Honestly, you'd think I would have learned my lesson...
The lesson being that this apartment is out to harm me.
I'll stop short of saying it's trying to kill me. I don't want to put that kind of negative pressure on it. Maybe it has that kind of malice in it's heart but I'd like to believe it simply wants me out. And alive is fine.
The Friday we moved in, I was crouched down putting things away underneath the kitchen sink when the first attack occurred.
We literally have six cabinets, two drawers and a pantry in which to store all necessary kitchen essentials. Chris took photos of the model unit's kitchen so I could plan accordingly.
Being the Type AAA person I am, I meticulously planned the items we would take to the kitchen and exactly where they would need to go. I printed the pictures and labeled each cabinet with what needed to go there. Also labeled the space above the cabinets and the counter tops as well. It made both packing and unpacking rather simple.
Just follow the blueprint.
So I was putting the finishing touches on unpacking the kitchen by storing away the dish washing soap and the basket of dust rags underneath the kitchen sink. As I stood up, I whacked the top of my head on the very pointy counter top above.
And it hurt.
I sat down for a few minutes with a Ziploc of ice on my head.
(Regretfully, we, meaning me, managed to leave our gel ice packs in the freezer at the house. Happy House Warming Lady Who Bought Our House!)
The next morning I actually had forgotten about the head injury until I was washing my hair. And then I suddenly remembered. As the day went on, it began to throb a little more and then more and still more. But nothing was blurry or spinning so we, meaning Chris, just brushed it off with a recommendation to take some Tylenol.
Which I did.
The next attack came Sunday morning.
I woke up with a goopey eye. Yep.
Right now you are so grateful you decided to read this post.
I'm certain you remember last year's eye issues. That lesson has been learned.
Well.
So I don't really mess around with eye stuff. If it feels weird, the contacts come out. Thus, I wore my glasses on Sunday. It just felt cloudy and sticky and generally gross.
I blame the smokiness entirely.
The night before it felt a little weird. Itchy and rather like I wanted to take it out and rinse it off. But I didn't give it a whole heap of thought. There was way too much wallowing in my misery to worry about a stupid eye.
Bad plan really.
Now I'm thinking since we're nearing day four of goopey eye and knowing I have inflicted my glasses-self upon others more often that they'd be honestly willing to admit, I believe it might be time for me to find a new eye doctor up here in Siberia.
Sigh.
The third and most recent attack came last night.
The apartment has bugs. Not huge pre-historic sized bugs. But bugs-I-have-to-kill-because-Chris-is-never-here bugs and those are yucky enough. I thought I had killed this one over closer to the bathtub ("closure" hah!) but when I threw the tissue in the trashcan, I missed and he escaped. Thus I had to reach down behind the toilet to catch him and end his little life.
And then I stood up.
Where I whacked my head on the cabinets over the toilet.
In the exact same spot.
Fabulous.
This time, it hurt bad enough to actually cause me to cry.
Not entirely sure it was only the pain. Which was bad enough. But it was likely the last straw for me emotionally too.
The bad part...
(I know. You're thinking the head injury isn't the bad part?)
...is Pumpkin was right there waiting for bath time.
She does not like it when I cry. Not at all. I believe she's a sympathetic crier because she tears up right along with me.
Her crying has a twinge of "What the heck is going on!" though. Which miraculously stops me from crying. Every time.
I dried it up and managed to get her bathed, dressed and put to bed.
At which point I sat down to do a couple of hours of work.
With a throbbing head. And a guilty heart for scaring my precious baby.
Truly I wish the apartment would understand that we want out as badly as it wants us out. And were it not for another master closet door off its track and another leaking faucet, we would be moving to different apartment tomorrow.
But alas, we are here until Sunday afternoon. Giving this apartment ample opportunity to plan and successfully complete one final attack. Whether that will be to my eyes, my head or secret option C which I'm certain will be a body part I use more than my head and eyes, like my mouth, I'm not sure. But I know the last attack is coming.
And there's nothing I can do but make a concussion plan complete with labeled pictures.
The lesson being that this apartment is out to harm me.
I'll stop short of saying it's trying to kill me. I don't want to put that kind of negative pressure on it. Maybe it has that kind of malice in it's heart but I'd like to believe it simply wants me out. And alive is fine.
The Friday we moved in, I was crouched down putting things away underneath the kitchen sink when the first attack occurred.
We literally have six cabinets, two drawers and a pantry in which to store all necessary kitchen essentials. Chris took photos of the model unit's kitchen so I could plan accordingly.
Being the Type AAA person I am, I meticulously planned the items we would take to the kitchen and exactly where they would need to go. I printed the pictures and labeled each cabinet with what needed to go there. Also labeled the space above the cabinets and the counter tops as well. It made both packing and unpacking rather simple.
Just follow the blueprint.
So I was putting the finishing touches on unpacking the kitchen by storing away the dish washing soap and the basket of dust rags underneath the kitchen sink. As I stood up, I whacked the top of my head on the very pointy counter top above.
And it hurt.
I sat down for a few minutes with a Ziploc of ice on my head.
(Regretfully, we, meaning me, managed to leave our gel ice packs in the freezer at the house. Happy House Warming Lady Who Bought Our House!)
The next morning I actually had forgotten about the head injury until I was washing my hair. And then I suddenly remembered. As the day went on, it began to throb a little more and then more and still more. But nothing was blurry or spinning so we, meaning Chris, just brushed it off with a recommendation to take some Tylenol.
Which I did.
The next attack came Sunday morning.
I woke up with a goopey eye. Yep.
Right now you are so grateful you decided to read this post.
I'm certain you remember last year's eye issues. That lesson has been learned.
Well.
So I don't really mess around with eye stuff. If it feels weird, the contacts come out. Thus, I wore my glasses on Sunday. It just felt cloudy and sticky and generally gross.
I blame the smokiness entirely.
The night before it felt a little weird. Itchy and rather like I wanted to take it out and rinse it off. But I didn't give it a whole heap of thought. There was way too much wallowing in my misery to worry about a stupid eye.
Bad plan really.
Now I'm thinking since we're nearing day four of goopey eye and knowing I have inflicted my glasses-self upon others more often that they'd be honestly willing to admit, I believe it might be time for me to find a new eye doctor up here in Siberia.
Sigh.
The third and most recent attack came last night.
The apartment has bugs. Not huge pre-historic sized bugs. But bugs-I-have-to-kill-because-Chris-is-never-here bugs and those are yucky enough. I thought I had killed this one over closer to the bathtub ("closure" hah!) but when I threw the tissue in the trashcan, I missed and he escaped. Thus I had to reach down behind the toilet to catch him and end his little life.
And then I stood up.
Where I whacked my head on the cabinets over the toilet.
In the exact same spot.
Fabulous.
This time, it hurt bad enough to actually cause me to cry.
Not entirely sure it was only the pain. Which was bad enough. But it was likely the last straw for me emotionally too.
The bad part...
(I know. You're thinking the head injury isn't the bad part?)
...is Pumpkin was right there waiting for bath time.
She does not like it when I cry. Not at all. I believe she's a sympathetic crier because she tears up right along with me.
Her crying has a twinge of "What the heck is going on!" though. Which miraculously stops me from crying. Every time.
I dried it up and managed to get her bathed, dressed and put to bed.
At which point I sat down to do a couple of hours of work.
With a throbbing head. And a guilty heart for scaring my precious baby.
Truly I wish the apartment would understand that we want out as badly as it wants us out. And were it not for another master closet door off its track and another leaking faucet, we would be moving to different apartment tomorrow.
But alas, we are here until Sunday afternoon. Giving this apartment ample opportunity to plan and successfully complete one final attack. Whether that will be to my eyes, my head or secret option C which I'm certain will be a body part I use more than my head and eyes, like my mouth, I'm not sure. But I know the last attack is coming.
And there's nothing I can do but make a concussion plan complete with labeled pictures.
I say take a bat to them... the cabinets i mean. Not the bugs. i mean you could do that to the bugs as well, but i suggest that the cabinets must go first.
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