Breathing. It’s overrated…

So is eating.  And sleeping.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I need to take you back a couple weeks.

Here’s a journal of sorts to take you from my last post to where I am today.

Day 1 – The day after my last post.  Came home to find the inside of the house wrapped in plastic. It’s like a funhouse in here – a labrynth of latex. Samba greeted me at the door all apologetic, as if to say “I tried really, really hard not to let the ‘backyard intruders’ do this to the house, but I failed – PLEASE don’t be mad at me…”

Meanwhile, the cats were nowhere to be seen. Found them all huddled in the bedroom.  Two glaring hatefully at me, one purposely ignoring me, and the fourth totally flipping me the bird.

plastic house entrance

The current entrance to my house

Plastic, plastic, everywhere

Plastic, plastic, everywhere

Day 3 – Halloween. House smelled like gasoline when I got home. Opened all the windows to air it out. Breeze started rippling all the plastic – very creepy.

Next door neighbor’s dog was barking like crazy. Went to the windows to investigate but couldn’t see anything. Concluded Michael Meyers was staring at me from the driveway. Scared myself shitless imagining my horrible-scary-movie-type-death involving Michael Meyers busting through the plastic with an axe. !!!

Spent the rest of the night locked in the bedroom with the animals.

Imaginary Michael Meyers: 1.  My Pride: o.

Day 6 – I’ve named the tiny room where we watch TV “The Cave.” We have to crawl through plastic to get in out of here. I feel like I’m living inside a giant condom. The entire house is covered in dust, and my efforts to keep The Cave clean are useless.

The Cave

The Cave. Where Kenny and I (and all 5 animals) temporarily convene in the evenings to dine and watch TV.

Kitty prints

Um, guys? This is our dining room table. Can you maybe try not to walk all over it with your skank paws? Please?

Day 9 – Kitchen was ripped out yesterday. While still half asleep this morning, I went on a breakfast scavenger hunt that went something like this:

•  Yawn… “I will have something easy, like a Kashi bar.”  (Box of Kashi bars next to my computer – EMPTY.)  “Shit.”
• “I think I saw some Cheerios in the pantry…” (walking to kitchen)
• “Oh wait… we put all the pantry stuff in plastic bags in the guest room…” (back down the hallway) “Cheerios – bingo… now for some milk.” (back toward the kitchen)
• “Right. Fridge is in the garage.”
• Search fridge for milk…. Say hello to worker walking through garage.
• Split second panic – “!?!?!”
• Double check pants. “Yes, I put pants on. Awesome.” Moving on.
• Finally find milk… that expired in October.  “Screw breakfast. I’ll just have coffee.” (Back inside)
• “Now where did we put the coffee machine…?”

And so on.

Day 11 – Trying to stay positive. This is still sort of fun I guess… eating takeout every night in The Cave is sort of like camping in my own house. Maybe tomorrow night we can make a campfire in the middle of the living room floor and roast hot dogs and marshmallows…

Day 13 – I nearly asphyxiate in The Cave every time the dog farts. Yet she seems impervious to the stench. WHAT…  the F.

The house is pretty much a HAZMAT area. All the cats have dirty, gritty fur. They’ve stopped bathing because seriously – that shit is pointless. Now all FOUR of them are giving me the finger. I can relate. I’m pretty miserable too.

Day 15 – I’ve come to terms with the fact that I may never be clean again. My clothes and hair are gritty. I’m a walking disaster zone. I’ve given up on The Cave and retreated to the bedroom. It’s the only place untouched by the ongoing destruction. I can’t breathe anywhere else in the house. Even in my so-called ‘safe zone,’ my sinuses are completely blocked.

I admit – I’m more than a bit twisted about the construction dust. When I told Kenny the sheets on the bed felt gritty, he was all “relax, nothing is gritty in here, stop obsessing.” And that’s when I started throwing cats at him. “What about these things!! They’re GRITTY!!” Needless to say, the cats and I are not on good terms right now. Three of them staged a puking protest this morning. One walked right up to me, waited for me to make eye contact, and then puked at my feet. NO LIE.

Oh, and the dog pooped on her bed. She’s obviously not happy either.

I think I need an intervention. We all do. Me, the dog, the cats and the voices in my head. We will all feel better soon. I promise. Just as soon as I can breathe again.

In the meantime, I keep reminding myself things could be much worse. I mean, I could have “real” problems.   Like this.

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