It's Epiphany and I celebrated (because I'm not Catholic) by dismantling one of the dryers and cleaning it out. Then I did the second one. And the vent going all the way to the outside. Glutton for punishment? No. Frustrated by procrastinators? You bet. It was taking an extra half hour to dry a regular load and who has time for that? I grabbed Youtube, a flashlight and a screwdriver. Then I went back up for batteries for the flashlight, an extension cord for the shop vac, and a cursed whine to someone to find me the box of the nutty-things for doing screws with 3D hexagon heads. Found the case, found the 1/4 inch thingie that I needed, discovered the lantern was out of batteries too so held the flashlight between my teeth, and yelled at the boys to get out of the room so I could do what I wanted to do.
Glad I did. The blower motor and the hose leading to the wall were CAKED in lint. CAKED.
So it should be faster by a lot tomorrow. I also even tested it to make sure it still worked. Go me!
If you don't know, Epiphany isn't also just a Catholic thing. It's the twelfth day of Christmas, and your true love is supposed to bring a dozen drummers drumming to round out the absolute batshit madness of all the other stuff they've brought you on the previous eleven days of Christmas. Some people say it's the day Jesus was baptized. It's also the day Melancholy, Bathmat and Casper the Friendly Ghost bring a bunch of useless items to gift to the baby messiah when a breast pump, Roomba and a wipe-warmer would have been far more practical. Even as a luddite, I can tell you a new broom and hemp fleece wipes, even if room-temperature would have been preferable. The pump stays. It's a necessity.
(Those are not their names but it's the only way I can remember their actual names which are Melchior, Bathalzar and Caspar. Par Rum Pum Pum Pum!)
Am I drunk? No, Not when fixing heavy machinery. Drunk on capability, perhaps. It's a high I don't often get to indulge.
I lost my internet for Christmas because I refused to join Caleb for a night. I got a whole smooth sympathy plea over way too much champagne over how quiet things have been lately and how lonely and disconnected he feels and how he's missing affection and missing being part of my days (? He's right here) and how it's the only thing he wants in the way of a gift, that he has everything a man could ask for except the only thing he actually wants. I took my glass, picked up the bottle and sloshed my way down the hall away from his wing, with as much false liquid courage I could find but my knees were shaking, my hands were flapping and my eyes were watering to go with my spinning head. I didn't trust myself not to cave, didn't trust him not to hurt me in his lust for control and didn't want to make Lochlan (or Benjamin for that matter) sad that I was missing.
I locked the bedroom door, poured the rest of the bottle down the bathtub sink and fell asleep face-down, fully-clothed on the bed, waking up with the worst hangover but the doors were open to the balcony for fresh cold air, there was a tray on the table with juice, tea and toast and some banana slices and Lochlan was sitting in the big wing chair in the corner, where Ben usually puts his jeans overnight.
Morning, Neamhchiontach.
I rolled over and gave him my most-wistful noncommittal expression. Until I know how he feels I'll stand my ground.
I see you followed directions and stayed out of trouble for the first time in your life.
Maybe. He took away my internet though.
Why trade your soul for connectivity when I've got what you need?
He smiled his wicked ringmaster-grin, the one that always sent a little chill of a thrill down the back of my neck and I nodded.
Acoustic, I told him in a whisper. Old-school. Hands-on.
Yeah, whatever. He laughed uproariously. It's a good day to be me.