Sometimes, I think, when I was around eight? I think to myself, like this, and sometimes out loud, 'Self, when you were eight? Did you ever see yourself on your hand and knees with a bottle of bleach cleansing spray, a washcloth, a vacuum, a stack of newspapers, a new bag of hay, and a bitter, bitter smile?'
Self answers in the negative. And you might ask yourself, what do these things have in common? They are How To Clean an Epically Messy Rabbit Condo from Hell, Unabridged Version AKA Revenge of the Rabbits for Leaving Them With My Sister While Wandering Off to Chicago.
I spot cleaned most of this week, just not having the energy to tackle the full horror, but I sat down to finally put that thing to rights and be less of a health-hazard and--oh my God, it was even *worse*. I just can't figure out how they did it. It's like--I mean, they don't have opposable thumbs. I just--no. Let's not go there. Anyway, started with Mr. Waffles Who Sprays Me in teh penthouse, cleaned and bleached, worked my way down. I shut down the ground floor--the entire structure is not the most--sound anyway, and closing it off both restricts them from making a huge mess out of th hardest to clean area, but also has the added value of stabilizing the entire cage amazingly. when my sister returns my camera, I'll take pictures, but honestly, it looks just like before, jsut the bottom opening is closed.
After laying down several more layers of newspaper, I decided that what the rabbits need is a shelf, so built that inside, but I'm thinking this entire design is the wrong idea. I'm just not sure what I can put up that will work as well and won't take up more space, which I just don't have. I could build another layer upward, but the damn thing already comes up to my collarbone, and no one wants to hear sad reports of my untimely death due to falling while petting my rabbits. I mean, I know two people who would? But I feel no need to oblige them.
So basically, I have my rabbits back in habitable housing and I still haven't unpacked--I unpack the old fashioned way, by rooting around for things I need and eventually teh suitcase comes clean. You'd think it'd be easier just to unpack? And you'd be right. Sad, that.
I'm having one of those days where I feel like being very spiteful. I'm pretty sure three quarters of this originates from the fact I sat outside spraying down my rabbits' litter boxes and being up my wrist in rabbit droppings and a--really, I really don't need to relive this.
But yes. Spite. I'm in that place. Or at least low key sarcasm. Maybe not so low key. Maybe blatant.
And to close.
About five or six years ago, my grandfather was mayor pro-tem of a ridiculously small town in a forgettable part of Texas. He and my grandmother were friends with everyone, belonged to the Church, the various smalltown organizations, the heritage society, the blah blah socialcakes. They were liked. Then during his short time as pro-tem mayor, my grandfather and grandmother were reviled and mutters of outsiders were made, and their social activities in the small town were curtailed sharply. It didn't matter what they did--it mattered who they were, or the position my grandfather held. Short version, they eventually moved and other stuff occurred and they went on with their lives and never spoke of this again. They eventually moved back and started up where they left off. It was surprisingly easy, I think. Or so I have heard.
I think they forgave and forgot. Weirdly, I didn't.