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a new campaign
Feb. 6th, 2011 08:13 pmI have officially begun the battle against that most dreaded of foes: the bachelor pad. I consider the kitchen mostly conquered. We even now have a mop, and cleaning stuff. Are you amazed? I'm amazed.
The kitchen was a frightening thing. The garage seemed to have wandered in and taken up part of it, and another chunk had sprouted strange, giant cannisters full of alchemical powders with strange names like "Muscle Milk" and lots of imagery of explosions and bare-armed giants. Meanwhile behind the sink was sludge of a thousand defeated dishsoaps who had cried their sludgy, forgotten tears in the corner. I armed myself with paper towels and a scrubby sponge and did my best. I banished the Sinew Extract to a dark cabinet where it can harm no one with its garish labels and false promises, and reclaimed the counter in the name of the toaster.
I confess I did not go near the cabinets. I feel this is a separate battle. As long as no one opens their doors and releases the things of the dungeon dimension we can rest and pretend we do not know the evil that lurks...
I started on the upstairs bathroom today but it is a trickier beast because I'm fairly certain it's really just a repurposed broom closet. On the bright side it won't take long to clean a glorified broom cupboard, but on the downside most of its mess is due to the fact there's nowhere to put anything except 'in plain sight' and it has better lighting than the downstairs which, also, as NO COUNTER. This place was designed by men. Straight men, who had one bottle of shampoo and one tooth brush and maybe a stick of deodorant and who thought that if they gave a girl somewhere to put her damn make-up bag that she might then move in and infringe upon their sacred bachelorhood.
This theory is also supported by the entryway which has for no discernable reason a hanging round discoball-looking light fixture that probably thought it added a bit of posh back in the 1970s but now just confuses me everytime I walk in and look up.
The downstairs one is going to get a top-to-bottom cleaning tomorrow too... at least it has a shower curtain now. That's really all I can say in its favor. It has a shower curtain. No counter. One cabinet. There's room for like maybe one bottle of shampoo in the shower and you best not be having any of that there fancy body scrub to keep around...
Meanwhile. There's the living room. The futon finally broke but while I know we need a couch to replace it I can't find one I like, and by 'one I like' I mean 'one I can stand to look at for longer than five minutes.' We still need curtains anyway... and some more cabinets or some kind of stuff-storage-things. Everytime I look at Brynden's project table my eyes narrow and I swear vengeance on it, but I can't very well do anything to the giant messy thing unless I have non-messy places to put the mess.
Poor Brynden. I'm driving him nuts. He'll thank me. At least, I assume so. Once he's learned what a love-seat is and spent an hour staring in horror at duvet covers and been lectured on the horrrors of mistaking eggshell for cream, and the virtues of valances... Ok, maybe he's just going to hide in the garage as soon as it's warm enough.
I love you honey. It's for your own good. Really. Scout's honor. Now about that giant sword hanging on the living room wall...
The kitchen was a frightening thing. The garage seemed to have wandered in and taken up part of it, and another chunk had sprouted strange, giant cannisters full of alchemical powders with strange names like "Muscle Milk" and lots of imagery of explosions and bare-armed giants. Meanwhile behind the sink was sludge of a thousand defeated dishsoaps who had cried their sludgy, forgotten tears in the corner. I armed myself with paper towels and a scrubby sponge and did my best. I banished the Sinew Extract to a dark cabinet where it can harm no one with its garish labels and false promises, and reclaimed the counter in the name of the toaster.
I confess I did not go near the cabinets. I feel this is a separate battle. As long as no one opens their doors and releases the things of the dungeon dimension we can rest and pretend we do not know the evil that lurks...
I started on the upstairs bathroom today but it is a trickier beast because I'm fairly certain it's really just a repurposed broom closet. On the bright side it won't take long to clean a glorified broom cupboard, but on the downside most of its mess is due to the fact there's nowhere to put anything except 'in plain sight' and it has better lighting than the downstairs which, also, as NO COUNTER. This place was designed by men. Straight men, who had one bottle of shampoo and one tooth brush and maybe a stick of deodorant and who thought that if they gave a girl somewhere to put her damn make-up bag that she might then move in and infringe upon their sacred bachelorhood.
This theory is also supported by the entryway which has for no discernable reason a hanging round discoball-looking light fixture that probably thought it added a bit of posh back in the 1970s but now just confuses me everytime I walk in and look up.
The downstairs one is going to get a top-to-bottom cleaning tomorrow too... at least it has a shower curtain now. That's really all I can say in its favor. It has a shower curtain. No counter. One cabinet. There's room for like maybe one bottle of shampoo in the shower and you best not be having any of that there fancy body scrub to keep around...
Meanwhile. There's the living room. The futon finally broke but while I know we need a couch to replace it I can't find one I like, and by 'one I like' I mean 'one I can stand to look at for longer than five minutes.' We still need curtains anyway... and some more cabinets or some kind of stuff-storage-things. Everytime I look at Brynden's project table my eyes narrow and I swear vengeance on it, but I can't very well do anything to the giant messy thing unless I have non-messy places to put the mess.
Poor Brynden. I'm driving him nuts. He'll thank me. At least, I assume so. Once he's learned what a love-seat is and spent an hour staring in horror at duvet covers and been lectured on the horrrors of mistaking eggshell for cream, and the virtues of valances... Ok, maybe he's just going to hide in the garage as soon as it's warm enough.
I love you honey. It's for your own good. Really. Scout's honor. Now about that giant sword hanging on the living room wall...