Feel free to skip over this post, as it will mostly be me whining about the wretched weekend I just had. (So, really, you’re not missing much.)
I’d like to start by saying I’m not exactly a clean person. I’d like to say that I’m just cluttered, just actually like, a filthy slob, but honestly I spend much of my time avoiding dishes and taking out the trash, and I have on occasion tripped over pizza boxes because I was too lazy to bring them to the kitchen, never mind actually put them in the trash. On top of this, I am a cluttered person–I accumulate and horde paper like Smaug hordes gold. I have stacks of books and movies and video games everywhere. Things are dusty, because I never dust. I have about 8 unpacked boxes of junk (and I use “junk” because I don’t even know what’s in the boxes) in my living room alone, never mind the boxes of storage I have just left about willy-nilly in my bedroom.
So yeah, here’s basically where I’m starting from.
Anyway, this weekend, I had plans to start Orphan Black (because I got the first season on DVD for Yule/Christmas) and edit a friend’s manuscript that I told her I’d edit, not to mention a few other stories of mine that I wanted to work on myself. And I have some blank canvases that have been calling my name for a few weeks now. I had vague, hazy ideas about lounging about in my pajamas and working on “stuff.” It was supposed to be relaxing.
Well, on Friday, my boss asked me into his office and then “requested” that I come to work this weekend. You see, he has this side business that he’s been working on and trying to get up off the ground. (It’s new. Website isn’t even up yet.) He wanted me to go through just reams and reams of text he’s created for the site and brochures and scripts for commercials and other related videos. And wanted me to work over the weekend to do it.
Gotta admit, wasn’t exactly pleased. But I asked if any of it had to necessarily be done at the office, and he said that I could take it home. (It was pretty much just editing, after all. I could do that at home, in pajamas, with lots and lots of coffee.) So I thought about the extra overtime money and took it home with me.
It’s when I got home that I realized what a shit weekend I was going to have.
I was greeted immediately by a note on my door. Apparently they are selling (I had heard rumors about that) the apartment complex that I live in. And the bank lenders (or possibly the might-be-new-owners?) are going to do inspections of EVERY UNIT (as the note so helpfully capitalized for me.) And that not only are they inspecting EVERY UNIT but that there will be no schedule as to when these inspections will happen to which unit. And that the leasing office/business center (I guess the gym will still be open) will be closed in the interim because the bank people will need that space to… coordinate? I suppose? (They didn’t exactly specify why they were kicking people out of there, just that they were.) OH! And your apartments should be clean and tidy and all animals kenneled for the DURATION OF THE WEEK because of aforementioned randomized schedule. And to top it all off, there was a reminder not to call the management company (my landlords) about asking for a schedule because they did not know it.
(Honestly, that last bit read to me like my landlords had tried to get a schedule out of the inspectors and were not given one, so they decided to be passive aggressively sassy about it with their tenants. I know these people. They tend to be a sarcastic, sassy bunch.)
So, I’d like to remind you again that I am not a clean person. And I now have two cats, both of whom hate cages and strangers, that I have to plan around. And who knows how many people, or how many times (I mean, I can conceivably imagine multiple trips to units for like, structural vs. heat/air or something, depending on the depth and quality of the inspections) my apartment is going to get barged in and trampled upon.
I spent nearly all weekend cleaning. I was able to unpack five boxes of junk and get them sorted and put away. I cleaned the kitchen. I cleaned my bedroom. I… hid all my dirty laundry in the closet and am now praying for the best. I tidied up the bathroom and the litter box. I was able to secure housing for my most devious and stranger-hate-filled cat, Jack. (She’s at my parents.) Sasha, however, has free range of the house, as A) I no longer care and B) she’s not one to make the mad dash for freedom or attempt to attack all strangers on sight. (I am pretty sure that she will just hide and/or sleep underneath the kitchen table, like she does every day.) Which also means that I had to pack up Jack on Sunday and actually get her to my parents. My parents are thrilled. (Jack is very much their grandchild.) Jack–not so much. (At least, she hates the car. Yowled the entire drive up.)
Saturday night I did spend at my friend’s, where we discussed a possibly Harry Potter rewrite, with Harry in Slytherin (and the resulting plot deviations because of it.) Much fun was had by all, especially her adorable cat Treacle who is the biggest cuddle slut I’ve even seen in a feline.
But yes, the rest of the weekend was spent cleaning and unpacking and throwing out of rubbish and cat-wrangling and lifting heavy boxes over her head and… things. And stuff. None of which was editing for work, nor editing for friend, nor editing for one’s own self. And definitely no painting.
At this point, I am exhausted.
But lo! There’s more! First, I had taken my cat, Jack, up to my parents on Sunday. So Sunday night was the first night I’ve spent solo with Sasha. Turns out, Jack had been doing quite a bit to keep Sasha calm and sedated in the evenings/nighttime. Normally, when I start heading to bed, Sasha makes herself comfy on the floor near the foot of the bed, and Jack sleeps on the bed, at the foot. And they sleep, like good little not-at-all-nocturnal kitties. (And no, I didn’t really train them to do this. Jack’s been sleeping with me at night ever since she was a kitten. I suppose that me unconscious and snoring and the house dark was just too boring and that time was better spent her sleeping. Or something.)
Well, without Jack there to keep Ms. Sasha under control, Sasha spent the entire fucking night running around and batting at things and playing loudly in my dirty laundry heap and batting at all the toys and other things that make noise. She also spent a fair amount of time around 2am singing. Just meowing and trilling happily to herself as she played with a piece of tissue paper she had found.
I am fucking exhausted.
I slept through my alarm. All three of them. I did manage to get up–barely–on today, take the fastest shower ever and shove food into my mouth on the way out the door, but I was still late to work. By about an hour.
And then my boss did ask (albeit nicely) if I had manage to get any of that editing done. I could tell he was hoping that I had and that I was done with it, but sadly, no. I had to explain to him the shit that was my weekend. To be fair, he was very nice about it and understanding. (And by the time that I write this, I have managed to get nearly all of it done today.) But I still feel rushed because it really would have been easier on everyone involved if I had managed to get it done this weekend instead of shoving all my other work off on others today so I could concentrate on this thing. (Which, yes, that is the only way it could go because this is, I quote, “My new #1 priority!” according to my boss. Complete with exclamation point and implied smiley face.) And in fact, most of my normal work didn’t even get done today–it’s just piled on my desk.
So, anyway, yes. There wasn’t really a point to this. I just wanted to bitch about my weekend. And maybe give a bit of an explanation as to why I was whining on Twitter and begging for vodka earlier this morning.
I guess in better news, my house is (mostly) clean.