/thesis/book chapter which must be completed BY NEXT WEEK OH GOD PLEASE PLEASE LET THE ARTICLE GET HERE SOON OR I’M DOOOOOOOMED

And here I am clogging up the works with kids’ books. But you guys, these books. They are the absolute best. Please please read them yourself and then give them to all the kids you know and also make sure to listen to the audiobooks which are narrated by David Tennant. Yes, that David Tennant. You remember David Tennant, right?

And of course he narrates them with adorable Scottish-y brilliance. Don’t miss it.

4. There are eight realistic toad figurines on my eBay watchlist right now.

And I spent a long time at work today carefully comparing these toads and wondering which would look the most…er, toady. The wartier the better. Because [imagine my voice going into high-pitch rapid-fire mode right about now] I’M DOING A HARRY POTTER EXHIBIT AT THE LIBRARY AND IT HAS TO BE PERFECT. I am obsessed. Harry Potter deserves nothing less than the best, you guys, so I’m giving it my all. (I should probably also remember to catalog some stuff though.)

Is it just me, or is this one a little too cute?

Is it just me, or is this one not warty enough?

Hey, does anyone have a cute little burlap sack I could borrow for three months? I need it for dragon dung. Thx.

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3 Reasons Why I Should Keep A Stack Of Thrift-Store Plates On Hand For Smashing

Or, 3 Reasons Why I Sometimes Consider Visiting a Firing Range

1. Bad calls.

There are many injustices in this crazy world, but few can inspire the bitter outrage of blown calls. The stakes of these games can be so high—and yet the outcome can literally rest in the hands of one ass-clown official. I nearly lost my mind in October when the Braves were knocked out of the playoffs after the single most idiotic call in the history of everything. That was Chipper’s last game, y’all. His one chance to play for another World Series before his retirement. And this man ruined it.

Sam Holbrook stole the Braves’ crucial momentum by making a ludicrous infield fly call. (Yes, I know Chipper made a bad throw and allowed some runs earlier in the game, but the BASES WERE LOADED people.) We had a very real shot at turning the game around until this potato-faced cretin decided to show everyone he has goat dung for brains.

I actually cried tears of helpless rage in front of Buffalo Wild Wings’ entire clientele when this happened. Two months later, I’m still deeply wroth. I still have a picture of this son of Satan on my fridge with some particularly vulgar decorations of my own addition. Incidents like these tend to, erm, rankle a bit if I can’t find an outlet for my ire.

2. Humanity.

Every day, the general public finds a way to steal a little bit more of my sanity. I don’t know why I continue to place so much stock in common courtesy when my expectations get repeatedly bitch-slapped, but I do. I can’t help it. I keep hoping that people will be as considerate of me as I am of them. I don’t block the aisle with my buggy. I don’t stop suddenly in a crowded public place or walk backwards without looking. I don’t force other motorists to absorb shock waves from my stereo. When I worked in food service, I didn’t just stare blankly at people when they came up to the counter. I always say thank you when someone holds the door. I use my blinker and go a constant speed on the highway (for the love of God, cruise control!). Sometimes I even roll out extra paper towels for the person washing their hands after me in the ladies’ restroom. And what do I get for my pains? Oblivious dolts impeding my path in every public place ever. Sullen trolls behind every register and food counter. Some fool blasting his bass loud enough to jiggle my internal organs at every stoplight. By the time I make it home from outings amongst the populace, I’m just one giant raw nerve. Curse you all, you pack of mouth-breathing pig-eyed savages.

beer

3. Cat hair.

Look, I love my cats. They are the joy of my old age (did I mention I turn 30 next month? guess I’ll be getting my AARP invite soon) and the light of my life. But THEIR HAIR. Y’all. It’s everywhere. I dust. I vacuum. I dust some more. I clean the wads of fur out of the poor choked Roomba every ten minutes. I scrape the furniture with this doodad. I brush the cats (when they let me).

This is how Piglet looks when I come near her with the brush.

This is how Piglet looks when I come near her with the brush.

The cleaning of cat hair never ends. And yet, when the sun is shining just right through the window, I can see kilos of fecking cat hair floating in the atmosphere. I sit down on a chair and a cloud of the stuff explodes around me. I go to a restaurant and find cat hair in my food. From my own clothes. Aaaaauuuughhhhhghhh.

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