The powers that be decided that the housing complex where I live needs a face lift, and either they paint the outside for me, or I do it myself. If they do it I have to pay for it, which is fine. I do, however, have a huge problem with strange people trampling my garden and forcing me to lock my cat up for the day to allow them free reign.
Hence plan B. Do it myself. Except I’m not Beam and I don’t do heights. Or roofs. Or anything requiring a ladder of any kind, or lifting my feet higher than my knees, including gym activities. It’s a principle thing.
Plan C. Do lunch on a Friday with your mom for the 4th time in 3 months (she’s been marking her calendar), and moan and bitch about the terror threatening your domestic life in an effort to avoid all the awkward subjects like “so why the fuck don’t you call, answer your phone, or at least send me a text message on how you’re doing. Even a fucking email would be better than you disappearing for weeks!” Well, okay, no, she wouldn’t say that. My mom doesn’t swear. If she does, it’s in socially-acceptable Afrikaans, and it’s quite cute. But the rest of it is verbatim.
Mom also knows everyone who’s ever need a job, of any kind, so a painter she recommends I can live with. The arrangement were made for this coming Thursday, but then we had to move it to tomorrow at the last minute.
From what I’ve chatted with some of you, it sounds like purpleplanets
and me are the only ones completely BJ-closeted. It’s not that my family will lock me up somewhere without any electricity (yes, these days that is just about anywhere in SA), forcing me to never, ever, EVER be able to do anything remotely BJ-ish again, it’s the “chats” which will follow them discovering my little obsession I fear.
It’s not about me being right, and them being wrong. We just see beauty in different things.
Operation Hide QaF was therefore forced on me, because mom is also awesome enough to insist to help lend a hand around the house a bit, since she has to bring my painter in any case. So I’m going to go to work tomorrow, and she’s going to chase spiders all over my humble abode (I bought a new broom for the occasion!).
I have checked each disc, of every season to make sure they are all accounted for. I checked and double checked the inside of each of my QaF soundtrack and Club Babylon CDs. I finally managed to track down the third book in my mess of study, and in the process went *squee!!*
over fanfiction print-outs I thought I’d lost in the mountain of paper on my table. I almost overlooked the file I put together in my pre-useless-for-anything-but-BJ days, containing neatly sorted stories. I went cold when I remembered I had little notebooks and masterpieces-in-progress and scribbled ideas and pens at the ready scattered all over the place, including the bathroom, between the couch cushions and under my pillow.
But I think I’ve now tracked down all my treasures, and they’re neatly stacked into two shopping backs, ready to take up residency for a couple of hours in the back of my car.
Ssshhhhiiitttt, I hope I’ve got everything… it’s the papers I’m most worried about, those could have found their way into and under anything.
Exhausting work, playing hide and seek with BJ all over the house!
What’s left? The dishes… the laundry… the heap of un-ironed clothes strewn in my living room…
But hey, BJ is safe. That’s all that matters.
PS: ANYTHING, ANYWHERE you think I might have missed?!