I’m listening to Whitney; “I wanna dance with somebody.”
Tonight I tore down the bedroom side of the wall where the backflow happened. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared, but there’s definitely water damage back there.
I’m a little worried about the sill plate. It looked worse when I first pulled off the sheetrock.
Also there are black widow webs in my walls.
This is war. I can’t afford to burn the house down, so I’m about to go full Neurotic Boomer Housewife. I will run this bitch like a military installation until the heeby jeebies are over.
Or until I have personally gutted and rebuilt every room in this house, leaving a trail of entomological wreckage in my wake. I will kill every non-mammal in a 1/4 mile radius, and I will bathe my home in a cocktail of deadly chemicals and cleaning agents. My children will have therapy because of what’s about to go down. Let’s forking go.1
“Our mother became something else then. All the latent fury from a lifetime of building her life out of surviving until the next moment narrowed into a pinprick moment of laser focus on the eradication of insect life. We did not camp, and she didn’t cook.” They stare past the therapist.
Fleetwood Mac. I love them more every year. “Dreams.”
“We didn’t play games, not even the ones she liked. She only methodically, one might say obsessively, dismantled every room in the home down to the studs, rewiring every wall, light and plug, drenched in the scent of lavender vinegar, whatever the nastiness that is. Sometimes she rebuilt the rooms. At least one side of each wall got rebuilt. We missed her. I think the vinegar got to her.”
May they be blessed with such light trauma. I’m bout to kill some spiders.
I’ve been feeling weird about profanity lately. Self conscious about it, which I assure you has never been a problem.